"Wonderful Jesus."

Waiapu Church Gazette, Volume XVI, Issue 3, 1 September 1925, Page 7

" Wonderful Jesus."

GIPSY SMITH AT THE ALBEET HALL. AN IMPRESSION. "And His Name shall be called Wonderful." Albert Hall is full', from arena to gallery. It is a commonplace crowd, just such a one as poured from the escalator at the Bank this morning. What has drawn them, and what holds them now, as they are held, enthralled? Is it the voice of Handel m one triumphant chord heralding the advent of the Redeemer? No, it is just Gipsy Smith, singing a verse from his best-loved song — " Wonderful Jesus." A commonplace figure his too, one might be tempted to say at first sight : a sturdy, thick-set frame, muffled m a rough overcoat, with an end of a gay colored muffler sticking out. "Ye -can find us gipsies m Bloomsbury sure enough, and ye ll know us by our neckties," assures me a gipsy lass, a friend of mine. But the man with the level brow and deep-set, dancing eyes holds them m his grip ; and I, too, am held, almost against myself, against all expectation. How is he doing it? "Wonderful Jesus"— the solo ceases and the choir take up the refrain. I have it now; the spell of the Holy Name is being cast over us.

No longer Kensington Gore, but Eastern Bengal, m a spacious church, at the setting of the sun. Bare brown feet pace the altar steps, brown hands swing the censer; the children of the rice country are singing "Aye Maria" at close of Magnificat as they prepare to greet the Presence at next dawn. ''Blessed is .. . Jesu." The very air seems to throb with longing as the simple chant fiades almost imperceptibly. wk& a silence fragrant with the MyMnie. .''fJesu," A group of wistful Jfa^es are through the screeli 'tj^at . s^uts -off nonGhry flans m the riarthei ";fr,om : '.,'tiic West «hd 6f, ttre 1 cbirelL They acjepst me asT cross th'e cjdisW,^^!! you ; 6f',y^ () j||u:?'^;- "■;. ■ -.. ?But ntt# r^m c f ajivyg \ Wrtliwayjj, to an up-coitntry 'vifl^le of thePtiii-

jab.' I am squatting m the mud enclosure that forms the courtyard of the women's quarter of a tiny niud hut talking to Paras, the tailor 's wife, iiindfther many frifends. Leaning over the wall are the men folk, scornful and hostile, hurling blasphemies and obscene comments at our heads. But . the women folk for once are too absorbed to heed.- Paras, a year ago, was blind; now she. sees. "I kiss your healing hands, Doctor-ji. But now tell us of your God who gave them to you. Day and night have I prayed to Allah that you might come once more, to teach me His Name. ' ' "His Name is Jesus, Paras; let me sit with you an hour and tell you of Him, " As I unfold His story there crouches at my feet an aged , crone, who seems less to be listening than crooning softly to herself as she sways her body rhythmically to and fro. "What are you singing, oh! mother of Paras'? Will you not listen to my tale ? " ' 'Listen, Doctor- ji !— have I not heard enough already? lam old, so old, going down fast to the grave; how can I understand or remember? But this one thing have I learnt from you, His Name. Therefore I sing it over to myself, and. naught else, that at least I may die with it on my lips. Jesu, Jesu, Jesu.' 1 ' Back m England,in the ward of an infirmary. Another -old woman lies m her last agony. What life is reaching its ending? It has a sorry record, scarred with many a vice. And how many a time has she not ransacked the house to expel from it all trace of the God whom she denies. Bible, Crucifix, Rosary — all have been torn from the grandchild's keeping and hurled into the fire with curses; and this not once nor twice. There is one Name that has never been heard to. pass her lips, that not even hatred has forced from them. The girl is at her side now, distraught, terrified. Thought and memory seem to fail. "What could I say or do?" "I just remembered the Rosary." Hour by hour, through the night, she tells it. "It didn 't seem like prayer hardly, but 1 went on -saying it." "Blessed is .; . .Jesus." There comes a gleam of recognition. "Mollie,. I want ... ." <'$es, grannie, what do you want?" "I .. . . want ... . Jesus." The gleam fades. But at the last the Name was uttered Jesu, mercy!

"Wonderful Jesus." The singing is over and the gipsy has begun to speak. I rouse me from, reverie to study the fisherman ply his craft. Confessedly he is a master among evangelists. That alkpow&ful spell of the Name is to. be > wielded with all the ,f orce I£ial> a magnetic jpersonality and adept skill cansummpn ; to; its I aid. asd-s,kiJL; are his. rHe knows it, and fears riot to use them to

„?^ifl;.. the full. Alert, serenely confident, he faces the vast crowds fighting as one who knows he will win. He watches it intently, as now with ready humor and homely illustration, now with eloquence, now with pathos, now with poetry, he bids- it sway and bend to his will. Only the . tense, nervous grasp of the handrail and a persistent •throb, almost -a sob,: m- the cleary deliberate enunciation betrays what the struggle is costing. There is nothing unusual in 'his message, nothing startling, still less grotesque. It is an intensely' simple one, mainly directed to the emotions; yet he will allow no mere emotionalism; he will have his hearers bring every power, whether of reason or! of will, to follow up, control and guide those same (emotions he is of set purpose unlocking. 'Gipsy Smith is a very practical psychologist. The first person singular does, it is true, play a persistent part m his delivery. But it ceases to jar as one realises that his is the egoism of the mystic who, like St. Paul, can afford. to say "I" fearlessly, m the knowledge: that that self is being, so far as m him lies, surrendered, and so merged m the Christ. One sentence might sum up the mes? sage of to-night. "You need Jesus; Jesus needs you."' And so the throng melted away 1 ; a far more silent one than that which gathered an hour ago. We went home,, for the most part, silent. We were still under the spell, and could not but feel we were passing out to our judgment ; we had. been brought face to face with Him Who, at every moment of His coming, is our Judge. The music stilled, the personality withdrawn; and what next? Aye> there *s the rub. How ita work out our salvation m the days to come? The Gipsy apparently seeks to plant seeds, leaving it to others to tend arid water. And therein he is doubtless right. That he knows the need is evident from his insistent appeal 4o the audience not to rest until they had committed themselves to a solemn re-dedicatioh "to my God and to" my Church." The one note of inadequacy, and of failure, seemed to ring m his pathetic comment oh this act of dedication— "The Church of your preference." Here, indeed, is loophole for a false egoism, the fatal noite of the individualist and the Protestant. Let us go back to St. Paul and learn of him to pray that m the one Body, one ; Spirit, one Lord/ one Faithy one Baptism, prophets, evader lists, pastors and teachers ; may^6 build up>?fche • of 'i Christ through- it andjits 'saving' miriistry^our ' storm-tossed world may find -life"* arid" peaeey iiandrsb oHis "'Own v prayW r fig"d fulfilment ?Kwhioi.oprtfy6d'. ft "Church Times").