The cry at
midnight was for help, as he slammed his fist into the soft tissue
of her face, leaving the memory for years to come for her to carry,
for the rest of her fractured life. She had cried out for God, but
He was silent.
The
Europeans had entered the quiet village on the sandy coast of East
Africa. The dwellers were at peace, living lives of communion and
joy.
A father
smiled at his young son who bore his image and would be an
inheritor of his cattle and framed hut. A mother cradled her lovely
daughter in her arms and sung in a language that dated back
centuries; the harmonies spoke of sweet love and pride.
The old
chief stood with regal stature and viewed the serene village he
thought he had protected against any harm that would insist upon
destroying that peace.
The
capture began in frenzy. Hard steel nets whirled over the heads of
the proud father, the singing mother and the watchful chief. They
struggled, fought.
The proud
man’s son was ripped from his hands, the lovely daughter who had
heard the language of her mother would hear it know more, the chief
fell wounded to the ground, never to rise again and stand watch,
for the club had broken on the head of the royal king.
Heaven
looked on and was silent.
The
red-skinned people were herded into clusters of men, women,
children and driven like the cattle they had witnessed on the green
landscape. They were cold and depressed and of known value to the
men who prodded them ever onward.
They were
given woolen blankets in which to cover themselves in and protect
themselves from the blistering cold. They huddled together, sought
relief and became infected with smallpox. They died.
Heaven
looked on and was silent.
Age after
age has witnessed the same scene being acted out on every kind of
people that populate the earth – the Armenians slaughter by the
Turks, disposal of the Indians by the travelers West, the march to
Bataan by the Japanese, the bite of the police dogs on the black
skin of Americans who dared to believe that the dream could be
shared.
For too
many years, the cries have been directed upwards for relief, for
any vestige of deliverance, but to no avail. Heaven has remained
silent.
“Has He
forgotten to be gracious?” “Doth not God know?” And so the faith of
many has fallen. The aspirations to live the Christian life have
become shipwrecked upon the failed promise of “I will never leave
you …”
The
answer: Thank God heaven hasn’t answered the cries, for if He had,
then millions would be lost in the maelstrom of not forgiving and
left to perish in their sins without any hope. Heaven is silent
because of the never failing promise.
“He is
long suffering not willing that any should perish, but that all
come to repentance.”
Oh, the
blessed waiting for us to turn, to turn. It has been for us heaven
waits and is silent.
