Well, I listened to this book in the span of 48 hours. Can that be right? Probably, I got sick and needed something to keep my mind off of my misery. I will say, though, the abject misery of so many suffering in India, during the time of the writing of this book brought a whole misery of its own. Amy Carmichael writes with a candor surprisinf considering her time period, an unflinching representation of the “dust of the actual” that she experienced. In other words, just the mirror, sifting, the foggiest glimpse, of the suffering and genuine situation these people faced.
It is horrendous. It also disproves so many of the old, as well as modern, myths of the “heathen“. They are not waiting in agony until their shining rescuers arrived to tell them about Jesus. Many of them are perfectly content and deeply resistant to any gods but their own. And this makes sense! I would resist, too, should someone try to convince me out of my own religious beliefs.
Yet within their culture of the day, as within any culture of any day, there lurked a darkness of the deepest and ugliest variety, darkness they protected, and nurtured and coddled, in spite the violence and cruelty it bred. Caste loyalty at cost to all else. Child brides, abused and broken. Temple prostitution that destroyed women and families. I am in awe of Carmichael’s tenacity in the face of daunting odds and horribly depressing surroundings. Her devotion to God and the people she loved makes this book shine.