she protested, "were you not thinking of things that are not true when I came in?"
"No--I was--I was thinking of the future--of--well, _chiquita_, I was thinking of something that might happen some day, that is all." He stumbled through it with difficulty, for he knew he must not lie to the child. Would she ever trust him again if he did?
"And, Padre, were you afraid?"
"Afraid? Yes, _chiquita_, I was." He hung his head.
Carmen looked at him reproachfully. "Then, Padre, I was right--for, if you loved G.o.d, you would trust Him--and then you couldn"t be afraid of anything--could you? People who love Him are not afraid."
He turned his head away. "Ah, child," he murmured, "you will find that out in the world people don"t love G.o.d in this day and generation. At least they don"t love Him that way."
"They don"t love Him enough to trust him?" she asked wistfully.
"No." He shook his head sadly. "n.o.body trusts Him, not even the preachers themselves. When things happen, they rush for a doctor, or some other human being to help them out of their difficulty. They don"t turn to Him any more. They seldom speak His name."
"Have--they--forgotten Him?" she asked slowly, her voice sinking to a whisper.
"Absolutely!" He again buried his head in his hands.
The child stood in silence for some moments. Then:
"What made them forget Him, Padre?"
"I guess, _chiquita_, they turned from Him because He didn"t answer their prayers. I used to pray to Him, too. I prayed hours at a time.
But nothing seemed to come of it. And so I stopped." He spoke bitterly.
"You prayed! You mean--"
"I asked Him for things--to help me out of trouble--I asked Him to give me--"
"Why, Padre! Why--that"s the very reason!"
He looked up at her blankly. "What is the very reason? What are you trying to tell me, child?"
"Why, He is everywhere, and He is right here all the time. And so there couldn"t be any real trouble for Him to help you out of; and He couldn"t give you anything, for He has already done that, long ago. We are in Him, don"t you know? Just like the little fishes in the lake.
And so when you asked Him for things it showed that you didn"t believe He had already given them to you. And--you know what you said last night about thinking, and that when we think things, we see them?
Well, He has given you everything; but you thought He hadn"t, and so you saw it that way--isn"t it so?"
She paused for breath. She had talked rapidly and with animation. But before he could reply she resumed:
"Padre dear, you know you told me that Jesus was the best man that ever lived, and that it was because he never had a bad thought--isn"t that so?"
"Yes," he murmured.
"Well, did he pray--did he ask G.o.d for things?"
"Of course he did, child!" the priest exclaimed. "He always asked Him for things. Why, he was always praying--the New Testament is full of it!"
Acting on a sudden impulse, he rose and went into the sleeping room to get his Bible. The child"s face took on an expression of disappointment as she heard his words. Her brow knotted, and a troubled look came into her brown eyes.
Jose returned with his Bible and seated himself again at the table.
Opening the book, his eyes fell upon a verse of Mark"s Gospel. He stopped to read it; and then read it again. Suddenly he looked up at the waiting girl.
"What is it, Padre? What does it say?"
He hesitated. He read the verse again; then he scanned the child closely, as if he would read a mystery hidden within her bodily presence. Abruptly he turned to the book and read aloud:
""Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.""
The girl drew a long breath, almost a sigh, as if a weight had been removed from her mind. "Did Jesus say that?" she asked in glad, eager tones.
"Yes--at least it is so reported here," he answered absently.
"Well--_he_ knew, didn"t he?"
"Knew what, child?"
"Why, Padre, he told the people to know--just _know_--that they already had everything--that G.o.d had given them everything good--and that if they would _know_ it, they would see it."
Externalization of thought? Yes; or rather, the externalization of truth. Jose fell into abstraction, his eyes glued to the page. There it stood--the words almost shouted it at him! And there it had stood for nearly two thousand years, while priest and prelate, scribe and commentator had gone over it again and again through the ages, without even guessing its true meaning--without even the remotest idea of the infinite riches it held for mankind!
He turned reflectively to Matthew; and then to John. He remembered the pa.s.sages well--in the past he had spent hours of mortal agony poring over them and wondering bitterly why G.o.d had failed to keep the promises they contain.
"And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive."
All things--when ye ask _believing_! But that Greek word surely held vastly more than the translators have drawn from it. Nay, not believing only, but _understanding_ the allness of G.o.d as good, and the consequent nothingness of evil, all that seems to oppose Him! How could the translators have so completely missed the mark! And Carmen--had never seen a Bible until he came into her life; yet she knew, knew instinctively, that a good G.o.d who was "everywhere" could not possibly withhold anything good from His children. It was the simplest kind of logic.
But, thought Jose again, if the promises are kept, why have we fallen so woefully short of their realization? Then he read again, "If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you." The promise carries a condition--abiding in his words--obeying his commands--keeping the very _first_ Commandment, which is that "Ye shall have no other G.o.ds before me"--no G.o.ds of evil, sickness, chance, or death. The promises are fulfilled only on the condition of righteousness--right-thinking about G.o.d and His infinite, spiritual manifestation.
He turned to Carmen. "_Chiquita_," he said tenderly, "you never ask G.o.d to give you things, do you?"
"Why, no, Padre; why should I? He gives me everything I need, doesn"t He?"
"Yes--when you go out to the shales, you--"
"I don"t ask Him for things, Padre dear. I just tell Him I _know_ He is everywhere."
"I see--yes, you told me that long ago--I understand, _chiquita_."
His spirit bowed in humble reverence before such divine faith. This untutored, unlearned girl, isolated upon these burning shales, far, far from the haunts of men of pride and power and worldly lore--this barefoot child whose coffers held of material riches scarce more than the little calico dress upon her back--this lowly being knew that which all the fabled wealth of Ind could never buy! Her prayers were not the selfish pleadings that spring from narrow souls, the souls that "ask amiss"--not the frenzied yearnings wrung from suffering, ignorant hearts--nor were they the inflated instructions addressed to the Almighty by a smug, complacent clergy, the self-const.i.tuted press-bureau of infinite Wisdom. Her prayers, which so often drifted like sweetest incense about those steaming shales, were not pet.i.tions, but _affirmations_. They did not limit G.o.d. She did not plead with Him. She simply _knew_ that He had already met her needs.
And that righteousness--right-thinking--became externalized in her consciousness in the good she sought. Jesus did the same thing, over and over again; but the poor, stupid minds of the people were so full of wrong beliefs about his infinite Father that they could not understand, no, not even when he called Lazarus from the tomb.
"Ask in my name," urged the patient Jesus. But the poor fishermen thought he meant his human name to be a talisman, a sort of "Open Sesame," when he was striving all the time, by precept and deed, to show them that they must ask in his _character_, must be like him, to whom, though of himself he could do nothing, yet all things were possible.
Jose"s heart began to echo the Master"s words: "Father, I thank Thee that Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes." He put his arm about Carmen and drew her to him.
"Little one," he murmured, "how much has happened in these past few weeks!"
Carmen looked up at him with an enigmatical glance and laughed. "Well, Padre dear, I don"t think anything ever really _happens_, do you?"