The Valley of Decision

Years passed, and another spring came to the valley. After cool, crisp nights, the days sparkled like new wine. In the clear air the mountains lifted their snow-clad peaks like alabaster set in the clasp of the azure sky. Morning mist clung to the forest trees and snuggled under the eaves of the houses. From the temple came the aroma of incense and the murmuring of lamas at prayer.

As the sunlight swept into the central home in the valley, Sonam Gergan, nearly seven years old, stirred in his pleasant half-dream world. An illusive idea slipped in and out of his consciousness. Then he remembered. This day was the first day of Losar the New Year festival. There would be visiting and dancing and, best of all, a great feast. At the thought of the feast he came fully awake. In his mind he savored the delicacies his mother, with the servants, would prepare. He wondered what gift his friend Wangchung, who lived in the next valley, would bring him. He had fashioned for Wangchung a beautiful hunting horn, made from a yak's horn. What fun he would have with Wangcliung!

Just then a servant came into the room and pulled the covers off the bed. "Come on, Sonam. You must not sleep more. Today we welcome the year of the Water Dragon, and there is much to do. Your father is waiting to take you to the gompa to make an offering to the gods."

"All right, Choni. I'm ready."

Choni smiled indulgently as Sonam smoothed down his long black hair and wrapped his chuba around his body.

With a saucy nod to Choni, Sonam hurried down the stairs to where his father waited.

"Good morning, Fattier. I am ready now to visit the temple."

They walked with the servants to visit the temple, where the lamas had already begun their ritual of ridding the valley of the demons of the year of the Iron Hare, and welcoming the friendly spirits of the year of the Water Dragon. Periodically, clashing cymbals and the beating of drums punctuated the prayers.

Arriving at the temple, Sonam and his father passed clockwise around the building, turning each of the 108 great prayer wheels set around the temple. As they entered the temple, they passed between magnificent thankas, great painted banners depicting man on the wheel of life surrounded by the legions of hell. From the burning butter lamps incense rose in clouds, which floated slowly past the golden images on the altar. The golden image of Sakya Muni stood serenely under the altar's rich brocades.

As the worshipers placed their offerings of barley cakes and rice before the images, the old priest smiled happily. He seemed especially content that Tempu Gergan, his master, still worshiped the gods of the mountains and was teaching his son to honour the gods in the true tradition of Tibet. The old priest had been angered when Gergan had allowed the foreign devils to bring their strange religion to the valley.

"May the gods of the year of the Water Dragon deal kindly with you," he murmured as Tempu bowed his head to receive the touch of the holy water. "And may your son follow always the ways of the gods."

Sonam listened gravely while performing the ritual, yet somehow he felt it was wrong. The white men in the valley had become his friends, and he loved to sit on their laps and hear the stories of their God. He especially enjoyed the story of the boy David, who fought with a bear and a lion while defending his father's sheep. What a brave man David was to fight the giant Goliath with a little sling! Sonam chuckled to himself as he thought of the story again. In his mind he was David going out to meet Goliath. He thought of how his father sat with the white men day after day trying to put into Tibetan the story from their Holy Book. Yet his father had never accepted this new way of salvation they talked about. He admitted that Jesus could have been an incarnate God, but there were many such gods in Tibet. Why should they accept this new way when every Tibetan knew that only the turning of the wheel of life brought salvation?

Sonam's wandering thoughts were arrested by the great image before him. Could those golden eyes really see? Could those ears hear his prayers? His thoughts frightened him. He must not listen to that voice that kept telling him these gods were not true. The gods would be angry. As he heard the old priest whisper his name while talking to his father, Sonam listened intently to hear the conversation:

"The boy will soon be seven, and he must be initiated into the mysteries of the faith. I am glad the white men have not corrupted him."

"You need have no fear of that. We treat them as true friends, but their religion is not for us. Sonam will always follow the way. Is it not so, my son?"

Sonam nodded; yet the questions would not leave his young mind.

Back in the home, servants prepared the feast under the watchful eyes of Sonam's mother. The years had dealt kindly with her; she still retained the beauty which had made her the envy of the women of Lhasa. Now dressed in her finery, decked with pearls and gold, she looked like a queen. Her hair had been plaited into many braids woven onto a towering head board. Through the raven hair gleamed jewels of coral and turquoise set in filigree work. From her neck hung an enormous silver amulet inlaid with gems. The amulet contained an image of Buddha, printed prayers, and a lucky charm. Over her brocaded chuba she wore an apron of rainbow colors. Sonam felt sure his mother was the most beautiful woman in the world.

The music of flutes and the throb of drums announced the arrival of dancers, who swept into the courtyard and slowly circled it. The men wore baggy pantaloons and multicolored jackets, with long tassels swinging from their waists. The girls wore blouses with enormous sleeves that hung almost to their knees when they stood, but waved like giant butterflies when they danced.

Heyde and Pagel arrived at the house and presented a New Year's gift wrapped in a white scarf. The family welcomed them warmly and invited them to watch the dancers. It was a colorful scene, with bright new bunting around the courtyard and the dancers pirouetting in the centre. Over the scene fluttered new prayer flags. Now two sword dancers appeared on the scene. They were dressed in dark cloaks with broad white cuffs. Two yellow scarves trimmed with red ran across their chests. Each of them wore on his head a richly ornamented helmet. The two warriors bounded across the courtyard brandishing drawn swords in one hand and holding small decorated drums in the other. Most of the evil spirits which, in the opinion of the lamas, had taken up abode in the courtyard, were hastily routed by fierce blows from the warriors' swords.

Next came two lamas dressed in colorful cloaks with stag-head masks over their faces. They also carried swords, as they represented the Tibetan god of death who judges all souls during the New Year festival. As the tempo of the music increased, the stag dancers leaped high into the air, driving out any spirits the warriors might have missed.

Sonam sat entranced, listening as his father explained the significance of each dance. Next they saw a shaggy yak prancing into the courtyard. The men beneath the hide skillfully copied the movements of an old yak. A man appeared with a whip, which he cracked over the yak as the drummer picked up the beat. With a roar the yak reared up and waved his head from side to side in time with the music, then lowered his head and charged the onlookers, who retreated laughing. Now all the dancers appeared together with the men and women in their rainbow costumes weaving in and out between the flashing swords of the warriors, while the stags of death pranced before the angry yak.

"Impressive, don't you think, Pagel? This year they have gone to more trouble than usual. Remember how Gergan reacted when he first heard of a way of escape from the wheel of life? It was while we were translating the verse in John, 'I am the way, the truth, and the life.'" Dr. Heyde paused and looked across the courtyard to where Sonam sat with his father. "All this superstition worries me, for I know that underneath the glitter there is a longing for something better."

"You are right, doctor. Gergan confessed to me one day that for years he had been looking for a way of escape from the law of Karma He seemed happy that he had found a new way, but somehow the moment of decision slipped by. He seems determined now to follow the old religion and to take Sonam with him."

Dr. Heyde looked across at Sonam again and found him intently watching them both. "I still have hopes for Sonam. He still listens to all we say."

For ten days all work stopped in the valley as the people celebrated Losar with feasting and visiting. Then they returned to their normal occupations.

Heyde and Pagel wondered whether they would ever finish the task they had set themselves to do, as it had proved so incredibly difficult. Yet they knew they must keep trying even though so little progress had been made. One of the problems was to know into which Tibetan dialect they should translate the Bible. If they used the Lhasa dialect which Gergan spoke, it would not be understood well in the east. If they used the eastern Amdo Tibetan it would be of little use elsewhere. Whichever language they used, some would not grasp the story of salvation through Christ.

To complicate things still further, three different levels of language were used in each province: the lower level for servants, children, or animals; a second level for those equal in status; and a third used in addressing officials and the living Buddahs or rimpoches. After consideration of all possibilities they had decided to use the classical language used in monasteries and known throughout Tibet. As many of the lamas had returned to lay life, the translators hoped these would understand the classical Tibetan. Whichever language they used, some would not understand. But the classical seemed the best choice.

Sitting down before a glowing brazier, the men warmed their hands over the embers. They glanced around the now familiar room, admiring again the tapestries and curtains. One wall was taken up with an enormous bookcase containing the sacred books of Tibet. The Kanjur consisted of 108 volumes; and the Tanjur 235 folios. Every one of the thousands of pages had been laboriously printed from wooden blocks kept in the Kumbum monastery in eastern Tibet. The Kanjur written in pure classical Tibetan, guided the men as they worked.

Gergan picked up the few pages they had translated from the Gospel of John. "It is not clear, my friends. You seem to be able to tell me what you want, but how can we put that into my language? You do not understand our way of life, or what words mean in our language."

Dr. Heyde nodded in agreement. "Never did I imagine anything would be as difficult as this. We thought we would merely tell you what we wanted and you would give us the Tibetan word." He fingered slowly the pages in his hand. "There must be some way to make this clear."

Slowly he began to read the first verse of John, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." He paused.

"This word 'God' - are you sure, Gergan, that you have given us the best Tibetan word?"

"Surely it is," replied Gergan. "Every Tibetan knows what that word means."

"But," interrupted Mr. Pagel, "does it not also mean the supreme Buddha, and is applied to the Dalai Lama?"

"Yes, that is right. As I have said many times, this Jesus is one of the great Tulkus or incarnate Buddhas who came to live with men. In fact, as I read this book written by John, I see Jesus as Avalokitasvara, the Bodhisattva of compassion."

Dr. Heyde sighed. Could he never get this son of the mountains to understand that Jesus Christ is the only true God, made flesh to dwell with men? Every Tibetan reading the translation would pause on that word 'God' and see the Dalai Lama on his throne, or a gilded idol in the temple. Gergan was right: the meaning was not clear.

For two hours they struggled with the task of translating a few more words into this difficult tongue. If only they knew the language better or if Gergan understood Christianity more, they would make more progress. They battled superstition and frustration. At times they wondered if Gergan was trying to confuse them, but they decided this was not so. The Tibetan just didn't have the answers.

Mr. Pagel turned to the doctor. "Not much progress today, doctor. Do you think we will ever finish this task?"

"It will be a miracle if we do. Somehow this language is so confusing. Take that discussion about God. Surely there is a word that means the one true God, but what is it? Then we speak of prayer. For them the word means a repetition of abstruse formulas and mystic phrases handed down from ancient times. We speak of 'sin,' but to them sin is a crime like the killing of animals."

"A few days ago," replied Pagel, "I came across a nomad furiously murmuring prayers while slaughtering a yak for food. I am sure that if he could have managed it he would have spun his prayer wheel at the same time."

"It's a strange religion with a strange language," agreed Dr. Heyde. "All we can do is pray for wisdom."

Sonam had sat beside the men listening intently. He was impressed by the story of Jesus. That a god would leave Paradise and come down to earth he could understand - the Tibetan religion was built around that idea. But there was something different about Jesus. No Buddha had ever died on a cross to give eternal life to his followers. The Buddhas taught a man where escape from the wheel of life lay, then left him to accumulate sufficient merit so he could escape. Sonam picked up the Gospel the men had been translating, and slowly spelled out the words.

"This is hard to read, Father. Will you be able to make it simple enough for all to read?"

"I doubt that it is possible, son. Classical Tibetan is a difficult language, but it is the best we can do. Can you read the story?"

"No, it is too hard, but I do like to hear the story of Jesus. One day I would like to be His disciple."

A frown clouded Tempu's face. "Ah, no, son. We can never forsake the faith of our fathers. We can help the men translate their holy book, but we can never be Christians."

The days stretched into weeks and years as Dr. Heyde and Mr. Pagel struggled on with the translation of the Gospel of John. They had been joined by Dr. Jaeschke,. an authority on Oriental languages. Tempu Gergan still helped them all he could.

At last they finished the Gospel of John and had it printed at Kyelang, in Kashmir. Now they had a message Tibetans could read. They arranged with a passing trader to take a yakload of the Gospels into Tibet and distribute them to monasteries. Sonam, as excited as his friends, hoped that many would read about his Jesus.

Tempu Gergan had been ill for some time, and his condition grew worse. Making a long trip to Leh, he had run into bad weather with unseasonable sleet and snow. When he had struggled home, he suffered from a raging fever and a hacking cough. Dr. Heyde diagnosed tuberculosis and did what he could to relieve the old man's suffering. But it was obvious that the elderly Tibetan would not live long.

Sonam was now twelve years old. He watched his father slip into unconsciousness and wondered again what lies beyond this life. Surely the missionaries were right when they spoke of God's Paradise. But his father, a Buddhist, could only look forward to countless lives with more suffering and death. How he wished his father would accept Christ.

The servants, knowing their master would soon leave them, called in the lamas. These priests chanted over the sick man, striving to drive out the evil spirit that afflicted him. On a slip of paper they printed "Om mani padme hum" which they pulped up in a little water and forced down the dying man's throat. Finally, in the year of the Fire Bird (1897), Tempu Gergan died.

For many days the valley people mourned the passing of a great man. Droma his wife was heartbroken and, feeble in health, seemed destined to follow her husband soon. Sonam grieved deeply, but he had a calm assurance that everything was in God's hands.

After a time the normal pace of life resumed in the valley. Sonam now declared openly that he had determined to follow Jesus Christ as his Lord and Master. Later that year he made a public profession of his faith by being baptised as a Christian in the swift stream that flowed through the valley. The lamas, of course, were horrified.

"What will you do now, Sonam?'' his friends asked him.

"My name is no longer Sonam," he replied. "When I was baptised I received my new name - Yoseb [Joseph]. God has a work for me to do, and that is to give legs to the Bible, that it may run into Tibet and tell my people about Jesus."

The missionaries, of course, told Yoseb that they felt greatly rewarded for their efforts. However, the Gospel they had struggled for years to produce had fallen far short of their hopes. They discovered that so few could read classical Tibetan that the work was practically wasted. The lamas could recite the language in their holy books, but seldom understood what they were reciting. Could it be that God had called Yoseb to translate the Bible so that it could be understood?

Yoseb heard of the benefits of education in the outside world and begged his friends to send him away to school. The missionaries gladly granted his request and sent him to the Christian Missionary School in Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir. He proved to be a brilliant student, learning both Urdu and English among other things. When he was a young man of twenty-three, the British Raj offered him a lucrative position in public service, but he refused.

"I have given my life to the Lord Jesus Christ," he explained. "If his messengers are not allowed to go to my people, I will devote myself to translating the Bible so that it can have legs and go into Tibet."