The methods used in the work of Christian missions has changed over the years, but the need has not. I discovered this story/allegory on GTO’s website HERE. I think every Christian has a responsibility to missions, be they foreign or local.

THE CRY OF BLOOD

By Amy Carmichael

The
tom-toms thumped straight on all night and the darkness shuddered round
me like a living, feeling thing. I could not go to sleep, so I lay
awake and looked; and I saw, as it seemed, this: That I stood on a
grassy sward, and at my feet a precipice broke sheer down into infinite
space. I looked, but saw no bottom; only cloud shapes, black and
furiously coiled, and great shadow-shrouded hollows, and unfathomable
depths. Back I drew, dizzy at the depth.

Then I saw forms of people moving single file along the grass. They
were making for the edge. There was a woman with a baby in her arms and
another little child holding on to her dress. She was on the very
verge. Then I saw that she was blind. She lifted her foot for the next
step . . . it trod air. She was over, and the children over with her.
Oh, the cry as they went over!

Then I saw more streams of people flowing from all quarters. All were
blind, stone blind; all made straight for the precipice edge. There
were shrieks, as they suddenly knew themselves falling, and a tossing
up of helpless arms, catching, clutching at empty air. But some went
over quietly, and fell without a sound.

Then I wondered, with a wonder that was simply agony, why no one
stopped them at the edge. I could not. I was glued to the ground, and I
could only call; though I strained and tried, only whisper would come.

Then I saw that along the edge there were sentries set at intervals.
But the intervals were too great; there were wide, unguarded gaps
between. And over these gaps the people fell in their blindness, quite
unwarned; and the green grass seemed blood-red to me, and the gulf
yawned like the mouth of hell.

Then I saw, like a little picture of peace, a group of people under
some trees with their backs turned toward the gulf. They were making
daisy chains. Sometimes when a piercing shriek cut the quiet air and
reached them, it disturbed them and they thought it a rather vulgar
noise. And if one of their number started up and wanted to go and do
something to help, then all the others would pull that one down. “Why
should you get so excited about it? You must wait for a definite call
to go! You haven’t finished your daisy chain yet. It would be really
selfish,” they said, “to leave us to finish the work alone.”

There was another group. It was made up of people whose great desire
was to get more sentries out; but they found that very few wanted to
go, and sometimes there were no sentries set for miles and miles of the
edge.

Once a girl stood alone in her place, waving the people back; but her
mother and other relations called and reminded her that her furlough
was due; she must not break the rules. And being tired and needing a
change, she had to go and rest for awhile; but no one was sent to guard
her gap, and over and over the people fell, like a waterfall of souls.

Once a child caught at a tuft of grass that grew at the very brink of
the gulf; it clung convulsively, and it called – but nobody seemed to
hear. Then the roots of the grass gave way, and with a cry the child
went over, its two little hands still holding tight to the torn-off
bunch of grass. And the girl who longed to be back in her gap thought
she heard the little one cry, and she sprang up and wanted to go; at
which they reproved her, reminding her that no one is necessary
anywhere; the gap would be well taken care of, they knew. And then they
sang a hymn.

Then through the hymn came another sound like the pain of a million
broken hearts wrung out in one full drop, one sob. And a horror of
great darkness was upon me, for I knew what it was – the Cry of the
Blood.

Then thundered a voice, the voice of the Lord. “And He said, ‘What hast
thou done, The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the
ground.’”

The tom-toms still beat heavily, the darkness still shuddered and
shivered about me; I heard the yells of the devil-dancers and weird,
wild shriek of the devil-possessed just outside the gate.

What does it matter, after all? It has gone on for years; it will go on for years. Why make such a fuss about it?

God forgive us! God arouse us! Shame us out of our callousness! Shame us out of our sin.

–Amy Carmichael