Photos of Dr. James Royce Thomason
HOME SWEET HOME
I grew up on the rolling plains and prairie of southwest Oklahoma only 11 miles from the Red River that divides Oklahoma and Texas. We were farmers/ranchers. My parents were very poor, hardworking, independent folks who taught their six children to earn their living by the sweat of their face (Gen. 3:19). That was God’s orders to Adam and Eve, and everybody of my acquaintance thought they were included in that formula for existence.
Our area was a big cotton producing area as well as that of cattle. I went to work in the cotton fields with my mother at the age of four. I was too small to drag the long, cotton-laden sack, so I picked in a basket and emptied it in my mom’s sack. She had no such thing as a baby-sitter, so she carried my tiny baby brother on the end of the sack, and when he needed feeding, she stopped and let him nurse.
My first school was a two-room building called Pleasant Ridge about six and a half miles northeast of Frederick. It also served as a church. Rev. Irb Agee, a Baptist, preached each Sunday morning, and a Rev. Woods of the Methodist faith preached Sunday nights. Yes, all churches in these areas believed Sunday night was God’s time and Hebrews 10:25 applied there too.
I still have precious memories of good, God-fearing teachers (not a bad egg in the basket) who read a scripture each morning and had prayer before classes. On days of inclement weather, my mother took me to school on Bird, the old gray mare - a three-mile journey each way. Otherwise, I walked.
Later my Dad rented a farm in another school district, and there I graduated from the eighth grade at Rose Hill, a one-roomer. It seems as only yesterday I heard my folks talking about high school for me, but we had no transportation, and it was too far to walk and inconvenient to ride a pony all the time. So, for some time I hitchhiked, then a neighbor who took cans of milk to the produce house practically every day let me ride one way with him; and somehow I managed the way back after school hours. Modernization of farming machinery was taking place speedily, making it impossible for the little farmer to compete so that, along with some serious medical problems with my father, we moved to town and there I graduated from Frederick High School in 1936.
It was during my senior year that some old-fashioned, separated, Bible-believing folks came to town to start a revival that culminated in the organization of a church. They were dubbed “Holy Rollers” and other unbecoming titles. I soon heard the tales, my curiosity got the best of me, and I wanted to go to the meetings to see what I had heard described as a “real show.” None of my buddies would venture into the building, so I went on my own. The singing was spirited, the preaching rugged, the standards high. Old-time, devil-routing conviction seized my heart as never before and I borrow from a little story I read to describe my conversion something like this:
“The ragged little fellow stood looking in the window of a candy store. He was so hungry for some sweets but he had no money. A kind gentleman saw him, walked over and said: ‘Son, would you like some of that nice candy?’ The little boy nodded a ‘yes.’ The man took him inside, told the manager to fill up a big sack of the boy’s choice pieces, paid for it, handed the little fellow the sack and said, ‘Now you just eat until your heart is content’.”
I was something like that little boy, standing as it were, looking in at all the goodies in the store window, unable to make any purchase for I had not the price to pay. It was as if some beautiful creature came down from above and bought for me that which I could not buy on my own and seemed to say, “Son, here are the sweets of heaven which your heart craves. I paid for them with my own blood that splashed down on the limestone rocks of Calvary, thy sins be forgiven thee, go and sin no more.” I don’t have any tombstone to buy or any grave to keep up for He buried my sins in the sea of His forgetfulness far beyond my knowledge as to where He buried them. As that grand old song goes:
I can tell you the time, I can take you to the place,
Where the Lord saved me by His wonderful grace.
I know not how, and I know not the why,
But He’ll tell me all about it in the bye and bye.
THE OLD RUGGED CROSS
Like so many other folks, I suppose I could truthfully say that I had always been somewhat religious but had never really been born again.
Those “holy rollers” came to town and started a revival in that half-basement building. Some folks spread untrue tales about them, alleging those church folk put spells on people, etc. I went one night, and it was under the preaching of their pastor, Rev. R.E. McCain that I got saved. Bro. McCain, as a young man, had been the song evangelist for Rev. George Bernard who wrote The Old Rugged Cross during one of his revival meetings, and Bro. McCain sung the song for the first time in public that night.
I was a senior in high school. The spiritual transaction took place about 8 p.m. February 8, 1936. It was almost immediately that I felt the call to preach and within a short time in a miraculous way (it is a long story actually) a call came for me to go to Boehler, Oklahoma, a town consisting only of a combination slab store and post office, a one-room school, three or four houses, nothing more, no churches near, located in the Kiamichi Mountains of the eastern part of the state. Friends took me in their car, for I had no transportation. Kind folks in Boehler gave me room and board in their home.
Some men on horseback came the next day to help me build a little brush arbor, someone loaned us three Aladdin gasoline lanterns (no electricity near Boehler at that time), and I started the meeting. We had no songbooks, so we sang familiar hymns; we had no music. I knew unless God helped in a special way, I was in for trouble being totally inexperienced. But help me He did. My first text was from the KJV; my last one, when it comes, will be from the tried and proven KJV. Folks came in large numbers, horseback, wagons, on foot, a few in old cars. Things were very primitive, but I was right at home for I had never had any of the finer things of life myself. My folks were poor; had we known there was a war on poverty, we would have surrendered at once.
Several people were saved in the meeting. At least three of them are still living and serving the Lord faithfully in a fundamental church in the next town. Boehler no longer exists except for two or three houses. I have never kept any record of my converts, and it is just as well for I soon found that many professions are not real cases of genuine conversion. I have never kept an account of how much money I have raised for the Kingdom for I have left that job up to heaven’s bookkeepers for they do it all perfectly. The record is there, that is all that matters.
I preached three weeks, and the total offering was 68 cents. In the next town there lived an elderly cowgirl who was well known as Granny Bryant. She was trying to keep the doors of the little church she attended open. They had no pastor and only a handful of people. She asked me to come and preach for them a week. She arranged it with the mail carrier to give me a ride over as I had no transportation. I preached there a week, there were some converts, and the offering was $5. I had not the money for a bus ticket home (some 300 miles) so I hitchhiked. Cars on that road were few, going was slow, and night caught me near Madill, Oklahoma, so I pulled some grass and made me a bed in the road ditch, used my Bible for a pillow, looked up at the stars and thanked God that He accounted me worthy of being His unworthy servant.
During the next four years there was some time for further schooling and more revivals, and then there arose the war clouds of World War II. When President Roosevelt drew from a huge fishbowl the names of the first young men to be drafted, my name was the 17th one drawn for my county of Tillman. My dad had died suddenly only a few weeks before so the draft board gave me a seven-month extension period to help my mother, five younger brothers and sisters, and our aged grandmother. Then, on March 26, 1941, I put on the greatest uniform in the world and marched off to serve the greatest country God’s sun ever shined on. Draft dodging was looked on then for what it really is — inexcusable cowardliness, shameful lack of patriotism, and total disregard for one’s responsibility. I went gladly and would go again tomorrow if Uncle Sam needed me. Money was certainly no incentive, for a beginner’s salary was $21 a month and after insurance and other deductions, I had $5 left out of my check.
At the induction center, there was a request for 17 men to go to Camp Wolters, Texas (Mineral Wells area) to open a new base hospital. A large group of us were given IQ tests, and I was one of the 17 chosen. Even in the army, I often found a chance to hold services at some surrounding churches or else made a place to hold meetings.
Once overseas, we had no assigned chaplain, so my commanding officer appointed me to be the unit’s chaplain along with my medical duties. Those positions I held till the last shot was fired in Germany; and I soon got to come home. My mother was an invalid by then, two younger brothers were still engaged in the Pacific War, the Japs did not surrender when the Germans did. I ran for City Councilman, got elected, got a public job and took on the pastorate of two nearby churches without pastors, and canceled my wedding plans. She married another, and they named their first baby boy after me.
Eventually my mother died and all the brothers and sisters except one brother had married, and he went to the Navy. It was then that I was able to give full time to missionary work and evangelism, and I am still at it. I have traveled some 150 foreign lands, most of them in the interest of missions or charity medicine. I am on my second millionth mile driving a car, this says nothing of hundreds of thousands traveled by air, ship, bicycle, horseback or boat. In all the years, the only preaching service I ever missed due to sickness was a bad case of laryngitis. I was present for the service, but another had to preach. Once a tornado destroyed my tent and laid me up in a hospital for three or four days with some broken bones, but once dismissed (too early because of my persistence) I went back and re-started the revival, propped up by pillows. That case was injury, not sickness. To the best of my knowledge, I never missed a scheduled service because of car trouble along the road but once. Much of this due to the fact that friends have kindly made it possible for me to drive a reliable car. Thanks be unto God for all His bountiful mercies He hath bestowed upon me, undeserving as I am.
Most of the years have not been easy so far as great accomplishments and finances were concerned. That has all been more than compensated by thousands of sincere friends who have stood by me through thick and thin. Of course, as Jesus warned us, not everybody loves Christians and some speak evil of us, but here’s a little poem I have relied on at those times:
If you’ve not been treated right, just forget it!
Don’t get ready for a fight but forget it!
Life’s too short to hold a grudge,
Twill your happiness be smudge,
Anyway, you’re not the judge, so forget it!
FULL TIME EVANGELISM
It was somewhere around 1947 before I could get into fulltime evangelism again. I also felt the Lord would have me go back to Europe to hold some meetings, for I had found it to be a mission field of its own. Almost as a sudden cloud out of a blue sky, the amount of money to go came in and some openings for meetings at the same time. Little did I know that the Lord was opening up a way for me to add foreign missions to my slowly growing work. I held meetings in several English towns, Scotland, and North Ireland. Then I had the feeling that the Lord had something to show me in Israel, which was a very unsettled place and held no attraction for me. Then there was the problem of changing money from what American friends had sent me to the amount of British money allowed to be taken out of the country. Keep in mind, the war was just over, and things were far from normal still. However, I felt the leading was of the Lord when He used an atheist banker to help me with the money exchange even against some stringent British laws.
It was in Jerusalem where I found Matilda Davis, a blind Arab, an American-trained therapist who had returned to her native Jerusalem to do therapy in a Jewish hospital. She had lost her home and equipment during the Jewish-Arab War. She was feeling her way from one refugee tent (she herself now a refugee) to another, trying to help the suffering. I managed some money to get her a place where she could carry on her work and get some of the needed machines. We took her as a missionary project for she had no outside help, with exception of the few coins the people who came for help could afford. We supported her until she went to Heaven some seven or eight years ago at the ripe old age of 97.
Again, while there, the Lord showed us His approval. I had a revival scheduled for the Oriental Missionary Society in Athens, Greece, and to get there by boat I had to go to Beirut, Lebanon, to get another boat. When I crossed the Israeli border at the “No Man’s Land” crossing, I again had problems with exchange of what little money I had. I went to the president of the Israeli bank, who was an Orthodox Jew, and he, against Israeli banking laws, helped me get the exchange. First it was the atheist banker in England, and now the Orthodox Jew in Israel.
I landed in Beirut and found out that the ship was broken down in port and that it would be another week before it sailed, and nobody was allowed aboard until it was ready. I had a ticket and expected to board the ship immediately upon arrival in Beirut thus had not expected a financial crisis. I had about $3 to my name, so where would I find lodging and food for that week? Walking around, I saw a big fence and gate around what looked like a school. Upon investigating, it turned out to be a Christian Armenian school and they put me up in a nice home and I left Lebanon with a few dollars more than I arrived with.
On and on I could go with account after account of God’s marvelous provisions and blessings in the meetings as well as my physical protection in places where fools rush in and where angels fear to trod. It would take a book to tell it all. Perhaps the most memorable place so far as danger and utter confusion lurked, was in Yugoslavia. From Beirut I had sailed to Greece and had held a week of meetings there and the next stop would be Liege, Belgium. I would have to pass through Yugoslavia which had not recovered from the German and Russian invasion of World War II. When I reached the border, I was the only passenger left on the train. The guards came through, looked me over, and spoke not a word of any language I knew. They took my passport and left. I had no idea if I would ever see it again nor if they would put me off the train or what. Finally, they came back, handed me the passport, and left.
I arrived in Belgrade about two hours before dark, having had nothing to eat but an orange all day. The train would be staying in Belgrade until the next morning when it would go on to France and Belgium.
I tried several people inside the station to find somebody who spoke something I could understand. Finally, some soul figured me out as being American and though he could not speak English, French or Spanish, he took me by the arm upstairs where the railway manager sat behind a desk. His left leg was missing, and I found later that the Germans had treated him inhumanely. He had finally escaped to the Russian army but didn’t fare any better. After all that, he had lost a leg. He informed me that though Belgrade was the capital of Yugoslavia and a big town, no hotels could yet be found and that the price of everything was unthinkable.
He said, “Me and my mother live in a tiny apartment and all we have to eat is black bread, jelly and some coffee. If you can manage that and sleep with me on a three quarter bed, all I have to offer, you can stay with us and why not change your plans for Liege for four or five days and I’ll show you around town and help you get information about the nearly two million Serbs, Jews, and others the Catholic Ustashi killed under Hitler.” I felt badly taking even a slice of bread from those poor folks, but they insisted. Where else could I go even for the night? So, I agreed to stay a few days. Never was I treated more royally. I heard later that his mother had died, and Andre had married and was living in some socialist housing project. With all the unrest that poor Yugoslavia has experienced and now with the Bosnian mess, I wonder what ever became of my dear friends. All efforts to find them have failed.
When I left for Leige, women guards came on the train, took all the women passengers into a compartment, stripped and searched them while men guards did the same with the men, but left me untouched. Yugoslavia was a scary and heart-rendering experience, and I was glad to cross the border into Belgium. While stationed in a suburb of Liege during the last part of the war, I attended the Salvation Army services in the French language. It was the only fundamental Protestant church in the city of 500,000 people. They had scheduled me for a week of meetings as I came through Europe. I arrived with only a few coins in my pocket, but I was not worried for I had a ticket from there to the English Channel on the train and a boat ticket across the channel and another train ticket on to London’s Victoria Station. I would have meetings in London and then go home on my return ticket. During the Salvation Army meetings I had to spend most of the money I had and was finally down to a mere penny in Belgium money. I said nothing to anybody but the Lord, for though I had tickets for London, I discovered that I did not have anything for food that day nor for a coin to phone the folks in London that I had arrived at the station. Even a dollar would do the trick. But where was the dollar? The Salvation Army captain was taking me to the train station in his car and as we were going down the walkway to the car, the postman came up with a letter addressed to Rev. J. Royce Thomason, Salvation Army, Leige, Belgium. That’s it, no more address than that in a city of 500,000 people? How did it ever find me? And the biggest mystery of it all: who on earth knew where I was at the time?
I opened the letter, and it was from a poor Free Will Baptist preacher who worked in a coal mine at Sassafras, Kentucky. It read: “Dear Brother Royce, while you were here in a meeting last year, you said you would be at the Salvation Army in Leige somewhere about this time. I don’t know just where you are, but the Lord spoke to me this morning about sending you a dollar. I hope you receive it.” Talk about a miracle! If the postman had been even three or four minutes later, I would have been gone, but the Lord knew where I was and what time the train ran; and He knew all about the inefficiency of the postal service, but he spoke to that dear preacher not a moment too late. What timing! This is but one of several similar incidents I have experienced.
In all my years, I have never operated on a surplus. It has almost always been right down to the line financially but as in this case, what I really needed has usually come. Before me is a little motto I picked up recently, a motto that pretty well describes my case. It reads: “I started with nothing, and still have most of it left.”
Turning from the more serious side, some of you are wondering what has been perhaps the most comical experience. Well, it happened in St. John, St. Kitts, an island in the Caribbean chain. I was there in some meetings, all black people. It was nearly time for me to preach when the pastor called the congregation to prayer and they all got on their knees.
He called on somebody to lead in prayer, and this dear brother, with all sincerity and fervency, started praying. Loud he was. Somewhere he had heard American and English people use a phrase that I used to hear in the early days. “Lord, empower the preacher and stir the congregation.” This dear brother had heard this but got the words mixed up a little. His prayer was almost loud enough to wake the dead and it went: “Oh Lord, paralyze the preacher and sterilize the congregation.” It was some time before I could regain my composure before preaching.
Some are wondering what the most unusual case has been. It is hard to pick between two of the outstanding ones. One happened on a train in Turkey and one in a bombing raid in Belgium during World War II. It was Christmas Eve. A bomb had fallen in our compound that afternoon and killed one of our soldiers. Some of the fellows came to me and asked that as soon as the supper dishes had been cleared from the mess hall tent, would I lead them in some Christmas carols and then preach. I agreed to do so. There was a chaplain across the way at the Second Field Hospital who had as his chauffeur a young man who played a portable pump organ, so I asked him to come and bring us his organ and help us cheer things up a bit. He gladly came.
I had just started the service when a runner came saying that a bomb had fallen up the street about two blocks away and an American soldier was lying there in the snow, possibly dead, and unattended. I turned the service over to the chaplain, took my medical kits, and went to see about the soldier. The electric wires were all down, snow was about 18 inches deep, and the temperature was about 35 below zero. The soldier seemed lifeless. I could not detect any heartbeat, but he was still warm and I felt I should do something radical that might just bring him around. So I intravenously injected five ampules of caffeine sodium benzoate, enough to equal about 20 cups of coffee. It was a case of cure or kill for ordinary efforts were useless. Soon I began to feel a faint pulse, and I felt he was going to come around. So I busied myself gathering some pieces of wood from the ruins around me to make splints for both legs and one arm that was broken. By the time I got that done, his pulse was much stronger, but he was still unconscious. I had no ambulance so I put him in the back of a weapons carrier and sent him to 122nd Field Hospital. Doctors there worked on him most of the night. A buzz bomb hit the hospital the next day, throwing him, casts and all onto the floor. He was still unconscious. They then took him to another hospital, and I lost track of him.
Many, many times I thought of him and of what looked like the enemy’s determination to kill him, wondering if he pulled through, and if so, would he be normal, etc. Some 15 years later I was holding a revival in Melrose, New Mexico, and walked into a little store and struck up a conversation with the manager. I asked him was he a veteran and he told me he was and inquired as to where I was during the Battle of the Bulge, and I told him I was in a little place called Loncin.
He said, “My best buddy went to Loncin on Christmas Eve that year and a buzz bomb fell on him. . .” I butted in saying: “And a medic found him and revived him and sent him to another hospital that was hit the next day by a bomb.” He said, “How did you know about that?” It was then I told him that I was the man who had found him and saved his life. I made inquiry and was told by this store owner that my patient did live and was then living in Illinois, doing fine, but that so many years had expired that he had lost trace of him. I did not find him again, but did put my questions to rest. The soldier had survived.
MIRACLES, MINISTRY AND MISSIONS
There is so much to say, but time is limited. It has all been miraculous. The Voice in the Wilderness publication is a miracle also. During my first missionary trip, friends at home asked me to run off a mimeographed letter and send it out so they could know where I was and what was happening. I did so and when I came home, they urged I keep up the mimeographed page then later as interest had grown, I developed it into a four page professionally printed magazine calling it The Voice in the Wilderness. Then we went to eight pages, and now, the current, subscription free issue. We have also printed it in the Tamil and Korean languages in South India.
Most of the missions projects we have taken on have been of a miraculous origin. The following, some of the best God ever put breath into, have finished their duties and have now been promoted to Glory: Matilda Davis of Jerusalem, Florence Hardy of Cheung Chou, Sis. Bartalink of the jungles of Surinam, Dr. Varma of India, Dudley Gardner of Calcutta, India, and Sophia Muller of the jungles of Colombia. What an honor to have had a part in the work of these heroes and heroines of the faith.
Up until September 10, 2001 when I experienced several debilitating stroke like episodes, my health has been something of a miracle as I see it. The Lord has graciously protected me as I enter my second millionth mile driving a car, and that says nothing of hundreds of thousands by other means. Missing a couple of scheduled services in all the years has been nothing short of our Lord’s provision. To God be the glory, great things He hath done!
When I first started, I thought by now the good faithful preachers would have the wicked old world hog-tied and hobbled, resembling a meek lamb. However, it has not worked that way; quite the opposite. I figured our worst enemies to the gospel would be the ACLU, NOW, Humanism, New Agers, etc. Though these just named are the enemies of the gospel, I find that our worst trouble is a crowd who call themselves Christians, those of our own group, false prophets, compromisers, liberals, etc. They have millions to spend on TV time for they hobnob and compromise with Catholics, the Charismatic Movement, Mormons, the ecumenists, etc. Is it any wonder that the church has lost its salt? However, dear brothers and sisters in Christ, we must press the battle, the crowning day is coming. After Solomon repented of his sin, God used him to write some of the sweetest songs about Jesus. One verse of the Song of Solomon (chapter 5) is to Him as “chiefest among ten thousand” (verse 10), and like a “bed of spices, like sweet flowers” (verse13). Oh, rich and rare and exquisite, everlasting perfume. Put it in every poor man’s window, plant it on every grave, put its leaves under every dying pillow, twist it in every garland, put it in every home; and when I am about to die, and this hand that writes these things to you today is cold in death, put in that hand some Easter flower, some rose of Sharon, some lily of the valley, something typical of Him whom my soul loveth. He who has been my guide and stay over the long and often lonely journey. It is now many years since I found the Lord, and I feel compelled to tell Him how sweet He has been so patient with me by day and by night. It is the grief of my life that so much of my time has gone and that I have failed Him so many times. It has been the same story all the way through – faithfulness of His part and failure on mine. I have not had such Christian experience as some to whom Christ has been the conqueror on the white horse, or the bridegroom coming forth with lanterns and torches, or the sun of righteousness setting everything ablaze with light. With me it has been more quiet experiences, a more undemonstrative one; something very quiet but sweet. To what shall I compare it? I have it: “My beloved is unto me as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers.” And last, Oh Lord:
When I come to cross the Jordan,
Bid my anxious fears subside,
Bear me safely through the current
Land me safe on Canaan’s side.
Strong Deliverer, strong Deliverer,
Be Thou still my strength and shield.
DEAR NEW SUBSCRIBER
The following information is mostly for newer subscribers, so as to acquaint you with our efforts. I suppose we could be described as chiefly missionary supporters. Though we do not send out any missionaries, we have tried to find some in the most needy fields on earth – mostly jungles – those who have no guaranteed support – some substantially, some less. They are faith missionaries: the Philippines, Venezuela, Colombia, New Guinea, Panama, and Uganda, and areas of Central America. Others have included Mexico, Syria, Haiti, India, and the United States. In India we published this magazine (altered somewhat) in the Tamil language, we have helped six churches there, some students in institutions of higher learning and two orphanages. In the homeland we send small donations to one home for juvenile girls, a home for juvenile girls and boys and a work on an Indian reservation in South Dakota. We have no foundations backing us, only the freewill donations of friends and what offerings come in during revival meetings.
Most of the folks who made up my early congregations (along with others whom I loved and cherished) have gone now. I have stood by many an open grave. Earth is becoming more and more a lonesome place as what few are left keep slipping into the sunset of life. Where are those grand and glorious men and women? Hopefully they have all found rest, cares all past, home at last, ever to rejoice. Some went so gradually that they had concluded the second or third stanza of heaven’s song before I knew they had gone. They had on their crown before I knew they had laid down the staff of their earthly pilgrimage.
It would have been wonderful for the rest of us if they could have all stayed here with us and all have died and been raptured together. If we could have kept all the sheep and lambs of God’s family together until some bright morning, the birds a-chant and the brooks a-glitter, and then we could all together hear the voice of the Good Shepherd and hand-in-hand pass over the tide to that golden shore, how nice it would have been. No, it could not be that way. It has been and will be, one by one unless, of course, the rapture comes first. It may be at midnight, it may be in a winter snowstorm, or in the morning. It may be in a strange motel, our arm too weak to reach the phone or press the bell for help. It may be in a car crash. It may be so sudden we won’t have time to say “good-bye.” But, one by one, we must go. Let me play you three tunes on the Gospel harp of comfort. First: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Psalm 30:5). Second: “All things work together for good to them that love God” (Romans 8:28). Third, “And the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne shall lead them to living fountains of water, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes” (Revelation 7:17).
Dear Reader:
After almost seven decades of ministry, The Voice in the Wilderness continues to stand in the gap preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ to those who are in great darkness. Contending for American Freedom and contending for Fundamental Christianity remains a vital thrust of this missionary and printing ministry. We appreciate so very much your prayers. May God help us all to be faithful.
______________________________________________________________________
There is so much to say, but time is limited. It has all been miraculous. The Voice in the Wilderness publication is a miracle also. During my first missionary trip, friends at home asked me to run off a mimeographed letter and send it out so they could know where I was and what was happening. I did so and when I came home, they urged I keep up the mimeographed page then later as interest had grown, I developed it into a four page professionally printed magazine calling it The Voice in the Wilderness. Then we went to eight pages, and now, the current, subscription free issue. We have also printed it in the Tamil and Korean languages in South India.
Most of the missions projects we have taken on have been of a miraculous origin. The following, some of the best God ever put breath into, have finished their duties and have now been promoted to Glory: Matilda Davis of Jerusalem, Florence Hardy of Cheung Chou, Sis. Bartalink of the jungles of Surinam, Dr. Varma of India, Dudley Gardner of Calcutta, India, and Sophia Muller of the jungles of Colombia. What an honor to have had a part in the work of these heroes and heroines of the faith.
Up until September 10, 2001 when I experienced several debilitating stroke like episodes, my health has been something of a miracle as I see it. The Lord has graciously protected me as I enter my second millionth mile driving a car, and that says nothing of hundreds of thousands by other means. Missing a couple of scheduled services in all the years has been nothing short of our Lord’s provision. To God be the glory, great things He hath done!
When I first started, I thought by now the good faithful preachers would have the wicked old world hog-tied and hobbled, resembling a meek lamb. However, it has not worked that way; quite the opposite. I figured our worst enemies to the gospel would be the ACLU, NOW, Humanism, New Agers, etc. Though these just named are the enemies of the gospel, I find that our worst trouble is a crowd who call themselves Christians, those of our own group, false prophets, compromisers, liberals, etc. They have millions to spend on TV time for they hobnob and compromise with Catholics, the Charismatic Movement, Mormons, the ecumenists, etc. Is it any wonder that the church has lost its salt? However, dear brothers and sisters in Christ, we must press the battle, the crowning day is coming. After Solomon repented of his sin, God used him to write some of the sweetest songs about Jesus. One verse of the Song of Solomon (chapter 5) is to Him as “chiefest among ten thousand” (verse 10), and like a “bed of spices, like sweet flowers” (verse13). Oh, rich and rare and exquisite, everlasting perfume. Put it in every poor man’s window, plant it on every grave, put its leaves under every dying pillow, twist it in every garland, put it in every home; and when I am about to die, and this hand that writes these things to you today is cold in death, put in that hand some Easter flower, some rose of Sharon, some lily of the valley, something typical of Him whom my soul loveth. He who has been my guide and stay over the long and often lonely journey. It is now many years since I found the Lord, and I feel compelled to tell Him how sweet He has been so patient with me by day and by night. It is the grief of my life that so much of my time has gone and that I have failed Him so many times. It has been the same story all the way through – faithfulness of His part and failure on mine. I have not had such Christian experience as some to whom Christ has been the conqueror on the white horse, or the bridegroom coming forth with lanterns and torches, or the sun of righteousness setting everything ablaze with light. With me it has been more quiet experiences, a more undemonstrative one; something very quiet but sweet. To what shall I compare it? I have it: “My beloved is unto me as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers.” And last, Oh Lord:
When I come to cross the Jordan,
Bid my anxious fears subside,
Bear me safely through the current
Land me safe on Canaan’s side.
Strong Deliverer, strong Deliverer,
Be Thou still my strength and shield.
DEAR NEW SUBSCRIBER
The following information is mostly for newer subscribers, so as to acquaint you with our efforts. I suppose we could be described as chiefly missionary supporters. Though we do not send out any missionaries, we have tried to find some in the most needy fields on earth – mostly jungles – those who have no guaranteed support – some substantially, some less. They are faith missionaries: the Philippines, Venezuela, Colombia, New Guinea, Panama, and Uganda, and areas of Central America. Others have included Mexico, Syria, Haiti, India, and the United States. In India we published this magazine (altered somewhat) in the Tamil language, we have helped six churches there, some students in institutions of higher learning and two orphanages. In the homeland we send small donations to one home for juvenile girls, a home for juvenile girls and boys and a work on an Indian reservation in South Dakota. We have no foundations backing us, only the freewill donations of friends and what offerings come in during revival meetings.
Most of the folks who made up my early congregations (along with others whom I loved and cherished) have gone now. I have stood by many an open grave. Earth is becoming more and more a lonesome place as what few are left keep slipping into the sunset of life. Where are those grand and glorious men and women? Hopefully they have all found rest, cares all past, home at last, ever to rejoice. Some went so gradually that they had concluded the second or third stanza of heaven’s song before I knew they had gone. They had on their crown before I knew they had laid down the staff of their earthly pilgrimage.
It would have been wonderful for the rest of us if they could have all stayed here with us and all have died and been raptured together. If we could have kept all the sheep and lambs of God’s family together until some bright morning, the birds a-chant and the brooks a-glitter, and then we could all together hear the voice of the Good Shepherd and hand-in-hand pass over the tide to that golden shore, how nice it would have been. No, it could not be that way. It has been and will be, one by one unless, of course, the rapture comes first. It may be at midnight, it may be in a winter snowstorm, or in the morning. It may be in a strange motel, our arm too weak to reach the phone or press the bell for help. It may be in a car crash. It may be so sudden we won’t have time to say “good-bye.” But, one by one, we must go. Let me play you three tunes on the Gospel harp of comfort. First: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Psalm 30:5). Second: “All things work together for good to them that love God” (Romans 8:28). Third, “And the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne shall lead them to living fountains of water, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes” (Revelation 7:17).
Dear Reader:
After almost seven decades of ministry, The Voice in the Wilderness continues to stand in the gap preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ to those who are in great darkness. Contending for American Freedom and contending for Fundamental Christianity remains a vital thrust of this missionary and printing ministry. We appreciate so very much your prayers. May God help us all to be faithful.
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The Voice in the Wilderness continues today, Contending for Fundamental Christianity and American Freedoms - Amen! In honor of Bro. Royce and his lifetime of service to country and God, consider a sustaining gift to The Voice in the Wilderness.
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