From: liu@cbnewsj.cb.att.com (hao-wei.liu)
Subject: Re: Shame on you, godless Chinese!
Organization: AT&T
Date: Fri, 13 Nov 1992 15:08:56 GMT

In article <1992Nov11.044613.13109@wam.umd.edu>, shicheng@wam.umd.edu (Shicheng Jiang) writes:
> Shame on you, godless Chinese!
> 
I spent 20 mins to type this reading selection(promise not to do it again).

As to the above person, your God must have shown you how to respect others
and not to be rude.

Langston Hughes was a poet, fiction writer, playwright, critic, and humorist.

Regards,
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hao-Wei Liu                liu@usl.com   or         [...uunet!]att!usl!liu
I am perfectly willing to be judged and criticized BUT only by God and History
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                                Salvation
                                ---------                   by Langston Hughes

    I was saved from sin when I was going on thirteen.  But not really saved.
It happened like this.  There was a big revival at my Auntie Reed's church. 
Every night for weeks there had been much preaching, singing, praying, and
shouting, and some very hardened sinners had been brought to Christ, and the
membership of the church had grown by leaps and bounds. Then just before the
revival ended, they held a special meeting for children, "to bring the young
lambs to the fold."  My aunt spoke of it for days ahead.  That night I was
escorted to the front row and placed on the mourners' bench with all the
other young sinners, who had not yet been brought to Jesus.

    My aunt told me that when you were saved you saw a light, and something
happened to you inside!  And Jesus came into your life!  And God was with
you from then on!  She said you could see and hear and feel Jesus in your
soul.  I believed her.  I had heard a great many old people say the same
thing and it seemed to me that ought to know.  So I sat there calmly in the
hot, crowded church, waiting for Jesus to come to me.

    The preacher preached a wonderful rhythmical sermon, all moans and
shouts and lonely cries and dire pictures of hell, and then he sang a song
about the ninety and nine safe in the fold, but one little lamb was left out
in the cold.  Then he said: "Won't you come?  Won't you come to Jesus?  
Young lambs, won't you come?"  And he held out his arms to all us young
sinners there on the mourners' bench.  And the little girls cried.  And
some of them jumped up and went to Jesus right away.  But most of us just
sat there.

    A great many old people came and knelt around us and prayed, old women
with jet-black faces and braided hair, old men with work-gnarled hands.  
And the church sang a song about the lower lights are burning, some poor 
sinners to be saved.  And the whole building rocked with prayer and song. 

    Still I kept waiting to see Jesus.

    Finally all the young people had gone to the altar and were saved, but
one boy and me.  He was a rounder's son named Westley.  Westley and I were
surrounded by sisters and deacons praying.  It was very hot in the church,
and getting late now.  Finally Westley said to me in a whisper: "God damn!
I'm tired o' sitting here.  Let's get up and be saved."  So he got up and
was saved.

    Then I was left all along on the mourners' bench.  My aunt came and
knelt at my knees and cried, while prayers and songs swirled all around me
in the little church.  The whole congregation prayed for me alone, in a
mighty wail of moans and voices.  And I kept waiting serenely for Jesus,
waiting, waiting - but he didn't come.  I wanted to see him, but nothing
happened to me.  Nothing!  I wanted something to happen to me, but nothing
happened.

    I heard the songs and the minister saying: "Why don't you come? My
dear child, why don't you come to Jesus?  Jesus is waiting for you. He
wants you.  Why don't you come?  Sister Reed, what is this child's name?"

    "Langston," my aunt sobbed.

    "Langston, why don't you come?  Why don't you come and be saved? Oh,
Lamb of God!  Why don't you come?"

    Now it was really getting late.  I began to be ashamed of myself,
holding everything up so long.  I began to wonder what God thought about
Westley, who certainly hadn't seen Jesus either, but who was now sitting
proudly on the platform, swinging his knickerbockered legs and grinning
down at me, surrounded by deacons and old women on their knees praying. 
God had not struck Westley dead for taking his name in vain or for lying
in the temple.  So I decided that maybe to save further trouble, I'd
better lie, too, and say that Jesus had come, and get up and be saved.

    So I got up.

    Suddenly the whole room broke into a sea of shouting, as they saw me
rise.  Waves of rejoicing swept the place.  Women leaped in the air.  My
aunt threw her arms around me.  The minister took me by the hand and led
me to the platform.

    When things quieted down, in a hushed silence, punctuated by a few
ecstatic "Amens," all the new young lambs were blessed in the name of
God.  Then joyous singing filled the room.

    That night, for the last time in my life but one - for I was a big
boy twelve years old - I cried.  I cried, in bed alone, and couldn't stop.
I buried my head under the quilts, but my aunt heard me.  She woke up and
told my uncle I was crying because the Holy Ghost had come into my life, 
and because I had seen Jesus.  But I was really crying because I couldn't
bear to tell her that I had lied, that I had deceived everybody in the
church, and that I hadn't seen Jesus, and that now I didn't believe there
was a Jesus any more, since he didn't come to help me.