IT WAS one of those little East Side streets where the rays of the sun seldom strike, where battered stone fronts and dilapidated bricks overhang narrow and gloomy, and many ragged little children play on the curbstones or sail paper boats in the gutters. The bustle and confusion which marks the lower side of the life of a great city filled the air. Here and there an old brick tenement rose gloomily from the surrounding shacks, and the alleys were crossed and criss-crossed with clothes-lines, upon which strange colored garments fluttered in the air. The day had been cloudy, and the clothes had not dried well. Their limp and bedraggled appearance was characteristic of everything in sight, including the people who slouched along the streets. The only joy seemed to be the laughter of the children, and they laughed because they did not realize the sordidness of their surroundings. It was a place of sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, and furrowed brows—a district where despair dwells and where need is ever howling at the door.

In this sordid neighborhood, jammed in between a gloomy tenement and a sweat-shop where a toiling humanity sold youth and life for the price of bread, stood a little one-story shack, broken in front and battered by age. Everyone knew this building, the little Buddhist church which had found its way into a land of many flags to minister to the needs of the children of India and Japan. It did not appear like an American church, for it had no spires or belfry. It was a stranger in a strange land, and the Lord of the Lotus meant little to those hungry ones who would gladly sell their souls for a crust of bread.

From across the blue Pacific, and over many miles of steel rails there had come one from the East, bringing with him the faith of the East and the childish simplicity of the East—that indescribable something which fascinates the traveler who wanders in Oriental countries. A few lonely ones in this great city had called him from the bright sunshine and green-clad mountains of India—had called him to minister to their needs. He had come out of his temple with its chanting priests, wreaths of purple incense, and the majesty sublime, and, as the least of the disciples of a Lowly One, came to bring the light of Asia to his people in America.

A quaint character was the little Buddhist priest. In spite of his strange gods, many of the people in that little tenement world had learned to welcome his smile and his quaint broken English. He had big black eyes and a kindly face, and, though the years weighed upon him, his countenance conveyed an impression of child-like simplicity. There was no guile in his look, no deceit in his smile, nor airs about his manner, but there was something infinitely human, deeply touching, even pathetic, in his brave battle against religions which opposed him.

The Buddhists loved him and came from miles around to his little church in the gloom of the tenement walls. They would go into the door in reverence, but once through the portal they lived in another world, for strange Oriental hangings covered the walls and the subtle odor of burning sandalwood and musk imparted an Oriental atmosphere to the whole. There in a little niche upon which loving hands had traced the flowers of Buddha, was a little shrine in which sat their Lord and God, their minister of light, their consoler in sorrow, their hope of redemption, their voice before the Almighty—Lord Gautama, the Great Buddha. Here they came in sorrow and in joy, young and old. Here, far from the gods of their birth, they found solace.

One day when the little Buddhist priest was out on the street he saw a child playing in the gutter with a little form of crockery or marble. He leaned over, and there, gazing up at him from the mud was a sad pathetic face, carved and painted in some cheap but effective substance. The Buddhist priest gazed upon it for some minutes, then as the child ran away, leaned over and picked it from the slime. Something within his soul seemed to stir, for in that face was a haunting look that drew him irresistibly. He gazed upon it for several moments. It was just a little face broken off at the neck, that of a man with long brown hair hanging in ringlets, now grayed with the mire. Upon the head of the figure rested a wreath of thorns, and thin streams of blood were trickling down the agonized countenance, imparting to it a strange, pathetic look, which struck right into the heart of the priest. Holding the broken face in his hands, the priest of another God walked down the street and stopped at the door of a house wherein dwelt Mrs. O’Flaherty, a kind-hearted old Irish-woman who had always smiled at him each morning as he went by. Mrs. O’Flaherty often said to her better half, “Faith and begorra, that little haythen is one of the sweetest infidels I ever met. It’s me mesilf that’s sorry that he dinna belave in our God, for I’d like to see him go to heaven.”

Mrs. O’Flaherty was on the front step, waiting for the huckster, when the little Buddhist came by. Taking off his hat politely, he held out the little image and asked the broad, smiling Irishwoman who and what it was. Mrs. O’Flaherty looked for a second and then crossed herself with reverence.

“Faith, good sir, but that’s the Son of the Blessed Virgin herself.” “Is that the One whom you call Jesus?” asked the Buddhist. “Shure, and that it is.” “It is a beautiful face,” answered the priest, gazing in rapture at the little form. “He was a great man. Far off in my land we have heard of Him, and they say that He knew our Buddha and that He still wanders over the mountains hand in hand with him.”

“Faith and I know nothin’ of that! But I don’t think He’s hangin’ around with any haythen,” answered Mrs. O’Flaherty, leaning on her broomstick and wiping her face on the edge of her gingham apron. “Sure and if it gets much hotter, I’m goin’ to move up on the roof again like I did last July.”

“Will you tell me about your Master?” asked the Buddhist priest, still holding the little image in his hand. “I would know of Him, for my soul tells me He too was a mighty Buddha.” “Shure! Sit down right here on the step and I’ll tell yez about him till the dago comes with me potatoes, and Mikey’s comin’ home from the dumpyard and I’ll have to be gettin’ him some dinner.”

Motherly old Mrs. O’Flaherty cast anchor and plunked herself down on the upper step, while the little Buddhist sat on the step below still gazing at the little broken image. Then Mrs. O’Flaherty, in her homely way, gave her story of the Master’s life.

The potatoes never came, and for two hours they talked there. A great light came into the eyes of the Buddhist priest, and something touched Mrs. O’Flaherty also, for the child-like peace and simplicity of the Hindoo stirred her very soul. At last Mrs. O’Flaherty had to go, and the little Buddhist, clasping the broken Face to his heart, crept quietly down the street, shaded by the falling night, to his little hole in the tenement wall where his people came to pray.

One night in December as I was passing by the little Buddhist church I stopped for a moment in amazement. A door was hanging by one hinge and its panels had been broken in with an axe, the windows were shattered and the broken sashes were hanging dismally in the evening air. There was a thin flurry of snow that day, the sidewalks were slippery, and the hurrying passersby did not stop to look in at the windows. All seemed dark inside, and I wondered what had happened to the little Buddhist church.

As I stood undecided whether to go on or to push aside the broken door and enter, a sound broke the silence. It was a broken sob—just one heartbreaking wail so low as scarcely to be heard, but which seemed to strike the very heart-strings. Quickly pushing aside the broken door, I entered the little church. Everything inside was in disorder, the drapings placed with so much love were torn away, the little flimsy altar with the lotus blossoms traced upon it had been kicked to pieces, in front of it lay the shattered body of Lord Buddha, his gilded form crushed in by the blow of an axe. One little lone taper was burning and cast its feeble rays over the scene of dissolution. On the floor, at the foot of the broken shrine and the shattered bits of the gilded statue, lay the Buddhist priest. From a wound upon his forehead blood dropped upon the broken statue.

“What is the matter?” I cried. “How did this happen?” And kneeling down I raised the limp body of the priest. He looked at me for a moment and then the tears broke out afresh. In the Western world men do not cry, but in the Eastern world it is different. I knew that it was not pain that brought the tears, but an ache in the soul.

“Tell me what has happened,” I asked in sympathy. And in broken bits I got the story—a story that is often told in the Western world, though mayhaps not in just the same words.

“Oh, how hard I have tried to carry into your beautiful land the light of our God! He is a God of love and light—if you could only learn of my God you would not slay your brothers—had you the love of my God this wrecked shrine would not lie here today. I came from far off India, a stranger in a strange land, to bring the blessing of my priest who sent me out to minister unto my people here—here in this land where people think only of themselves. This was my little shrine where I used to come at night, and here I have ever found love and light in the gaze of my Buddha. In the stillness I could hear his soft voice whispering courage to me in my labors. I have never injured anyone, nor have I ever sought to lead your people from their gods—I have just come to keep my own. Far across the sea they told me that this was a free land where people could believe in whom they would. I came—and for five years I have labored among my people here. I have tried to serve them in love and patience.

“Last night, when all was still, I came and knelt before my Buddha—before your God and my God—and as I sat here dreaming of the days when my Lord walked on earth and of the time when His blessing should be upon me, a harsh voice suddenly broke my meditation. ‘Open the door!’ it said. I rose and opened the door, and several white men stood there. One said to me, ‘Get out of the way, you dirty heathen!’ Another said, ‘We will have no more devil worshippers in our district!’ Then they came into my beautiful temple and broke the furniture, tore down the drapings—and one of them took a great axe and aimed a blow at my poor Buddha—my Buddha whom I brought with me from the caves of Gunga far up in the snow! My Buddha was made when the great Lord himself walked the earth, and for over two thousand years has inspired and guided my people. I could not stand it! I rushed between my Buddha and the blow—then all grew black. How long I have been here I do not know, but it must have been many hours. When I came to, this is what I saw. Is this what your God has taught you? Is this the one to whom you pray that he shall kill the faith of other men? It is nearly done with me—I cannot battle your world. Already I can see my home, I can see in these wrecked walls the snow-capped peaks of my mountains. For many years I have served my God in spirit and in truth, and now I am going to him—I am going into Nirvana, into the home of Buddha. But before I go—say unto the world that I will go to my Buddha and I will pray to Him for those who broke his shrine—I will pray unto my God for his love and his compassion.”

The heart-broken little priest raised himself for a moment and his hands closed over the broken statue of his Buddha. He turned the body around, and there in the back was a hollow such as is often found in Eastern gods wherein they put their treasured trinkets or their books of mantrams. The blow of the axe had fallen deeply and had cut the body of the god in two, and as he held it, there fell from the broken opening two pieces of crockery. Picking them up and joining them together, I found that they formed the Face of Jesus.

“How came they here?” I asked. The Buddhist answered softly: “Many months ago I found that little Face in the street where children were playing with it in the gutter. Its sad look made me sad, and I brought it home and put it in the heart of my Buddha that the heart of my God might make your God glad.”

He looked down on the pieces. “Look!” he whispered; “the blow that broke my Buddha’s heart broke your God’s Face—is it not so, my friend? Is not Your God glad with My God? Is He not sad with My God?” The Buddhist picked up the broken bits of plaster. “Look! They have shattered His Face. In striking at my God they have broken their own—and I loved His Face, it was so sad. But it can be no sadder than is His Heart this day . . . I can see a Face beside me . . . It is . . .” and the little Buddhist held up his hands. “Oh, Master with the Wreath of Thorns, I see You. You have come to me. God of another people, I love You, but those who slew me have slain You. Look! I see the mountain in the sky. Om mani, padma hum! Lord Buddha, I come.”

Printed by permission from SHADOW FORMS* by Manly P Hall.

On Sale by SUN PUBLISHING CO., Price ….1.65 postpaid

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HEAVEN—the land where there are no two hemispheres, but only one infinite circle of united love. —R. W. Barbour.

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