12 Medical Mission

Medical Missions:

"Angels of Mercy"

Since the time of Christ, the influ­ence of medical work on evangelism has been immense. Christ's own evangelistic ministry as well as that of his disciples was enhanced by the ministry of healing; and in the cen­turies that followed, Christians con­tinued to be known for their genuine concern for the sick and needy. During a series of plagues at Alexandria, it was the early Christians who remained to care for the sick and bury the dead after everyone else had fled, thereby increasing the reputation of Chris­tianity as a religion of love and devo­tion.

From the onset of .the modern missionary period, medical work has been a significant aspect of world evangelism, but it was not until the late nineteenth and early twentieth cen­turies that medical missions became a distinct specialty in its own right. By 1925, more than two thousand doctors and nurses from America and Europe were serving throughout the world, and mission-run hospitals and clinics were increasing rapidly.

The ministry of missionary medi­cine during the twentieth century has been without a doubt the greatest humanitarian effort the world has ever known, and, more than any other force, it has served to disarm the critics of Christian missions. How many times medical specialists forsook lu­crative practices and modem facilities in their homelands to work long hours at a feverish pace in utterly primitive conditions. They devoted their lives to raising health standards around the world, often leading the research in diseases in which most Western doc­tors had little interest, and building hospitals and medical schools from funds they had personally donated or solicited. Among their credits are some of the finest medical schools and hospitals in the world, the Christian Medical College and Hospital in Vel­lore, India, being a prime example.

But despite their good will, medical missionaries had to counter the same obstacles confronting their nonmedi­cal colleagues. Their work brought them into direct competition with witch doctors and medicine men, and the medical concepts they introduced often clashed with cherished cultural traditions. At times opposition was fierce. But aside from outright hostil­ity, the medical missionaries had to contend with superstition, fear, and ignorance, all of which seriously ham­pered their efforts to improve health conditions. A missionary doctor in Af­rica had to wait eight long years before he treated his first native patient. In China, medical missionaries faced al­most constant xenophobia; yet, in 1935 well over half of the hospitals in that country were mission-operated facilities.

While it has been medical doctors that have generally received the most acclaim for their service in medical missions, dentists and less trained medical personnel have also made noteworthy contributions to the cause. Likewise, some missionaries, with virtually no training in medicine, learned by trial and error how to treat diseases, thereby alleviating suffering and death, and always paving the way for an evangelistic ministry.

The first noted medical missionary in the modem period was Dr. John Thomas, who preceded William Carey to India and later worked alongside him. Though Thomas was emotionally unstable, Carey praised his work, claiming that the "cures wrought by him would have gained any physician or surgeon in Europe the most exten­sive reputation." Dr. John Scudder was the first American foreign missionary to specialize in medicine and was the patriarch of a whole line of medical missionaries to serve in India and elsewhere in the world. Other mis­sionaries who were trained in medi­cine, including David Livingstone and Hudson Taylor, merely used medicine as a sideline.

One of the most noted medical missionaries of all times was the famed Albert Schweitzer, a medical doctor, musician, and biblical scholar, whose liberal and highly controversial theological views were widely dis­seminated in his book, The Quest of the Historical Jesus. His career as a medical missionary began in West Af­rica in 1913, where he established a hospital at Lambarene; and there, ex­cept for a period of imprisonment by the French during World War I. he de­voted his life to medical work in Africa. Although he was a sought-after au­thor, lecturer, and concert organist and could have enjoyed a life of min­gling with the celebrity world, he chose instead to expend his energy on prolonging the life of "the brother for whom Christ died." Why? The reason he gave to those he served was the same reason that prompted thou­sands of other medical specialists to help their underprivileged brothers: "It is the Lord Jesus who has told the doctor and his wife to come...."1

Though the field of missionary medicine was dominated in the early years by men, women began entering the field in the late nineteenth cen­tury, and soon their achievements were being heralded all over the world. Clara Swain, serving under the Board of Missions of the Methodist Church, was the first woman missionary doc­tor from the United States. She arrived in India in 1870, and within four years she had opened her first hospital. The first missionary nurse was Miss E. M. McKechnie, who arrived in Shanghai in 1884 and later founded a hospital there.

By the middle of the twentieth century, significant developments in the Third World were making inroads on the traditional role of the medical missionary. As independence was granted, underdeveloped countries began forging their own medical pro­grams, and the pioneer medical missionary no longer played the in­dispensable role that he once had. With this political and social change, medical missions has shifted away from pioneer work and has begun concentrating more on preventive medicine, field clinics, hospital work, and medical schools. Another recent trend in medical missions is the growth in support organizations such as MAP (Medical Assistance Pro­grams), founded in the 1950s and today giving more than ten million dol­lars worth of medical supplies annu­ally to Christian mission hospitals and clinics. A similar organization begun in Washington State by Ethel Miller sends drug samples and unwanted medical tools to missionary doctors in Africa and Asia and is operated almost entirely by retired volunteer workers.

Wilfred Grenfell

While most medical missionaries in modem history have spent their lives in tropical climates fighting against the ravages of fevers, leprosy, and other tropical scourges, Wilfred Gren­fell, one of the most highly acclaimed missionary doctors of all times, carried out his ministry on the North Ameri­can continent along the frozen coastline of Labrador. Though he was a medical doctor and commissioned primarily as a medical missionary, Grenfell branched out into many areas besides medicine. Medicine alone was not enough in a land where the people were enchained by poverty. Thus he sought to alleviate their suffering by improving the whole of society, caus­ing some people to charge that he had become sidetracked from his calling as a missionary. Because of his wide rang­ing activities, his efforts conflicted with the policies of his mission board and other interest groups, and he was frequently the center of heated controversy. But though his critics were numerous, his popularity only seemed to increase as he wrote and spoke out for the needs of Labrador.

Born near Chester, England, in 1865, Grenfell like his forebears, grew up with a fascination for the sea. His dreams of seafaring adventure were cut short when his father sent him to prep school and then on to London to study medicine. Grenfell had been brought up in the Church of England, but to him, religion was a formality that had no personal meaning. Then in 1885, while completing his medical training in London, he stumbled on a Moody-Sankey revival one evening as he was returning home from a house call. As he edged his way through the crowd, he realized he was intruding on what seemed to be an endless prayer led by a man on the platform. As he was turning to leave he heard a commotion on the platform. It was Moody himself inviting the audience to sing a song "while our brother finishes his prayer." So amused was Grenfell by the unconventional style of the evangelist that he stayed to the end. That night he not only heard Moody preach and Sankey sing, but also listened as C. T. and J. E. K. Studd, two of England's greatest cricket players, gave their testimonies. Gren­fell, a cricket player himself, was deeply moved, and that night he was converted to Christianity.

Following his conversion, Grenfell learned of a mission organization that immediately stirred his interest. It was the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen. The mission needed a doctor who was willing to practice aboard a mercy ship commissioned to the North Sea to minister to the rough fishermen both physically and spirit­ually. Grenfell jumped at the chance, and so began his lifelong career as a medical missionary.

Grenfell's early years with the mis­sion were as adventurous as his child­hood dreams and were rewarding spiritually as well as professionally. He had found his niche in life and had no thought of ministering elsewhere. Then in 1892 his travels took him to North America along the rugged coast of Labrador, and suddenly his vision changed. Here was a people struggling for bare survival, living along the bleak rocky coastline with no hope for a bet­ter life in the present world or the hereafter, and no one seemed to care. Grenfell was overwhelmed by their physical and spiritual needs, and de­spite objections from his mission board, he was convinced that the rest of his life should be devoted to minis­tering to these long-neglected people.

Grenfell began his work in Labrador serving aboard a mercy ship as he had in the North Sea, but he soon realized that the greatest needs were in the scattered villages where families were entirely without medical services. To reach these villages, the adventurous doctor navigated his own steam pow­ered launch along the dangerous coastline, "taking risks," according to a biographer, "that would have made a professional sailor die of fright." He simply trusted God as he "threaded

the launch between islands and a fear­ful collection of submerged rocks ... through fog and ... against the strong winds and heavy seas .... "2 Every­where he went, villagers gladly re­ceived his medical expertise, but de­spite his good will he quickly ran into strong opposition.

One source of opposition was the established Anglican church. "The Church is dead," wrote Grenfell. "The Bishop dare not say anything against us, but he is not with us, and told a great friend of mine here that our preaching the Gospel and people being converted was pulling down the work of the Church."3 This attitude persisted despite the fact that the An­glican Church itself seemingly cared little about the destitute families out in the remote villages.

Another source of opposition was the merchants. Though they recog­nized the impressive medical work Grenfell was conducting in Labrador by building medical centers and serv­ing as a village physician, they deeply resented his interference in the local economy. Grenfell, in turn, viewed the merchants as the great enemy of the people and was incensed by their exploitation of the vulnerable Lab­radorian fishermen who had no choice but to accept even their most niggardly prices. Though altogether lacking in business acumen, Grenfell soon became deeply involved in eco­nomic ,endeavors, setting up coopera­tives, transporting pelts to market, im­porting reindeer, establishing lumber mills, and introducing cottage indus­tries. Such activities drew a barrage of criticism, and Grenfell was accused by many of having come to Labrador, not for religious purposes, but for economic gain.

Such charges were entirely false. In fact, Grenfell lost vast sums of money in his various efforts to help the people of Labrador, all of which created another source of controversy and criticism-his own mission board. He had been commissioned as a medical and evangelistic missionary, and the fact that he had become sidetracked in economic ventures was, to the board, very disturbing. Grenfell was called on to account for his activities, but when he was questioned about such things, he retorted sharply "that these were no concern of the Council."4 Rules, too, seemed not to apply to him. He did what he thought should be done, then informed, or did not inform, the Council.

The fact that Grenfell had become superintendent of the mission in 1890 may have contributed to his free­wheeling attitude, but even more im­portant was his ever-increasing popu­larity, especially in America, where his fame spread quickly. "Grenfell Societies" sprang up across the United States and Canada, and money poured in, not for the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, the mission to which he belonged, but for his own special projects over which the mis­sion had no control. The relationship between Grenfell and the Council was a stormy one, and as time passed, Grenfell became more and more inde­pendent, finally separating his work entirely from the Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen.

As Grenfell traveled across America presenting the needs of Labrador, he enthralled his audiences, not with polished sermons, but with stories of high adventure. "Following Christ," he told his listeners, "has given me more fun and adventure than any other kind

Winfred Grenfell, missionary doctor to Labrador.

of life." His life was full of daring exploits, and he urged his supporters to seek the same course: “When two courses are open, follow the most ven­turesome."5

The most hair-raising adventure Grenfell himself ever experienced oc­curred on Easter Sunday in 1908, when he received an urgent call to come and treat a gravely ill youth in a village some sixty miles away. Grenfell harnessed his dog team and set out for the village in a desperate attempt to reach the young man before he died. Although he was aware of the dangers accompanying the spring thaw, to save time, Grenfell decided to risk crossing the ice on a bay instead of winding around the rugged shoreline. It was an unwise decision. The ice was breaking and shifting, and Grenfell and the dogs suddenly plunged into the icy water. Though he managed to pull himself onto a large chunk of ice with three of his dogs, it was of little comfort with the wind driving the ice out to sea. But the struggle for life was intense, and to avoid freezing to death in his wet garments, he killed his three dogs and wrapped himself in their bloody skins.

The following morning, as he lay near death, Grenfell was rescued by men who risked their lives maneuver­ing between the surging ice chunks to save their beloved doctor. In the years that followed it was this story of cour­age and endurance more than any other that was associated with the fa­mous doctor, and many young men and women, inspired by his heroism, came to serve with him in Labrador.

What had begun as a uniquely Christian ministry to Labrador devel­oped over the years into what some viewed as a purely humanitarian en­deavor. Like many medical mission­aries before and after him, Grenfell faced the temptation to devote all his energy to the physical needs of the people to the neglect of their spiritual needs, and through the years his own philosophy of missions, as expressed in his many books, seemed to change. In his book What Life Means to Me, Grenfell wrote, "To me now any serv­ice to the humblest of mankind is Christ-service .... I believe absolutely in the socialism of Jesus." To him, true Christianity was activity: "The theory of Christianity would not convince the heathen of the Congo that religion is desirable," only "fraternity in action" would.6 Grenfell, according to his biographer, "believed that if a person served others, he or she was living Christianity." His "perfect Christian was the Good Samaritan,"7 and he welcomed the service of doctors and others in his mission work, without particular concern for their religious beliefs or their commitment to evange­lism.

Many awards and honors were be­stowed upon Grenfell for his forty years of service in Labrador. He was knighted in 1927, and soon after he was awarded an honorary doctorate from St. Andrews University. But to the impoverished villagers of Labrador, he was no less than a saint-and perhaps more. Said one devoted admirer, "If Wilfred Grenfell came through that door now I would feel that Jesus Christ had entered the room."8 Though he died in 1940, the memory of Wilfred Grenfell lives on today along the rug­ged coasts of Labrador.

Ida Scudder

The most distinguished medical missionary family in all history was the Scudder family, beginning with John Scudder, a young medical doctor in New York City who, after reading a booklet appealing for missionaries left his growing practice and in 1819 sailed for Ceylon wit h his wife and child. The Scudders served for thirty-six years in Ceylon and India, and during that time thirteen more children were born to them, nine of whom survived to adulthood. Of those nine, seven be­came missionaries, most of them spe­cializing in medicine like their father. In four generations, forty-two mem­bers of the Scudder family became missionaries, contributing well over one thousand combined years of missionary service. Among those forty-two was Ida, the daughter of John Scudder's youngest son, also named John and also a medical missionary to India.

Ida was born in India in 1870 and grew up well acquainted with the trials of missionary life, particularly the pain of separation from loved ones. When she was a youth, her family re­turned to the United States for fur­lough, and then her father went back to India alone. Two years later her mother sailed to join him, leaving Ida with relatives in Chicago. It was a traumatic time according to her biog­rapher: "The memory of that night could still bring a stabbing pain. The rain outside had been as wild as her own fourteen-year-old helpless grief. She had not even been allowed to go to the station to see her mother off for India. When her clinging arms had been finally, regretfully, unloosed, she had rushed upstairs and sobbed all night into her mother's empty pil­low…. With the passing weeks and months the aching loneliness had never ceased, merely subsided."9

After high school Ida had remained in the United States to attend a "young ladies' seminary" in Northfield, Mas­sachusetts, conducted by D. L. Moody. She had no intention of joining the family tradition and becoming a missionary, but shortly after her grad­uation in 1890 she received an urgent cablegram informing her that her mother was seriously ill. Within weeks Ida was on her way to India, that "hor­rible country, with its heat, dust, noise, and smells." She was going only to care for her mother, and when that obligation was met she would return to America to pursue her own dreams -or so she thought.

Ida's stay in India was longer than she had planned, Besides caring for her mother there was other work to be done. A girls' school was in need of a teacher, and Ida soon found herself in sole charge of sixty-eight pupils. And there were babies to baptize-a sac­rament officiated by her father but one that, according to Ida's biographer, re­quired assistance: "Since the babies were always oiled with coconut oil, their slippery bodies were hard to hold. Fearful lest her husband would drop one in the process, Mrs. Scudder made a white garment that could be slipped on each baptismal candidate before the service, It was Ida's duty to see that the transfer of the garment was properly effected."10

Although she was happy to be re­united with her family, Ida was not entirely comfortable with them. She felt pressure from all sides-uncles, cousins, and even parents-to not shirk the Scudder duty of becoming a missionary. But Ida wanted more for herself than the burdensome toil of missionary life, and family tradition was not enough to convince her otherwise. It took an extraordinary experience in her life that almost re­sembled a parable more than reality, but it became her own personal "call" to medical missions. Three different men-a Brahmin, another high-caste Hindu, and a Muslim-came to the door during the course of one night, pleading for her to come and assist in difficult childbirths, refusing the assis­tance of her doctor-father because religious customs prohibited such close contact by strangers of the oppo­site sex.

It was the most traumatic night Ida had ever endured: "I could not sleep that night-it was too terrible, Within the very touch of my hand were three young girls dying because there was no woman to help them. I spent much of the night in anguish and prayer. I did not want to spend my life in India. My friends were begging me to return to the joyous opportunities of a young girl in America. I went to bed in the early morning after praying much for guidance. I think that was the first time I ever met God face to face, and all that time it seemed that He was calling me into this work. Early in the morning I heard the 'tom-tom' beating in the vil­lage and it struck terror in my heart, for it was a death message. I sent our serv­ant, and he came back saying that all of them had died during the night. Again I shut myself in my room and thought very seriously about the condition of the Indian women and after much thought and prayer, I went to my father and mother and told them that I must go home and study medicine, and come back to India to help such women."11

The following year Ida sailed for the United States, and in the fall of 1895 she enrolled at Women's Medical Col­lege in Philadelphia, where Clara Swain, the first American woman missionary doctor, had graduated. Then in 1898, when Cornell Medical College opened its doors to women, Ida transferred there to take advantage of itsl1igher ranking accreditation, and it was from there that she received her M.D. degree. With her studies com­pleted, Ida returned to India, and be­sides her degree she brought with her a ten thousand dollar check for a new hospital (given by a wealthy woman supporter) and Annie Hancock, her best friend from Northfield. Annie had come to conduct evangelism in con­junction with Ida's medical work.

Ida's initiation into medical mis­sions was disappointing. Her dreams of serving her internship under the brilliant tutelage of her father were shattered when he unexpectedly died of cancer. To make matters worse, the Indian people, so desperate for medi­cal attention, did not trust Ida, and for a time she had no patients at all. As the months passed, her practice slowly grew, but as it did she faced the same frustrations that all doctors in India faced. Superstitious practices of the people continually counteracted their best efforts. Medicine was prohibited on certain feast days, and sometimes critically ill patients were dragged from place to place to escape evil spirits. On one occasion after Ida had finished cleaning a serious wound, she stepped aside to prepare the dress­ing and when she turned back she was horrified to see that the girl had filled the wound with "holy ashes," a ritual that almost cost her life. Even when her patients were willing to cooperate, ignorance often hindered recovery. Explaining how and when they should take their medication was a complicated ordeal and in one in­stance when Ida gave a man a piece of cotton for his ear, he asked if he should eat it.

Soon after Ida arrived in India, con­struction began on the hospital at Vel­lore that she had so impassionately pleaded for before she had left America. But as she worked among the people she realized that a hospital would never be enough. The Indian people, especially the women, needed to be freed from their ignorance of medical treatment and taught basic health standards, and that could only be done if Indian women could be properly trained to go out among their own people in the villages. Thus, a medical school for Indian women became her all-consuming goal.

In order to reach that goal, Ida needed funds, and fund-raising be­came an important part of her minis­try. While home on furlough she capti­vated her largely female audiences by her stories of the hopeless plight of the Indian women, and every meeting brought more money for her proposed medical school in India. Her first proj­ect was a nursing college, despite strong discouragement from govern­ment officials. The British Surgeon General told her to go ahead with her plans if she could get six applicants, but he doubted she could get more than three. She got one hundred and fifty-one. From that number she chose eighteen, and fourteen of those com­pleted the four-year course. But the real test came when the girls con­fronted the government medical exams. An average of only one in five men passed the exams the first time they took them, and Ida was warned not to expect any of her girls to pass. What a thrill it was, then, when she learned that all fourteen had passed and four ranked in the top category.

As important as her medical work was, Ida was always conscious of her spiritual ministry to the people she served and particularly to the young women she trained. Her four-year Bible course on the apostle Paul and the Pauline epistles was a favorite among her students, and she repeated it several times. Medical work, how­ever, consumed the vast majority of her sixteen-hour work days, but even then she took time to pass out Scrip­ture cards. More important, her medi­cal work paved the way for Annie Han­cock, who spent her days doing evangelistic work in Vellore and in the outlying villages. When she had first come to India with Ida, rarely was she allowed into a home, but as Ida's repu­tation blossomed, so did Annie's, and eventually she was welcome in almost every home she visited.

In addition to running a hospital, a medical college, and village dispen­saries, Ida, with her mother's help, op­erated a virtual orphanage. More than twenty homeless children were taken into the Scudder home, and frequently Ida brought one or more of them along on her rounds. For this ministry and others, Ida felt a deep loss when her mother died in 1925 at the age of eighty-six. Sixty-three years earlier this tenacious woman had been denied mission board support because it was believed she could not withstand the rigors of India. Her husband had ac­cepted responsibility for her himself, and for a quarter of a century after he died she continued on in the work.

As Ida's medical work grew, vast sums of money were needed to defray expenses and update equipment. Women's groups from four denomina­tions were supporting the work, but still the funds were inadequate. Then in the early 1920s she received word that her work along with other Chris­tian schools in India would be eligible for a one million dollar Rockefeller grant if two million dollars could be raised elsewhere. Ida returned to Anlerica for the grueling fund-raising campaign that netted three million dollars; a large portion of which went to build a new medical complex at Vellore.

In spite of the new facilities, Vellore Medical College could not keep pace with the new government require­ments during the years following independence. In 1937, the new minister of public health issued a new regulation requiring all medical schools to be affiliated with the Uni­versity of Madras. For Ida, "it sounded the death knell for her beloved medi­cal school." 12 How could she ever raise the needed funds when her homeland was still struggling through the greatest depression in its history? It seemed like an impossible situation. For the men's Christian medical schools, the future was less dismal. The administrators were making plans to consolidate; but Ida had no such option, as there were no other wom­en's medical schools. But why not a coeducational college? That was the logical solution, at least in the mind of the great missionary statesman, John R. Mott, who visited India in 1938. The proposal was quickly espoused by others, some even suggesting that Vel­lore would be the ideal location.

Ida enthusiastically shared the pro­posal with her supporters back home, only to be thrown into the most bitter controversy she had ever endured. Thousands of women had been mobilized to raise money to support medical missions for women in India, and the thought of sharing all they had worked so hard for with the men was unthinkable to some. Hilda Olson, one of the members of the governing board of the Vellore Medical compound, re­sponded tersely to the proposal: "Vel­lore is as you say, God's work, but I would like to add God's work for women. Every dollar would have to be given back to the givers.”I3

The governing board was bitterly di­vided on the issue, and Lucy Peabody, who had been one of Ida's staunchest supporters through the years, became her most caustic critic, accusing her of disloyalty to everything the board stood for. It was a depressing time for Ida, but in the end, after years of sharp debate, the board voted to join the men, believing such a merger the only alternative to closing down. Vellore would be the site of the new co­educational Christian medical school. Although Ida was pleased with the outcome, her happiness was tempered by the news that both Hilda Olson and Lucy Peabody had angrily resigned from the board.

Despite the barrage of criticism that had come over the issue of making Vellore coeducational, Ida was recog­nized the world over for her accom­plishments. She was interviewed by reporters, and her story was written about time and again. The Reader's Digest, among other magazines, gave her flattering coverage: "This extraor­dinary white-haired woman has, at 72, a spring in her step, a sparkle in her eye and the skilled, strong hands of a surgeon of 45. For 18 years she had been head of the medical association in a district with a population of 2,000,000. Doctors all over India send her their most difficult gynecological cases. Women and children come just to touch her, so exalted is her reputa­tion for healing."14

Ida retired in 1946 at the age of seventy-five and was succeeded by one of her most distinguished pupils, Dr. Hilda Lazarus. It was a graceful retirement, according to her biog­rapher." She who had been all her life a leader-some had called it dictator -now found it possible to be a fol­lower.”15 But she remained active for more than another decade. She taught her weekly Bible class (to both men and women), advised doctors on difficult cases, entertained friends and dignitaries at Hill Top, her beautiful Indian residence, and played a fast game of tennis. Although she was not what she had been at the age of sixty-five (when during a tournament she had unmercifully trounced her teen-age opponent by winning every game in two sets, after hearing the girl scornfully object to having to playa "grannie"), she continued to play regu­larly, and even at the age of eighty­-three, according to her biographer, "she was still serving a wicked tennis ball."16

In 1950, ten years before her death, a golden jubilee celebration was ar­ranged in Vellore, marking Ida's fifty years of service to India. It was a day to commemorate the woman who had only reluctantly followed the Scudder family tradition, but whose success had far exceeded that of any other fam­ily member. Beginning with a ten-by­-twelve room with a trickle of patients, she had lived to see the establishment of a modern medical complex with nearly one hundred doctors, a 484-bed general hospital, a 60-bed eye hospital, and numerous mobile clinics, all serv­ing some two hundred thousand pa­tients and training some two hundred medical students each year. So famous had she become that when a letter addressed simply "Dr. Ida, India" ar­rived on the subcontinent populated by some three hundred million people, it was directed immediately to her at Vellore.

Jessie and Leo Halliwell

Unlike Wilfred Grenfell and Ida Scudder, who were widely acclaimed for their service to humanity as medi­cal missionaries, the Halliwells, though they ministered to thousands each year for decades, practiced their medicine in virtual obscurity. The

Ida Scudder at the hospital she founded in Vellore, celebrating her eighty-seventh birthday.

Amazon River valley was their mission field, and they devoted their lives to bringing the gospel and medical treatment to the river people, traveling some twelve thousand miles a year up and down a thousand-mile, jungle­lined stretch between Belem and Manaus. Though they possessed no medical degrees, they were the only "doctors" in the region, and their reputation for successfully treating tropical diseases was widely known and respected among the Indians.

The Halliwells' decision to embark on the mission field came almost on impulse soon after they were married. After hearing an emotionally charged plea for missionaries, Leo applied to the Seventh-Day Adventist mission board, and within a short time he and Jessie were on their way to Brazil, without any specialized missionary training. Jessie was a nurse, and Leo held a degree in electrical engineering.

Their first mission assignment was to conduct pioneer evangelistic work in Northern Brazil at Belem, a ministry they effectively carried out throughout the 192os. Leo, however, was not satisfied with the limited scope of their ministry in Belem, especially when he thought of the thousands of un­reached river people whose lives were made miserable by their poverty and disease. Smallpox, syphilis, hook­worm, leprosy, malaria, and other tropical diseases took their deadly toll, and the Halliwells wanted to help. Evangelizing these neglected people and ministering to their physical needs became their goal and during their furlough to the United States in 1930 they began making preparation for an expanded ministry. Leo took a course in tropical diseases, and Jessie took further training in nutrition, sani­tation, and midwifery. They also raised money for a thirty-foot boat that would serve as their home as well as a floating clinic. The Seventh-Day Adventist Church was one of the pioneer missionary agencies in medical work and gave its enthusiastic support to the Halliwells' new venture.

At the very beginning of their minis­try, the Halliwells faced almost daily threats to their lives from hostile tribes of Indians, but as their reputation be­came known, people began waiting on the shore for them to pass by. Others, at the Halliwells' prompting, hung out white scraps of cloth signifying they wanted them to stop. On some days they treated as many as three hundred malaria patients. A large part of such treatment involved dispensing the proper medication, and here the Hal­liwells confronted serious communication barriers in attempting to ex­plain the proper use of the medica­tion. On one occasion they left medicine with a mother for her sick child and instructed her to give a dose each morning when the rooster crowed. When they returned some days later and inquired about the child, the mother replied, "My boy is fine now-but the rooster died!"17

Although the Halliwells avoided treating complex maladies, preferring rather to transport such cases to the nearest city where a doctor could be consulted, they frequently confronted emergency situations in their travels that could not wait. One such case involved a little girl who had been badly mangled by an alligator. The tim­ing of the Halliwells' visit and their combined medical expertise saved her life.

Evangelism was an important part of the Halliwells' ministry, and they used innovative techniques to attract crowds. With the use of a generator on their boat they were able to show films and slides-an attraction that brought Indians in their canoes from miles away, and many were converted to Christianity. As the number of con­verts grew, the Halliwells helped estab­lish churches and schools, and in many cases other missionaries moved in to carry on the work.

In 1956, after twenty-five years of serving the Indians along the Amazon, the Halliwells "retired" to begin a new work in Rio de Janeiro, supervising the ministry of all the Adventist medical launches in South America. Through their inspiring example the Amazon was becoming" crowded' with floating clinics, and their pioneer work was over.

Perhaps more than any other conti­nent, Africa has been favored by a long line of outstanding Christian medical missionaries, whose contributions to the evangelization of the Africans has been enormous. Names such as David Livingstone, Albert Schweitzer, Helen Roseveare, Paul Carlson, and Malcolm Forsberg all bring to mind the great service medical missions has ren­dered to Africa. And, of course, there were some less prominent individuals, such as Andrew P. Stirratt of the Sudan Interior Mission, who was only reluc­tantly accepted as a candidate (after he donated his estate to the mission and booked his own passage) because his age of thirty-eight was considered unacceptable. Yet he served faithfully for more than four decades, over­seeing all the dispensary work and personally treating tens of thousands of patients during his lifetime. But if one medical missionary to Africa were to be singled out for his length of serv­ice combined with his extraordinary dedication to saving the lives and im­proving the health standards of the African people, it would surely be Carl Becker, the great munganga of the Congo.

It was in 1916 during President Wil­son's campaign for his second term in office that the twenty-two year old Carl Becker began his medical studies at Hahnemann Medical College in Phila­delphia. He had been out of school for several years, working at a boundary to help support his widowed mother and his sister, but with these obligations lessening and with his savings of a lit­tle more than one hundred dollars, he was ready to begin the six-year grind that would lead to financial security that he had never before enjoyed. The outbreak of World War I soon after he entered medical school was a "god­send" for him, for it allowed him to enlist in the United States Medical Corps that provided him with free mom, board, and tuition, in addition to a small salary.

Becker began practicing medicine in Boyertown, Pennsylvania, in 1922, and three months later he married Marie, a young woman whom he had met some years earlier at a church so­cial. Before the marriage he had warned Marie that he had promised to give God his life if God would give him an education. "I don't know if it means I'll go to China or Africa as a mission­ary or what." he told her, "but he has first claim on my life."1s As Becker be­came settled in Boyertown his prac­tice and prestige grew and his promise to God seemed to be forgotten until one day he received a letter from Charles Hurlburt of the Africa Inland Mission, a man whom. he had met some years earlier. Hurlburt's daughter-in-law, Elizabeth Morse Hurlburt, a medical doctor who was serving in the Congo, had died sud­denly, and Hurlburt was urgently seek­ing another doctor to take her place. Tom by feelings of guilt, Becker re­jected Hurlburt's request, explaining that he had a responsibility for the support of his mother. Hurlburt, how­ever, would not give up, and the fol­lowing winter he received a letter from Becker in which he agreed to go. In the summer of 1928, the Beckers sailed for Africa, leaving "a $10,000-plus income to earn $60 a month ... to go to a primi­tive outpost he knew nothing about."19

The Beckers' first home in the Congo was located at Katwa, where they lived in a mud hut that Marie creatively turned into a "mud man­sion." After serving at Katwa for a time, Becker transferred to Aba, where he replaced a furloughed doctor at an es­tablished hospital, and then in 1934 he moved with his wife and two children to the tiny mission station of Oicha in the dense Ituri forest to work among the Pygmies and other forest tribes.

It was at Oicha, an unlikely spot for a mission hospital, that Becker's minis­try bloomed. Here, walled in by the giant mahogany trees, he built a highly effective medical compound out of nothing-primitive in comparison to the facilities he had been used to back home, but one that somehow met the needs of the African jungle. Becker was not an organizer or a long-range plan­ner, nor was he public-relations minded. Otherwise, writes his biog­rapher, "he might have raised a large sum of money by promoting it as a memorial hospital in honor of some dear-departed saint. ... "As it was, Becker added room additions and buildings as they were needed, with "no overall general plan."20 There was no budget for hospital construction, so much of the expense came out of the Becker's S60-a-month salary.

The medical services at Oicha ex­panded rapidly, and within two years some two hundred patients were being treated every day. But there were certain villages and tribes that re­mained outside the doctor's reach. Witch doctors held powerful sway over the people until gradually one-­by-one they were converted to Chris­tianity through the tireless evangelis­tic work of Becker and other mis­sionaries.

Evangelism was the primary pur­pose for Becker's work in Africa, and weekends were devoted to itinerant work in the villages. Though without formal Bible training and not a Bible teacher per se, Becker communicated the gospel effectively to the Africans. Bible stories were related in an African context, and soon the American Sun­day school pictures were discarded in favor of Becker's own crude drawings that became so popular that he began mimeographing them for distribution among his listeners, who in turn used them to evangelize others. On one oc­casion when Becker entered an outly­ing village, he noticed a crowd gathered in the middle of the road, and to his surprise he discovered an illiterate Congolese soldier sharing the gospel, using a set of picture stories that he had obtained from Becker a month earlier.

Despite his effective evangelistic work, Becker, as with countless other medical missionaries before and after him, was distressed by the fact that the vast majority of his time was con­sumed with the physical rather tha11 spiritual needs of the people. "What is the spiritual value of all this?" he fre­quently asked himself. It was a ques­tion that could only be answered through seeing the results of his work. He gradually came to realize, accord­ing to his biographer. "that there was spiritual value in medical work. In fact, far from imagining that medical work was only the soil-breaker for the seed-only the John the Baptist for the Messiah-he came to see it was a complete missionary ministry. It was an opportunity for mass evangelism, for where else could he find several hundred needy Africans each day, coming from distant places to one site where the gospel could be preached? It was also an opportunity for Chris­tian nurture. With the in-patients he had a chance to help young Christians grow in their Christian life, to provide a sort of hot-house climate for young plants. And Dr, Becker felt, too, that it was an unparalleled opportunity to build a responsible African church."21

In many instances, medical mis­sions paved the way for evangelizing tribes that were otherwise very difficult to reach. Such was the case with the Pygmies of the Ituri forest. Long the brunt of discrimination by other Africans, the Pygmies withdrew into the jungle and shied away from all outsiders, white or black, but their need for medical services eventually overcame their extreme isolationism. They slowly developed a trust in the missionaries, and many were con­verted to Christianity.

Likewise, medical missions played a crucial role in reaching lepers with the gospel. They, too, had been the brunt of discrimination, but the love and care they received from Dr. Becker and his staff gave them a renewed sense of worth, and they turned by the thousands to Christ.

Although Becker treated every dis­ease and injury imaginable, it was the problem of leprosy that concerned him the most, and he desperately sought to find a cure that would re­lieve the terrible suffering. Word of his compassion spread, and lepers by the thousands came to him for treatment. By the early 1950s he was treating some four thousand resident patients at his 1100-acre leprosy village, and the results were impressive-so much so that medical missionaries and leprologists from all over the world were visiting Oicha and borrowing the notes on his research. But though great strides had been made in relieving the suffering of lepers, Becker was not

Carl Becker, medical missionary to Zaire under the Africa Inland Mission, writing a prescription for an African patient. Dr. Ruth Dix is in the center of the photograph.

satisfied, and despite his hectic schedule he continued his search for a more effective treatment. Even Dr. Robert Cochrane from Cambridge, the world's leading authority on leprosy, was impressed with his findings.

During the time that he was con­ducting his medical research, Becker, the only medical doctor at Oicha, was performing upwards of four thousand operations and delivering some five hundred babies each year. But even with such a heavy load, he found time to branch out into areas most general practitioners would have avoided, in­cluding psychiatry, and he eagerly experimented with the most up-to-date treatment. Among his patients were some severely disturbed indi­viduals, viewed by their families as demon possessed, but treated by Becker for mental illness. He estab­lished a mental ward and a psychiatric clinic, and was the first doctor in equatorial Africa to successfully use electric shock treatment on Africans. Although he successfully treated many patients with such methods, he "remained convinced that simple Christianity was the soundest general therapy for the mentally upset, that 'the Gospel of love and hope alone can banish superstition and fear.'"22

In spite of his tremendous service in behalf of the people of the Congo, Becker did not remain immune to the vicious outbreak of nationalism that arose in the 1960s. While most missionaries fled to East Africa for safety, he stayed on at Oicha until the summer of 1964, when it became cer­tain that he could not remain at the compound and survive. When it was learned that he had been targeted by the Simbas to face a filling squad, he reluctantly agreed to leave. At the age of seventy, he bade farewell to his be­loved African associates and, with his wife, three nurses, and young as­sociate, evacuated, barely escaping the rampaging Simba guerrillas,

Considering Becker's age, the evacuation in 1964 would have been an opportune time to begin retire­ment. But for the Beckers, Africa was home. In the words of his biographer, Becker was "allergic to furloughs," and he had no desire to return to the United States. Since 1945 he had spent less than a year in the United States, and though he recognized that he was slowing down, he wanted to remain in Africa as long as he could be of useful service. So, after a year in the relative security of East Africa, and after the political situation had quieted down in the Congo, the Beckers were back in Oicha to rebuild what the guerrillas had destroyed and to reestablish med­ical services that were needed now more than ever. Though Becker suf­fered three heart seizures in 1966, he kept going, ignoring pleas that he rest: "If this is to be my last day on earth, I certainly don't want to spend it in bed."23

It was not until he was eighty-three that Dr, Becker agreed to return to the United States and retire. His last years had been spent developing an inter-­denominational evangelical medical center that included a hospital and training school for Africans-a project that had long been a dream of his; but once that program was well underway in 1976, he realized it was time for him to step aside, He had served nearly fifty years as a medical missionary and had made an indelible imprint on Africa. Of him, Art Buchwald, the well-known American newspaper columnist, wrote: "In all of Congo, the man who made the greatest impression on us was an American missionary doctor named Carl K. Becker ... , We couldn't help thinking as we left Oicha that America had its own Dr. Schweitzer in Congo."24 But the greatest tribute ever paid Becker may have been made by an African medical trainee: "Many missionaries had preached Jesus Christ to me, and many missionaries had taught Jesus Christ to me, but in the munganga I have seen Jesus Christ."25

Viggo Olsen

Known best through his widely read autobiography. Daktar: Diplomat in Bangladesh, Viggo Olsen, as the title suggests, was more than a doctor. He was an unofficial diplomatic emissary who fought his way through what seemed to be miles of red tape, estab­lished a large medical compound, and courageously served the Bengali people in the hour of their deepest trouble.

It was not long after his 1944 high school graduation in Omaha, Ne­braska, that Olsen made the decision to study medicine. His higher educa­tion began at Tulane University, under a program sponsored by the United States Navy, and from there he en­rolled at the University of Nebraska, where he graduated and was awarded his MD. degree after seven grueling years of study. During his student days, Olsen met and married his wife, Joan, and together they looked for­ward to the affluent life the medical profession would offer them.

The lifestyle the Olsens planned had no room for Christianity. To them Bible reading and church attendance had no relevance to everyday life, but as much as they sought to avoid it, Christianity was a subject they could not escape, Joan's parents had both been converted after Joan had gone away to college, and they wanted des­perately for Joan and Viggo to experi­ence the same peace they had found through their faith in Christ. They shared their new found faith in letters and often enclosed tracts, and when Joan and Viggo visited them in Toledo, Ohio, on their way to begin Viggo's in­ternship at Long Island College, they boldly brought up the subject in per­son. Viggo's initial reaction was nega­tive: "I viewed Christianity and the Bible through agnostic eyes, feeling that modern science had outmoded much of this religious sentiment. When my father-in-law spoke of flaws in evolutionary laws and other sci­entific dicta, I boiled inwardly.”26

Before their stay in Toledo was over things had begun to change. Viggo and Joan had a long discussion about spir­itual matters with a Christian minister, and after that they agreed to study the "Christian religion and the Bible," making their "own, independent deci­sion,"27 and to attend a Christian church once they were settled in Brooklyn, It was that agreement that led to their eventual conversion, through the ministry of a Baptist pas­tor, his wife, and members of their congregation.

Following his internship in New York and a brief tem} of medical serv­ice for the Na\y in the South Pacific Viggo set his sights on Mayo Clinic, applying there for the highly coveted fellowship in internal medicine, With such prestigious training he would be able to fulfill his dream of practicing and teaching medicine in the North­west, at the same time providing all the material possessions his family could want.

But the dream that had once seemed so idealistic and satisfying to the Olsens was beginning to haunt them. They began to question what God's will for their lives was. Could it be service for him? Before leaving Brooklyn, Viggo had overheard an el­derly woman in the church say, "Now that young Dr. Olsen has become a Christian believer, he'll no doubt be a missionary." At the time, Viggo had "inwardly curdled," but the remark stuck with him; and as the months passed, his and Joan's dreams for the future were slowly being transformed: "The more we thought, meditated, and prayed about the possibilities ... the more medical missions seemed a live option,"28

The following weeks of indecision were ended with a whole week of in­tense struggle, "On the seventh day, walking alone on the beach, pressed on every side by experience, human feelings, heredity, environment, bibli­cal teaching, God's direction, and many other forces, the crisis came," Viggo knelt on the beach and accepted "God's call" to overseas medical missions, "Three days later came the acid test." In the mail was a letter: "We are happy to inform you that you have been accepted for a fellowship in the department of Internal Medicine of Mayo Clinic," But Viggo did not waver:

"Somehow I did not find it difficult to write back and decline the fellowship. God's work in my heart had been done thoroughly. I was at peace."29

The next five years, from 1954 to 1959, were busy ones. The Olsen family grew from three to six while Viggo con­tinued his education in preparation far primitive medical work. At the same time, Viggo and Joan threw themselves into the work of their local church and researched various mis­sion boards as they anticipated their future ministry. But Viggo did not wait for mission board acceptance or foreign residence to begin his mis­sionary work. He considered evange­lism part of his ministry as a doctor whether he was at home or abroad.

One afternoon while he was making his rounds at Milwaukee County Hos­pital, where he was completing his res­idence for surgical training, he "sensed considerable anxiety in a pa­tient being prepared for surgery the next morning." Viggo explained to the man that his cancer was serious and that the operation would be extensive and then "talked to him about God and faith and God's son who loved him and gave his life for him." There on his hospital bed the man committed his life to Christ, and following his surgery he thanked Dr. Olsen, in the presence of others on the hospital staff, for ex­plaining to him "the way of eternal life."30

The Olsens' choice of a mission board did not come easily. Since they were Baptists, the Association of Bap­tists for World Evangelism was recommended to them. One area being opened by ABWE that was in dire need of medical services was East Pakistan, and C. Victor Barnard, the missionary assigned to start that work, met with Viggo and encouraged him to consider that field. During their meet­ing, however, philosophical differ­ences arose: and religious freedom prevailed. Our eyes, furthermore, had been fixed on this very area of the world.... And ABWE seemed to be the mission agency to which all our guidance pointed."32

In the spring of 1959, the president of ABWE wrote to Viggo, inviting him to come before the board and present his philosophy of medical missions. Viggo presented his "thirteen basic princi­ples," with the view that if the board members rejected them "we would know we must look further for another board and field." After a lengthy ses­sion, the board voted unanimously to support the implementation of the thirteen principles in East Pakistan. Although the cost would be high, the board members were convinced that Viggo was on target with all of his thir­teen guidelines-guidelines that should be considered by any prospec­tive medical missionary and support­ing mission:

Mr. Barnard's view of medical mis­sions ... clashed hopelessly with mine. He pictured a doctor moving about from village to village with a black bag in hand, treating minor illnesses as best he could. I visualized a small but capable hospital as the essential beginning. I felt we needed a team of doctors and nurses and other workers to provide excellent medical-surgical care worthy to repre­sent the Lord Jesus Christ, and in that environment of love and concern, daily share His good news with others. As we discussed medical missions, J found that Mr. Barnard's views were fixed and nothing I presented changed them. As much as I appreciated this fine dedi­cated man of God, I was sure East Paki­stan was no longer an option because I could not accomplish God's revealed plan for me within that framework.31

But Viggo could not erase East Pakistan from his mind:"With one mission­ary for every three-quarters of a million people, East Pakistan was mom ne­glected by the Christian church than any other open land. No Christians or Christian work graced the extreme southern end of the country. There was a great Christian vacuum between the works of the earliest missionary pioneers, William Carey of India and Adoniram Judson of Burma. Visas were readily available to East Pakistan

1.      Only high caliber, compassionate medical Work is worthy to represent the Lord.

2.      Because "black bag" and clinic treatments fail to heal many pa­tients, a hospital is a desirable be­ginning.

3.      The site for a new hospital must be chosen with great care.

4.      Two or more doctors are necessary to provide continuity of medical care.

5.      The doctors should study tropical diseases before beginning a practice in the tropics.

6.      The doctors and nurses must have adequate time for protected and uninterrupted language study.

7.      At least one of the Home Board members should be a Christian physician.

8.      Nonmedical missionaries should be appointed to the hospital to share in the administrative and spiritual work.

9.      Internationals should receive training in medical-spiritual work.

10.     A hospital in a poor area cannot be expected to be completely self­supporting, or charges will be ex­cessive and the poor neglected in favor of the wealthy.

11.     The medical work must be geared to spiritual sharing and spiritual heal­ing.

12.     Christian believers must be helped, baptized, loved, strengthened, and incorporated into an indigenous church.

13.     The medical staff must have spirit­ual strength and stamina, plus an intimate walk \\'ith God so that the highest spiritual standards are maintained.33

It was not until January of 1962 that the Olsen family was on board an air flight to East Pakistan. The nearly three years that had intervened since the board had accepted his thirteen prin­ciples had been filled with further study in tropical medicine and eight­een months of deputation work. The fact that the promising young candi­date was a highly qualified medical doctor did not exempt him from the sometimes condescending task of going from church to church present­ing his future ministry and financial needs. In fact, that was the type of arrangement the Olsens had sought when they were contemplating a mis­sion board: "We wished to affiliate with a mission that did not have money in the bank to send out a new appointee immediately. Rather, we would have to travel about the churches in deputation, presenting our program, and praying that God would stimulate the churches to undertake the necessary support. In this way we would learn how to trust our heavenly Father more fully and would become acquainted with dozens of churches and hundreds or thousands of individuals. These churches would likewise know us per­sonally, understand our work, and would pray earnestly for us and our activities. Such prayer support would be priceless."34

On arriving in East Pakistan, Viggo immediately began making plans for the hospital he hoped to establish, but he quickly ran into roadblocks. Al­though East Pakistan had been rela­tively easy to enter as a missionary, the government inefficiency and the red tape involved in implementing medi­cal work was exasperating. East Paki­stan, though separated from West Pakistan by more than a thousand miles and though inhabited by some seventy-five million people, was con­sidered only a province of Pakistan (the other four provinces being in West Pakistan)-a situation that lent itself to government mismanagement and inefficiency. And the fact that the cul­ture and religion of East and West Pakistan were so vastly different did not help matters; the. Bengalis that made up the majority of East Paki­stan's population were Muslim, while West Pakistan was overwhelm­ingly Hindu.

Although Viggo's patience was tried time and again, he finally secured the land and permits necessary for his proposed medical compound, and wit!: the help of a builder from the United States who volunteered his time, construction began in 1964. Dur­ing this time, the Olsens concentrated on language study, and Viggo per­formed routine medical work. But all was not well for the ABWE work in East Pakistan, and 1965 turned into a year of crisis: We were hit from all sides by continuing visa obstructions, crip­pling of our tribal work, employee problems, storms of wind, storms of war, bombing, illness, and death! I had to call twenty-five special field council sessions to deal with the recurring problems and crises."35

As the months passed, the situation in East Pakistan progressively wors­ened. India began amassing troops on the West Pakistan border, and what followed was a seventeen-day war be­tween India and Pakistan, during which time most of the women missionaries and children were evacuated until the situation began to return to normal. In 1966, Memorial Christian Hospital was opened, and the medical work began on a full-scale level, ready to face such emergencies as occurred in 1968 when a cholera epidemic broke out. Hundreds of patients were treated at the hospital for this killer disease, and only two died. But Viggo's ministry involved far more than just medicine. He was actively involved in evangelism, and he taught a pre-baptismal class for new Bengali Christians that was climaxed by sev­enteen baptisms, the largest Christian baptismal service ever conducted in that area.

As the decade of the 1970s opened there was a continuation of the politi­cal turmoil in East Pakistan. The Mus­lim majority there had long been dissatisfied with West Pakistan's domination of its affairs, and there was a growing movement toward inde­pendence. By the early months of 1971, West Pakistani military forces began to move into East Pakistan, and again most of the women missionaries and children were evacuated. Viggo and others remained to keep their much needed medical facilities func­tioning, sobered by the uncertainty of whether they would ever see their loved ones again. It was a terrifying time for the missionaries as well as the Bengali people: "... the Pakistan army smashed into cities and towns across the land. They followed the same scenario of kill, rape, loot, and burn!"36

For Viggo and his colleagues, these terror-filled days were climaxed by the harrowing night of April 23, 1971. Alarming news had come that after­noon from a Bengali friend that "armed bandits" were coming that night to attack the compound. To at­tempt an escape would mean losing the hospital and all they had worked so hard to build. There was no choice, in Viggo's mind, but to arm themselves and to risk their lives for the ministry they had been called to perform.

Complicating the situation was a broken elbow Viggo had sustained that afternoon in a motorcycle accident, but with the others he stationed him­self on the compound. steeling his eyes into the shadows as the seconds on his watch ticked away toward mid­night, when the government-run generator would be shut off and the lights on the compound would go out. "We were surrounded on three sides by dense forest and on the fourth by a river. In the thick darkness, the armed robbers could silently enter our prop­erty at a hundred different points. We would be like sitting ducks!"37 But for some unexplained reason, the lights never went off, and the attack never came. "It was a miracle from Allah," explained one of the Bengali guards, but Viggo and his colleagues knew differently.

The following month Viggo left East Pakistan for furlough and for recuper­ation in the United States, and while he was gone the independent nation of Bangladesh was born, but not with­out terrible agony and devastation. Viggo knew he was needed back at his post more than ever before, and so as soon as he could arrange entry with the new government, he returned­ - his visa number being "001." And there amidst the pain and suffering he fruit­fully served as a shining testimony to Christian medical missions and to his Lord.

Selected Bibliography

Dodd, Edward M. The Gift of the Healer: The Story of Men and Medicine in the Over­seas Mission of the Church. New York: Friendship, 1964.

Hall, Clarence W. Adventurers for God. New l'ork: Harper & Brothers, 1959.

Haskin, Dorothy. Medical Missionaries You Would Like to Know. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1957.

Hefley, James C. The Cross and the Scalpel. Waco: Word, 1971.

Kerr, J. [ennol(. Wildred Grenfell: His Life and Work. New York: Dodd, 1959.

Miller, Basil. Wilfred Grenfell, Labrador's Dogsled Doctor. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1948.

Olsen, Viggo (with Jeanette Lockerbie). Daktar: Diplomat in Bangladesh. Chicago: Moody, 1973.

Peterson, William J. Another Hand on Mine: The Story of Dr. Carl K. Becker of Africa Inland Mission. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1967.

Wilson, Dorothy Clarke. Dr. Ida: The Story of Dr. Ida Scudder of Vellore. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1959.