The Lines of People's Faces

There’s a lovely story from the life of Rowland Hill, the Gloucestershire preacher, two hundred years ago.

The old warhorse was once greeted by a Scotsman after a church service. Instead of offering the usual compliments, the Scotsman revealed that during the sermon he had been studying the “lines of Rowland Hill’s face”. Examining its general shape and appearance. And when asked for his opinion, the Scotsman concluded that had divine grace not prevailed in Rowland Hill’s life, he undoubtedly would have been a “reet rascal”!

Well, chuckles all round.

But oh, the faces on this last visit to Romania!

No-one’s studying them, but sometimes it’s hard not to notice.

Aren’t they so often an involuntary window on the soul?

And on five occasions last week, perhaps a revelation.

First, as we queued to present our passports on arrival at Cluj airport. The faces of the senior citizens, the over-60’s. Carefully, consciously expressionless as we slowly shuffled forward. Masks of apparent indifference. Curtains tightly closed on all emotions. No flicker of anything inward, though something must be there. Still haunted by the ghosts of communism past.

Secondly, in Hunedoara and the railway-line gypsy settlement. One of our first photos (above) was of the chaos of life. It was all mud tracks, corrugated iron, rags on clothes-lines and scattered dogs. In the middle of it stood Dani Hritac with a small ensemble of gypsy lads. One of them had paused, his eyebrow half-cocked, perhaps weighing up the steal-ability of my phone. Another, however, clearly younger, held Dani’s hand in both his own. His face looked up to Dani’s in an expression of semi-adoration, of hope, of belief, of confidence, of affection. And it became even clearer that workers like Dani are viewed not as occasionally visiting professionals, but the adopted parents whose love these youngsters crave.

Face number three. It belonged to Iosif Ciungan. This 69 year old carpenter was previously a prison-visitor sponsored by Romanian Ministries. Sadly his wife died several years ago, but it was a delight to hear that a second trip had been made to the altar (so to speak), he taking there in covenantal union a new helpmeet and soul companion. Our obligatory viewing of photographs from the big day revealed an extremely happy man. Diminutive yet dapper, skin a-glow beneath a crown of silver hair, the one constant in every picture was his full-beam, ear-to-ear, dazzler of a smile. No need to inquire further about inner feelings! And a reminder indeed that every good thing is within the Lord’s gift to those who fear Him.

Fourthly, very different, was on our departure from Gherla prison. Bouyant following a time of the Spirit’s enabling among female and male detainees, we were making our way to the exit, heavy clanging door by heavy clanging door. We passed a tennis court, where several huddles of men were taking their daily hour of fresh air. The women of our group were a few steps ahead of us, a happy, arm-in-arm trio. And let’s just say the inmates were aware of them. With expressions that were anything but holy. Amid cast-iron prison discipline, there were no whistles, no whispers, not even prolonged looks. But their glances said it all. What trophies of grace they could be!

Fifthly, and finally, an evening service at Aiud Baptist Church. It was extremely moving, perhaps the week’s highlight, to worship there with several of our workers. Our eyes now off our labours, our voices resonant together in praise. Heavenly moments indeed. But I noticed during the service’s open time the face of a man sitting just to the side of us. In profile he bore an uncanny resemblance to the heavyweight boxer Oleksander Usyk. But instead of such granite features ducking and diving rocket fire in the ring, his eyes were closed in rapt attention to a Christian poem. As the words proceeded, his face twitched in appreciation, visibly touched. On and on it went, for the poem’s full duration. And something suddenly became abundantly clear. That in those softened facial lines was traceable not just the beauty of a rugged Romanian warrior but our Lord Jesus Christ. This, indeed, was a revelation. And may it be true of us all!