In the summer of 1807, a young Scotsman named Robert Morrison stepped off the ship Trident onto the bustling docks of Macau, China. His heart was full of a burning desire, a deep impetus of conviction that he could not ignore. His heart pounding, the heavy sensation of being alone pressed down upon him. Nervousness, imposter syndrome, and fear likely dominated his thoughts. Yet forward he strode. At only twenty-five years old, an age in which many men today are still boys chasing the next video game achievement, he left behind a comfortable life in England, driven by a vision, a calling. He would bring the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the vast, forbidden empire of China; 350 million souls who had never heard the name of Jesus. “Do you really expect to make any impact on the idolatry of this great empire?” The skeptical captain asked him. “No sir.” Morrison replied. “But I expect God will.”
China was a closed fortress. It was like setting out to penetrate Mordor, armed with a book. Imperial edicts made it a capital crime, punishable by imprisonment or death, to teach their language to a foreigner or for anyone to preach Christianity within its borders. He took up residence in Canton (Guangzhou), where he lived in near-total seclusion among the Chinese trading factories along the Pearl River. He disguised himself as an American businessman to avoid suspicion, hired secret Chinese tutors at great risk, and labored day and night to master a language of thousands of intricate characters and strange sounds. His lodgings were cramped and miserable. Once, the roof of his room collapsed in a storm and he did not stop his work. He pressed on, praying in halting Chinese, translating Scriptures by candlelight while the city outside hummed with indifferent citizens and officers who would end his life if they only knew what he was doing.
Years dragged by in lonely toil. No crowds gathered. No open conversations. No fame, fanfare, or Facebook followers. Morrison buried himself in work, compiling a groundbreaking Chinese-English dictionary, producing a grammar, and translating the New Testament. Eventually, he took a position as a translator for the East India Company to secure legal residence and steadier funds, all while smuggling tracts and portions of Scripture to anyone who would receive them. The threat of discovery was imminent in every interaction. The isolation was heavy, his loneliness severe, and the fruit of this labor seemed nonexistent.
Then, in May 1814, seven long years after his arrival, the moment he had prayed for arrived. At a secluded spring by the sea-side, in great secrecy, Morrison baptized his first convert: a printer named Cai Gao, who had worked on the type for his dictionary and come to an infant faith through quiet conversations and reading the translated words. The baptismal rite was simple, performed in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Morrison later wrote in his journal with unshaken hope: “May he be the first-fruits of a great harvest, one of millions who shall come and be saved.”
Cai Gao’s faith was not perfect. His knowledge was shallow and incomplete, but it was real. Slowly, there were others, but never many. In his entire twenty-seven years of service and labor in China, Morrison baptized only about ten Chinese converts to the religion of love and redemption. He completed the full Bible in Chinese by 1823, founded the Anglo-Chinese college to train future workers, and laid the foundations that no one else would. What sane person would give their entire lives, against impossible odds, amid great peril, for only ten souls? Morrison did not care what was sane. He cared what was right, what was true, what was good. When he died in 1834, exhausted, sick, and preceded to glory by his wife and all of his children because of disease and hard living, the visible church he left behind in China was minuscule.
But, the seeds Morrison sowed in obscurity took root. His Bible and dictionary became the tools for generations of missionaries and Chinese believers. What began with one dangerous, hidden baptism by the sea grew into a movement that, in later decades and centuries, saw millions embrace Christ across China. The Empire’s walls cracked; the gospel spread like fire through the very language Morrison had labored to unlock.
Dear readers, of whom I have very few; let us not grow weary in doing good. In due season we shall reap. (Galatians 6:9). As we wade into the comment sections, the break-rooms, and the endless outrage cycle of our culture war, do not disengage. Do not heed the enemy’s whisper: “This is doing no good. You will never enlighten these minds.” Do not retreat to the sidelines.
If you would pour your life into speaking and defending the truth of logic and Gospel for a million watching eyes and as many dollars, then the same remains worthy when only one soul reads your comment. It remains radiantly worthy, as Robert Morrison showed us, when one heart stirs, when one mind pauses to reexamine the false claims of culture and pursue the truth. Just as one hidden baptism by the sea, after seven years of lonely toil, became the seed for millions of Chinese souls redeemed, so might your small voice in a comment section change the course of history.
The Stoics grasped a shadow of this truth. Seneca recounts an unknown craftsman who, when asked why he labored so painstakingly over a beautiful work that would reach only a few, replied: “A few is enough for me. So is one, and so is none.” The intrinsic goodness of the act, untethered from popularity and scale, or visible fruit, is worth every drop of sweat, every hour of isolation.
But we Christians go further. We do not labor for virtue alone, nor for self-sufficiency. We labor because it is good, right, and true in the eyes of the One who sees in secret and rewards openly. Being a lone voice for reason, logic, morality, and gospel, amid the sea of dissent and hatred, is worth every effort; in the daily grind of the real world or the chaos of the online forum.
So, stop asking the wrong questions. “How many will benefit? How many will change? How many will even notice?”
Ask only this:
Is it good?
Is it true?
Is it righteous, in accordance with God’s virtue and gospel?
If the answer is yes, even if the harvest is unseen in this life, then do it. Pour yourself out. Speak. Engage. Persist.
For the Audience of One is watching. And He turns small seeds into empires of grace.
Join me. The field is ready. The day of small things is the day in which the King delights.
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