Few things inspire and spur me on more than the powerful personal stories of those who have gone before and lived the “faithful life”. Roy Hession’s autobiography My Calvary Road is one of those stories—a story of a man’s spiritual pilgrimage with God. It was Roy’s hunger for the Holy Spirit that challenged me the most. Roy remembers his days as a new believer being marked with an insatiable appetite for God’s kingdom to come to earth. Roy found fellowship in his hunger with a group of late teens and twenty-something’s in northwest London who called themselves the “Crusaders.” Most of the Crusaders were young professionals—working in offices and ‘provoking one another on towards love and good deeds’ as they moved together in their spiritual development. Of his “Crusader years”, Roy recalls:
As I began work in a London bank, the little Crusader badge I wore in the lapel of my jacket was especially precious to me. Although the world did not know what the badge meant, I knew, and God knew. It meant that I was marked out by Jesus to be separated from the word, part of a special people unto Himself. Separation from the world was no hardship to me—it was the cause of a secret joy, to be no more of the world, even as He was not of the world. Crusader badges proliferated in the city of London as young people came from the surrounding suburbs to work there, and we all recognized one another, and knew we were all in possession of the same secret joy. Lunch hours in city restaurants were often times of joyous Christian fellowship.
What a profound movement—what a special little marking—a badge to represent a new identity found in Christ, a reason for “secret joy”. What if we similarly recognized others around us who possessed that same “secret joy”?
In India, though badges aren’t externally worn on the lapels of jackets, it seems that believers recognize—and seek one another out—with ease. I was shocked when I walked through the local fruit market last month with Stella, the warden of the orphanage here on campus. I remember a man dressed in white, pushing a cart piled high with balanced pyramids of guavas, oranges and apples who stopped to greet Stella with all the warmth of an old friend. “Praise the Lord!” he said exuberantly. She echoed the same greeting, smiling with a certain grace in her eyes. “Who was he?” I asked, only to find out he was a perfect stranger. There must have been something familiar in Stella’s countenance—the redolence of Jesus’ love constantly carried with her—that was recognizable to another believer, even while walking the crowded streets.
Encounters like Stella’s seem to happen frequently here. The exact reason why is beyond me, but perhaps it has something to with the way Indian believers prize their “secret joy”—a gift so undeniably precious to them. They realize what a privilege and honor it is to serve the Living God and be identified with Him—and they live out their faith by wearing it like a garment, despite posed threats or potential opposition. Daily they bathe and clothe themselves in the Holy Spirit. Praying without ceasing, they seem to saturate every livable moment in this realm of “secret joy”—proud to be separate from the world they live in. With such commitment and faithfulness, the result of their “secret joy” is that it’s hardly a secret at all.
I can’t help but wonder how our nation would be different if we took more seriously our privilege and right to be called children of God—possessors and bearers of His name. Our access to the “secret joy” is nothing to be overlooked, nothing to be wasted—but something to revel in along with those who similarly share it. How would our unity, our fellowship, and our brotherly love change and heighten if we lived with the badges of marked separation from the world “pinned to the lapels of our jackets” every day? How much further would the gates of increased ministry in the everyday be swung widely open if we wore our badges of “secret joy” by clothing ourselves daily with tenderhearted mercy, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience? (Col. 3:12) The problem is not that we don’t have access to the “badges of secret joy”—it’s that we keep them conveniently locked up in drawers that we refuse to open as willingly and readily as Jesus Christ and Calvary’s cross have given us the freedom to do.
“For you died to this life, and your real life is hidden with Christ in God…put on your new nature, and be renewed as you learn to know your creator and become like Him.”
-Colossians 3:3, 10
"By this all men will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another."
-John 13:35
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Two Stories of Simplicity
“It’s the beauty of simplicity that fills me with eternity”
–Telecast lyrics
I am living in a world where simplicity seems to be daily redefined. As my personal exposure to poverty increases, simplicity’s definition is whittled away at—continually transforming into a new perspective of what it means to have little—or nothing—in terms of worldly possessions.
Recently, I encountered two men (and their families) who live a simple Kingdom life—simple in its barest form. Having no true possessions, they, like the Levites mentioned in Deuteronomy 10, keep “the Lord himself as their special possession.” Their stories have revolutionized my thoughts on Matthew 6:33, “Seek first the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need.”
There seems to be a direct correlation with the limitation of possessions and increased, keen awareness and hunger for the Living God. A certain liberation comes with the release of belongings—a liberation that leaves a new sensitivity for encountering God. I was struck as I read the story of Jacob wrestling with God this morning in Genesis 32. Just before his encounter, “Jacob got up and took his two wives, his two servant wives, and his eleven sons and crossed the Jabbok River with them. After taking them to the other side, he sent over all his possessions. This left Jacob all alone…” God showed up when Jacob was completely alone. Not only away from the presence of people and family—away from all his possessions. All his stuff. Everything that represented his power and success. Everything he had accumulated to build a name for himself. God wasn’t interested in meeting with Jacob’s possessions; He was interested in meeting with Jacob.
Shanmugam and Joshua—two men I was recently introduced to—are men that have little to nothing. Nothing but the transforming presence of God working amidst their daily lives. They are men that have met with God—encountered Him in their humblest of states, leaving them—and their life purposes— forever changed. Though their stories could fill endless pages, for the sake of brevity, I will attempt to capture only the highlights.
Shanmugam and Joshua have a lot in common. They both have experienced transformation in the highest sense. Shanmugam used to be a violent gang leader, known by locals as “Tobacco Man” for the fifty packs of tobacco he chewed daily. Joshua is an ex-terrorist. After taking the lives of many, he spent several years in prison. Both men had encounters with Jesus—and both men are entirely changed.
Shanmugam
Shanmugam’s story begins with the prayers of his mother-in-law, Elisabeth. I had the pleasure of meeting her at his home last week. Under five feet tall and dressed in a sun-bleached sari, she embodied this simplicity I keep speaking of—but she clothed herself with limitless love, wisdom and an evident gentleness and grace.
After decades of Elisabeth’s faithful prayers, Shanmugam finally surrendered his life to Jesus. A few weeks after his baptism, he ran into one of his previous gang members who had also become a believer. His friend rejoiced over seeing his transformation, telling him that every other member of their previous gang was in prison or dead.
With an obviously roughened face and a physically intimidating build, everything about Shanmugam’s presence speaks toughness—yet his heart is incredibly soft and his spirit is malleable. He has only been following Jesus for three years, but already he is pastoring a church of several hundred believers—150 of which he has baptized. God has used Shanmugam powerfully in his community—he has seen God physically heal many people through his prayers, and a thirty-year old man was even raised from the dead (stories that are not uncommon amongst believers in India).
Previously a bus driver and shopkeeper, skilled at swindling—Shanmugam is now serving the Lord in full-time ministry with little to claim as his own. His family of four lives in a hovel of a home. Only ten feet by twelve feet, with a thatched grass roof, it has been impossible to keep water from flooding their limited floor space during the present rainy season. Last week I stood with Shanmugan in his home—lit only with dim candlelight due to their absence of electricity. Ankle deep in water, I gazed around the miniscule space—clothing hanging from the thatched walls to keep from being soaked. There was no room for a bed. Shanmugam and his family literally sleep in the water. As he and his wife prayed aloud, there was no hint of insecurity. Their voices rang with a deep security and trust in their great provider—God himself. With thankfulness that night, they fed us a dinner of mutton—food that was beyond their ability to afford. I sat there with a full belly, being treated like a queen by a family that didn’t even have a dry floor to sleep on.
Before I left Shanmugam’s village, we met in their local church for a pastor’s meeting. The church—and the exterior church kitchen—were also completely flooded. As women prepared rice over an open fire with smiling faces, they were shoveling buckets of muddied water from the kitchen floor. Just before the service was over, Shanmugam, his wife, and their church body stood on stage and sang a worship song in Tamil. With a handful of drums, two tambourines, and strong voices raised, they sang with the deepest sincerity and thankfulness. I’ve rarely heard such beautiful singing. Songs praising their Creator--the One whom everything belongs to and everything comes from. Their most “special possession”.
Joshua
Joshua has been given a new name. Previously recognized for his involvement with a radical terrorist group, he is now recognized as a Jesus follower—and a completely different man. He first encountered God in prison—and there, behind bars, he made a promise, “Lord, if I am released,” he prayed, “I will live for you and you only.” Though that prayer was three years before his actual liberation, he remembers God continually speaking words of comfort over him in prison. Previously a violent murderer, Joshua has melted into the role of a comforter himself—and his peaceful presence and story of change has drawn countless lives to the truth.
Originally from Sri Lanka, Joshua first started ministering with Sri Lankan refugees in Tamil Nadu, India. After discipleship training with Pastor Moses Paulose, he left with his family and limited financial support (around $20 a month) to start a church in a very difficult jungle area of Tamil Nadu.
The region Joshua ministers in is primarily dangerous because of the masses of wild animals. Joshua and his family travel from one area to the next to share the gospel on a bicycle—his wife sits on the back, and his two sons crowd close in the front near the handlebars. Several times, they have almost lost their lives in close proximity of wild elephants. Joshua even remembers one time his bike’s breaks failed and he nearly collided with an elephant—it’s giant tail whipping him in the side of the face, leaving him feeling like he was, “being beaten with a giant bamboo stick,” he recollects. Without proper transportation, such conditions are a continual risk—a risk that he and his family willingly take for the sake of sharing the joy of Jesus Christ with surrounding villages. And their work is fruitful—within a year and a half of being in that area, their church (which gathers in an old shed) has grown from twenty members to 150 members. Like Shanmugam’s church, many miraculous healings are constantly taking place.
Wild animals are not the only trials Joshua’s family has faced since beginning their ministry work. There have also been many attacks against the health of both his wife and son. When his wife found out she had blood cancer, she simply stated, “I’ve seen how God comforted and took care of you in your life Joshua; God definitely will take care of me, too.” With that, they prayed fervently for one month and she was completely healed of her cancer.
Perhaps more frightening was the day Joshua and his wife found out about a septal defect in their youngest son’s heart that could soon lead to severe shortness of breath and complete inability to move his limbs efficiently if left untreated. When they noticed his constant fatigue and occasional bleeding from the mouth, they took him to the nearest hospital who recommended a costly operation. With only $3 to his name, Joshua was rendered completely helpless in the situation. They took their son home and put their trust fully in the Lord’s healing power, praying and fasting for their son’s healing for twenty days. On the twentieth day of prayer, their son (who had already lost nearly all mobility in his hands and legs) was propped outside, watching some neighbor boys playing a soccer game in the street in front of their house. While Joshua and his wife were inside praying, they were interrupted by their son walking into the room by himself, stabilized only by a plastic chair. He is now fully healed of his heart defect and able to move about freely.
By faith alone, Joshua continues to move forward. His hard work for the Kingdom has produced several church congregations in the jungle area of Tamil Nadu. One, in a primarily Hindu area, grew to forty new believers in just one month. In that village, there was an elderly man with an extreme mental illness who had been roaming the area naked for over fourteen years. Entirely ashamed, his family tied him by his hands and feet to an iron rod inside their home—leaving him struggling there day and night. After Joshua’s family prayed with him twice, the old man was fully healed of his mental illness and immediately baptized. He is now one of the believers in the new church in that village.
With several small church plants started, Joshua’s vision is to have one large, simple church building in a centralized location for all of the surrounding villages—one that he and the existing church members would build themselves. With only $20 a month for his family and the church work, he is putting his trust entirely in God yet again. With such trust, the future seems undaunting. When Joshua recalls God’s protection, care, and moving power in his ministry and family life, he simply states, “I know that if I do my work faithfully to God, he will take care of my needs. I’ve already seen it!”
The unshakable trust displayed in Shanmugam and Joshua’s stories challenges and compels me. Trust in the midst of beautiful simplicity—holding no possession higher than God himself. Shanmugam and Joshua have depths of hunger for things not of this world, but of the Kingdom.
Please remember Shanmugam and Joshua in your prayers. I was reminded this morning through one author’s writing to be, “as wide open towards people and their needs as you are towards God. Windows open outward as well as upward. Windows especially open where people need most!” The most important need in Shanmugam and Joshua’s lives is the continued filling of the Holy Spirit to do the work set before them. There is, ofcourse, a list of immediate physical needs as well—roof repairs, improved transportation, proper facilities. I encourage you to consider praying on how you might be involved in opening windows towards these needs. I love Paul’s reminder of what happens when we freely give to those in need:
“God will generously provide all you need. Then you will always have everything you need and plenty left over to share with others. As the scriptures say, ‘They share freely and give generously to the poor. Their good deeds will be remembered forever.’ For God is the one who provides seed for the farmer and then bread to eat. In the same way, he will provide and increase your resources and then produce a great harvest of generosity in you. Yes, you will be enriched in every way so that you can always be generous. And when we take your gifts to those who need them, they will thank God. So two things will result from this ministry of giving—the needs of God’s holy people will be met, and they will joyfully express their thanks to God. As a result of your ministry, they will give glory to God. For your generosity to them and to all believers will prove that you are obedient to the Good News of Christ. And they will pray for you with deep affection because of the overflowing grace God has given to you. Thank God for this gift too wonderful for words!” -2 Corinthians 9:8-15
As we consciously give freely to those in need, we are—in a way—engaging in simplicity. Living simply, so that others may simply live. Our hearts of giving are grown along with an increased life of simplicity. The grace of giving was designed by God to multiply his blessings…the greatest blessing of all being increased encounters with Him.
Two Stories of Simplicity
“It’s the beauty of simplicity that fills me with eternity”
–Telecast lyrics
I am living in a world where simplicity seems to be daily redefined. As my personal exposure to poverty increases, simplicity’s definition is whittled away at—continually transforming into a new perspective of what it means to have little—or nothing—in terms of worldly possessions.
Recently, I encountered two men (and their families) who live a simple Kingdom life—simple in its barest form. Having no true possessions, they, like the Levites mentioned in Deuteronomy 10, keep “the Lord himself as their special possession.” Their stories have revolutionized my thoughts on Matthew 6:33, “Seek first the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need.”
There seems to be a direct correlation with the limitation of possessions and increased, keen awareness and hunger for the Living God. A certain liberation comes with the release of belongings—a liberation that leaves a new sensitivity for encountering God. I was struck as I read the story of Jacob wrestling with God this morning in Genesis 32. Just before his encounter, “Jacob got up and took his two wives, his two servant wives, and his eleven sons and crossed the Jabbok River with them. After taking them to the other side, he sent over all his possessions. This left Jacob all alone…” God showed up when Jacob was completely alone. Not only away from the presence of people and family—away from all his possessions. All his stuff. Everything that represented his power and success. Everything he had accumulated to build a name for himself. God wasn’t interested in meeting with Jacob’s possessions; He was interested in meeting with Jacob.
Shanmugam and Joshua—two men I was recently introduced to—are men that have little to nothing. Nothing but the transforming presence of God working amidst their daily lives. They are men that have met with God—encountered Him in their humblest of states, leaving them—and their life purposes— forever changed. Though their stories could fill endless pages, for the sake of brevity, I will attempt to capture only the highlights.
Shanmugam and Joshua have a lot in common. They both have experienced transformation in the highest sense. Shanmugam used to be a violent gang leader, known by locals as “Tobacco Man” for the fifty packs of tobacco he chewed daily. Joshua is an ex-terrorist. After taking the lives of many, he spent several years in prison. Both men had encounters with Jesus—and both men are entirely changed.
Shanmugam
Shanmugam’s story begins with the prayers of his mother-in-law, Elisabeth. I had the pleasure of meeting her at his home last week. Under five feet tall and dressed in a sun-bleached sari, she embodied this simplicity I keep speaking of—but she clothed herself with limitless love, wisdom and an evident gentleness and grace.
After decades of Elisabeth’s faithful prayers, Shanmugam finally surrendered his life to Jesus. A few weeks after his baptism, he ran into one of his previous gang members who had also become a believer. His friend rejoiced over seeing his transformation, telling him that every other member of their previous gang was in prison or dead.
With an obviously roughened face and a physically intimidating build, everything about Shanmugam’s presence speaks toughness—yet his heart is incredibly soft and his spirit is malleable. He has only been following Jesus for three years, but already he is pastoring a church of several hundred believers—150 of which he has baptized. God has used Shanmugam powerfully in his community—he has seen God physically heal many people through his prayers, and a thirty-year old man was even raised from the dead (stories that are not uncommon amongst believers in India).
Previously a bus driver and shopkeeper, skilled at swindling—Shanmugam is now serving the Lord in full-time ministry with little to claim as his own. His family of four lives in a hovel of a home. Only ten feet by twelve feet, with a thatched grass roof, it has been impossible to keep water from flooding their limited floor space during the present rainy season. Last week I stood with Shanmugan in his home—lit only with dim candlelight due to their absence of electricity. Ankle deep in water, I gazed around the miniscule space—clothing hanging from the thatched walls to keep from being soaked. There was no room for a bed. Shanmugam and his family literally sleep in the water. As he and his wife prayed aloud, there was no hint of insecurity. Their voices rang with a deep security and trust in their great provider—God himself. With thankfulness that night, they fed us a dinner of mutton—food that was beyond their ability to afford. I sat there with a full belly, being treated like a queen by a family that didn’t even have a dry floor to sleep on.
Before I left Shanmugam’s village, we met in their local church for a pastor’s meeting. The church—and the exterior church kitchen—were also completely flooded. As women prepared rice over an open fire with smiling faces, they were shoveling buckets of muddied water from the kitchen floor. Just before the service was over, Shanmugam, his wife, and their church body stood on stage and sang a worship song in Tamil. With a handful of drums, two tambourines, and strong voices raised, they sang with the deepest sincerity and thankfulness. I’ve rarely heard such beautiful singing. Songs praising their Creator--the One whom everything belongs to and everything comes from. Their most “special possession”.
Joshua
Joshua has been given a new name. Previously recognized for his involvement with a radical terrorist group, he is now recognized as a Jesus follower—and a completely different man. He first encountered God in prison—and there, behind bars, he made a promise, “Lord, if I am released,” he prayed, “I will live for you and you only.” Though that prayer was three years before his actual liberation, he remembers God continually speaking words of comfort over him in prison. Previously a violent murderer, Joshua has melted into the role of a comforter himself—and his peaceful presence and story of change has drawn countless lives to the truth.
Originally from Sri Lanka, Joshua first started ministering with Sri Lankan refugees in Tamil Nadu, India. After discipleship training with Pastor Moses Paulose, he left with his family and limited financial support (around $20 a month) to start a church in a very difficult jungle area of Tamil Nadu.
The region Joshua ministers in is primarily dangerous because of the masses of wild animals. Joshua and his family travel from one area to the next to share the gospel on a bicycle—his wife sits on the back, and his two sons crowd close in the front near the handlebars. Several times, they have almost lost their lives in close proximity of wild elephants. Joshua even remembers one time his bike’s breaks failed and he nearly collided with an elephant—it’s giant tail whipping him in the side of the face, leaving him feeling like he was, “being beaten with a giant bamboo stick,” he recollects. Without proper transportation, such conditions are a continual risk—a risk that he and his family willingly take for the sake of sharing the joy of Jesus Christ with surrounding villages. And their work is fruitful—within a year and a half of being in that area, their church (which gathers in an old shed) has grown from twenty members to 150 members. Like Shanmugam’s church, many miraculous healings are constantly taking place.
Wild animals are not the only trials Joshua’s family has faced since beginning their ministry work. There have also been many attacks against the health of both his wife and son. When his wife found out she had blood cancer, she simply stated, “I’ve seen how God comforted and took care of you in your life Joshua; God definitely will take care of me, too.” With that, they prayed fervently for one month and she was completely healed of her cancer.
Perhaps more frightening was the day Joshua and his wife found out about a septal defect in their youngest son’s heart that could soon lead to severe shortness of breath and complete inability to move his limbs efficiently if left untreated. When they noticed his constant fatigue and occasional bleeding from the mouth, they took him to the nearest hospital who recommended a costly operation. With only $3 to his name, Joshua was rendered completely helpless in the situation. They took their son home and put their trust fully in the Lord’s healing power, praying and fasting for their son’s healing for twenty days. On the twentieth day of prayer, their son (who had already lost nearly all mobility in his hands and legs) was propped outside, watching some neighbor boys playing a soccer game in the street in front of their house. While Joshua and his wife were inside praying, they were interrupted by their son walking into the room by himself, stabilized only by a plastic chair. He is now fully healed of his heart defect and able to move about freely.
By faith alone, Joshua continues to move forward. His hard work for the Kingdom has produced several church congregations in the jungle area of Tamil Nadu. One, in a primarily Hindu area, grew to forty new believers in just one month. In that village, there was an elderly man with an extreme mental illness who had been roaming the area naked for over fourteen years. Entirely ashamed, his family tied him by his hands and feet to an iron rod inside their home—leaving him struggling there day and night. After Joshua’s family prayed with him twice, the old man was fully healed of his mental illness and immediately baptized. He is now one of the believers in the new church in that village.
With several small church plants started, Joshua’s vision is to have one large, simple church building in a centralized location for all of the surrounding villages—one that he and the existing church members would build themselves. With only $20 a month for his family and the church work, he is putting his trust entirely in God yet again. With such trust, the future seems undaunting. When Joshua recalls God’s protection, care, and moving power in his ministry and family life, he simply states, “I know that if I do my work faithfully to God, he will take care of my needs. I’ve already seen it!”
The unshakable trust displayed in Shanmugam and Joshua’s stories challenges and compels me. Trust in the midst of beautiful simplicity—holding no possession higher than God himself. Shanmugam and Joshua have depths of hunger for things not of this world, but of the Kingdom.
Please remember Shanmugam and Joshua in your prayers. I was reminded this morning through one author’s writing to be, “as wide open towards people and their needs as you are towards God. Windows open outward as well as upward. Windows especially open where people need most!” The most important need in Shanmugam and Joshua’s lives is the continued filling of the Holy Spirit to do the work set before them. There is, ofcourse, a list of immediate physical needs as well—roof repairs, improved transportation, proper facilities. I encourage you to consider praying on how you might be involved in opening windows towards these needs. I love Paul’s reminder of what happens when we freely give to those in need:
“God will generously provide all you need. Then you will always have everything you need and plenty left over to share with others. As the scriptures say, ‘They share freely and give generously to the poor. Their good deeds will be remembered forever.’ For God is the one who provides seed for the farmer and then bread to eat. In the same way, he will provide and increase your resources and then produce a great harvest of generosity in you. Yes, you will be enriched in every way so that you can always be generous. And when we take your gifts to those who need them, they will thank God. So two things will result from this ministry of giving—the needs of God’s holy people will be met, and they will joyfully express their thanks to God. As a result of your ministry, they will give glory to God. For your generosity to them and to all believers will prove that you are obedient to the Good News of Christ. And they will pray for you with deep affection because of the overflowing grace God has given to you. Thank God for this gift too wonderful for words!” -2 Corinthians 9:8-15
As we consciously give freely to those in need, we are—in a way—engaging in simplicity. Living simply, so that others may simply live. Our hearts of giving are grown along with an increased life of simplicity. The grace of giving was designed by God to multiply his blessings…the greatest blessing of all being increased encounters with Him.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
A New Thanksgiving.
Though miles away from the states, Rebekah and I faithfully celebrated Thanksgiving on Thursday. We laughed as we thought of our present circumstances…literally being a couple of “pilgrims” among Indians on Thanksgiving (in the truest sense).
Due to the complete absence of turkeys in South India, we contemplated eating a chicken for Thanksgiving, but the violent and bloody steps that proceeded in order to get the chicken into its edible form kept us from following through. Instead of attempting to create the beloved traditional foods of Thanksgiving—mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry sauce, and yams—we took a bold venture to attempt cooking a South Indian meal (with the help of several friends).
After explaining the history and heart of Thanksgiving Day to the Pastor Paulose’s family, they were thrilled to support and host the meal at their home. They had already been planning a celebratory church gathering, which happened to fall perfectly in time with Thanksgiving. Around forty people showed up and, sitting on grass mats, we enjoyed rice, lamb curry, vegetable sambhar, and a spread of other delicious Indian dishes (of course, we let someone else handle the whole meat task). Rebekah and I attempted to add a bit of American flair to the meal by making apple pie and peanut butter pie for desert. Serving frozen peanut butter pie to a crowd who rarely eats such rich sweets—or anything frozen for that matter—was nothing short of comical. In a culture where silverware is void, it was hilarious to watch hesitant older Indian women attempting to lift a piece of frozen pie with their fingers and dangle it above their mouth. “Woops, I didn’t even think about the fork factor,” Rebekah whispered. We held our breath until everyone had finished—pie all over their faces and endless smiles emerging. Almost at once the Indian women started shouting things at Rebekah and I in Tamil. “They really liked the desert!” the pastor’s wife explained laughing.
Just before we ate our meal together, all forty-something of us gathered in a seated huddle and sang several Tamil worship songs—our voices raising high to magnify our awesome and faithful God—who is, “the only one worthy of [our] praise, the only one who has done mighty miracles that [we] have seen with our own eyes” (Duet. 10:21). I sat there, legs criss-crossed and my head in my lap. Reflective memories of the previous three days alone were enough to fill my heart and spirit with an overwhelming gratefulness and a sheer joy that seemed to be breaking forth within me. The three days prior to Thanksgiving—the sights, the interactions, and the miracles I saw with my own eyes— filled me with such a renewed sense of the power of our God that I was rendered not only to a place of absolute gratitude and thankfulness, but a place where I was filled with a new wonder that seemed to push the frontiers of my faith and exceed the edges of my human imagination. A place that I believe will only expound as I continue to live with a hunger to see more. I found myself sitting there so filled with thankfulness that I serve a God who daily wants to reveal himself to me. A truth that has far less to do with the fact that I am being exposed to the miraculous in India, and much more to do with the fact that God will continually make Himself fully available to those who have an insatiable desire for Him—regardless of where they are living.
I adore the way Frank Laubach explains this faith phenomenon in his own life in Letters by a Modern Mystic:
“To be able to look backward and say, ‘This has been the finest year of my life’—that is glorious! But anticipation! To be able to look ahead and say, ‘The present year can and shall be better!”—that is more glorious!
If we said such things about our own achievements, we would be consummate egotists. But, if we are speaking of God’s kindness, and we speak truly, we are but grateful. And this is what I do witness. I have done nothing but open windows—God has done all the rest. There have been few if any conspicuous achievements. There has been a succession of marvelous experiences in the friendship of God. It was the lonesomest year, in some ways the hardest year of my life, but the most gloriously full of voices from heaven.”
Contemplative, I sat thinking on these words, embodied on Thanksgiving as I, too, found myself filled with a gratitude for the best year of my life because of God’s kindness. From last Thanksgiving spent at a decorative table in the presence of physical abundance and family, to this Thanksgiving spent on grass mats, eating with my hands, also in the presence of my family—one that has little to do with geography and everything to do with commonness of heart.
I thought of the miracles I saw just days before—a young woman supernaturally healed of stomach pain, a throng of villagers surrendering their lives to Christ for the first time, the beauty of the faith of individuals who have close to nothing in this world. All reasons enough to fill me with an unquenchable gratitude. I thought also of the darkness I have experienced this year—times of confusion and questioning, times of pain and mental suffering, times where “the bottom has completely fell out”. Experiences where Jesus had to remind me yet again that I needed to die—to come to the end of myself—to recall that I no longer live, but that He lives within me. Reflective of those times, I also found unquenchable gratitude—perhaps even greater gratitude than in the times of rejoicing, because it has been those times where I have seen Christ most clearly, experienced His love most fully, and found the greatest depths of freedom.
And so I move forward with prospects of another glorious year. A year of high expectations that I know will be fulfilled because of the ever-present, faithful, adventurous friendship of Christ Himself. A year of pressing open windows and leaving the rest to God.
Due to the complete absence of turkeys in South India, we contemplated eating a chicken for Thanksgiving, but the violent and bloody steps that proceeded in order to get the chicken into its edible form kept us from following through. Instead of attempting to create the beloved traditional foods of Thanksgiving—mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry sauce, and yams—we took a bold venture to attempt cooking a South Indian meal (with the help of several friends).
After explaining the history and heart of Thanksgiving Day to the Pastor Paulose’s family, they were thrilled to support and host the meal at their home. They had already been planning a celebratory church gathering, which happened to fall perfectly in time with Thanksgiving. Around forty people showed up and, sitting on grass mats, we enjoyed rice, lamb curry, vegetable sambhar, and a spread of other delicious Indian dishes (of course, we let someone else handle the whole meat task). Rebekah and I attempted to add a bit of American flair to the meal by making apple pie and peanut butter pie for desert. Serving frozen peanut butter pie to a crowd who rarely eats such rich sweets—or anything frozen for that matter—was nothing short of comical. In a culture where silverware is void, it was hilarious to watch hesitant older Indian women attempting to lift a piece of frozen pie with their fingers and dangle it above their mouth. “Woops, I didn’t even think about the fork factor,” Rebekah whispered. We held our breath until everyone had finished—pie all over their faces and endless smiles emerging. Almost at once the Indian women started shouting things at Rebekah and I in Tamil. “They really liked the desert!” the pastor’s wife explained laughing.
Just before we ate our meal together, all forty-something of us gathered in a seated huddle and sang several Tamil worship songs—our voices raising high to magnify our awesome and faithful God—who is, “the only one worthy of [our] praise, the only one who has done mighty miracles that [we] have seen with our own eyes” (Duet. 10:21). I sat there, legs criss-crossed and my head in my lap. Reflective memories of the previous three days alone were enough to fill my heart and spirit with an overwhelming gratefulness and a sheer joy that seemed to be breaking forth within me. The three days prior to Thanksgiving—the sights, the interactions, and the miracles I saw with my own eyes— filled me with such a renewed sense of the power of our God that I was rendered not only to a place of absolute gratitude and thankfulness, but a place where I was filled with a new wonder that seemed to push the frontiers of my faith and exceed the edges of my human imagination. A place that I believe will only expound as I continue to live with a hunger to see more. I found myself sitting there so filled with thankfulness that I serve a God who daily wants to reveal himself to me. A truth that has far less to do with the fact that I am being exposed to the miraculous in India, and much more to do with the fact that God will continually make Himself fully available to those who have an insatiable desire for Him—regardless of where they are living.
I adore the way Frank Laubach explains this faith phenomenon in his own life in Letters by a Modern Mystic:
“To be able to look backward and say, ‘This has been the finest year of my life’—that is glorious! But anticipation! To be able to look ahead and say, ‘The present year can and shall be better!”—that is more glorious!
If we said such things about our own achievements, we would be consummate egotists. But, if we are speaking of God’s kindness, and we speak truly, we are but grateful. And this is what I do witness. I have done nothing but open windows—God has done all the rest. There have been few if any conspicuous achievements. There has been a succession of marvelous experiences in the friendship of God. It was the lonesomest year, in some ways the hardest year of my life, but the most gloriously full of voices from heaven.”
Contemplative, I sat thinking on these words, embodied on Thanksgiving as I, too, found myself filled with a gratitude for the best year of my life because of God’s kindness. From last Thanksgiving spent at a decorative table in the presence of physical abundance and family, to this Thanksgiving spent on grass mats, eating with my hands, also in the presence of my family—one that has little to do with geography and everything to do with commonness of heart.
I thought of the miracles I saw just days before—a young woman supernaturally healed of stomach pain, a throng of villagers surrendering their lives to Christ for the first time, the beauty of the faith of individuals who have close to nothing in this world. All reasons enough to fill me with an unquenchable gratitude. I thought also of the darkness I have experienced this year—times of confusion and questioning, times of pain and mental suffering, times where “the bottom has completely fell out”. Experiences where Jesus had to remind me yet again that I needed to die—to come to the end of myself—to recall that I no longer live, but that He lives within me. Reflective of those times, I also found unquenchable gratitude—perhaps even greater gratitude than in the times of rejoicing, because it has been those times where I have seen Christ most clearly, experienced His love most fully, and found the greatest depths of freedom.
And so I move forward with prospects of another glorious year. A year of high expectations that I know will be fulfilled because of the ever-present, faithful, adventurous friendship of Christ Himself. A year of pressing open windows and leaving the rest to God.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Celebrate.
We've made it a weekly Saturday tradition to bake something with the girls. Last Saturday we made payasam together, an Indian porridge-like desert.
Deborah enjoying her plate of payasam.
The tiny hand of Kristina, the newest addition to the Infant Home.
Spending time with Kristina.“Ancient Israel was commanded to gather together three times a year to celebrate the goodness of God. Those were festivals in the highest sense. They were the experiences that gave strength and cohesion to the people of Israel…the carefree spirit of joyous festivity is absent in contemporary [Western] society. Apathy, even melancholy, dominates the times…modern man has been pressed so hard toward useful work and rational calculation he has all but forgotten the joy of ecstatic celebration.”
-Richard Foster, The Celebration of Discipline
What has happened to times of corporate celebration? The year of Jubilee? Sadly, celebratory traditions seem to have disappeared somewhere along the trail of history under a heap of cultural muck, self-living and increased busyness of daily life.
When Jesus started his public ministry, he made an announcement that the time of celebration had come by reading the ancient scriptures from Isaiah aloud:
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, for he has anointed me to bring Good News to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim that captives will be released, that the blind will see, that the oppressed will be set free, and that the time of the Lord’s favor has come.” (Luke 4:18-19)
God’s favor came through Jesus, the fulfilled prophecy. Because of this, His Kingdom is in our very midst. When he stated that “the time of the Lord’s favor has come”, he was referencing the celebration of the Year of Jubilee. Richard Foster explains that, “In the Old Testament all the social stipulations of the Year of Jubilee—cancelling all debts, releasing slaves, planting no crops, returning property to the original owner—were a celebration of the gracious provision of God. God could be trusted to provide what was needed”. Similarly, today Jesus calls us to a perpetual state of Jubilee in the Holy Spirit. To be free of the weightiness of possessions, to be radically freed from anxieties of daily life, to release anything that is choking us or blinding us from the reality that we can cast all of our cares upon God, because He cares for us. There is a liberation that comes with celebration. He has turned our mourning into dancing…there is reason to celebrate!
Amidst the thick fog of pain, poverty, injustice and struggle that I see and encounter daily here in India—even amidst seemingly irreparable brokenness—I can see the reality of the Kingdom stirring heavily in the lives of believers I meet. A reality that brings an inextinguishable, inexpressible, even absurd peace…and joy. Joy that is found in the obedience of living a life consumed by Christ and trusting Him. Joy so rich that, naturally, it ensues celebration.
The church body here in Rameswaram recently entered a time of celebration—an annual period of twenty-one days dedicated to corporate prayer. Prayer meetings occur twice a day in the church—one in the morning and a second that rolls deep into the night. When praying together, thankfulness and celebration seem to overflow. A few days ago, during the middle of a prayer session, the entire church started to sing and dance—for no other reason than to praise God for the ways He has been faithful. At first, I couldn’t stop laughing at the sight—everyone from grey-haired grandpas to wobbly-legged toddlers were skipping and dancing around the straw mats lining the floor of the church. It felt like the dance floor at a spirited wedding reception…Indian style. I found myself immersed in a joyful moment of celebration. Before long I was clasping hands with a petite pathi (grandma) smiling wide with a toothless grin as we alternately kicked our legs from side to side—our heads thrown back in laughter. I can’t say I’ve ever entered into a time of outright dancing in church before. But there was something glorious about it! Our dancing extended beyond recreation—it was a way of exalting God’s goodness and ever-present faithfulness in each of our lives.
Lately, reasons to celebrate seem countless. After months of prayer over issues that seemed to be stewing in a stagnant stupor, God has reminded me that He is a God of action that indeed listens to my prayers and the cries of each individual back at home prayerfully partnering to see God’s Kingdom come here in Rameswaram. A God that has been working all along to carry His masterful plans into completion. Plans that exceed mine—or those of any other human being— by a long shot.
Through prayers lifted up for the orphans on campus and a meeting with the pastors to make an attempt to express my concerns for the girls’ futures and well being, I have watched God’s faithfulness unfold as new strategies are being made to heighten the present living conditions and further the progress for the desired end goal—watching the girls enter loving, forever families through adoption. While adoption is the long-term goal, immediate short-term goals are being met presently. Just yesterday, a beneficial “transition home” was established in a separate room of the orphanage. With two full-time caretakers, it will provide a medial environment for the babies from the infant home to enter during toddler-age until they are prepared to adjust to living with an older age group of girls. Another short-term goal of setting up each girl with an older female “mentor” is being organized and fulfilled.
The newest littlest miracle to celebrate on campus is Kristina, a six day old baby girl and rescued near-victim of female infanticide. Rebekah and I have been visiting her nightly, holding her petite seven-pound frame, kissing her soft forehead and thanking Jesus that she’s been given a second chance at life.
Reasons to celebrate extend beyond the campus walls here in Rameswaram. I received an email from Justin this week relaying experiences from his sojourn to North India and the disaster sites of Orissa. He wrote:
“When I was touring in the North, people kept having me preach and pray for people. I must have prayed for a hundred people. I kept praying in my head, ‘Jesus, I'm not sure I have the faith to see these people healed, but I know you can. Can you give them the faith? At least have one of these people healed so they are encouraged about you.’ I just got an email from the pastors in Calcutta that most of the people experienced healing…Praise Jesus! Oh, thank our amazing Lord that he'd have mercy on a faithless wretch like me and on a ton of people who have no hope outside of His provision... He's SO GOOD!”
-Richard Foster, The Celebration of Discipline
What has happened to times of corporate celebration? The year of Jubilee? Sadly, celebratory traditions seem to have disappeared somewhere along the trail of history under a heap of cultural muck, self-living and increased busyness of daily life.
When Jesus started his public ministry, he made an announcement that the time of celebration had come by reading the ancient scriptures from Isaiah aloud:
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, for he has anointed me to bring Good News to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim that captives will be released, that the blind will see, that the oppressed will be set free, and that the time of the Lord’s favor has come.” (Luke 4:18-19)
God’s favor came through Jesus, the fulfilled prophecy. Because of this, His Kingdom is in our very midst. When he stated that “the time of the Lord’s favor has come”, he was referencing the celebration of the Year of Jubilee. Richard Foster explains that, “In the Old Testament all the social stipulations of the Year of Jubilee—cancelling all debts, releasing slaves, planting no crops, returning property to the original owner—were a celebration of the gracious provision of God. God could be trusted to provide what was needed”. Similarly, today Jesus calls us to a perpetual state of Jubilee in the Holy Spirit. To be free of the weightiness of possessions, to be radically freed from anxieties of daily life, to release anything that is choking us or blinding us from the reality that we can cast all of our cares upon God, because He cares for us. There is a liberation that comes with celebration. He has turned our mourning into dancing…there is reason to celebrate!
Amidst the thick fog of pain, poverty, injustice and struggle that I see and encounter daily here in India—even amidst seemingly irreparable brokenness—I can see the reality of the Kingdom stirring heavily in the lives of believers I meet. A reality that brings an inextinguishable, inexpressible, even absurd peace…and joy. Joy that is found in the obedience of living a life consumed by Christ and trusting Him. Joy so rich that, naturally, it ensues celebration.
The church body here in Rameswaram recently entered a time of celebration—an annual period of twenty-one days dedicated to corporate prayer. Prayer meetings occur twice a day in the church—one in the morning and a second that rolls deep into the night. When praying together, thankfulness and celebration seem to overflow. A few days ago, during the middle of a prayer session, the entire church started to sing and dance—for no other reason than to praise God for the ways He has been faithful. At first, I couldn’t stop laughing at the sight—everyone from grey-haired grandpas to wobbly-legged toddlers were skipping and dancing around the straw mats lining the floor of the church. It felt like the dance floor at a spirited wedding reception…Indian style. I found myself immersed in a joyful moment of celebration. Before long I was clasping hands with a petite pathi (grandma) smiling wide with a toothless grin as we alternately kicked our legs from side to side—our heads thrown back in laughter. I can’t say I’ve ever entered into a time of outright dancing in church before. But there was something glorious about it! Our dancing extended beyond recreation—it was a way of exalting God’s goodness and ever-present faithfulness in each of our lives.
Lately, reasons to celebrate seem countless. After months of prayer over issues that seemed to be stewing in a stagnant stupor, God has reminded me that He is a God of action that indeed listens to my prayers and the cries of each individual back at home prayerfully partnering to see God’s Kingdom come here in Rameswaram. A God that has been working all along to carry His masterful plans into completion. Plans that exceed mine—or those of any other human being— by a long shot.
Through prayers lifted up for the orphans on campus and a meeting with the pastors to make an attempt to express my concerns for the girls’ futures and well being, I have watched God’s faithfulness unfold as new strategies are being made to heighten the present living conditions and further the progress for the desired end goal—watching the girls enter loving, forever families through adoption. While adoption is the long-term goal, immediate short-term goals are being met presently. Just yesterday, a beneficial “transition home” was established in a separate room of the orphanage. With two full-time caretakers, it will provide a medial environment for the babies from the infant home to enter during toddler-age until they are prepared to adjust to living with an older age group of girls. Another short-term goal of setting up each girl with an older female “mentor” is being organized and fulfilled.
The newest littlest miracle to celebrate on campus is Kristina, a six day old baby girl and rescued near-victim of female infanticide. Rebekah and I have been visiting her nightly, holding her petite seven-pound frame, kissing her soft forehead and thanking Jesus that she’s been given a second chance at life.
Reasons to celebrate extend beyond the campus walls here in Rameswaram. I received an email from Justin this week relaying experiences from his sojourn to North India and the disaster sites of Orissa. He wrote:
“When I was touring in the North, people kept having me preach and pray for people. I must have prayed for a hundred people. I kept praying in my head, ‘Jesus, I'm not sure I have the faith to see these people healed, but I know you can. Can you give them the faith? At least have one of these people healed so they are encouraged about you.’ I just got an email from the pastors in Calcutta that most of the people experienced healing…Praise Jesus! Oh, thank our amazing Lord that he'd have mercy on a faithless wretch like me and on a ton of people who have no hope outside of His provision... He's SO GOOD!”
Justin is right, He is so good. Good enough to heal the sick. Care for orphans. Rescue a child from the threshold of death and give her new life. Provide Jenitta and her four daughters with the financial provision to cover two years of their education through a generous sponsor from the states. Give Gheeta her first sound night’s sleep after a month of restlessness.
His goodness leaves me hungry for more. I’ve tasted the Kingdom of the here-and-now and I am aching for the Kingdom to come…the Kingdom perfected in eternity. The day when faith becomes sight. The day when we are freed from the burden of possessions, through with sickness, relieved from pain, done with sin…the day when death is destroyed and Truth prevails. The day that “the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea” (Isaiah 11:10). The day that marks the beginning of an eternity of celebration.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Progression and Regression.
“Woohoo!” Paul shouted unabashedly as he gripped the door frame and swung his way into the office. “It’s a match!”
Paul is the full-time “media man” here at Body of Christ Ministries, and his computer sits just feet from mine in the office. At twenty-nine, Paul has been on the “marriage hunt” for a few years now. Approaching marriage the true Indian way, Paul desired a “good match” by means of an arranged marriage. He had one or two prospects recently, but for one reason or another, they fizzled out. Paul’s “list” seemed simple enough—a God-fearing woman who had finished her studies and was willing to serve alongside him in the ministry. Basic qualifications with one additional voiced hope, “it would be nice if she had fair skin.” Light brown skin is the standard of beauty here in South India—but Paul wasn’t pushing his luck too far.
In India, all it takes is a quick meeting with the “correct match” and the deal is sealed. You can decide you want to be married in October, and by November have a spouse at your side. With that cultural foreknowledge, it was no surprise that Paul left on Friday to meet a prospective match, Anita, and on Sunday he returned an engaged man.
Generally a match is selected by the parents, but Paul’s matchmaking can be attributed to a few nosy Americans—Justin, Rebekah, Tiffany and myself. While visiting Kerala, we met Anita—a beautiful twenty-three year old Indian woman who worked with Don Hargate at We Care International. Anita drew us in immediately with her genuine smile and sweet spirit. Over cups of tea she mentioned that her parents had begun “looking for her marriage.” She asked for our prayers and slipped in, “it would be nice if my husband had a good singing voice.”
One afternoon in the office (after returning from Kerala), Paul started humming a melodious Tamil worship song. As his humming melted into a chorus of singing, I suddenly remembered Anita’s words. “Wow, Paul has a great voice!” I said out loud. Justin and I glanced at each other and started brewing ideas of Paul, Anita, and holy matrimony. Apparently, this idea had already crossed Justin’s mind, as he had sent Paul Anita’s photo. The interest was there. It all seemed perfect. We laughed out loud at the idea of matchmaking in India. Funny as it was to us, Paul was entirely serious about the prospect. He urged us to “make the phone call." That next week, Justin called Don and from one American to another (and with God’s ultimate direction), plans were arranged for an official meeting—a meeting that ended in wild success (and a whole lot of excitement on Paul’s part). Now I can officially say I helped arrange a marriage…signed, sealed, delivered…it’s done.
Beyond matchmaking, there have been other encouraging moments of progress here on campus, like teaching a group of women swimming lessons in the evenings. Susannah, Pastor Paulose’s daughter, was first to show interest in learning. Rebekah and I spent hours with her, bobbing in the waves at a local sandy beach—dodging rocks and coral while we showed Susannah how to float, hold her breath underwater, and kick. At thirty-something, she was an eager learner and encouraged her four year old daughter to learn too. That afternoon at the beach sparked a daily swimming lesson routine that now takes place in the small lake on campus. Susannah’s private lessons have quickly turned into group lessons—with four women practicing their breaststroke and crawl stroke amongst the green muck and tadpoles of the campus lake.
Even with the exciting relational successes, there are other relationships that seem to be more regressive than progressive. More burdensome than thrilling. And yet, even in those encounters, the Holy Spirit urges me to continue on. I’ve felt that way in my friendship with Gheeta.
In her early sixties, Gheeta acts more like a child than a grown woman. She even has a tiny frame—less than five feet tall—and both of her hands can fit into one of mine. Her grey hair is coarse and rarely combed, and most of the time her sari is hiked up on one side, revealing her undergarments—though she doesn’t seem to notice or care.
Gheeta’s been living in the room below me for over a month now. The first few days after her arrival she would smile at me, gesture a “hello” with clasped hands, referring to me as “foreign lady” or “foreign madam." Soon after, she learned my name and began taking care of me in little ways like offering her umbrella when the rain began to drizzle. She certainly has a nurturing nature. I’ll often walk home and catch her with one of the girls from the orphanage tangled in her arms as she reads a story with a calming tone. Her voice is smooth, but worn. Gentle, but raspy as cellophane.
It was Gheeta’s voice that made me want to know her story. A voice that is generally tender, but spent from bouts of yelling and screaming. She never screams at people. Instead, she takes her anger and pain out on an empty room or externalizes her frustration under the guava tree outside my window. She yells multiple times a day. She yells until she cries—then weeps uncontrollably till there are no tears left. Sometimes, I find her coiled in a heap in the corner of her room or near the base of the guava tree—exhausted from her battles of yelling.
What is wrong with this woman? I kept asking myself for days— until I was tired of trying to figure it out on my own. I began praying for Gheeta, asking the Holy Spirit for insight and understanding, and attempting to befriend her in little ways—helping her boil water for tea over the fire or giving her hugs as I passed her room. Hugs aren’t common in Indian culture, but Gheeta always welcomes them without reserve. Just another reason she reminds me of a child.
One evening, Gheeta came to my room with dark circles under her eyes—eyes that were tiny slits from relentless crying. She wasn’t able to sleep. She hadn’t slept soundly a single night since arriving on campus. “Tablet, tablet” she kept repeating. She was asking if I had any sort of medication to aid her desperate quest for rest. Two of the girls from the orphanage were with her. I welcomed them into my room and Gheeta sat down and began sharing her heart without hesitation. Sundhia, one of the girls translated as Gheeta gestured her way through her story. Her husband, a Hindu, had recently left her. She had no family. Her only son committed suicide two years ago by hanging himself with one of her saris. She gestured by circling her hands around her neck, reliving the horror. Gheeta stopped for a moment with a terror-filled expression as her heart was breaking all over again. Suddenly I understood her bouts of yelling—her pent-up anger. To Gheeta, every day meant another day dealing with the past—reliving her husband’s rejection and her son’s premature death. She sat cross-legged, staring at me like a small child begging for comfort.
What do I do, Lord? This is beyond me! I had nothing to say. I could have prayed, but prayed what? I didn’t know how. How do you pray for a woman with no hope who has lost everyone close to her and witnessed her own son’s suicide? A woman who is wasting away from no sleep and no appetite. A woman who is wearied from yelling and screaming at the demons of the past who won’t leave her alone. How do you share hope with a woman who has been left alone in a society who deems her worthless because her own husband left her? I felt useless for a moment. All I could think is where in the world has my faith led me that I have nothing to say—nothing to pray—to bring this woman God’s peace? Gheeta tilted her head forward and grabbed both of my hands, placing them on her head. “Prayer,” she said. But I didn’t know how.
I sat there, perplexed and overwhelmed for a moment. Then I heard a voice—I have come that they might have life. It repeated again and again—that they might have life. That Gheeta might have life. I looked at her. Crumpled low to the ground, her head buried beneath my hands, she looked like death. Her hair was tangled in an unkempt heap; her body hunched in a position of defeat. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they might have life, and have it to the full. Jesus didn’t die for Gheeta to relive death daily. He died that she might live. I began praying for her to seek life—for Jesus’ healing to enter her life, to break every bondage and bring freedom. Aren’t you good enough to bring this poor woman life again, God? As I prayed, Gheeta rested her head in my lap like a baby. Sundhia prayed in agreement, and before long took over. Sundhia prayed loudly—with the most beautiful faith I have seen in a long time. She shouted her prayers with boldness, her hands clasped to the side of Gheeta’s nightgown. Sundhia prayed with her whole heart. At ten years old, faith came as naturally as breathing to her. She prayed with empathy in her voice—as if she understood every detail of Gheeta’s mind. And maybe she did. Sundhia has no mother or father—they both died years ago. She too is alone in the world and, because of that, she understood Gheeta's world. She knew just how to pray. It was an incredible sight—a young girl pouring prayers over a grown woman.
After praying, Gheeta looked up. There seemed to be more peace in her face—though she still looked worn. She smiled at Sundhia and I. “My daughters,” she told us, holding both of our hands. After a fixed moment of looking at each other, Sundhia helped Gheeta to her feet and walked her back to her room. Only ten minutes passed before I heard yelling reverberating through the floor below me. Gheeta was screaming again. Her screaming voice had no authority behind it. She sounded helpless against the demons she was battling in her mind.
Gheeta still yells. She still refuses to eat. And yet every time I see her, she places both of my hands on her head to pray. Some days I grow weary of praying with little affects—at least ones I can see. The battle continues.
Gheeta’s battle reminds me of a story I just finished reading. A biography of a woman, Joanne Shetler, who spent her life as a missionary living amongst the Balangao people of the Philippines. I’ve only been praying for Gheeta for a month, but Joanne spent years praying for the Balangao’s with little avail. The Balangao’s faced similar demons that Gheeta is facing. Joanne speaks of her felt frustration on the day she returned to her hometown in California after her first five years spent with the Balangao people:
“The people in my home churches in California kept throwing their arms around me and telling me they loved me and were proud of me. But I was distraught, thinking, Even though I’ve got quaint stories to tell about cultural differences, that’s not enough. These people have supported me for years: they want ‘eternal fruit’. But only two people have turned to worship the living God. Will they think it’s been worth their investment?
Then, not knowing what else to do, I unloaded my frustrations. ‘I just don’t know what to do to make these people believe!’ I said. I told them about how evil spirits had a grip on these people’s minds. They wanted to believe, but were afraid what would happen if they stopped appeasing the spirits.
The home team finally got a clear picture of the problem: we were in a spiritual battle and our weapon was prayer. Simply praying, ‘God bless the missionaries’ wasn’t enough. They started praying as if life depended on their prayers. ‘God, show the Balangaos that you’re stronger than the spirits. Make the Balangaos desire you. Help them believe your word’.”
I can understand Joanne’s desperation. I have that same desperation to see Gheeta be freed from the enemy’s grip—to find life and healing and truly know Jesus. I also desire to see prayers awakened back at home for women like Gheeta and for the countless individuals in India who are still seeking life but not finding what it means to truly live. I ask for your prayers. Please pray with me for Gheeta. Daily I have been asking God for a faith like Sundhia had that evening in my room. I want to hope that Gheeta’s wearied yelling will turn into songs of praise. I want to see Gheeta step from death into true life forever.
Paul is the full-time “media man” here at Body of Christ Ministries, and his computer sits just feet from mine in the office. At twenty-nine, Paul has been on the “marriage hunt” for a few years now. Approaching marriage the true Indian way, Paul desired a “good match” by means of an arranged marriage. He had one or two prospects recently, but for one reason or another, they fizzled out. Paul’s “list” seemed simple enough—a God-fearing woman who had finished her studies and was willing to serve alongside him in the ministry. Basic qualifications with one additional voiced hope, “it would be nice if she had fair skin.” Light brown skin is the standard of beauty here in South India—but Paul wasn’t pushing his luck too far.
In India, all it takes is a quick meeting with the “correct match” and the deal is sealed. You can decide you want to be married in October, and by November have a spouse at your side. With that cultural foreknowledge, it was no surprise that Paul left on Friday to meet a prospective match, Anita, and on Sunday he returned an engaged man.
Generally a match is selected by the parents, but Paul’s matchmaking can be attributed to a few nosy Americans—Justin, Rebekah, Tiffany and myself. While visiting Kerala, we met Anita—a beautiful twenty-three year old Indian woman who worked with Don Hargate at We Care International. Anita drew us in immediately with her genuine smile and sweet spirit. Over cups of tea she mentioned that her parents had begun “looking for her marriage.” She asked for our prayers and slipped in, “it would be nice if my husband had a good singing voice.”
One afternoon in the office (after returning from Kerala), Paul started humming a melodious Tamil worship song. As his humming melted into a chorus of singing, I suddenly remembered Anita’s words. “Wow, Paul has a great voice!” I said out loud. Justin and I glanced at each other and started brewing ideas of Paul, Anita, and holy matrimony. Apparently, this idea had already crossed Justin’s mind, as he had sent Paul Anita’s photo. The interest was there. It all seemed perfect. We laughed out loud at the idea of matchmaking in India. Funny as it was to us, Paul was entirely serious about the prospect. He urged us to “make the phone call." That next week, Justin called Don and from one American to another (and with God’s ultimate direction), plans were arranged for an official meeting—a meeting that ended in wild success (and a whole lot of excitement on Paul’s part). Now I can officially say I helped arrange a marriage…signed, sealed, delivered…it’s done.
Beyond matchmaking, there have been other encouraging moments of progress here on campus, like teaching a group of women swimming lessons in the evenings. Susannah, Pastor Paulose’s daughter, was first to show interest in learning. Rebekah and I spent hours with her, bobbing in the waves at a local sandy beach—dodging rocks and coral while we showed Susannah how to float, hold her breath underwater, and kick. At thirty-something, she was an eager learner and encouraged her four year old daughter to learn too. That afternoon at the beach sparked a daily swimming lesson routine that now takes place in the small lake on campus. Susannah’s private lessons have quickly turned into group lessons—with four women practicing their breaststroke and crawl stroke amongst the green muck and tadpoles of the campus lake.
Even with the exciting relational successes, there are other relationships that seem to be more regressive than progressive. More burdensome than thrilling. And yet, even in those encounters, the Holy Spirit urges me to continue on. I’ve felt that way in my friendship with Gheeta.
In her early sixties, Gheeta acts more like a child than a grown woman. She even has a tiny frame—less than five feet tall—and both of her hands can fit into one of mine. Her grey hair is coarse and rarely combed, and most of the time her sari is hiked up on one side, revealing her undergarments—though she doesn’t seem to notice or care.
Gheeta’s been living in the room below me for over a month now. The first few days after her arrival she would smile at me, gesture a “hello” with clasped hands, referring to me as “foreign lady” or “foreign madam." Soon after, she learned my name and began taking care of me in little ways like offering her umbrella when the rain began to drizzle. She certainly has a nurturing nature. I’ll often walk home and catch her with one of the girls from the orphanage tangled in her arms as she reads a story with a calming tone. Her voice is smooth, but worn. Gentle, but raspy as cellophane.
It was Gheeta’s voice that made me want to know her story. A voice that is generally tender, but spent from bouts of yelling and screaming. She never screams at people. Instead, she takes her anger and pain out on an empty room or externalizes her frustration under the guava tree outside my window. She yells multiple times a day. She yells until she cries—then weeps uncontrollably till there are no tears left. Sometimes, I find her coiled in a heap in the corner of her room or near the base of the guava tree—exhausted from her battles of yelling.
What is wrong with this woman? I kept asking myself for days— until I was tired of trying to figure it out on my own. I began praying for Gheeta, asking the Holy Spirit for insight and understanding, and attempting to befriend her in little ways—helping her boil water for tea over the fire or giving her hugs as I passed her room. Hugs aren’t common in Indian culture, but Gheeta always welcomes them without reserve. Just another reason she reminds me of a child.
One evening, Gheeta came to my room with dark circles under her eyes—eyes that were tiny slits from relentless crying. She wasn’t able to sleep. She hadn’t slept soundly a single night since arriving on campus. “Tablet, tablet” she kept repeating. She was asking if I had any sort of medication to aid her desperate quest for rest. Two of the girls from the orphanage were with her. I welcomed them into my room and Gheeta sat down and began sharing her heart without hesitation. Sundhia, one of the girls translated as Gheeta gestured her way through her story. Her husband, a Hindu, had recently left her. She had no family. Her only son committed suicide two years ago by hanging himself with one of her saris. She gestured by circling her hands around her neck, reliving the horror. Gheeta stopped for a moment with a terror-filled expression as her heart was breaking all over again. Suddenly I understood her bouts of yelling—her pent-up anger. To Gheeta, every day meant another day dealing with the past—reliving her husband’s rejection and her son’s premature death. She sat cross-legged, staring at me like a small child begging for comfort.
What do I do, Lord? This is beyond me! I had nothing to say. I could have prayed, but prayed what? I didn’t know how. How do you pray for a woman with no hope who has lost everyone close to her and witnessed her own son’s suicide? A woman who is wasting away from no sleep and no appetite. A woman who is wearied from yelling and screaming at the demons of the past who won’t leave her alone. How do you share hope with a woman who has been left alone in a society who deems her worthless because her own husband left her? I felt useless for a moment. All I could think is where in the world has my faith led me that I have nothing to say—nothing to pray—to bring this woman God’s peace? Gheeta tilted her head forward and grabbed both of my hands, placing them on her head. “Prayer,” she said. But I didn’t know how.
I sat there, perplexed and overwhelmed for a moment. Then I heard a voice—I have come that they might have life. It repeated again and again—that they might have life. That Gheeta might have life. I looked at her. Crumpled low to the ground, her head buried beneath my hands, she looked like death. Her hair was tangled in an unkempt heap; her body hunched in a position of defeat. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they might have life, and have it to the full. Jesus didn’t die for Gheeta to relive death daily. He died that she might live. I began praying for her to seek life—for Jesus’ healing to enter her life, to break every bondage and bring freedom. Aren’t you good enough to bring this poor woman life again, God? As I prayed, Gheeta rested her head in my lap like a baby. Sundhia prayed in agreement, and before long took over. Sundhia prayed loudly—with the most beautiful faith I have seen in a long time. She shouted her prayers with boldness, her hands clasped to the side of Gheeta’s nightgown. Sundhia prayed with her whole heart. At ten years old, faith came as naturally as breathing to her. She prayed with empathy in her voice—as if she understood every detail of Gheeta’s mind. And maybe she did. Sundhia has no mother or father—they both died years ago. She too is alone in the world and, because of that, she understood Gheeta's world. She knew just how to pray. It was an incredible sight—a young girl pouring prayers over a grown woman.
After praying, Gheeta looked up. There seemed to be more peace in her face—though she still looked worn. She smiled at Sundhia and I. “My daughters,” she told us, holding both of our hands. After a fixed moment of looking at each other, Sundhia helped Gheeta to her feet and walked her back to her room. Only ten minutes passed before I heard yelling reverberating through the floor below me. Gheeta was screaming again. Her screaming voice had no authority behind it. She sounded helpless against the demons she was battling in her mind.
Gheeta still yells. She still refuses to eat. And yet every time I see her, she places both of my hands on her head to pray. Some days I grow weary of praying with little affects—at least ones I can see. The battle continues.
Gheeta’s battle reminds me of a story I just finished reading. A biography of a woman, Joanne Shetler, who spent her life as a missionary living amongst the Balangao people of the Philippines. I’ve only been praying for Gheeta for a month, but Joanne spent years praying for the Balangao’s with little avail. The Balangao’s faced similar demons that Gheeta is facing. Joanne speaks of her felt frustration on the day she returned to her hometown in California after her first five years spent with the Balangao people:
“The people in my home churches in California kept throwing their arms around me and telling me they loved me and were proud of me. But I was distraught, thinking, Even though I’ve got quaint stories to tell about cultural differences, that’s not enough. These people have supported me for years: they want ‘eternal fruit’. But only two people have turned to worship the living God. Will they think it’s been worth their investment?
Then, not knowing what else to do, I unloaded my frustrations. ‘I just don’t know what to do to make these people believe!’ I said. I told them about how evil spirits had a grip on these people’s minds. They wanted to believe, but were afraid what would happen if they stopped appeasing the spirits.
The home team finally got a clear picture of the problem: we were in a spiritual battle and our weapon was prayer. Simply praying, ‘God bless the missionaries’ wasn’t enough. They started praying as if life depended on their prayers. ‘God, show the Balangaos that you’re stronger than the spirits. Make the Balangaos desire you. Help them believe your word’.”
I can understand Joanne’s desperation. I have that same desperation to see Gheeta be freed from the enemy’s grip—to find life and healing and truly know Jesus. I also desire to see prayers awakened back at home for women like Gheeta and for the countless individuals in India who are still seeking life but not finding what it means to truly live. I ask for your prayers. Please pray with me for Gheeta. Daily I have been asking God for a faith like Sundhia had that evening in my room. I want to hope that Gheeta’s wearied yelling will turn into songs of praise. I want to see Gheeta step from death into true life forever.
"Our great desire is that you will keep on loving others as long as life lasts, in order to make certain that what you hope for will come true. Then you will not become spiritually dull or indifferent. Instead, you will follow the example of those who are going to inherit God's promises because of their faith and endurance."
- Hebrews 6:11-12
Entering the Lion's Mouth: Encounters in Orissa
The following post is an account of the stories Pastor Israel shared with me about his recent trip to Orissa. Please continue to keep the people of Orissa in your prayers.
It all started with a prayer. Israel had been capturing glimpses of the horrific persecution going on in Orissa through scattered media reports, but it wasn’t until he started praying that an intense burden for the victimized began to develop in his heart.
Israel’s burden for the Christian victims in Orissa continued to grow until one evening, while evangelizing in Nepal, he received a phone call from his brother, Billy. Billy, on an annual fundraising trip in the US, had been sharing the news of Orissa with American churches—churches that ultimately wanted to know more. General media only revealed small shards of information, evading the harsh reality of the persecution situation. In attempts to seek the truth, Billy asked Israel to go—to investigate the Orissa situation firsthand.
Willing to go, but also fearful of the looming threats and potential danger for Christians in Orissa, Israel considered the situation in prayer. Feeling God’s calling, he cancelled his ticket home from Nepal and trekked his way to Orissa—one bus to the next—until he arrived two days later in Andhra Pradesh, a state bordering the west side of Orissa.
Israel was just steps from Orissa, but with no knowledge of the Oriya language. An answer to prayer, Pastor Jacjeevan from Andhra Pradesh decided to join Israel. Jacjeeven had already visited the aftermath of the persecution more than once. Together, they crossed the state borderline and entered Padalachamathi. Padalachamathi, they found out, was the same city that sixty Christians had fled to just days earlier after the burning of their homes in Kandamahl district. A local pastor took Israel and Jacjeevan with him to distribute new Bibles to this group of people who had so recently lost everything.
“When asked if there was anything they needed,” Israel said, tears welling, “all they wanted was Bibles. That was it. They didn’t even mention the ‘bare necessities’ like blankets or food. Getting the word of God back into their hands was their first priority.” As Israel and the other pastors handed out the new Bibles, people held them close to their chests recognizing their precious value. Thrilled words were shouted back and forth—even the children were hugging and gripping their new Bibles with wide smiles. “I couldn’t understand a word they were saying,” Israel mentioned, “but I was so powerfully moved by their excitement over the word of God.”
Just before leaving, Israel had the opportunity to pray for the crowd—a crowd that had lost everything they physically owned and yet received so much more through the gift of their new Bibles. After praying, Israel shared, “In your time of need, since you gave priority to God’s word, He will never leave you…He is your provider.” What Israel didn’t share was that his brother had just called from the states informing him of a church body that had donated money for the very purpose of supporting Christians in need in Orissa. Without saying a word, Israel and the other pastors left. That evening, they bought unlimited supplies to bless the sixty, now-homeless believers with. After filling a truck with tarps, blankets, mosquito repellent candles, vegetables, biscuits, and three hundred kilograms of rice, they traveled back to the same area. With enthusiasm, they were able to deliver the unexpected “gifts of provision” to all sixty people—people overwhelmed with thankfulness.
After such a touching encounter, visiting the next village proved to be a tremendous challenge. This village wasn’t filled with smiling faces—it was relatively empty. Deserted. The houses were dilapidated— burnt to the ground in piles of cinder and ash, only the remnants of their frames standing. Out of the mass of blackness, a tarp stood, fixated within a burnt housing frame. Underneath the tarp, a family was living—rebuilding their life with very little to survive on. Israel and Jacjeevan approached the family who began to tell them the story of the village’s attack.
The village had been aggressively burnt to the ground during broad daylight by around five hundred Hindu radicals. First, the Hindus scouted out the pastor’s home, attempting to kill him on the spot. Miraculously, the pastor was able to escape and run into hiding. After the pastor fled, the radicals targeted at their next priority—the destruction of the local church. With petrol, firewood, and a bomb blast, the church was completely destroyed. After the church burning came the village burning.
“We lost everything,” a concerned mother told Israel. “My son just graduated from college—now his diploma and everything representing his education is gone.” Everything was gone. Not a house was left standing. Every cross and representation of Jesus was utterly destroyed. Amongst the wreckage, Israel stood powerfully moved. “For what reason are they doing this; it makes no sense!” he kept questioning, overwhelmingly frustrated with the outcome of rubble he was staring at. “Every person killed or hurt was innocent…all were innocent!”
Empathizing with the hopelessness this village must have felt, Israel was fighting back tears. While leaving the village, he met a young man who, despite the loss of his home, had a genuine hope to one day attend a Bible college. An enthusiastic desire to minister exuded from him—even after all the turmoil. This boy’s profound passion for the gospel was a spark of hope in the middle of a crushed pile of rubble and looming despair.
With a heavy heart and an overwhelmingly burdened mind, Israel and Jacjeeven continued another fifteen kilometers to see yet another village—destroyed even beyond the last. The only way to this village was through a very narrow road, dodging trees and road obstacles to reach the entrance. Beyond the inaccessibility, it was also an extremely dangerous area. A predominately Hindu village stood just behind the remains of this village, and if Israel or any of the other pastors were seen—they would be questioned and their lives would be at risk.
At the village entrance, a Believer met Israel and Jacjeeven, taking them on a very quick walk through the rubble. They roamed through a literal ghost town, previously home to over forty families.
The local believer led Israel and Jacjeeven to the entrance of the church, now wrecked and smashed in on all four sides—a pile of burnt bicycle parts and unidentifiable blackened objects lining the church’s exterior. As the three men rummaged through the remains, they found remnants of human bones scattered—their white color standing starkly against the black ash.
The believer began to share the tragic truth behind the bones. Hindu radicals had come to attack the village late in the night. In their rage, they locked a family of four inside their home. The innocent family was cornered and the radicals threatened to burn the father in front of everyone in the house. Before they began, they shot the father in his lower back, the bullet traveling through him and into the mother’s hand. A second bullet was directly aimed at her. The daughter was cornered and lost one of her limbs to the Hindu radical’s machetes. The only family member left untouched was the son. Crying and screaming, the entire family watched their father as he was tied up and doused in gasoline, then burnt alive. The bone remnants in the pile of outstanding ash were all that remained of this man’s martyrdom.
Israel and the other pastors gripped pieces of bone in their hands and, with tears, remembered the heroic faith of the martyred father. Just minutes later, they had to flee out of safety. On the road again, they were headed to a relief camp for displaced Christians.
At the relief camp, cooking fires struggled to keep a-flame while pelted with heavy rains. Crowds huddled under limited tarps—coverings replacing their homes for the time being. When Israel explained he was from Tamil Nadu and visiting to be a source of encouragement, many of the refugees began to openly cry. “You are the only people who have come to visit us,” they shared. They expressed their deep gratitude and thankfulness towards the visiting pastors. One refugee shared how they had been running for safety for three days in the nearby jungles without food or water. Returning to their villages was just too dangerous. Hindus awaited them, ready with threats to forcefully convert. Even the children couldn’t return to their schools without being beaten for refusing to convert to Hinduism. Some of the elderly members in the camp were frail beyond fixation—ready to die from their lack of food and water. One older woman sat, squatting on the floor, hands clasping her ears and a look of horror painted on her face. She was literally going crazy from fear. Fear prevailed throughout the refugee camp. Hundreds of homeless people living in the memories of the horrors so recently endured.
Upon visiting a second relief camp, Israel met the son of the martyred man whose very bones he had held in his hands. In his early twenties, the young man’s eyes were reddened with lack of sleep. He shared how incessant nightmares were plaguing him at night and visions of terror followed him throughout the day. Traumatized, he asked for prayer. Israel prayed, fighting as hard as he could to hold back tears as not to provoke more tears from the helpless young man.
Immediately after leaving the relief camp, Israel and the other two pastors cried together for hours. Weeping, their prayers were beyond words—groaning was the only expression that escaped their mouths in that moment. That night, Israel couldn’t sleep—visions of bones and the burning body of the young boy’s father plagued his imagination.
Every village and relief camp the three pastors had visited were in Gajapathi district—they hadn’t even entered the epicenter of destruction and violence, Kandamahl district. Filled with fear, Israel was ready to turn around. But something kept him moving forward.
Just before entering Kandamahl, they returned to Padalachamathi for an afternoon to meet with a man who had requested to see Israel. Assuming this man was a Christian man interested in God’s work, Israel went alone to his house. Upon arrival, the man pelted Israel with several ministry questions. An uneasy feeling began to grow in Israel’s stomach. Soon, the man revealed he was a Hindu. Israel said that within minutes the man was raging with anger and screaming, he locked Israel inside his home. Israel winced in response to the outrage, then began to think of the immediate danger he was in. The man began to drill Israel with questions, “Why are you here? Why are you going to Kandamahl? Haven’t you heard what is happening to pastors there? Do you want the same to happen to you now?” He proceeded to threaten to kill Israel. Somehow, in his fear, Israel experienced a moment of peace. “Jesus”, he prayed, “it’s all up to you…you do what you want. I have no control.” After praying, Israel was flooded with peace. That very moment, the Hindu man’s wife pulled him aside and started begging him to let Israel free. Convinced by her words, he opened the door in an impulsive moment and told Israel to leave immediately. The Hindu man’s wife yelled after Israel, telling him to run.
Israel took off in a sprint. After running about one hundred feet, the Hindu man was filled with a second wave of anger and began chasing him. Israel ran through the streets, dodging back and forth through different alleys in a thick sweat. He could hear the Hindu man screaming, making a dangerous scene and threatening to have other friends join him in Israel’s “hunt”. Israel continued to run, even faster, until he completely lost the Hindu man. Looking around, he had no idea where he was. Struggling to make his way back to the other pastors, Israel’s imagination played tricks on his mind. Every face he passed looked like an enemy. Head down, he continued to track his way back to familiarity. In those fear-filled moments, Israel was able to empathize with the terror that so many other Christians were presently facing all over the state of Orissa.
After the narrow escape in Padalachamathi, Israel and Jacjeeven prepared to enter Kandamahl. Israel thought to himself, “After all we’ve seen…we are foolish to continue in to Kandamahl. We are entering the very mouth of the lion!”
As soon as they crossed into Kandamahl, a threatening, frightening atmosphere was present. The area was torn apart. Forests were cleared and trees lay toppled into the roadside, cut down for the purpose of creating roadblocks to trap Christians in their very villages in order to successfully destroy them completely.
Traveling into a local pastor’s village, they greeted the pastor in a pile of burnt ash. Every home in his village was destroyed. After living in the jungle for nearly a week, the pastor was now residing separately from his family for increased safety. Israel asked him how he felt and how his faith was enduring in the midst of the horrific trials. With a wide, unexpected smile he replied, “I lost everything, but I have the love of Jesus in my heart…and that’s all I need. I am stronger than ever before to serve God. I still follow Him and believe He is good. I’ll never turn away.”
Surveying the situation, Israel and Jacjeeven were burdened to help provide the pastor’s village with relief supplies. Some of the villagers had been living in the same clothing since the attacks. The pastor was moved, but mentioned the dangers of their intervention. He took a sum of money instead and promised to pass relief supplies on to his congregation.
Before leaving Kandamahl, Israel and Jacjeeven were stopped in a nearby city and forced to find a place to stay for the evening. Checking into a hotel, the suspicious desk worker began questioning Israel. Jacjeeven told the desk attendant that Israel was his brother and they were just “passing through”. That night, they stayed in a room sharing a wall with a group of rowdy Hindu radicals discussing their plans of destruction. Praying until they fell asleep, Israel and Jacjeeven left the hotel quickly at the break of dawn. That afternoon, they heard that two hundred Christian homes were burnt to the ground just after their departure.
Israel swallowed the news with horror as he traveled back to his home in Tamil Nadu. He recounted the glimpses of hope seen in believers—hope after losing everything, hope rising from piles of ash, hope that can only come from a gracious God of new beginnings. Simultaneously, thoughts of Christians being overwhelmed with paralyzing fear, trapped in their very homes filled his head. Memories of terrified faces stood sharply in his mind. Reminders that the battle in Orissa is not over. Reminders to act and to pray.
It all started with a prayer. Israel had been capturing glimpses of the horrific persecution going on in Orissa through scattered media reports, but it wasn’t until he started praying that an intense burden for the victimized began to develop in his heart.
Israel’s burden for the Christian victims in Orissa continued to grow until one evening, while evangelizing in Nepal, he received a phone call from his brother, Billy. Billy, on an annual fundraising trip in the US, had been sharing the news of Orissa with American churches—churches that ultimately wanted to know more. General media only revealed small shards of information, evading the harsh reality of the persecution situation. In attempts to seek the truth, Billy asked Israel to go—to investigate the Orissa situation firsthand.
Willing to go, but also fearful of the looming threats and potential danger for Christians in Orissa, Israel considered the situation in prayer. Feeling God’s calling, he cancelled his ticket home from Nepal and trekked his way to Orissa—one bus to the next—until he arrived two days later in Andhra Pradesh, a state bordering the west side of Orissa.
Israel was just steps from Orissa, but with no knowledge of the Oriya language. An answer to prayer, Pastor Jacjeevan from Andhra Pradesh decided to join Israel. Jacjeeven had already visited the aftermath of the persecution more than once. Together, they crossed the state borderline and entered Padalachamathi. Padalachamathi, they found out, was the same city that sixty Christians had fled to just days earlier after the burning of their homes in Kandamahl district. A local pastor took Israel and Jacjeevan with him to distribute new Bibles to this group of people who had so recently lost everything.
“When asked if there was anything they needed,” Israel said, tears welling, “all they wanted was Bibles. That was it. They didn’t even mention the ‘bare necessities’ like blankets or food. Getting the word of God back into their hands was their first priority.” As Israel and the other pastors handed out the new Bibles, people held them close to their chests recognizing their precious value. Thrilled words were shouted back and forth—even the children were hugging and gripping their new Bibles with wide smiles. “I couldn’t understand a word they were saying,” Israel mentioned, “but I was so powerfully moved by their excitement over the word of God.”
Just before leaving, Israel had the opportunity to pray for the crowd—a crowd that had lost everything they physically owned and yet received so much more through the gift of their new Bibles. After praying, Israel shared, “In your time of need, since you gave priority to God’s word, He will never leave you…He is your provider.” What Israel didn’t share was that his brother had just called from the states informing him of a church body that had donated money for the very purpose of supporting Christians in need in Orissa. Without saying a word, Israel and the other pastors left. That evening, they bought unlimited supplies to bless the sixty, now-homeless believers with. After filling a truck with tarps, blankets, mosquito repellent candles, vegetables, biscuits, and three hundred kilograms of rice, they traveled back to the same area. With enthusiasm, they were able to deliver the unexpected “gifts of provision” to all sixty people—people overwhelmed with thankfulness.
After such a touching encounter, visiting the next village proved to be a tremendous challenge. This village wasn’t filled with smiling faces—it was relatively empty. Deserted. The houses were dilapidated— burnt to the ground in piles of cinder and ash, only the remnants of their frames standing. Out of the mass of blackness, a tarp stood, fixated within a burnt housing frame. Underneath the tarp, a family was living—rebuilding their life with very little to survive on. Israel and Jacjeevan approached the family who began to tell them the story of the village’s attack.
The village had been aggressively burnt to the ground during broad daylight by around five hundred Hindu radicals. First, the Hindus scouted out the pastor’s home, attempting to kill him on the spot. Miraculously, the pastor was able to escape and run into hiding. After the pastor fled, the radicals targeted at their next priority—the destruction of the local church. With petrol, firewood, and a bomb blast, the church was completely destroyed. After the church burning came the village burning.
“We lost everything,” a concerned mother told Israel. “My son just graduated from college—now his diploma and everything representing his education is gone.” Everything was gone. Not a house was left standing. Every cross and representation of Jesus was utterly destroyed. Amongst the wreckage, Israel stood powerfully moved. “For what reason are they doing this; it makes no sense!” he kept questioning, overwhelmingly frustrated with the outcome of rubble he was staring at. “Every person killed or hurt was innocent…all were innocent!”
Empathizing with the hopelessness this village must have felt, Israel was fighting back tears. While leaving the village, he met a young man who, despite the loss of his home, had a genuine hope to one day attend a Bible college. An enthusiastic desire to minister exuded from him—even after all the turmoil. This boy’s profound passion for the gospel was a spark of hope in the middle of a crushed pile of rubble and looming despair.
With a heavy heart and an overwhelmingly burdened mind, Israel and Jacjeeven continued another fifteen kilometers to see yet another village—destroyed even beyond the last. The only way to this village was through a very narrow road, dodging trees and road obstacles to reach the entrance. Beyond the inaccessibility, it was also an extremely dangerous area. A predominately Hindu village stood just behind the remains of this village, and if Israel or any of the other pastors were seen—they would be questioned and their lives would be at risk.
At the village entrance, a Believer met Israel and Jacjeeven, taking them on a very quick walk through the rubble. They roamed through a literal ghost town, previously home to over forty families.
The local believer led Israel and Jacjeeven to the entrance of the church, now wrecked and smashed in on all four sides—a pile of burnt bicycle parts and unidentifiable blackened objects lining the church’s exterior. As the three men rummaged through the remains, they found remnants of human bones scattered—their white color standing starkly against the black ash.
The believer began to share the tragic truth behind the bones. Hindu radicals had come to attack the village late in the night. In their rage, they locked a family of four inside their home. The innocent family was cornered and the radicals threatened to burn the father in front of everyone in the house. Before they began, they shot the father in his lower back, the bullet traveling through him and into the mother’s hand. A second bullet was directly aimed at her. The daughter was cornered and lost one of her limbs to the Hindu radical’s machetes. The only family member left untouched was the son. Crying and screaming, the entire family watched their father as he was tied up and doused in gasoline, then burnt alive. The bone remnants in the pile of outstanding ash were all that remained of this man’s martyrdom.
Israel and the other pastors gripped pieces of bone in their hands and, with tears, remembered the heroic faith of the martyred father. Just minutes later, they had to flee out of safety. On the road again, they were headed to a relief camp for displaced Christians.
At the relief camp, cooking fires struggled to keep a-flame while pelted with heavy rains. Crowds huddled under limited tarps—coverings replacing their homes for the time being. When Israel explained he was from Tamil Nadu and visiting to be a source of encouragement, many of the refugees began to openly cry. “You are the only people who have come to visit us,” they shared. They expressed their deep gratitude and thankfulness towards the visiting pastors. One refugee shared how they had been running for safety for three days in the nearby jungles without food or water. Returning to their villages was just too dangerous. Hindus awaited them, ready with threats to forcefully convert. Even the children couldn’t return to their schools without being beaten for refusing to convert to Hinduism. Some of the elderly members in the camp were frail beyond fixation—ready to die from their lack of food and water. One older woman sat, squatting on the floor, hands clasping her ears and a look of horror painted on her face. She was literally going crazy from fear. Fear prevailed throughout the refugee camp. Hundreds of homeless people living in the memories of the horrors so recently endured.
Upon visiting a second relief camp, Israel met the son of the martyred man whose very bones he had held in his hands. In his early twenties, the young man’s eyes were reddened with lack of sleep. He shared how incessant nightmares were plaguing him at night and visions of terror followed him throughout the day. Traumatized, he asked for prayer. Israel prayed, fighting as hard as he could to hold back tears as not to provoke more tears from the helpless young man.
Immediately after leaving the relief camp, Israel and the other two pastors cried together for hours. Weeping, their prayers were beyond words—groaning was the only expression that escaped their mouths in that moment. That night, Israel couldn’t sleep—visions of bones and the burning body of the young boy’s father plagued his imagination.
Every village and relief camp the three pastors had visited were in Gajapathi district—they hadn’t even entered the epicenter of destruction and violence, Kandamahl district. Filled with fear, Israel was ready to turn around. But something kept him moving forward.
Just before entering Kandamahl, they returned to Padalachamathi for an afternoon to meet with a man who had requested to see Israel. Assuming this man was a Christian man interested in God’s work, Israel went alone to his house. Upon arrival, the man pelted Israel with several ministry questions. An uneasy feeling began to grow in Israel’s stomach. Soon, the man revealed he was a Hindu. Israel said that within minutes the man was raging with anger and screaming, he locked Israel inside his home. Israel winced in response to the outrage, then began to think of the immediate danger he was in. The man began to drill Israel with questions, “Why are you here? Why are you going to Kandamahl? Haven’t you heard what is happening to pastors there? Do you want the same to happen to you now?” He proceeded to threaten to kill Israel. Somehow, in his fear, Israel experienced a moment of peace. “Jesus”, he prayed, “it’s all up to you…you do what you want. I have no control.” After praying, Israel was flooded with peace. That very moment, the Hindu man’s wife pulled him aside and started begging him to let Israel free. Convinced by her words, he opened the door in an impulsive moment and told Israel to leave immediately. The Hindu man’s wife yelled after Israel, telling him to run.
Israel took off in a sprint. After running about one hundred feet, the Hindu man was filled with a second wave of anger and began chasing him. Israel ran through the streets, dodging back and forth through different alleys in a thick sweat. He could hear the Hindu man screaming, making a dangerous scene and threatening to have other friends join him in Israel’s “hunt”. Israel continued to run, even faster, until he completely lost the Hindu man. Looking around, he had no idea where he was. Struggling to make his way back to the other pastors, Israel’s imagination played tricks on his mind. Every face he passed looked like an enemy. Head down, he continued to track his way back to familiarity. In those fear-filled moments, Israel was able to empathize with the terror that so many other Christians were presently facing all over the state of Orissa.
After the narrow escape in Padalachamathi, Israel and Jacjeeven prepared to enter Kandamahl. Israel thought to himself, “After all we’ve seen…we are foolish to continue in to Kandamahl. We are entering the very mouth of the lion!”
As soon as they crossed into Kandamahl, a threatening, frightening atmosphere was present. The area was torn apart. Forests were cleared and trees lay toppled into the roadside, cut down for the purpose of creating roadblocks to trap Christians in their very villages in order to successfully destroy them completely.
Traveling into a local pastor’s village, they greeted the pastor in a pile of burnt ash. Every home in his village was destroyed. After living in the jungle for nearly a week, the pastor was now residing separately from his family for increased safety. Israel asked him how he felt and how his faith was enduring in the midst of the horrific trials. With a wide, unexpected smile he replied, “I lost everything, but I have the love of Jesus in my heart…and that’s all I need. I am stronger than ever before to serve God. I still follow Him and believe He is good. I’ll never turn away.”
Surveying the situation, Israel and Jacjeeven were burdened to help provide the pastor’s village with relief supplies. Some of the villagers had been living in the same clothing since the attacks. The pastor was moved, but mentioned the dangers of their intervention. He took a sum of money instead and promised to pass relief supplies on to his congregation.
Before leaving Kandamahl, Israel and Jacjeeven were stopped in a nearby city and forced to find a place to stay for the evening. Checking into a hotel, the suspicious desk worker began questioning Israel. Jacjeeven told the desk attendant that Israel was his brother and they were just “passing through”. That night, they stayed in a room sharing a wall with a group of rowdy Hindu radicals discussing their plans of destruction. Praying until they fell asleep, Israel and Jacjeeven left the hotel quickly at the break of dawn. That afternoon, they heard that two hundred Christian homes were burnt to the ground just after their departure.
Israel swallowed the news with horror as he traveled back to his home in Tamil Nadu. He recounted the glimpses of hope seen in believers—hope after losing everything, hope rising from piles of ash, hope that can only come from a gracious God of new beginnings. Simultaneously, thoughts of Christians being overwhelmed with paralyzing fear, trapped in their very homes filled his head. Memories of terrified faces stood sharply in his mind. Reminders that the battle in Orissa is not over. Reminders to act and to pray.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Animal encounters and the "escape" to Kerala.
Just over a week ago, my roommate, Bekah, and I returned to our bedroom some time after dark. With a quick flip of the light switch, I caught a glimpse of a meandering tail moving from beneath my purple dress hanging by the window. Without a thought, I exhaled in relief assuming it was only an iguana. (You know you are in India when a wandering lizard in your bedroom is nothing newsworthy). But, after my dress started dancing on its own, a shuffle and skitter of feet revealed the tail’s owner— a fat rat swinging mid-air from its front claws. A rat is world’s different than an iguana. Let the lizards congregate in my bedroom. But if a rat even so much as pokes a whisker through my door, it is better off dead.
Squeamish when it comes to potential disease-carrying rodents in foreign countries, I froze for a moment in the doorway before running frantically (and aimlessly) as far away from the rat as possible (forgetting there was a small flight of stairs just ahead of me). Bekah, raised on a farm in central Oregon, laughed heartily as she watched me fly for a moment, landing hard on the cement below. Fearless, she marched back in our room to grab the rat by its tail—not giving rabies or external parasites a second thought. As she reached her right hand out to grab the wiggling pink tail, Tiffany leapt into the room armed with a stick screaming, “Don’t touch it, Bekah! It will bite you!” Meanwhile, I had climbed up our shelving unit and was perched on the second-highest shelf, my fingers turning white with their grip and my face turning whiter with fear. With a slight wind-up and forceful swing of her stick, Tiffany whacked the rat somewhere in its middle, attempting to kill it with one firm blow. Just as I heard the noise of the mangled stick hitting the rodent, the power went out. After a second or two of silence, Bekah, Tiffany and I started screaming simultaneously. There we were in total blackness, a loose rodent scurrying somewhere out of sight. With my over-active imagination I pictured the worst: a bloodied rat (injured from its recent “beating”) running aimlessly across our bare feet—or worse—up a pant leg. After thirty or so terror-filled seconds, the lights came back on. The bulbs flickered at first, giving the feel of some twisted and fearsome fun house. A moment later, the electricity returned completely revealing the rat’s obese furry body still hanging from my purple dress. Bekah grabbed the dress, wrapped the creature in it and ran out our door, flinging the rat from the cloth in a parachute-like manner off our balcony, its body flailing mid-air as it disappeared into the nighttime darkness. I managed a muffled, “sick” then began to laugh with Bekah at the absurdity of the situation. “It could have been worse,” Tiffany said, Bekah and I agreeing. “It could have been a monkey or something.” I told her I’d rather have a monkey in my room than a rat any day.
Never say things like, “I’d rather have a monkey in my room than a rat any day”. From recent personal experience, I’ve found that statements like that have a way of triggering God’s clever humor. Sometimes instantly. The day after the rat incident, a monkey was found perched on the ledge just outside our door. When I say “monkey”, I am not referencing some sweet, furry, banana-eating Curious George stuffed animal-type monkey. No, Indian monkeys are quite the opposite. Nasty, greedy and manipulative, it seems they find their greatest pleasure in tormenting human beings. Last October, a deputy mayor in New Dehli was even attacked by a “horde of wild monkeys”, thrown from his roof and killed. Indian monkeys are seriously vicious. This monkey was no different. After an evening of twenty or so girls in the orphanage chasing the monkey with sticks, he finally left the property. The strangest part was that monkeys are no where to be found on Rameswaram Island. They don’t live here. The girls concluded that this one must have hitched a ride on a fruit truck, conveniently choosing the ledge outside our room as his final destination the day after we thanked the Lord our rat visitor was not a monkey. Such luck.
After one too many animal encounters in our bedroom, I was feeling ready to breathe some “new air” outside the compound walls. But, because of the current dangerous political circumstances, and after a lot of prayer and personal surrender, I had finally realized that venturing outside the compound walls was not going to happen. Soon after I had come to terms with staying put and focusing on the work God has given me here on campus, Pastor Appa called to tell me to pack for three days because Justin, Bekah, Tiffany and I would be taking a road trip to Kerala (the state just west of Tamil Nadu). A timely answered prayer. We were ecstatic at the thought of leaving campus for awhile and exploring Kerala—a state who’s rumored beauty we had all heard about more than once. Pastor Appa told us only two things, “You will leave tomorrow for three days” and “you will bring back a male goat” (the extreme short-term notice and request to bring livestock back from a vacation once again reminded me just how far away from home I am). The appointed three days turned into a week of visiting destinations all over Kerala—a few of which I wrote about in my journal. The following are selected excerpts from the trip:
September 29, 2008
After nine hours in a diesel van—the majority spent in extreme car sickness, rolling around like a loose marble in the back of the van without a seatbelt (I don’t do well with rigid switchbacks and potholes half the size of the vehicle)—our team arrived in Kerala. I had missed most of the sites as we bobbed along, swerving in and out of cattle, pedestrians, and logs in the road. What I could see was limited to the perceptual view point of my back as I lay flat on a grass mat in the rear of the van between towers of luggage. As night approached, I noticed winding mangroves, bent date palms and coconut palms growing in a canopy of green above us. I sat up to get a better view. Reuben, our driver, told us, “We’re in Kerala now!”
I felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, where she steps out of black-and-white Kansas into Oz in Technicolor. Kerala was just a border line from Tamil Nadu—but worlds different with its endless greenery, waterfalls, and rigid cliffsides. Even the air felt fresher. It reminded me of what I would imagine a jungle in South America might look like.
Reuben stopped at a banana stand to buy fruit for the remainder of our journey. “Kerala is known for bananas,” he told me as he stepped from the van, pointing out yellow, green, purple and red varieties—each a different size. In my “fruit naivety” I had always assumed there was only one type of banana—the “normal” type you find in the produce aisle at an Alberston’s in Washington state. I felt enlightened. Reuben stepped back in the van, dropping a newspaper parcel wrapped in twine on my lap. I unwound the twine and peeled back the newspaper revealing fifty or so miniature bananas no bigger than my thumb. We laughed as we ate the bananas, marveling at their miniscule size.
Tired and road weary, we watched darkness seep in from our respective window views before we reached our hotel this evening. Kerala is beautiful at night. I can’t wait to see it in tomorrow’s light.
September 30, 2008
Today there was more driving and more banana eating. We also ate cubes of papaya while sipping on cardamom tea at our first stop in Amboori—We Care International—a nonprofit devoted to the education of widowed and abandoned mothers and daughters.
When asked if we’d like fresh papaya, I didn’t expect “fresh” to mean a man literally scaling a papaya tree, his arms and legs wrapped around the trunk the way a toddler clings to the calves of their mom or dad. After scooting his way to the leafy top, he whacked a fruit stem with his curved knife, and crawled back down—as easily as he went up—with a gourd-shaped papaya, speckled in yellows and greens.
While eating the papaya, its texture dissolving quickly on our tongues into a lingering mild sweetness, we listened to the founder, Don Hargate, tell us his story. How he came to Kerala, how his wife, Carol, is a part-time professor and a full-time human rights advocate, and how he dearly loves the women and young girls that he serves like they are his own family. Don was one of the first white people we had seen since arriving in India. It was both strange and refreshing greeting someone with a handshake and not having to pause or repeat words for clarity.
After hours of discussion on the veranda of We Care International, we prayed with Don and his Indian “family”. Just after the “amens”, Reuben pointed to the top of a mountain we could see from the view of the veranda. As I was pondering the beauty of the curved mountainside, Reuben told us to head back to the van. “That’s where we’re going,” he said. “To the mountain?” Bekah asked.
“Yes…we’re going to climb.”
We did climb, for two or three miles, up rigid switchbacks in our flip flops. Ben, our Indian “guide”, was in his polished loafers. The lack of appropriate hiking foot wear was obvious as at least one of us managed to slip and slide every few minutes. At one point I lost all grounding and fell directly onto by backside to which Ben (who knows very little English) shouted out “Booty protection!” I just laughed, perplexed at how he thought of such an accurate phrase. Thank the Lord for blessing me with more-than-adequate “booty protection” for such spills.
The higher we climbed, the broader the view became. Bekah and I paced ahead, reaching a grassy outlook at the peak. We stood, wind-blown and awe-filled at the valley and rivers far below us. To our left was a large Hindu temple—its hall-like entrance covered in empty coke bottles filled with coconut oil and half-burnt incense sticks. Hindu shrines and temples are often intentionally built at the highest crowns of hills or mountains.
Assuming we had conquered the mountain, Bekah and I sat on a knobby rock covered in sun-burnt grass, waiting for the rest of the group to reach us. Twenty minutes later, we took a short “walk” along the cliff’s edge, only to find another higher peak beyond us—crowned at the top with a giant white stone cross. “How did we miss that?” we asked each other, shocked. Justin had already made it to the summit as he was perched on the cross, his legs dangling off the edge of the stone statue.
The last leg of the hike was the hardest, steepest, and most overgrown. I couldn’t help but reflect on the blatant symbolism shining through it all—how we assumed we were at the “top”, but realized the true summit was found in the presence of the cross. The road to the cross was difficult to reach, but once we reached the peak, we could see so much more from that vantage point. It was powerful. There was a sense of reverence at the top of that hill.
October 2, 2008
After a morning of walking along a lake side in a scenic park, watching mugger crocodiles and eating salted gooseberries, our van made its way to the Kerala ocean side. We stayed at a populated beach until sunset.
As the crowds tapered, a work-worn Indian woman with a basket resting on her head repeatedly approached us in attempts to sell us her fruit. After two or three refusals, she continued to follow—until we set a grass mat on the water-pressed sand and sat down to read. Her name was Chanda, Tiffany found out after agreeing to buy a pineapple.
Chanda cut the fruit in angled slices as she told us about her family—two sons and two daughters. With sincere graciousness, she thanked Tiffany for being her first and only customer of the day. Sales were hard—even on a popular beach. “And what about your husband?” Tiffany asked. A question that triggered trembling cheeks, Chanda’s hand lifting her purple sari over her face to fight tears that had already sprung from little droplets into streaks covering her face. She told us he had died just two months before from a heart attack.
We were able to pray for Chanda there on the grass mat. We prayed for increased hope, but my stomach felt sick at the prospects of her life—a single mother of four providing for her children through weak fruit sales. I imagine there are days she sells nothing at all—returning home with a basket of rotting fruit and a crushed spirit. I really wanted to believe that God will supply that hope to Chanda, but it hurt to look at her with her eyes shut as we prayed, tears still rolling and lips still trembling. After we finished, Tiffany bought the rest of the fruit in Chanda’s basket. She couldn’t stop smiling at Tiffany’s kindness. I was thrilled to see a glimpse of hope in Chanda…hope for today.
The days in Kerala were full. Full of a variety of experiences, from riding elephants through coconut groves, to visiting tea plantations, to moments of personal connection with people like Chanda. Another nine hours in the van brought us safely back to the compound in Rameswaram after a week on the road.
Squeamish when it comes to potential disease-carrying rodents in foreign countries, I froze for a moment in the doorway before running frantically (and aimlessly) as far away from the rat as possible (forgetting there was a small flight of stairs just ahead of me). Bekah, raised on a farm in central Oregon, laughed heartily as she watched me fly for a moment, landing hard on the cement below. Fearless, she marched back in our room to grab the rat by its tail—not giving rabies or external parasites a second thought. As she reached her right hand out to grab the wiggling pink tail, Tiffany leapt into the room armed with a stick screaming, “Don’t touch it, Bekah! It will bite you!” Meanwhile, I had climbed up our shelving unit and was perched on the second-highest shelf, my fingers turning white with their grip and my face turning whiter with fear. With a slight wind-up and forceful swing of her stick, Tiffany whacked the rat somewhere in its middle, attempting to kill it with one firm blow. Just as I heard the noise of the mangled stick hitting the rodent, the power went out. After a second or two of silence, Bekah, Tiffany and I started screaming simultaneously. There we were in total blackness, a loose rodent scurrying somewhere out of sight. With my over-active imagination I pictured the worst: a bloodied rat (injured from its recent “beating”) running aimlessly across our bare feet—or worse—up a pant leg. After thirty or so terror-filled seconds, the lights came back on. The bulbs flickered at first, giving the feel of some twisted and fearsome fun house. A moment later, the electricity returned completely revealing the rat’s obese furry body still hanging from my purple dress. Bekah grabbed the dress, wrapped the creature in it and ran out our door, flinging the rat from the cloth in a parachute-like manner off our balcony, its body flailing mid-air as it disappeared into the nighttime darkness. I managed a muffled, “sick” then began to laugh with Bekah at the absurdity of the situation. “It could have been worse,” Tiffany said, Bekah and I agreeing. “It could have been a monkey or something.” I told her I’d rather have a monkey in my room than a rat any day.
Never say things like, “I’d rather have a monkey in my room than a rat any day”. From recent personal experience, I’ve found that statements like that have a way of triggering God’s clever humor. Sometimes instantly. The day after the rat incident, a monkey was found perched on the ledge just outside our door. When I say “monkey”, I am not referencing some sweet, furry, banana-eating Curious George stuffed animal-type monkey. No, Indian monkeys are quite the opposite. Nasty, greedy and manipulative, it seems they find their greatest pleasure in tormenting human beings. Last October, a deputy mayor in New Dehli was even attacked by a “horde of wild monkeys”, thrown from his roof and killed. Indian monkeys are seriously vicious. This monkey was no different. After an evening of twenty or so girls in the orphanage chasing the monkey with sticks, he finally left the property. The strangest part was that monkeys are no where to be found on Rameswaram Island. They don’t live here. The girls concluded that this one must have hitched a ride on a fruit truck, conveniently choosing the ledge outside our room as his final destination the day after we thanked the Lord our rat visitor was not a monkey. Such luck.
After one too many animal encounters in our bedroom, I was feeling ready to breathe some “new air” outside the compound walls. But, because of the current dangerous political circumstances, and after a lot of prayer and personal surrender, I had finally realized that venturing outside the compound walls was not going to happen. Soon after I had come to terms with staying put and focusing on the work God has given me here on campus, Pastor Appa called to tell me to pack for three days because Justin, Bekah, Tiffany and I would be taking a road trip to Kerala (the state just west of Tamil Nadu). A timely answered prayer. We were ecstatic at the thought of leaving campus for awhile and exploring Kerala—a state who’s rumored beauty we had all heard about more than once. Pastor Appa told us only two things, “You will leave tomorrow for three days” and “you will bring back a male goat” (the extreme short-term notice and request to bring livestock back from a vacation once again reminded me just how far away from home I am). The appointed three days turned into a week of visiting destinations all over Kerala—a few of which I wrote about in my journal. The following are selected excerpts from the trip:
September 29, 2008
After nine hours in a diesel van—the majority spent in extreme car sickness, rolling around like a loose marble in the back of the van without a seatbelt (I don’t do well with rigid switchbacks and potholes half the size of the vehicle)—our team arrived in Kerala. I had missed most of the sites as we bobbed along, swerving in and out of cattle, pedestrians, and logs in the road. What I could see was limited to the perceptual view point of my back as I lay flat on a grass mat in the rear of the van between towers of luggage. As night approached, I noticed winding mangroves, bent date palms and coconut palms growing in a canopy of green above us. I sat up to get a better view. Reuben, our driver, told us, “We’re in Kerala now!”
I felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, where she steps out of black-and-white Kansas into Oz in Technicolor. Kerala was just a border line from Tamil Nadu—but worlds different with its endless greenery, waterfalls, and rigid cliffsides. Even the air felt fresher. It reminded me of what I would imagine a jungle in South America might look like.
Reuben stopped at a banana stand to buy fruit for the remainder of our journey. “Kerala is known for bananas,” he told me as he stepped from the van, pointing out yellow, green, purple and red varieties—each a different size. In my “fruit naivety” I had always assumed there was only one type of banana—the “normal” type you find in the produce aisle at an Alberston’s in Washington state. I felt enlightened. Reuben stepped back in the van, dropping a newspaper parcel wrapped in twine on my lap. I unwound the twine and peeled back the newspaper revealing fifty or so miniature bananas no bigger than my thumb. We laughed as we ate the bananas, marveling at their miniscule size.
Tired and road weary, we watched darkness seep in from our respective window views before we reached our hotel this evening. Kerala is beautiful at night. I can’t wait to see it in tomorrow’s light.
September 30, 2008
Today there was more driving and more banana eating. We also ate cubes of papaya while sipping on cardamom tea at our first stop in Amboori—We Care International—a nonprofit devoted to the education of widowed and abandoned mothers and daughters.
When asked if we’d like fresh papaya, I didn’t expect “fresh” to mean a man literally scaling a papaya tree, his arms and legs wrapped around the trunk the way a toddler clings to the calves of their mom or dad. After scooting his way to the leafy top, he whacked a fruit stem with his curved knife, and crawled back down—as easily as he went up—with a gourd-shaped papaya, speckled in yellows and greens.
While eating the papaya, its texture dissolving quickly on our tongues into a lingering mild sweetness, we listened to the founder, Don Hargate, tell us his story. How he came to Kerala, how his wife, Carol, is a part-time professor and a full-time human rights advocate, and how he dearly loves the women and young girls that he serves like they are his own family. Don was one of the first white people we had seen since arriving in India. It was both strange and refreshing greeting someone with a handshake and not having to pause or repeat words for clarity.
After hours of discussion on the veranda of We Care International, we prayed with Don and his Indian “family”. Just after the “amens”, Reuben pointed to the top of a mountain we could see from the view of the veranda. As I was pondering the beauty of the curved mountainside, Reuben told us to head back to the van. “That’s where we’re going,” he said. “To the mountain?” Bekah asked.
“Yes…we’re going to climb.”
We did climb, for two or three miles, up rigid switchbacks in our flip flops. Ben, our Indian “guide”, was in his polished loafers. The lack of appropriate hiking foot wear was obvious as at least one of us managed to slip and slide every few minutes. At one point I lost all grounding and fell directly onto by backside to which Ben (who knows very little English) shouted out “Booty protection!” I just laughed, perplexed at how he thought of such an accurate phrase. Thank the Lord for blessing me with more-than-adequate “booty protection” for such spills.
The higher we climbed, the broader the view became. Bekah and I paced ahead, reaching a grassy outlook at the peak. We stood, wind-blown and awe-filled at the valley and rivers far below us. To our left was a large Hindu temple—its hall-like entrance covered in empty coke bottles filled with coconut oil and half-burnt incense sticks. Hindu shrines and temples are often intentionally built at the highest crowns of hills or mountains.
Assuming we had conquered the mountain, Bekah and I sat on a knobby rock covered in sun-burnt grass, waiting for the rest of the group to reach us. Twenty minutes later, we took a short “walk” along the cliff’s edge, only to find another higher peak beyond us—crowned at the top with a giant white stone cross. “How did we miss that?” we asked each other, shocked. Justin had already made it to the summit as he was perched on the cross, his legs dangling off the edge of the stone statue.
The last leg of the hike was the hardest, steepest, and most overgrown. I couldn’t help but reflect on the blatant symbolism shining through it all—how we assumed we were at the “top”, but realized the true summit was found in the presence of the cross. The road to the cross was difficult to reach, but once we reached the peak, we could see so much more from that vantage point. It was powerful. There was a sense of reverence at the top of that hill.
October 2, 2008
After a morning of walking along a lake side in a scenic park, watching mugger crocodiles and eating salted gooseberries, our van made its way to the Kerala ocean side. We stayed at a populated beach until sunset.
As the crowds tapered, a work-worn Indian woman with a basket resting on her head repeatedly approached us in attempts to sell us her fruit. After two or three refusals, she continued to follow—until we set a grass mat on the water-pressed sand and sat down to read. Her name was Chanda, Tiffany found out after agreeing to buy a pineapple.
Chanda cut the fruit in angled slices as she told us about her family—two sons and two daughters. With sincere graciousness, she thanked Tiffany for being her first and only customer of the day. Sales were hard—even on a popular beach. “And what about your husband?” Tiffany asked. A question that triggered trembling cheeks, Chanda’s hand lifting her purple sari over her face to fight tears that had already sprung from little droplets into streaks covering her face. She told us he had died just two months before from a heart attack.
We were able to pray for Chanda there on the grass mat. We prayed for increased hope, but my stomach felt sick at the prospects of her life—a single mother of four providing for her children through weak fruit sales. I imagine there are days she sells nothing at all—returning home with a basket of rotting fruit and a crushed spirit. I really wanted to believe that God will supply that hope to Chanda, but it hurt to look at her with her eyes shut as we prayed, tears still rolling and lips still trembling. After we finished, Tiffany bought the rest of the fruit in Chanda’s basket. She couldn’t stop smiling at Tiffany’s kindness. I was thrilled to see a glimpse of hope in Chanda…hope for today.
The days in Kerala were full. Full of a variety of experiences, from riding elephants through coconut groves, to visiting tea plantations, to moments of personal connection with people like Chanda. Another nine hours in the van brought us safely back to the compound in Rameswaram after a week on the road.
The day after returning from Kerala, Tiffany approached me at the desk in the office with a small shoebox. She lifted the lid and peeled back a black t-shirt lining the inside to reveal two newborn chipmunks, their eyes still closed. “Look what I found in my room this morning,” she said smiling, “They crawled through a hole above the air conditioner—I can’t find their mom anywhere.” She was convinced that we could be their new “moms” and pulled out an eyedropper that she had been feeding them milk from. Just another animal encounter to remind us that we were back on campus. Admittedly, the chipmunks are quite adorable…and I will take them over a rat any day.
Our new "pet" chipmunks, Jack and Olive.
The view after a long hike
One of Kerala's beautiful beaches 
Tiffany, Chanda, and I 
Overlooking the tea fields at sunset
Three stages of tea Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Lead me to my death...
“God doesn't gratify our instinctive longings. He forgives them, and then changes what we most want.”
–David Powlison, The Therapeutic Gospel
There is a distinct difference between what we humanly crave and what we truly want. It’s funny how we seem to so easily confuse our cravings with our true desires. This holds a particular resonance with me now as I find myself in India with two battling thoughts. The first is my instinctive self-driven longing, “Lord, you must have brought me here to do something great…well, for your Kingdom, of course.” The second thought is far less attractive. Somehow it doesn’t tickle my ears and align with my personal vision the way the first thought does. But it is this second thought I can’t seem to shake—a thought that thrusts me into a discomfort but simultaneously strikes a chord deep within my heart that screams with authenticity—with what I want most. The second thought, directed at me from a loving voice, the voice of one who knows me better than myself says, “Abbie, I brought you to India to die.” A distinct uneasiness, like quickening poison, seeps into my veins at the sound of the word ‘death’. Jesus’ hard truth echoes again, “I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it does, it produces many seeds. The man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life” (John 12:24-25).
Upon the awakening of this truth (which didn’t come quickly and still is in the process of reconstructing my mind) I realized what I humanely crave—to do something great for God’s Kingdom— is not what I really want. I no longer crave control, for God to “use me” for selfish gain. No, what I truly want is to die so that He might live in me.
Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies.
Until recently, I had never really thought of personifying the kernel that Jesus talks about. I just thought of it purely in inanimate plant terms. But suddenly, I put myself in the place of that kernel—falling to the ground and dying. Ultimately, being buried—probably in an unappealing heap of animal manure or muddied soil—looming beneath a blackened covering, unable to breathe, motionless with little sign of anything promising happening. When a seed is planted it doesn’t begin to grow immediately. It endures a period of waiting in darkness. Waiting in loneliness. Questioning if anything will come of its future or if it will just remain—an unidentifiable grain in a heap of dirt.
Lately, I’ve felt a bit like that kernel. Due to the heated political situation and the continued threats and persecution against believers in India, the four Americans that are here in Rameswaram (myself included) have been more or less “confined” to the campus for our personal safety. As one week fades in to the next—weeks that often times feel long and dull in nature—I remain inside the four walls of the campus. Walls that are quickly beginning to feel a bit like soil surrounding and burying me with their impeding presence. I’ve questioned God’s purpose in bringing me over the ocean and half-way across the world just to spend most of my hours behind a lap top working on website design or editing the content of a book. Where is the relational activity, the impactful moments of adventurous stories in remote Indian villages? Why would God bring me to India only to have me stay put?
I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it does, it produces many seeds.
God has every right to bring me to India only to have me remain in the same, relatively-confined space. He has every right, because He is God. After weeks of waiting in stillness and after an excessive amount of reflective moments under the stars on the roof of my bedroom, God has slowly and faithfully started to lead me to my death—complete surrender. He is teaching me that His ultimate concern has nothing to do with what I will accomplish here or what adrenaline-filled adventures I will experience. No, His ultimate concern is that I would die. That I would abandon the flesh-driven drive to have some all-significant “purpose” here or a collection of wild stories to take home—desires that center around glorifying me and discard the glory of God in Christ. Desires that are empty in their pursuit of temporal happiness. Desires that forfeit the narrow, difficult road that would bring me deep flourishing and eternal joy.
After weeks of living like a seed stewing in a pile of dirt, I am finally being humbled to see that God is more concerned with using this mundane time of stillness to shape me and make me more like Him. To lead me to my death so that I might truly live. To rewrite the anthem of my heart, to rescript my deepest desires, to show me what it is I truly want.
Instead of striving for a sense of personal significance and meaningfulness, I want to have my faith simplified, deepened and purified. To learn to endure hardship and suffering in hope. To learn to slow down, listen, worship, delight and trust. I want to be a seed that, in my death, produces many seeds. Lord, lead me to my death.
Star how beautiful you shine,
you shine more beautiful than mine.
You shine from sea to shining sea,
world-wide is your strategy.
But shinning star I hope you see—
if the whole wide world is staring straight at you,
they can’t see me.
-Jesus
(from Jason Upton’s Dying Star lyrics)
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