Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride
The most gasp-filled hour in road race history might be the hour-long ride to Indira Ghandi International Airport in Delhi. A thousand near misses leaves me exhausted. It is dusk going on night. Highway lights are dim in many places. Some cars and trucks have one or no headlights. And the air is full of dust and smoke. So it was really hard to see the elephant, mahout atop, plodding down a thoroughfare in Delhi! Amazingly, I have never seen cars stopped due to an accident or even a bump or scrape, nor a dead dog, pig, or cow along the road, much less an elephant. (And we think hitting a moose is dangerous—think of hitting an elephant…!)
At the terminal four score taxis and cars are stopping for disembarkation of passengers while others jockey to extricate themselves from the tangle—like a worm trying to get out of a box of night crawlers.
The queue starts on the sidewalk. In ten minutes I am inside the terminal building with my carryon and a big bag that is not nearly so heavy now that I have delivered my colleagues' extra textbooks to the librarian at NTC.
Immediately one is in a second queue. They screen only your checked bags here, right by the front door, putting a white band around each piece that says “Indian Airlines Security Checked Delhi.” OK, one down.
There’s no signage in this huge hall. You have to get close enough to read the TV screen each airline has over each of its check in stations. What the heck – I’ll go left. Wrong! I ask one of the numberless uniformed people where to find Continental. “Back—go back.”
I’ve never seen so many personnel. Soldiers in khaki, some with bamboo-looking batons, others with really old sub-machine guns. And guys in white shirts rounding up the trolleys, which are free for use here. Of course one thing India has is cheap labor more than putting motors in everything. Blue uniform people herding folks to this check-in counter or that. Women in red jackets (Indians like red—it’s in their flag) and navy skirts checking us. “Sir, did you pack your bag yourself? Did anyone give you anything to take? Has it been in your possession?” This drill happens to me twice in twenty minutes. “Do you have anything in your carry-on with batteries?” “O yes, my camera has four AA.” Anything else?” ‘Not that I can think of.” “No cell phone?” “O, yes the cell phone—I haven’t used it since I got to India! Sorry.” “OK. Sir.”
(BTW, in the college in India I am “Sir.” At Northern Essex Community College I am “Who?”)
At the final screening there is no concern for shoes, unlike the USA (probably due to Richard Reid, the would-be shoe bomber). But I dump everything in my pockets into the plastic bin—it’s easier that way. In the queue my turn comes next. I go through the “rose arbor” labeled “Gents” after which one undergoes the wand. Pretty intimate, too. Women go through the ladies’ gate and then behind a modesty screen where a madam supposedly gives her the wand once-over. (I mean, how would I know?) This is so different from the high tech whole body “air puff” scanners you stand in at the new Liberty Airport at Newark.
Now I am at the gate. It is after midnight. We are taking off in a Boeing 777 for non-stop 16 hour flight to Newark. I must say goodbye to India. It’s been a wild ride!
Speaking of saying goodbye, as I was grading finals in the guesthouse the night before I left, a young man came to the hallway. “You don’t remember me, do you?” “Ashish!” I cry, rising to hug this friend I haven’t seen for two years. “Don’t tell me it’s you!”
(BTW—you pronounce his name like a sneeze—or maybe a minced oath, depending on the degree of excitement. My emphasis was definitely the sneeze!)
Ashish is the one I’ve been telling people about for two years. In 2004 Tim Tennent (Gordon-Conwell Seminary prof), Matthew from a church in Topsfield, and I were looking at a map of India so Asheesh (Gesundheit!) could point out the remote mountain area where God was calling him to start a ministry. It was a place with zero Christians—possibly very dangerous. “What do you need from us as you go?” I had asked him. “I want no money. God will provide for me. But please—your prayers.”
So he tells me how God now has blessed the ministry with a school with 64 kids and several teachers. He showed me a video clip on his cell phone of kids reciting the Lord’s Prayer two words at a time—that’s how they start learning English. All from Hindu families who know the emphasis but want their kids to get ahead and learn English, Also he has three churches already—all by prayer and pluck!
Three years ago I had asked Ashish (Gesundheit!) [Sorry this is starting to sound like a Victor Borge routine] about marriage. He is a very good-looking son-of-a-gun. “I don’t think about it,” he had said, “Mom will let me know when she’s found someone.”
Well—BIG NEWS! He is now engaged to Reba, a student I had in my class last year, on December 18.
“You ARE COMING, Dr. G!”
“I wish I could, but no, I won’t be in India then.”
“You MUST come to see us wed—and experience a true Indian ceremony.”
I truly wished I could go—but it’s not exactly a few towns downriver from Haverhill.
He (see how cleverly I avoided the Gesundheit by using the pronoun this time?) calls Reba who is across the driveway in the Women’s Hostel to have her come to the guesthouse.
They are so devoted—you can see it their eyes. I want a photo. I have to ask them to stand closer to close the 18-inch gap between them for a good picture. They manage to inch a bit closer, but not anywhere near touching. Why? This is India! In the USA a couple 5 weeks from marriage would show no daylight at all between them. I doubt Ashish and Reba have ever kissed. I don’t know how they have such discipline in India. But they do—and I admire it.
Well, Mr. Toad, we’ve had a wild ride together.
When I get to Boston I just might find someone at the airport willing to make this toad a prince!
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Friday, November 10, 2006
Greater Light
A Greater Light
On this campus in Uttaranchal, north India, the walkway lights go off at 4:45. It is still night and except for the beams from the moon this morning I would have needed my flashlight (one of those “shake and shine” types I sent for on TV) to get down the steps on the paths that circle the campus.
At 5 the bells ring to wake the girls in the women’s hostel nestled safely between the guesthouse and the faculty apartments. The college is supremely in loco parentis here. I slip quietly by to breathe the cool air—probably 62 degrees I would guess. Students keep asking “are you not cold?” My shadow is sharp since the moon is waning but gibbous, several hours from setting. First light timidly approaches the mountains to the east.
By the time I am making my fifth round dawn is beginning to paint the pastel watercolors that will deepen over eastern horizon. I notice my shadow is losing strength. When sunrise comes, even if the disc is hidden behind the mountains for a while, the shadow will fade and disappear.
Another sun arises. “Arise, shine, for thy light has come; and the glory of Lord shines upon thee.” Drawing near in heart to the “Light that has come into the world” the shadows weaken and die. Just as the moon is still there when I search the sky for it, it no longer casts a shadow. The greater light dispels all darkness and shadows of the night.
Today I will walk in the light as He is in the light. I will have fellowship with brothers and sisters here and around the world. I will reflect His light by God’s grace in all I do. I am no longer a child of the shadows, for the sun of righteousness has arisen with healing for me in his wings. I face today with joy and confidence.
Now that the sun has ascended beyond the peaks of the mountains I notice that the quad has billowing tent pavilions, erected during the night. Is a medieval festival coming? Will I see horsemen with lance and armor competing for the fair ones? Soon I see a banner welcoming children in the name of World Vision.
After chapel I will give my seniors their final exam. But at the end of the service (where a senior destined for tent revival ministry preacher—yes—going overtime, giving an altar call for rededication, and just about splitting my ears with 120 decibel punctuation of his text from Hosea chapter 1) Dr. Samuel, Principal, calls me to the platform to thank me for my service with a brightly packaged small (thankfully) gift. I express thanks for the blessings given by this vibrant community of faith, leaving them with a verse from James chapter sever, verse one: “Trials and tests come in the morning, but joy comes at noon.” Everyone laughs except my poor ethics students!
Fast forward>>>
Exams are over. I am snapping photos of the festivities. “Uncle, uncle!” the children cry. I take a picture of some boys near the playground. Then of some girls sitting on the grass having a boxed “Happy Meal.” Soon a jumping swarm of giggles clamors for foto, foto. That’s the trouble with these digitals—they know they can see themselves a few seconds after the click. Now music is sounding. On the banked wall the chapel praise team is tuning up. I get a snap of the students singing a gesture song with about 200 kids. Most classes have been cancelled for the day—save for my accursed final exam.
A young married couple comes to the guesthouse. He is now teaching here, while his wife is one of the assistants to the Registrar. I had been to their house in a nearby village with Dr. Tim Tennent of Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary and one-time interim preaching pastor at our church in Haverhill. They have a six-month baby boy. I find it strange that he is unnamed as yet. (I doubt it’s like Kenya, where a child is named after a father figure in hopes is sponsorship for school fees, etc. That has happened to me and to my sister Lois who was a missionary teacher there for 11 years.)
They have come for prayer.
What do you want Jesus to do for you today?
I have severe back pain from childbirth. And an occasional pain the goes from my chest to my back shoulder. I want for you to pray for me.
Do you want me to anoint you according to James 5?
So I explain that there is no oil. OK, you can use a few molecules of butter from the kitchen. So I pray according to God’s will that Jesus will heal her.
Her husband also praises God for deliverance from a darkness that deepened in his life since his father’s death last spring (detailed in a previous Blog) and asks for a sponsor so he can go for his higher degree in two years when the college can release him. He is so humble, so gifted, so worthy. I will pray his needs will be met at the right time.
As they go I give them some snacks I don’t need for their kids. And encourage her to find a doctor to find out her shoulder problem. Someone told her it might need a muscle relaxant. And she said she had had a spinal shot for the birth. I tell her agonizing the aftermath was for my wife when the doctor used a spinal block when our Rachel came into the world.
We part, our faces glowing with the joy of our God.
The greater light! The greater light!
On this campus in Uttaranchal, north India, the walkway lights go off at 4:45. It is still night and except for the beams from the moon this morning I would have needed my flashlight (one of those “shake and shine” types I sent for on TV) to get down the steps on the paths that circle the campus.
At 5 the bells ring to wake the girls in the women’s hostel nestled safely between the guesthouse and the faculty apartments. The college is supremely in loco parentis here. I slip quietly by to breathe the cool air—probably 62 degrees I would guess. Students keep asking “are you not cold?” My shadow is sharp since the moon is waning but gibbous, several hours from setting. First light timidly approaches the mountains to the east.
By the time I am making my fifth round dawn is beginning to paint the pastel watercolors that will deepen over eastern horizon. I notice my shadow is losing strength. When sunrise comes, even if the disc is hidden behind the mountains for a while, the shadow will fade and disappear.
Another sun arises. “Arise, shine, for thy light has come; and the glory of Lord shines upon thee.” Drawing near in heart to the “Light that has come into the world” the shadows weaken and die. Just as the moon is still there when I search the sky for it, it no longer casts a shadow. The greater light dispels all darkness and shadows of the night.
Today I will walk in the light as He is in the light. I will have fellowship with brothers and sisters here and around the world. I will reflect His light by God’s grace in all I do. I am no longer a child of the shadows, for the sun of righteousness has arisen with healing for me in his wings. I face today with joy and confidence.
Now that the sun has ascended beyond the peaks of the mountains I notice that the quad has billowing tent pavilions, erected during the night. Is a medieval festival coming? Will I see horsemen with lance and armor competing for the fair ones? Soon I see a banner welcoming children in the name of World Vision.
After chapel I will give my seniors their final exam. But at the end of the service (where a senior destined for tent revival ministry preacher—yes—going overtime, giving an altar call for rededication, and just about splitting my ears with 120 decibel punctuation of his text from Hosea chapter 1) Dr. Samuel, Principal, calls me to the platform to thank me for my service with a brightly packaged small (thankfully) gift. I express thanks for the blessings given by this vibrant community of faith, leaving them with a verse from James chapter sever, verse one: “Trials and tests come in the morning, but joy comes at noon.” Everyone laughs except my poor ethics students!
Fast forward>>>
Exams are over. I am snapping photos of the festivities. “Uncle, uncle!” the children cry. I take a picture of some boys near the playground. Then of some girls sitting on the grass having a boxed “Happy Meal.” Soon a jumping swarm of giggles clamors for foto, foto. That’s the trouble with these digitals—they know they can see themselves a few seconds after the click. Now music is sounding. On the banked wall the chapel praise team is tuning up. I get a snap of the students singing a gesture song with about 200 kids. Most classes have been cancelled for the day—save for my accursed final exam.
A young married couple comes to the guesthouse. He is now teaching here, while his wife is one of the assistants to the Registrar. I had been to their house in a nearby village with Dr. Tim Tennent of Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary and one-time interim preaching pastor at our church in Haverhill. They have a six-month baby boy. I find it strange that he is unnamed as yet. (I doubt it’s like Kenya, where a child is named after a father figure in hopes is sponsorship for school fees, etc. That has happened to me and to my sister Lois who was a missionary teacher there for 11 years.)
They have come for prayer.
What do you want Jesus to do for you today?
I have severe back pain from childbirth. And an occasional pain the goes from my chest to my back shoulder. I want for you to pray for me.
Do you want me to anoint you according to James 5?
So I explain that there is no oil. OK, you can use a few molecules of butter from the kitchen. So I pray according to God’s will that Jesus will heal her.
Her husband also praises God for deliverance from a darkness that deepened in his life since his father’s death last spring (detailed in a previous Blog) and asks for a sponsor so he can go for his higher degree in two years when the college can release him. He is so humble, so gifted, so worthy. I will pray his needs will be met at the right time.
As they go I give them some snacks I don’t need for their kids. And encourage her to find a doctor to find out her shoulder problem. Someone told her it might need a muscle relaxant. And she said she had had a spinal shot for the birth. I tell her agonizing the aftermath was for my wife when the doctor used a spinal block when our Rachel came into the world.
We part, our faces glowing with the joy of our God.
The greater light! The greater light!
Big Tests
Big Tests
Some say that life is a test. Will I flunk or pass?
Who grades the test? Maybe the grade is given when people stand by the casket and say truthfully what a fine person I am, or speak polite lies about me that everyone knows is BS.
Or maybe the Heavenly Professor is keeping records of our scores in order to compute a final grade before promoting us or demoting us.
Hindus here have a middle view. There is no one to keep score. But something in the universe makes us reap what we sow—no more, no less. So I keep coming back to re-sit the exam (maybe millions of time) until the equation of my actions comes up with the right answer: zero. “Put in all the pluses and minuses of your good and bad actions, and when it comes out zero, you’re done.” Moksha—release from the suffering at last. At that point, just when a westerner would be looking forward to the heavenly holidays in a celestial Hawaii now that he’s passed life’s test and graduated, the Hindu world says I enter an eternal coma. I’m there—but not as me. My drop is lost in the Ocean of the One, whose sound is the relentless “Om.”
Here at the college the students are studying for my exam, as from one born out of time. You see, this is the first two weeks of the term and exams should be far in the future. I am crafting my diabolical questions today! Heh, heh…! No, really – I give the questions ahead of time—they’re complex, as one expects in philosophy. No multiple choice here.
But the preaching class for seniors is taking chapels. And K.J.K. (in India people have no names, just initials) is in the back row with his grading template—sort of like speech class in college. And they speak in English with a colleague translating.
Yesterday a young man (who refused to choose a free tie from the collection Dave Walker brought in his traveling thrift shop, since he already had a tie—one—a single tie. Since he can only wear one at a time, let another student take it) in his bright shirt, tie and jacket, called on his buddies to start off with a skit. A bunch of money-grubbing guys come to the temple to cheat the backwards bumpkins. The Jesus and disciples arrive and drive them out, declaring the temple is house of prayer not a den of robbers.
Nice set-up. He goes on with an exposition of the text, closing with an object lesson. Out comes a glass of water from the back of the pulpit. In goes some chemical that makes it look yucky. Then another bromide and it turns wine color as the cleansing power of Jesus’ sacrifice starts to work. To my mind, it all broke down there, since he had no chemical to precipitate out the pollutants to make the liquid crystal clear again. I don’t know what grade KJK will give him. But it a nice try—probably an A for ingenuity anyway.
But this morning a girl (oops! I mean young woman) in a canary yellow sari has the service. She is articulate and animated and actually moves the backbenchers. That’s us
faculty—who have heard a thousand sermons. After the benediction, KJK tells me that a few months ago when her turn came to present to the class, she collapsed in tears and couldn’t do it. When she enrolled here a couple of years ago, she spoke NO English. On her second try she stumbled through pathetically. On her third try she did OK. And now today—the final exam—one would think English was her mother tongue. What skillful use of vocabulary. What animated gestures. What sincerity of heart. She will be a powerful communicator. And her text and theme was how we should rejoice when we suffer dishonor for Jesus’ name, just as the early Christians did and as many former students here are now doing in the hostile environment of north India.
Big tests, for sure.
Life is at the least, a test. Hearts need examination. Motives must be sifted. Plus and minus. Wheat and chaff. Gold and stubble.
I hope my Teacher is as pleased in the end with me as KJK is with this unlikely treasure in Public Speaking 101.
Some say that life is a test. Will I flunk or pass?
Who grades the test? Maybe the grade is given when people stand by the casket and say truthfully what a fine person I am, or speak polite lies about me that everyone knows is BS.
Or maybe the Heavenly Professor is keeping records of our scores in order to compute a final grade before promoting us or demoting us.
Hindus here have a middle view. There is no one to keep score. But something in the universe makes us reap what we sow—no more, no less. So I keep coming back to re-sit the exam (maybe millions of time) until the equation of my actions comes up with the right answer: zero. “Put in all the pluses and minuses of your good and bad actions, and when it comes out zero, you’re done.” Moksha—release from the suffering at last. At that point, just when a westerner would be looking forward to the heavenly holidays in a celestial Hawaii now that he’s passed life’s test and graduated, the Hindu world says I enter an eternal coma. I’m there—but not as me. My drop is lost in the Ocean of the One, whose sound is the relentless “Om.”
Here at the college the students are studying for my exam, as from one born out of time. You see, this is the first two weeks of the term and exams should be far in the future. I am crafting my diabolical questions today! Heh, heh…! No, really – I give the questions ahead of time—they’re complex, as one expects in philosophy. No multiple choice here.
But the preaching class for seniors is taking chapels. And K.J.K. (in India people have no names, just initials) is in the back row with his grading template—sort of like speech class in college. And they speak in English with a colleague translating.
Yesterday a young man (who refused to choose a free tie from the collection Dave Walker brought in his traveling thrift shop, since he already had a tie—one—a single tie. Since he can only wear one at a time, let another student take it) in his bright shirt, tie and jacket, called on his buddies to start off with a skit. A bunch of money-grubbing guys come to the temple to cheat the backwards bumpkins. The Jesus and disciples arrive and drive them out, declaring the temple is house of prayer not a den of robbers.
Nice set-up. He goes on with an exposition of the text, closing with an object lesson. Out comes a glass of water from the back of the pulpit. In goes some chemical that makes it look yucky. Then another bromide and it turns wine color as the cleansing power of Jesus’ sacrifice starts to work. To my mind, it all broke down there, since he had no chemical to precipitate out the pollutants to make the liquid crystal clear again. I don’t know what grade KJK will give him. But it a nice try—probably an A for ingenuity anyway.
But this morning a girl (oops! I mean young woman) in a canary yellow sari has the service. She is articulate and animated and actually moves the backbenchers. That’s us
faculty—who have heard a thousand sermons. After the benediction, KJK tells me that a few months ago when her turn came to present to the class, she collapsed in tears and couldn’t do it. When she enrolled here a couple of years ago, she spoke NO English. On her second try she stumbled through pathetically. On her third try she did OK. And now today—the final exam—one would think English was her mother tongue. What skillful use of vocabulary. What animated gestures. What sincerity of heart. She will be a powerful communicator. And her text and theme was how we should rejoice when we suffer dishonor for Jesus’ name, just as the early Christians did and as many former students here are now doing in the hostile environment of north India.
Big tests, for sure.
Life is at the least, a test. Hearts need examination. Motives must be sifted. Plus and minus. Wheat and chaff. Gold and stubble.
I hope my Teacher is as pleased in the end with me as KJK is with this unlikely treasure in Public Speaking 101.
Too Much Time
Too Much Time on My Hands
One the things (dangerous thought it may be) I enjoy about going on these trips is that my fancy takes its flight. My friend, Bill Hopkins, likes to hear my outside-the-box thoughts, but, being a practical man who actually fixes and maintains things that relate to the real world—heavy machinery—says that his job in our friendship is to hold firmly onto my feet. He is fearful that I will rise like a hot-air balloon and wander forever in the clouds.
While I am occupied steadily here with the ethics course and with reading new books and supervising the 6th edition of The Quest for Truth (soon to be published here in India), I do have an environment in which new thoughts—or old thoughts revisited—can dance like sugar plums in my head. (A little musical allusion there—Nutcracker by Tchaikovsky, in case you missed it.)
Noting the vitality of the new churches being started by NTC graduates here, I note how good it is that they have not yet grown top-heavy. I say not yet because it is the nature of energetic enterprises birthed at great sacrifice eventually to become structures to maintain. A bureaucracy grows up around it that requires maintenance. And over time we have a sluggish and top-heavy monument trying to preserve, usually unsuccessfully, the vibrancy of previous years.
This certainly has happened thousands of times in the history of the People of the Way of Jesus. And there is nothing wrong with organization and structure. In fact it is essential and valuable. But as someone mentioned about governments, bureaucracies have a way of justifying their own needs until they kill the host upon which they feed (a bit of biological allusion there, in case you missed it). I have observed this—in my own brief lifetime—in the history of congregationalism, where a top-brass elite, ever-further removed from the people,e spends resources on things that the people do not want (or would not want if they knew the truth about it) and that does not feed the true purpose of the congregations. Fearing now that dark days are coming upon the church—the evangelical church—in our nation, am I wrong in guessing (am I no prophet nor the son of a prophet) that the day of the “successful” church is waning?
Even here in India the news of the latest big name scandal among evangelicals is noised abroad. The damage of personal sinning among those who should know they “will be judged by a stricter standard” is immeasurable. Bringing shame to our Lord’s name is close to unforgivable. So what enables people like this? One (but not the only, I know) cause is that we have forsaken humble holiness for the lure of being power brokers in the world system. We know from two millennia of our history that every one of us needs someone to hold us accountable. The saints of the early church, the medieval church, and the reformed church knew this. The Apostles taught this. The preachers preach it. It is thus inexplicable that the leaders of a congregation do not demand that people who represent the congregation—its public face—submit to accountability.
Big churches. Big budgets. Big bucks. Big temptations. I wish there were a lay council in every church to probe its pastors and teachers on possible hidden sins. I picture the future as one where smaller congregations—perhaps joining forces for special programs that need critical mass—become the wave of the future. Why do people flock to large churches and mega-churches? I suspect that many (not all) of them go for what is really entertainment value. Better music, preaching, worship space. And perhaps even for anonymity. Do we unconsciously adopt the reigning ethos of our day: better to look good than be good? And one result is that pastors get to hide behind their persona so that they insulate themselves from careful examination of the soul in the presence of “confessors.”
Have any of us really done what is costly? Confession (commanded in the New Testament) is one of those costly requirements for those how are walking in the Way. Why is this so rare in our communities of faith today?
Have we ever had to walk by faith in any significant way?
Lord, do what you know it will take to take us deeper. So often we are more hearers of your words than doers.
Trim our church apparatus. Help us to shrink our professional overhead and develop and use the gifts of the laity. Show more how they can be bi-vocational ministers, just as St. Paul was. The world is on the edge of doom and we are prettying up our suites on Titanic Earth.
“Hey, Bill! Pull me down! The oxygen is thin up here and it’s making me a Jeremiah—which I surely do not want!”
Whew—that was close….
O! Here’s another thought that comes when you have too much time on your hands. Do you recall the account of Mary sitting at the feet of Rabbi Jesus? You know the reason why she was there instead of helping with the work? She was weaker than Martha, that’s why. It was Martha who greeted the guests and made them comfortable. It was she who ventured out when her brother Lazarus had died to meet Jesus and his party when they approached Bethany. Meanwhile, Mary weeps or sits dreamily at Jesus’ feet to gain strength from him. “She has chosen the better part,” Jesus said, rebuking Martha. But why was it better? Because Mary needed reassurance. She was not a take-charge type that knows what to do and how to do it. Martha recognized Jesus as Messiah and believed he could save every situation. So she went about using her gift of hospitality. While Mary found what she needed. They were a matched pair. I don’t think there is any basis for judging either of them harshly. You people who say “Someone around here has got to tend the store!” need to know you are valued. Without you, the Marys of the world would have no chance to sit at the Master’s feet.
“What does that have to do with anything,” you ask? Wait a minute – I didn’t know ideas had to be connected. This is a blog, not a philosophy essay! (You want essays? See my other blog sites.)
Item: Ajit came to see me last night at the Guest House. (Dave Walker, my missionary housemate, has more drop-bys than I do. But then, he is the color man around here—just going into rooms when there is a free period and asking if they want him to fill the time. The entire class stays—every time! He holds them spell-bound and they come for private advice.) Ajit is a vibrant, earnest early-twenties guy—so happy he is going to graduate in March and start as associate pastor at a church hear his home district. He comes from a solidly middle-class Hindu family, who wanted him to be a doctor. And he has enough smarts, no question. They have cast him out of the family since he gave his life to Christ. But he is happy to suffer for the one who suffered so for his rescue. He plies me with many questions about how to be a good pastor. He already loves the people there so much. He wants to show them how to be co-ministers with him—to visit the sick and the poor in their afflictions and to reach out to Hindus and Muslims. He says his goal is to write a book a year. But his plan is this. Gather a dozen people for weekly Bible study and encourage them to probe his teaching on a Bible book and then to put it to use. Then he can compile into a sort of collaborative Bible commentary. Naturally, I affirm his desire. Then he starts asking about marriage. “What qualities does a pastor require in a wife?” Well that’s right down my alley. I have a lot of wisdom in theory and lots of blessing in experience on that one.
Then he asks about a man on campus that has his sights on a girl who comes from a higher socio-economic station and he doesn’t know if it is proper to seek her hand. Besides, she is several years younger than he and at NTC long after he graduates. How can we advise this man? After pointing out a few obvious cautions for to use to advise this friend, he tells me “I am that man! I believe God has shown me this classmate is to be my wife!”
Hoo-boy…! Breathe deep here.
Ajit quickly comes to see that he needs to give her space to search her own heart. She must come to it on her own. (Well, I’ve counseled people before in that kind of situation. But usually in vain.) To my delight he says that he will not push but will wait for her to make an approach to him, since she knows how he feels about her already. “If she comes, then I know God is in it. If not, I will know God is not in it.
Bingo! I assure him that in this way he walks by faith. He will see ten years from now how the right path was already planned for him and he will have no regrets—no matter how it turns out.
Amazing. The guy with too much time on his hands actually made a difference in the real world—helping fix something so the real world is a little less broken.
Thanks, Bill. I know you were holding my rope and gently bringing me back to planet Earth.
One the things (dangerous thought it may be) I enjoy about going on these trips is that my fancy takes its flight. My friend, Bill Hopkins, likes to hear my outside-the-box thoughts, but, being a practical man who actually fixes and maintains things that relate to the real world—heavy machinery—says that his job in our friendship is to hold firmly onto my feet. He is fearful that I will rise like a hot-air balloon and wander forever in the clouds.
While I am occupied steadily here with the ethics course and with reading new books and supervising the 6th edition of The Quest for Truth (soon to be published here in India), I do have an environment in which new thoughts—or old thoughts revisited—can dance like sugar plums in my head. (A little musical allusion there—Nutcracker by Tchaikovsky, in case you missed it.)
Noting the vitality of the new churches being started by NTC graduates here, I note how good it is that they have not yet grown top-heavy. I say not yet because it is the nature of energetic enterprises birthed at great sacrifice eventually to become structures to maintain. A bureaucracy grows up around it that requires maintenance. And over time we have a sluggish and top-heavy monument trying to preserve, usually unsuccessfully, the vibrancy of previous years.
This certainly has happened thousands of times in the history of the People of the Way of Jesus. And there is nothing wrong with organization and structure. In fact it is essential and valuable. But as someone mentioned about governments, bureaucracies have a way of justifying their own needs until they kill the host upon which they feed (a bit of biological allusion there, in case you missed it). I have observed this—in my own brief lifetime—in the history of congregationalism, where a top-brass elite, ever-further removed from the people,e spends resources on things that the people do not want (or would not want if they knew the truth about it) and that does not feed the true purpose of the congregations. Fearing now that dark days are coming upon the church—the evangelical church—in our nation, am I wrong in guessing (am I no prophet nor the son of a prophet) that the day of the “successful” church is waning?
Even here in India the news of the latest big name scandal among evangelicals is noised abroad. The damage of personal sinning among those who should know they “will be judged by a stricter standard” is immeasurable. Bringing shame to our Lord’s name is close to unforgivable. So what enables people like this? One (but not the only, I know) cause is that we have forsaken humble holiness for the lure of being power brokers in the world system. We know from two millennia of our history that every one of us needs someone to hold us accountable. The saints of the early church, the medieval church, and the reformed church knew this. The Apostles taught this. The preachers preach it. It is thus inexplicable that the leaders of a congregation do not demand that people who represent the congregation—its public face—submit to accountability.
Big churches. Big budgets. Big bucks. Big temptations. I wish there were a lay council in every church to probe its pastors and teachers on possible hidden sins. I picture the future as one where smaller congregations—perhaps joining forces for special programs that need critical mass—become the wave of the future. Why do people flock to large churches and mega-churches? I suspect that many (not all) of them go for what is really entertainment value. Better music, preaching, worship space. And perhaps even for anonymity. Do we unconsciously adopt the reigning ethos of our day: better to look good than be good? And one result is that pastors get to hide behind their persona so that they insulate themselves from careful examination of the soul in the presence of “confessors.”
Have any of us really done what is costly? Confession (commanded in the New Testament) is one of those costly requirements for those how are walking in the Way. Why is this so rare in our communities of faith today?
Have we ever had to walk by faith in any significant way?
Lord, do what you know it will take to take us deeper. So often we are more hearers of your words than doers.
Trim our church apparatus. Help us to shrink our professional overhead and develop and use the gifts of the laity. Show more how they can be bi-vocational ministers, just as St. Paul was. The world is on the edge of doom and we are prettying up our suites on Titanic Earth.
“Hey, Bill! Pull me down! The oxygen is thin up here and it’s making me a Jeremiah—which I surely do not want!”
Whew—that was close….
O! Here’s another thought that comes when you have too much time on your hands. Do you recall the account of Mary sitting at the feet of Rabbi Jesus? You know the reason why she was there instead of helping with the work? She was weaker than Martha, that’s why. It was Martha who greeted the guests and made them comfortable. It was she who ventured out when her brother Lazarus had died to meet Jesus and his party when they approached Bethany. Meanwhile, Mary weeps or sits dreamily at Jesus’ feet to gain strength from him. “She has chosen the better part,” Jesus said, rebuking Martha. But why was it better? Because Mary needed reassurance. She was not a take-charge type that knows what to do and how to do it. Martha recognized Jesus as Messiah and believed he could save every situation. So she went about using her gift of hospitality. While Mary found what she needed. They were a matched pair. I don’t think there is any basis for judging either of them harshly. You people who say “Someone around here has got to tend the store!” need to know you are valued. Without you, the Marys of the world would have no chance to sit at the Master’s feet.
“What does that have to do with anything,” you ask? Wait a minute – I didn’t know ideas had to be connected. This is a blog, not a philosophy essay! (You want essays? See my other blog sites.)
Item: Ajit came to see me last night at the Guest House. (Dave Walker, my missionary housemate, has more drop-bys than I do. But then, he is the color man around here—just going into rooms when there is a free period and asking if they want him to fill the time. The entire class stays—every time! He holds them spell-bound and they come for private advice.) Ajit is a vibrant, earnest early-twenties guy—so happy he is going to graduate in March and start as associate pastor at a church hear his home district. He comes from a solidly middle-class Hindu family, who wanted him to be a doctor. And he has enough smarts, no question. They have cast him out of the family since he gave his life to Christ. But he is happy to suffer for the one who suffered so for his rescue. He plies me with many questions about how to be a good pastor. He already loves the people there so much. He wants to show them how to be co-ministers with him—to visit the sick and the poor in their afflictions and to reach out to Hindus and Muslims. He says his goal is to write a book a year. But his plan is this. Gather a dozen people for weekly Bible study and encourage them to probe his teaching on a Bible book and then to put it to use. Then he can compile into a sort of collaborative Bible commentary. Naturally, I affirm his desire. Then he starts asking about marriage. “What qualities does a pastor require in a wife?” Well that’s right down my alley. I have a lot of wisdom in theory and lots of blessing in experience on that one.
Then he asks about a man on campus that has his sights on a girl who comes from a higher socio-economic station and he doesn’t know if it is proper to seek her hand. Besides, she is several years younger than he and at NTC long after he graduates. How can we advise this man? After pointing out a few obvious cautions for to use to advise this friend, he tells me “I am that man! I believe God has shown me this classmate is to be my wife!”
Hoo-boy…! Breathe deep here.
Ajit quickly comes to see that he needs to give her space to search her own heart. She must come to it on her own. (Well, I’ve counseled people before in that kind of situation. But usually in vain.) To my delight he says that he will not push but will wait for her to make an approach to him, since she knows how he feels about her already. “If she comes, then I know God is in it. If not, I will know God is not in it.
Bingo! I assure him that in this way he walks by faith. He will see ten years from now how the right path was already planned for him and he will have no regrets—no matter how it turns out.
Amazing. The guy with too much time on his hands actually made a difference in the real world—helping fix something so the real world is a little less broken.
Thanks, Bill. I know you were holding my rope and gently bringing me back to planet Earth.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Day by Day
Here at New Theological College in India, Sunday has a different flavor. Hindus and Muslim workmen are on the job and cities and towns bustle with commerce, while Christians flock to church. And while the Christian community is a small percentage of he population, the census puts India over the 1 billion mark as the world’s most populous nation, resulting in there being a hefty number of those who claim to be followers of Christ.
As dawn emerges lazily through the haze that hugs the mountains, I hear the clear tones of the bell at the Buddhist monastery just over the wall from the Guest House. More distant is the drone of traffic, the everlasting honking of horns, and clatter of machinery. Workmen are putting new Mediterranean red tiles on the office building. But for me, it is day of worship.
I am privileged to be the preacher today. I arrive before 9 o’clock, meditating as people trickle in. Sunday School children occupy front seats facing the main congregation at a right angle. All of us are on plastic chairs such as we put on our patios for summer. By 9 o’clock the 250-seat room is full.
Student musicians take their places: two Yamaha keyboards, a drum set, bongos, plus guitar and bass. Professor Bison presides today. After a song we listen to his comments on Psalm 84. As he reads the text I hear the sublime setting of the text in Brahms’ Requiem: How lovely is thy dwelling place, O Lord of hosts. My soul longs, yea faints, for the courts of the Lord…. Even the sparrow has found her a house and the swallow a nest where she may lay her young, even thine altars, O God. Blessed are those who dwell in thy house ever praising your name.”
I wonder what it was like for the Son of Korah who wrote this Old Testament song of praise, watching birds flying in and out during the sacrifices 3000 years ago in Jerusalem.
Bison has a sweet, gentle air about him. He is Lecturer in Old Testament. An Indian man, with his spiky black hair he appears to have some oriental genes in his ancestry. His homily would be the whole deal back in the states—or even here in mainline denominations. But this community is charismatic—on the sane edge of Pentecostalism. So while there is seldom anything to make me uncomfortable as Calvinistic Congregationalist, I now they are going to give us a three-course meal of spiritual food.
Now comes the serious praise music. 30 minutes of lively singing, switching seamlessly between Hindi and English. While I stand enjoying clapping the rhythms I suddenly realize I can sing the words now—but only for a season. The tempo quickens. The volume rises. Then “at the top of the ascent” it quiets to simultaneous praying from the worshipers while the keyboard plays an ever more quiet background. Part one comes to a close.
Part two features announcements and a call for prayer requests. There are many. I hope someone who is going to be asked to pray is writing them down!
Two late-thirties women from Australia are introduced. They are specialists in disability remediation and are working at the prestigious Buddhist Library and Ashram a few blocks away. (That complex was dedicated a few years back by the Dalai Lama himself! Devotees come from the entire world to spend time in study and meditation—at luxury prices. But the view of the Himalayan foothills here—a mere 8000 feet above sea level make a spectacular venue. And you can come if you have the bucks—it’s not just for Buddhists.)
Now the kids come on stage, adjusting microphones so their squeaky voices can be heard. A few stumble over the cords as their protagonist yanks hers across the 10-foot platform. A plastic chair is set for the boy with a crown, holding a book in his lap: “The Book of Life.” A girl approaches. “I have come to enter heaven.”
You cannot go unless your name is in the Book of Life.
Will you check me, please?
What is your name?
Elise.
Abraham, Moses, David, Jonah….Elise! You may enter now.
Another girl approaches, same theme.
What is your name?
Iska
Mmmmm… I cannot find your name. Angel! Come take her to hell!
No! Oh! It is full of spiders and snakes and is too hot!
(She turns to see Elise going in the other direction.)
Elise, they are taking me to hell. I don’t want. I was good – in fact you did more bad than I did. How do you get to go to heaven?
I confessed and took Jesus as Savior, so they wrote my name in the Book.
Announcer: The moral is, accept Jesus as your personal Savior while there is yet time.
Now is the time for prayer from the brother who wrote down all those requests. He prays for 5 minutes fervently, mentioning each one and also for “Auntie and Uncle” (the founders of the college) and for the speaker of the morning, that hearts may be open to hear the Word of God.
I know it is OK to slip some US dollars into the velvet bag that the young lady stretches out along the rows. During the offering a male soloist sings a lively number accompanied by a keyboardist whose fills are unbelievable –he shifts patches skillfully to get saxophones, flute, sitars etc. into the mix of sounds. The principal, Dr. Samuel, had given a prayer of dedication to the new drum set and Yamaha—a gift of the North Shore Baptist Church in Massachusetts. “You have stored the old ones safely away, I trust,” he said with a worried look. Nothing much is tossed out here.
It’s now an hour and a half into the service: my turn to open the Scriptures and preach the Gospel. I had chosen II Corinthians 5:1-9, focusing on verse 7: we walk by faith and not by sight. The translator was really good. We established a rhythm very quickly. Preaching this way gives one time to think a little more one’s feet while the Hindi echo is going forth. Words were flowing as I illustrated the text by the story of Phillemon Busolo, a Kenyan who attends West Church along with his wife and two boys.
Fast forward>>>>>
Just a few minutes ago S__ M___ came by to share with me privately. He is the man who works with Dr. Timothy Tennent of Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary in translating resources for ministry into Hindi (India’s first official language)—a very gifted young man who also teaches here. I had him as guest in class, where he shows how natural he is in communicating.
But he wanted to tell me his story. Born in central India, his mother died shortly after his birth. S was raised as a charity project by other family members. His father was a teacher in the outback of India. They lived in a mud house about the size of a modest garage in the USA. Later his father took another young woman as “wife”, so S has now two half-brothers.
When S was 15, orphaned and neglected and dreaming of Bollywood, he saw Jesus in a dream and gave his life to God. Raised Hindu, his family shunned him. So he had to rely on God to get an education, to come to this college, meet and marry a young widow here (that, too is another touching story since widows with children have zero value in India) and teach here.
But last February his father died—by witchcraft. Raised in rural India, he claims there is a lot of that going on. The perpetrators were his father’s “wife” and another woman he kept in the household. Outcast and bereft, S was mourning deep within. Carrying on his work, no one knew the darkness creeping back into his soul. “I have no address. No house or land of his own. No family left.” He was so low he hesitated to come even to church Sunday.
Then he heard me reading II Corinthians 5:1 “Now we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven not built by human hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling….” God’s spirit came over him. The sun broke through his depression and he was full of joy in his faith once again.
This is why we are left on earth—to be instruments of blessing that God may use us, unworthy as we are, to let the love and grace of Christ bring hope and healing.
Day by day. Day by day, God is good to his people.
As I sit on this sunny, cool day at a computer in a specious 4 desk office in NTC’s newest building, the girl at the desk, in her flowing sari, breezes in to ask, “Sir, would like to tehk some tea?” “O yes,” I reply, “I missed the all-college tea time at 10:30 because I was online in the library.” (You have to take Internet here when it is “awailable.” So I had been locked in the library—literally— for 15 minutes while the staff went for tea.) Soon a delicate cup of chai will be set on the edge of my desk. Maybe I could become a mahatma here in time if I work on it. I think I’m getting close. Life has its pleasant moments! Ah! Here it is now. In less time than it takes to write paragraph!
Here at New Theological College in India, Sunday has a different flavor. Hindus and Muslim workmen are on the job and cities and towns bustle with commerce, while Christians flock to church. And while the Christian community is a small percentage of he population, the census puts India over the 1 billion mark as the world’s most populous nation, resulting in there being a hefty number of those who claim to be followers of Christ.
As dawn emerges lazily through the haze that hugs the mountains, I hear the clear tones of the bell at the Buddhist monastery just over the wall from the Guest House. More distant is the drone of traffic, the everlasting honking of horns, and clatter of machinery. Workmen are putting new Mediterranean red tiles on the office building. But for me, it is day of worship.
I am privileged to be the preacher today. I arrive before 9 o’clock, meditating as people trickle in. Sunday School children occupy front seats facing the main congregation at a right angle. All of us are on plastic chairs such as we put on our patios for summer. By 9 o’clock the 250-seat room is full.
Student musicians take their places: two Yamaha keyboards, a drum set, bongos, plus guitar and bass. Professor Bison presides today. After a song we listen to his comments on Psalm 84. As he reads the text I hear the sublime setting of the text in Brahms’ Requiem: How lovely is thy dwelling place, O Lord of hosts. My soul longs, yea faints, for the courts of the Lord…. Even the sparrow has found her a house and the swallow a nest where she may lay her young, even thine altars, O God. Blessed are those who dwell in thy house ever praising your name.”
I wonder what it was like for the Son of Korah who wrote this Old Testament song of praise, watching birds flying in and out during the sacrifices 3000 years ago in Jerusalem.
Bison has a sweet, gentle air about him. He is Lecturer in Old Testament. An Indian man, with his spiky black hair he appears to have some oriental genes in his ancestry. His homily would be the whole deal back in the states—or even here in mainline denominations. But this community is charismatic—on the sane edge of Pentecostalism. So while there is seldom anything to make me uncomfortable as Calvinistic Congregationalist, I now they are going to give us a three-course meal of spiritual food.
Now comes the serious praise music. 30 minutes of lively singing, switching seamlessly between Hindi and English. While I stand enjoying clapping the rhythms I suddenly realize I can sing the words now—but only for a season. The tempo quickens. The volume rises. Then “at the top of the ascent” it quiets to simultaneous praying from the worshipers while the keyboard plays an ever more quiet background. Part one comes to a close.
Part two features announcements and a call for prayer requests. There are many. I hope someone who is going to be asked to pray is writing them down!
Two late-thirties women from Australia are introduced. They are specialists in disability remediation and are working at the prestigious Buddhist Library and Ashram a few blocks away. (That complex was dedicated a few years back by the Dalai Lama himself! Devotees come from the entire world to spend time in study and meditation—at luxury prices. But the view of the Himalayan foothills here—a mere 8000 feet above sea level make a spectacular venue. And you can come if you have the bucks—it’s not just for Buddhists.)
Now the kids come on stage, adjusting microphones so their squeaky voices can be heard. A few stumble over the cords as their protagonist yanks hers across the 10-foot platform. A plastic chair is set for the boy with a crown, holding a book in his lap: “The Book of Life.” A girl approaches. “I have come to enter heaven.”
You cannot go unless your name is in the Book of Life.
Will you check me, please?
What is your name?
Elise.
Abraham, Moses, David, Jonah….Elise! You may enter now.
Another girl approaches, same theme.
What is your name?
Iska
Mmmmm… I cannot find your name. Angel! Come take her to hell!
No! Oh! It is full of spiders and snakes and is too hot!
(She turns to see Elise going in the other direction.)
Elise, they are taking me to hell. I don’t want. I was good – in fact you did more bad than I did. How do you get to go to heaven?
I confessed and took Jesus as Savior, so they wrote my name in the Book.
Announcer: The moral is, accept Jesus as your personal Savior while there is yet time.
Now is the time for prayer from the brother who wrote down all those requests. He prays for 5 minutes fervently, mentioning each one and also for “Auntie and Uncle” (the founders of the college) and for the speaker of the morning, that hearts may be open to hear the Word of God.
I know it is OK to slip some US dollars into the velvet bag that the young lady stretches out along the rows. During the offering a male soloist sings a lively number accompanied by a keyboardist whose fills are unbelievable –he shifts patches skillfully to get saxophones, flute, sitars etc. into the mix of sounds. The principal, Dr. Samuel, had given a prayer of dedication to the new drum set and Yamaha—a gift of the North Shore Baptist Church in Massachusetts. “You have stored the old ones safely away, I trust,” he said with a worried look. Nothing much is tossed out here.
It’s now an hour and a half into the service: my turn to open the Scriptures and preach the Gospel. I had chosen II Corinthians 5:1-9, focusing on verse 7: we walk by faith and not by sight. The translator was really good. We established a rhythm very quickly. Preaching this way gives one time to think a little more one’s feet while the Hindi echo is going forth. Words were flowing as I illustrated the text by the story of Phillemon Busolo, a Kenyan who attends West Church along with his wife and two boys.
Fast forward>>>>>
Just a few minutes ago S__ M___ came by to share with me privately. He is the man who works with Dr. Timothy Tennent of Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary in translating resources for ministry into Hindi (India’s first official language)—a very gifted young man who also teaches here. I had him as guest in class, where he shows how natural he is in communicating.
But he wanted to tell me his story. Born in central India, his mother died shortly after his birth. S was raised as a charity project by other family members. His father was a teacher in the outback of India. They lived in a mud house about the size of a modest garage in the USA. Later his father took another young woman as “wife”, so S has now two half-brothers.
When S was 15, orphaned and neglected and dreaming of Bollywood, he saw Jesus in a dream and gave his life to God. Raised Hindu, his family shunned him. So he had to rely on God to get an education, to come to this college, meet and marry a young widow here (that, too is another touching story since widows with children have zero value in India) and teach here.
But last February his father died—by witchcraft. Raised in rural India, he claims there is a lot of that going on. The perpetrators were his father’s “wife” and another woman he kept in the household. Outcast and bereft, S was mourning deep within. Carrying on his work, no one knew the darkness creeping back into his soul. “I have no address. No house or land of his own. No family left.” He was so low he hesitated to come even to church Sunday.
Then he heard me reading II Corinthians 5:1 “Now we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven not built by human hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling….” God’s spirit came over him. The sun broke through his depression and he was full of joy in his faith once again.
This is why we are left on earth—to be instruments of blessing that God may use us, unworthy as we are, to let the love and grace of Christ bring hope and healing.
Day by day. Day by day, God is good to his people.
As I sit on this sunny, cool day at a computer in a specious 4 desk office in NTC’s newest building, the girl at the desk, in her flowing sari, breezes in to ask, “Sir, would like to tehk some tea?” “O yes,” I reply, “I missed the all-college tea time at 10:30 because I was online in the library.” (You have to take Internet here when it is “awailable.” So I had been locked in the library—literally— for 15 minutes while the staff went for tea.) Soon a delicate cup of chai will be set on the edge of my desk. Maybe I could become a mahatma here in time if I work on it. I think I’m getting close. Life has its pleasant moments! Ah! Here it is now. In less time than it takes to write paragraph!
Friday, November 03, 2006
He Promised Never to Leave Me Alone
After a breakfast of porridge, toast and chai, I was introduced to Adrienne Thompson and her aid, Caroline, of the Parker Foundation in Richmond, VA. This family foundation funds projects for Christian ministry, mostly international. The young (25-ish) women do the traveling for the foundation to scope out worthy projects. New Theological College here has been awarded some funds and they have come to interview deans and faculty for the home office. Possibly you will see an article in Christianity Today this season including their findings entitled: “What It Means to Be a Counter-cultural Christian in Today’s World.” Each culture (including the USA) needs voices to speak truth for God to the power structures of government and education. The women are staying here but a day before heading off to Hyderabad and other India locations to gather information.
In the Chapel sermon, a senior student chose the text I Peter 1:1-9, explaining how our trials refine us to reflect the glory of God in our lives. I thought of our dear friends Barry Noonan and Patrick and Katie, in the loss of wife/mother Maryann this week to cancer. What sorrow must be theirs as they undergo this trial. While we prayed for her healing more than once, she has now experienced the final healing that God effects when He calls us to himself. But broken hearts result, often crying out, “Why. Why now?” The hymn this morning was an old one, set to Indian rhythms: He Promised Never to Leave Me Alone. This is a hope to comfort and sustain us in sore trials.
I find it illuminating to be in another context like this away from home. There I can fool myself that the world is safe place to call home. But this world is often at war with goodness and justice and shalom. Here I am face to face with poverty of goods and of spirit, for the battle of good and evil is obvious. Reports come daily from graduates who are in the danger of battle as they bring good news to people not always welcoming. We hear of persecutions and threats. We know that the worldwide community of faith is, as always, under siege.
And yet there is joy and thankfulness everywhere evident. I am always learning from brothers and sisters here.
Yesterday at my evening session, Dr. M.T. Cherian agreed to lecture on Hindu ethics. Masterfully he had the students interacting and laughing while he drove home the concepts of karma and dharma: find your assigned place in life (according to caste) and do your duty without fail for god and god alone, not your own desires. Then you may rise in the next re-birth and eventually achieve moksha—liberation. Your life now is exactly what you have created by your past, reaping what you have sown. A brilliant example of good pedagogy.
And to top off my amazement, my housemate, Dave Walker, shared over breakfast with the women visiting for the day some of his experiences. He is a former pastor who has gone into mission work on his own. Traveling to places all over the world, he preaches mostly to the common people, wins converts, starts churches, trains leaders in a few small Bible schools he sets up. What he has accomplished is astounding. One man making a difference. He is away from home about 36 weeks a year with his wife’s encouragement. (Sounds suspicious to me. Yet he says they have a great marriage, having raised 5 boys now adults. He now has the first girl in the line for several generations – a granddaughter 5 months old in Detroit.)
When speaking in a public hall in a city near Calcutta the police came in to arrest him, since it is against India law for foreigners to proselytize. He stood up to the officer, who was drunk, and the Lord gave him the right words so he was not charged. A church started there and is going to this day. Another time he was in prison for 9 months in India. In yet another location he was brought to the police station where the charge man took his passport and visa and was adamant about prosecuting him. But almost miraculously the man had a sudden change of heart and said, “It’s OK, you can preach here. But I am assigning an officer to protect you because there is a mob growing that wants to kill you!” Another time in Nigeria he got word of some who wanted to harm him. The brothers, not having a basket or a wall to lower him over (see Acts 9:23-25), smuggled him to safety. Dave now has work ongoing in Malawi, Rwanda, Brazil, India, Nigeria and I forget where else.
Dave is so self-deprecating and humble. I had no idea for four days that I was sleeping every night next to a giant for God.
Dave told me that when he was pastoring, missionaries coming to his church would say we appreciate your funds but we really ask your prayers. “O sure,” he would think, “that’s good PR.” But when he got out on the battlefield he realized that while funds are a blessing, the prayers are a matter of life and death.
So it is that each of us, stumbling as we do, add a little to the kingdom work as we strive to be faithful to the small tasks assigned to us. I am little more humble than when I left Haverhill last week. I am certain I have a long way to go on that score.
"He promised never to leave me alone."
You can take that two ways. Both apply to me today.
In the Chapel sermon, a senior student chose the text I Peter 1:1-9, explaining how our trials refine us to reflect the glory of God in our lives. I thought of our dear friends Barry Noonan and Patrick and Katie, in the loss of wife/mother Maryann this week to cancer. What sorrow must be theirs as they undergo this trial. While we prayed for her healing more than once, she has now experienced the final healing that God effects when He calls us to himself. But broken hearts result, often crying out, “Why. Why now?” The hymn this morning was an old one, set to Indian rhythms: He Promised Never to Leave Me Alone. This is a hope to comfort and sustain us in sore trials.
I find it illuminating to be in another context like this away from home. There I can fool myself that the world is safe place to call home. But this world is often at war with goodness and justice and shalom. Here I am face to face with poverty of goods and of spirit, for the battle of good and evil is obvious. Reports come daily from graduates who are in the danger of battle as they bring good news to people not always welcoming. We hear of persecutions and threats. We know that the worldwide community of faith is, as always, under siege.
And yet there is joy and thankfulness everywhere evident. I am always learning from brothers and sisters here.
Yesterday at my evening session, Dr. M.T. Cherian agreed to lecture on Hindu ethics. Masterfully he had the students interacting and laughing while he drove home the concepts of karma and dharma: find your assigned place in life (according to caste) and do your duty without fail for god and god alone, not your own desires. Then you may rise in the next re-birth and eventually achieve moksha—liberation. Your life now is exactly what you have created by your past, reaping what you have sown. A brilliant example of good pedagogy.
And to top off my amazement, my housemate, Dave Walker, shared over breakfast with the women visiting for the day some of his experiences. He is a former pastor who has gone into mission work on his own. Traveling to places all over the world, he preaches mostly to the common people, wins converts, starts churches, trains leaders in a few small Bible schools he sets up. What he has accomplished is astounding. One man making a difference. He is away from home about 36 weeks a year with his wife’s encouragement. (Sounds suspicious to me. Yet he says they have a great marriage, having raised 5 boys now adults. He now has the first girl in the line for several generations – a granddaughter 5 months old in Detroit.)
When speaking in a public hall in a city near Calcutta the police came in to arrest him, since it is against India law for foreigners to proselytize. He stood up to the officer, who was drunk, and the Lord gave him the right words so he was not charged. A church started there and is going to this day. Another time he was in prison for 9 months in India. In yet another location he was brought to the police station where the charge man took his passport and visa and was adamant about prosecuting him. But almost miraculously the man had a sudden change of heart and said, “It’s OK, you can preach here. But I am assigning an officer to protect you because there is a mob growing that wants to kill you!” Another time in Nigeria he got word of some who wanted to harm him. The brothers, not having a basket or a wall to lower him over (see Acts 9:23-25), smuggled him to safety. Dave now has work ongoing in Malawi, Rwanda, Brazil, India, Nigeria and I forget where else.
Dave is so self-deprecating and humble. I had no idea for four days that I was sleeping every night next to a giant for God.
Dave told me that when he was pastoring, missionaries coming to his church would say we appreciate your funds but we really ask your prayers. “O sure,” he would think, “that’s good PR.” But when he got out on the battlefield he realized that while funds are a blessing, the prayers are a matter of life and death.
So it is that each of us, stumbling as we do, add a little to the kingdom work as we strive to be faithful to the small tasks assigned to us. I am little more humble than when I left Haverhill last week. I am certain I have a long way to go on that score.
"He promised never to leave me alone."
You can take that two ways. Both apply to me today.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Slap Me Down and Pick Me Up
Slap Me Down and Pick Me Up
I don’t know which to share first. Since I am not known for humility (except among those whom I can fool, not my family, for sure) I will do the upbeat first and then the downbeat.
Pick Me Up!
For whatever cause, when I come to place like New Theological College here in north India, I feel a pickup. A cynic would say, “Sure – anybody would. You get your room cleaned, your meals to order by a chef, and people who copy your syllabus and deliver it to your classroom, others who prepare tea twice a day (one good legacy left by the British Raj), with no telephone to bug you. You get to go to a clean desk and use a computer with tech people ready to troubleshoot for you, and people who smile every time you look at them.”
But that’s not it, really.
Did you see the old movie about missionary Eric Liddell called Chariots of Fire? He was an Olympic champion runner from England—the one who would not compete on Sunday because it was the Lord’s Day. (I really wish I had that kind of courage. But I don’t. I know I would have found some way to rationalize to save embarrassment. I have the philosopher’s gift: find a plausible reason for anything!) Eric was conflicted about his commitment to running and his call to serve the Lord. Explaining to his sister his passion for track he said this memorable line: “When I run I feel the pleasure of God.”
When I am in a place like this using my gifts in a small way (but not insignificant) I feel the pleasure of God. There is a deep satisfaction there. It’s beyond happiness. It’s a kind of spiritual joy hard to describe. As I walked to the Guest House under the moon the other night, this moment of elevation picked me up. I knew, despite all the expense and hassle of flying half way around the world, that this was where I was supposed to be. Making a difference, no matter how small, is such a satisfaction. I was telling my students yesterday that on those days when I want to get away from everything and do something just for me—to pamper myself a bit (they tell me I deserve it)—I usually feel pretty good. But not great. But at the end of a day where I went out of the way to make difference for good in someone’s life—be it doing a chore or taking someone to the store or fixing loose bolt—I feel great. That’s why we were put on earth—to help each other in joy and in times of sorrow.
So that’s the “Pick Me Up!”
Now for the “Slap Me Down.”
I look at the students here and I am chastised. I listen to their stories. Many have little help when they are ill—medicines are too expensive, even here in India where everything is halk price to me. Fees are always a challenge. Some face rejection by their families. Yet they work at their tools for ministry. They yield to God’s call to a life that for many is one of hardship and risk of bodily harm, even death. They know what it is to walk by faith. This cuts my soul.
I have so much more than they. I have more stuff. I have opportunities that my education and my wealth afford me. I can shield myself, protect myself. I can play it safe. I hardly know what sacrifice means when I look at these followers of Jesus, let alone Jesus himself. These students rise at 5 a.m. for a voluntary prayer service of their own making. They gather after supper at 7 p.m. and ask for Dave Walker or some other visiting minister to talk to them about Christ and the Gospel. The limit of my devotion is to pray for a while in shadows of the dawn from the warmth of my bed.
I know that asceticism and fanaticism are over the top. I learned that studying church history. But I’m coming clean. I do not know much about following God with true passion. It’s in my head—I truly do grasp it. I can teach it preach it. But true religion is emptying myself and my treasure in the real world.
So I am “slapped down.” It’s something I need to pay attention to. I know I am thought to be a generous, caring, and giving person. But that’s in the eyes of men. Before God I have along way to go. And I need to go on my knees. I fear that American followers of the Way (such as myself) know next to nothing about walking the talk. We give a lot. But there is small sacrifice in it.
I always tell my students that there are no U-Hauls on hearses. But am I really living in the light of this old Gospel-song truth: “This world is not my home, I’m just a-passing through, and I cain’t feel at home in this world anymore.”
Will Somebody help me? There’s nothing wrong with enjoying life—sure thing. But is the danger to my soul that I will not spend enough time enjoying the good life? Yeah, right!
Slap me down: then you can pick me up.
I don’t know which to share first. Since I am not known for humility (except among those whom I can fool, not my family, for sure) I will do the upbeat first and then the downbeat.
Pick Me Up!
For whatever cause, when I come to place like New Theological College here in north India, I feel a pickup. A cynic would say, “Sure – anybody would. You get your room cleaned, your meals to order by a chef, and people who copy your syllabus and deliver it to your classroom, others who prepare tea twice a day (one good legacy left by the British Raj), with no telephone to bug you. You get to go to a clean desk and use a computer with tech people ready to troubleshoot for you, and people who smile every time you look at them.”
But that’s not it, really.
Did you see the old movie about missionary Eric Liddell called Chariots of Fire? He was an Olympic champion runner from England—the one who would not compete on Sunday because it was the Lord’s Day. (I really wish I had that kind of courage. But I don’t. I know I would have found some way to rationalize to save embarrassment. I have the philosopher’s gift: find a plausible reason for anything!) Eric was conflicted about his commitment to running and his call to serve the Lord. Explaining to his sister his passion for track he said this memorable line: “When I run I feel the pleasure of God.”
When I am in a place like this using my gifts in a small way (but not insignificant) I feel the pleasure of God. There is a deep satisfaction there. It’s beyond happiness. It’s a kind of spiritual joy hard to describe. As I walked to the Guest House under the moon the other night, this moment of elevation picked me up. I knew, despite all the expense and hassle of flying half way around the world, that this was where I was supposed to be. Making a difference, no matter how small, is such a satisfaction. I was telling my students yesterday that on those days when I want to get away from everything and do something just for me—to pamper myself a bit (they tell me I deserve it)—I usually feel pretty good. But not great. But at the end of a day where I went out of the way to make difference for good in someone’s life—be it doing a chore or taking someone to the store or fixing loose bolt—I feel great. That’s why we were put on earth—to help each other in joy and in times of sorrow.
So that’s the “Pick Me Up!”
Now for the “Slap Me Down.”
I look at the students here and I am chastised. I listen to their stories. Many have little help when they are ill—medicines are too expensive, even here in India where everything is halk price to me. Fees are always a challenge. Some face rejection by their families. Yet they work at their tools for ministry. They yield to God’s call to a life that for many is one of hardship and risk of bodily harm, even death. They know what it is to walk by faith. This cuts my soul.
I have so much more than they. I have more stuff. I have opportunities that my education and my wealth afford me. I can shield myself, protect myself. I can play it safe. I hardly know what sacrifice means when I look at these followers of Jesus, let alone Jesus himself. These students rise at 5 a.m. for a voluntary prayer service of their own making. They gather after supper at 7 p.m. and ask for Dave Walker or some other visiting minister to talk to them about Christ and the Gospel. The limit of my devotion is to pray for a while in shadows of the dawn from the warmth of my bed.
I know that asceticism and fanaticism are over the top. I learned that studying church history. But I’m coming clean. I do not know much about following God with true passion. It’s in my head—I truly do grasp it. I can teach it preach it. But true religion is emptying myself and my treasure in the real world.
So I am “slapped down.” It’s something I need to pay attention to. I know I am thought to be a generous, caring, and giving person. But that’s in the eyes of men. Before God I have along way to go. And I need to go on my knees. I fear that American followers of the Way (such as myself) know next to nothing about walking the talk. We give a lot. But there is small sacrifice in it.
I always tell my students that there are no U-Hauls on hearses. But am I really living in the light of this old Gospel-song truth: “This world is not my home, I’m just a-passing through, and I cain’t feel at home in this world anymore.”
Will Somebody help me? There’s nothing wrong with enjoying life—sure thing. But is the danger to my soul that I will not spend enough time enjoying the good life? Yeah, right!
Slap me down: then you can pick me up.
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