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!