Going Home

It is time to go home. One of my students, Suraj Lepcha, offers to ride along as Anil drives me to the Dehradun airport over an hour away. I am glad for the offer, since Anil knows about 25 words of English and I know 3 words in Hindi. Lepcha by contrast speaks good English.
Lepcha is one of the students who sat in the front row for 36 hours of lecture with his eyes bugging out and writing down every word, it seemed. He tells me how my style captured him, and the content filled his heart as well as mind. I have seen the philosophy bug bite a student here and there in my adjunct teaching experience.
So I ask him to tell me his story. Bu now we are choking on the smoggiest air since I arrived on October 22. Anil is dodging dogs, cows, bikes, trucks, and pedestrians in downtown Dehradun—as usual.
Lepcha tells me he is from Nepal. Obviously, he is oriental—but then several eastern states in India nestle against Myanmar. So he could be Indian.
How did he get to this college? Well, it is actually not that far in miles, since Nepal borders India and Tibet. He has a sponsor—a woman in Germany. He calls her Mum.
My curiosity goes up a notch. Tell me more.
Actually, I am technically an orphan. My father was an alcoholic and took his own life when I was three years of age. My mother then abandoned me. A teacher in a Catholic school gave me shelter and helped me go to school. But my mind was messed up. I started doing drugs and ruining my life as a young teen.
There are churches near where I live. Christians from Germany came to hold some meetings for youth. That’s how I became a Christian. But it was still very hard. Everyone always wants to know your family—who are your parents? What could I say? If I say I am with the teacher, they would say bad things, for they know he is not married. And obviously, my parents are not from Germany.
So I was lonely—almost an outcast. Then the Lord called me to serve him, and I came to this college. Mum pays my fees, but it is hard with no one near to belong to. I told Mum I want to study and get to the top.
She is so wise. She said that is OK, but pray for the Lord to show you what he wants for you. So I realized I was being driven to get recognized, and with that, acceptance and love. But now God is showing me a way. I want to go back to Nepal to the poor area I come from and start a school, since kids out there have little chance to get and education.
That’s so great, I say. Because that is a way to get a church started here in north India. Will that work in Nepal?
O yes. Buddhists and Hindus—and Muslims, too—want their kids to get ahead so they will not always live hand to mouth.
Lepcha is musical—playing by ear. He plays bass guitar in the NTC praise team. Lots of talent. He knows that music is a way to build a base. Most of the Christians in Nepal are young people—not too many of their parents have come to faith.
Lepcha has a keen mind, too. He says the course opened up something he had been yearning for, even though he didn’t know what his mind was craving. He is persistent, too. He asked good questions of me. And if I did not hit the target he kept on asking. In fact, he tells me he is like that, and some of his friends get tired of his persistence in their dorm sessions. He keeps pressing until his mind is satisfied.
By now we are well out in the country and the air is easier to breathe. I see a small control tower ahead on the left. The hour has flown by—except for Anil, who has to watch everything like a hawk. He has to pass slow traffic on this narrow, busy road—always a white knuckler for me. So I am glad to be distracted by conversation.
I am eager to have Lepcha stay in touch. I can perhaps encourage his potential. I think he will make an impact in Nepal in areas not yet touched by the Gospel.
I give him my card with the email contact. “I will have an email waiting for you when get to the USA tomorrow!”
We park at the terminal—if you can call it that. Just a low building with a scanner for bags and one check-in desk. Kingfisher Air has only two flights a day.
Just before I go past the officer guarding the entrance, I have Anil take a photo of Lepcha and me, my only Nepalese student so far.
Well, it’s time to go. I will trust myself to the worldwide airlines system, expecting it to deliver me to Logan in Boston in about 24 transit hours.
This is what is significant: A week before I left for India in October, I struggled with the feeling that I really did not want to go. But I was committed, so there was no question of not making the journey.
Looking back, I realize that something did not want me to come here—derailing this mission that seems, to my surprise, to have touched more students in a significant way than was true of my previous six stints at New Theological College.
But God helped me not to listen to that temptation.
So now I keep giving God a “smile offering.” I cannot get over the things he is doing here that he has shown me.
With a joyous heart, I’m going home.

A Marriage Made in Heaven

The couple that has the house church in Dehradun (see earlier blog White Calvinist Preaches to Pentecoatal Indians) had me for dinner last night. We ate a bit early for them—8 PM. I told Sooraj that at home I would be thinking of stoking the fire and going up to bed about now.
His wife, Preeti, fixed a great meal. And this for a guy who struggles with most Indian food—not enough raw veggies and always pepper and curry a bit too hot in most dishes. But this was really good. The only thing that burned my virgin lips was some chicken bought at a market. Sooraj had asked that they hold back on the spice. They said OK. But it still left my lips tingling—a sensation not often felt since my younger days—but then let’s not go there.
So I felt really at home with these friends of several years now. I was teasing everyone. Sooraj said, “I like your sense of humor.” I don’t hear that much anymore.
We got talking about our families. I mentioned how I have three granddaughters in their mid-twenties and none yet married. Maybe I should put a marriage ad in the newpapers here and see if I can find someone. They need some help. The papers here have 4 pages with about 200 ads hawking the age, looks, caste, education and religion of women—and a few men, too. I guess the matchmakers here are not keeping up with their family responsibilities.
“Really? You have that in USA?” Sooraj asks. No – but we do have online match-making. Even one of my friends found a Christian soul mate wife that way—and they are very happy.
“Do you know any nice Indian guys who are Christians who might take a wife from the USA?”
He laughed.
But since we were on the subject, Preeti came in (wives serve during the meal, so she was not at table with us and the two kids), sat down and started bubbling over with her story.
She is a native of Dehradun, while Sooraj hails from 200 miles south.
She was getting into her mid-twenties. That’s when families do a full-court press to get their girls to the goal-line.
One prospect was a guy from a well-connected family. His mother was a politician and her father successful in his career. So they had means. Negotiations got under way.
Preeti’s parents said there was one obstacle—they had no money for the usual dowry. This is a constant concern in India. The girl should bring assets to the guy’s family.
But they were told that would not be necessary. Preeti would make a fine wife for their son. They need not anti-up with a dowry. Your daughter has a degree as well as advanced computer skills. She is a fine match for him.
So the engagement was announced. A wedding date set. And the couple were to start getting to know each other.
Now one must realize that an engagement here is much like in Bible times. Do you recall how Joseph, betrothed to Mary, actually had to take a public action when he wanted out due to her pregnancy? He resolved to do it privately—showing the kind heart he had toward her.
But in Preeti’s case there proved to be no kind hearts. The parents suddenly started making demands. Preeti’s folks would pay for the wedding and the huge feast that goes with it. They were to provide all the furnishings for the newlyweds’ house. When there was some hesitation over the turn of expectations the mother of the guy would call repeatedly and yell and scream why they were not willing to do as custom requires. Preeti’s parents were crushed—but had no way out since the engagement had been published abroad.
As Preeti, meanwhile, was getting to know her intended better, she began to have reservations—not just for her parents position but for herself. Her intuition sent up warnings. She found he was an alcoholic, for one thing. The future father-in-law is from Punjab—an area notorious for “accidental” burnings of young wives over dowry displeasure. She began to become depressed. Telling her parents her feelings she asked for them to break off the arrangement.
They did so. And all hell broke loose. Her relatives were shamed—how could you do this to our family name? And the guy’s parents loosed a torrent of false accusations about Preeti to the gossip mills. Preeti now crawled into a dark hole of despair. She thought, maybe I should just end my life.
At the time, Preeti was a Roman Catholic, so she knew where the answer lay although she was not truly converted. She began to call to Jesus for help. She had a Bible in the house that her father used to read from to the family. Only God can take her through this darkness. She starts to attend a brethren church nearby, with a pastor who preaches the Gospel. She is somewhat confused still and has the cloud of suicide in her mind.
The pastor’s wife senses her distress and invites her to come their home. The floodgates open in this safe place. She weeps for nearly an hour while the pastor’s wife just holds her and prays for her. Consolation and counsel follow. She gives it all to Jesus—whatever he has for her, even if she never marries.
In time she goes to work at the complex where the lepers have a cottage industry to support themselves, established by the Catholic church years ago. There is a young man who comes regularly to do outreach ministry to the people there—who have little contact and no hope for integration into society. He is soon to start a church next door where they can easily come. This is Sooraj, studying for ministry at New Theological College. They of course talk over lunch breaks and so on.
Some of their mutual friends see a match here. So one arranges for them to come to their home and meet in a proper way. Preeti is skittish, but agrees to come. Her parents even say it is OK for him to take her for coffee and talk there.
But Sooraj is extremely shy talking with a girl. “No—we’ll meet here,” he says.
So they share each other’s testimony. Preeti is careful to tell all the sorry business about her disgraced engagement fiasco. He expresses interest in her.
But Preeti has been burned—badly—by her ordeal. She is not sure. The trauma is still with her. She prays, asking for guidance. Sooraj is a believer. She will accept if God indicates. God seems to be saying “Yes.” Uncle George and Auntie Leela of NTC encourage the couple. “They will be right for each other.”
So the decision is made and a date set for nuptials.
Now preparation must go forward. Preeti’s parents will have to get everything ready. Lots of shopping for their daughter, lots of planning.
But Preeti cannot find it in her to take part. No shopping for her. She starts going to her room and reading the Psalms. She lights a candle to remind her of her need for light from above. For ten days she sequesters herself. She reads all 150 Psalms ten times during that fortnight. The candle burns out every time.
Wedding bells ring. She is putting on her veil. Still unsure, she keeps saying, “Lord, I am in your hands.”
And then it happens. As she and Sooraj start exchanging vows and rings, the joy of the Lord sweeps into her heart. A peace pushes all the darkness away. She is ecstatic. This is right!
Beaming now with animation, she has come home to the safe place in her Heavenly Father’s provision and in Sooraj’s love.
As Preeti finishes her story she is radiant before us. She is a beautiful woman, with a boy of 5 and a girl of 3. And they love the Lord so deeply and serve the poor and lowly with such devotion. He was 27 when they married, she 26. While they work on the campus now, they still minister to the people in and around the lepers’ home downtown, where I have preached several times over the last few years.
Sooraj asks me to pray for them before I leave.
As I walk the hundred paces back to the guest house, my heart is elated. God brings his people through their dark hours. She needed this trauma to get serious with Jesus. Once again, God brings good from the bad.
The heavenly Father arranged this union when earthly parents could not find a way. What a beautiful couple.
The meal was scrumptious, to be sure. But we feasted mostly on a heavenly food that nourishes not bodies but souls.

Give Thanks in All Circumstances.

This admonition from the Apostle sounds well and good. But is it realistic, one is tempted to ask? Terrible things can happen for which one cannot be thankful.
True, but the command says to give thanks to God, not to be thankful for the situation per se. And we have to admit—St. Paul actually did this despite the incredible hardships he endured. It is not cheap advice that he is giving us.
Professor Solomon Bison invited me to tea today, where his wife, Ruby, told me of her bout with ovarian cancer. She was eager to tell me, since she knows I am a cancer survivor myself, having had prostate surgery in 1999.
She was diagnosed on June 17, the day before her birthday and scheduled for treatment the next day. Her friends unexpectedly came that same day with her gifts and they were able to celebrate before she had to leave on the train next morning.
But she was apprehensive, naturally, as I had been, praying, “Lord will I be OK or is this my time?” But in a dream that night God indicated he would be with her and she would survive. Something similar had comforted me ten years ago.
Tests soon showed that she had ovarian cancer. They would operate and take her ovary, several surrounding lymph nodes, and part of her stomach lining.
However as she went for the testing, she and Solomon were worrying about the expenses. If she had to stay in Delhi for tests and then surgery and recovery they would never be able to meet the costs. They decided to trust God for that and go forward.
She met a Christian nurse who told her about an experienced surgeon who was local and who made a fast track for her to see him ahead of four others waiting for a consultation. He assured her that her condition was treatable and he could do it more locally at half the cost—about 100,000 rupees.
Friends at the college here, even students, hearing of her need had contributed 50,000 rupees. They needed double that. They were encouraged that God would supply the finances.
A pastor came to pray with them and left an envelope with Solomon with the warning not to lose it or let the children find it since it had some money in it. After leaving the pastor phoned and asked, “Did you guard the envelope?” “O yes, but I have not had time to count yet.” The next day he got an email asking the same question. Expecting a small gift from the pastor, he opened the seal and counted. To his astonishment it came to 55,000 rupees, meeting their immediate need with 5,000 extra! God was taking care as promised.
She was set for an MRI. But as she was being prepped she coughed. The doctors asked about that. When she told them her condition, they canceled the MRI since if she should have a coughing fit during the procedure it would have be done again later, doubling the expense. Once again, the expenses were cut down for her.
The doctors operated to remove the ovary, some lymph nodes and adjacent parts of her stomach. Lab tests would later show cancer only in the ovary—very good news.
But as she was being brought out of anesthesia suddenly her pulse went to zero and her breathing stopped. The doctors rushed in to get her to a room with oxygen and so forth. Solomon was panicking. The doctors ordered him to leave the theatre.
During this time she was in a lot of pain, since she could not tolerate the usual painkillers. She was so exhausted from the long ordeal. Then a most unusual experience came to her.
When her heart stopped beating she saw a table with a line down the middle. Her body lay on the other side of this line while she was on the other. A voice called to her. “If you are tired, just come to me.” She knew it was Jesus speaking to her. “O, that would be so nice to rest and go into your presence in heaven.”
“Just come, then.”
She could see a long line of funeral cars leaving the West Gate of the college.
“But the people at the college will be so sad! And my husband and young children—who will care for them? God, I need to go back…!” She was shouting now.
Someone placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Ruby! You are back—you are going to be OK.” The doctor was gently shaking her shoulder as she opened her eyes.
The doctor said she was “dead” for several minutes—no pulse, no breathing. And then she got a weak pulse that gradually got stronger. In a short time she was out of danger.
The next day in the ward recovering, she could not sleep. Nurses urged her to get some rest. But there was a child in the ward who would not eat. His father was in tears, expecting the worst. Ruby motioned would the child like a piece of her banana. For some reason the boy nodded Yes. So he took a piece of banana and ate it. Then he asked for more fruit. “Don’t worry about your son,” Ruby said. “I have been praying and God has showed me he will be OK.”
A woman in the ward heard this and spoke to Ruby. “I have been so ill and prayed constantly to our gods and all they do is taunt me and make fun of me!” There was much anger in her voice. “The true God can heal you,” Ruby said. “Do you want me to pray?” “O Yes!” “I will ask my husband for a New Testament for you to read about the love of Jesus if you like.” So the next day a friend came with the Testament to give to her. She was so happy as Ruby shared with her about the One who cares enough to have given his life for us.
The time came for her and Solomon to take the train back home. By mistake, the one who ordered the ticket got the wrong day—the train leaving just at midnight. He felt so bad. But they went to the station anyway, hoping something could be worked out.
There was a car for invalids on this run. They asked the train guard if they could find a seat now in that car.
“You have cancer? I say yes, and your husband too since you need his help.” God was opening the way.
As Ruby went to the toilet she looked into the next car. There were two empty seats. “Come, we can sit here!” she exclaimed. Solomon was unsure, since this was a car reserved for women only. But somehow no one objected when they sat down.
As Ruby engaged the woman next to her in conversation, she began to recite all that Jesus was doing for her. The entire car was silent, listening in. Several wanted to have a New Testament to learn about this God who touches his children so tenderly yet so powerfully. So Ruby got to witness to a number of Hindus during the train ride. Hindu gods are demanding and often cruel.
“In all your ways—good and bad—acknowledge Him and He will direct your paths.” This is Ruby’s way.
Having cancer is not fun.
But Ruby is beaming as she recites her experience. She and Solomon have seen God’s hand again and again.
They keep giving thanks in all things.

Life as a Board Game

In the Hindu worldview, all is One. Philosophers call this metaphysical monism of a double kind. All existence is both one in kind and one in number. All distinctions are merely aspects of the One.
As an analogy consider your own person. You are a single human being, not a conglomerate of several humans. Your playful side and your sober side are not two humans that take turns taking over your consciousness. They are two aspects of a single but complex being—namely, yourself.
But eastern worldviews emphasize the one and downplay the many. They hold that there is one ultimate being—Brahman—a world Soul, if you will. That means that, while indescribable in itself, it is helpful for us to think of Brahman as a non-material being, having no size or shape or location.
Human souls are understood as Atman. It appears to us that there are many such souls. But in the end all human souls are one soul—Atman. And Atman, in the end, is identical with Brahman. Hence Brahman is the only existing reality.
This is difficult for westerners to grasp. We tend to think there is a huge multiplicity of things that are distinct—related only by loose associations.
The task of each human being is to return to the One. We live now as fragmented beings, under the illusion that we are separate entities. And that brings suffering to us. Suffering arises when the individual person has desires that conflict with reality. If we could only achieve enlightenment, realizing that all is one, then would we would find release from this world of shadows and be lost in the One forever. The World Soul and our soul would be united. Our soul would not exist as such and our sufferings would end.
Each person, then, must work out his own salvation in his own way. All paths of redemption lead to the same destination—the One. When each of us takes a chosen path and follows faithfully, we will arrive at the same End. It is like getting to the top of the mountain by whatever path and the stepping off the summit and vanishing into thin air never to return—thank the gods! Atman in us has been united with Brahman. We as individuals are no more.
That explains the caste system. Each soul is struggling on the path of human life because it has not yet gotten to the top. And to come in touch with others who are lower on the path than you only means you go back five spaces. So those who are near the top do not want to touch those below as it means they have to start all over again from the bottom—or at least from a few spaces back.
Jesus taught an entirely different worldview. Each soul is a distinct entity created by God that will exist forever. Each person is forever unique. Each is related to God personally.
God, unlike Brahman, knows we are here and cares about us. God is able to give grace to those who want it and ask for it.
Life is like a board game, where the goal is to get to Heaven. When we land on the square of “Salvation” we are allowed to go directly into God’s presence, all debts cancelled. No more rolls of the dice are needed.
At that point we do not vanish into thin air. We find ourselves in the midst of a feast ringing with singing and dancing and the joy of relationships—first with our loving heavenly Father and then with each other. This takes place not in some vacuous cloud of nothingness but in a new heaven and new earth like the one we know now—only purged of sin and evil.
This is the meaning of grace—the unmerited favor of a God who loves us and wants us to enjoy His presence forever.
I, for one, am so glad that the ultimate being—God—is not disgusted with me because I am polluted with sin and unfit for his presence. I am so thankful that I do not have come back a million times to work off every sin that stains my soul. He is giving me an extreme makeover fit for His holy presence.
My board game faith says, Do not pay a fine, Do not pass go again and again, Do not bury yourself in houses and lands. Go directly to the Banquet Hall where the redeemed are celebrating the victory of the Lamb.

Hindu women and girls

Two Roads Diverging

In the Hindu worldview, all is One. Philosophers call this metaphysical monism of a double kind. All existence is both one in kind and one in number. All distinctions are merely aspects of the One.
As an analogy consider your own person. You are a single human being, not a conglomerate of several humans. Your playful side and your sober side are not two humans that have turns taking over your consciousness. They are two aspects of a single but complex being—namely, yourself.
But eastern worldviews emphasize the one and downplay the many. They hold that there is one ultimate being—Brahman—a World Soul, if you will. This means that, while indescribable in itself, it is helpful for us to think of Brahman as a non-material being, having no size or shape or location.
Human souls are understood as Atman. It appears to us that there are many such souls. But in the end all human souls are one soul—Atman. And Atman, in the end, is identical with Brahman. Hence Brahman is the only existing reality.
This is difficult for westerners to grasp. We tend to think there is a huge multiplicity of things that are distinct—related only by loose associations.
The task of each human being is to return to the One. We live now as fragmented beings, under the illusion that we are separate entities. And that brings suffering to us. Suffering arises when the individual person has desires that conflict with reality. If we could only achieve enlightenment, realizing that all is one, then would we would find release from this world of shadows and be lost in the One forever. The World Soul and our soul would be united. Our soul would not exist as such and our sufferings would end.
Each person, then, must work out his own salvation in his own way. All paths of redemption lead to the same destination—the One. When each of us takes a chosen path and follows faithfully, we will arrive at the same End. It is like getting to the top of the mountain by whatever path and then stepping off the summit and vanishing into thin air never to return—thank the gods! Atman in us has been united with Brahman. We as individuals are no more.
In Hinduism, however, the One can manifest itself to us in many forms, including gods who are demanding and often angry with us. As one woman said to Ruby, a faculty wife here who is having cancer treatments, the gods are making fun of us in our sufferings.
Thankfully the God who came to us in Jesus Messiah is not an abstract featureless being. He is one who knows us and cares about us and about all of his creation.
Suppose there is a house in your town that is rundown—an eyesore. The people in it are on drugs day and night and what goes on there is despicable. The neighbors want it demolished as it affecting their property values and is blot on the area. How can they have a safe and pleasant place to live with this squalor just around the corner?
Suppose that that house goes on the market and you find the money to purchase it. It is now yours. Now everything takes on a new prospect. It is now your mess. The stink and filth is still abhorrent. However you can now do something with it. It has possibilities. You start making plans for its future. You begin to delight in it—not for what it is but for what it will be when you are done with reclaiming it.
This is what God is up to. He has published his architectural design for what we will become.
I am so glad God is not disgusted with me due to the pollution of my sins, making fun of my misery. God delights in me—not for what I am now but for what he will make of me once his transforming plans are complete. I have a hope and a future. He is transforming me one step and a time.
God is disgusted, even angry, with those who are unrepentant, who want to continue in their ways, who are rebelling against the renovations called for in the plans. They choose degradation and delight in depravity.
But I have signed up for the new neighborhood and submit to what I must change to meet the entrance requirements. My personal therapy is paid for by the New Owner—as it is for all who choose to undergo the extreme makeover. There are two roads and I have chosen the one less traveled. But its narrow track leads to the Father's House.
The contrast between the ultimate destiny of those who walk in the dark ways of eastern philosophy and religion and those whose delight is to walk in the light with Jesus is striking.
In India the contrasts are starkly obvious. There is little grey area here. Darkness and light. The difference is unmistakable. God has called us out of our darkness and into his marvelous light.

Flunko, Flunkere, Flunki, Flunktus

Herewith I cause my Latin teacher of yore to spin in his grave as I create a bit of Latin doggerel that I think expresses a mood that overtakes one when an exam has been a disaster. I do not recall if this came from the subterranean vaults of my deep (yea! now very, very deep) mind or if it was a byword of my mates at Roxbury Latin School (where I spent six very long years), whose motto is “Mortui Vivos Docent.” “The Dead Teach the Living.” (Now there’s a slogan for you!)
Lacrimosa. Another fitting word from the Romans. Yes—tears are threatening to overflow the dam that males have at the shores of their eyes. Lacrimossissima.
I gave a midterm yesterday and 90% of the class FLUNKED!
Incredible mishmash of clichéd concepts from mushy minds. If I had hair to spare I would sacrifice some to assuage my grief.
Any professor knows that a failure of that magnitude is a failure of the teacher as well.
I must consult my never-failing books of Helpful Advice. Two volumes in this set—What to Do and Don’t Do It.
Looking up What to Do I find an entry that says berate them roundly and apply the heat of public humiliation. Don’t Do It warns against rash remedies designed to merely make the teacher feel better. Hmm….
WTD suggests making them all come in the evening and re-sit the exam. DDI mentions that doing the same thing again expecting different results is the first step toward insanity. Hmm….
These volumes of advice are not going anywhere. As a sagacious philosopher, I can grasp that the two volumes are designed to negate one another on every point.
Thrown upon my own devises, then.

I know, I will tear down my exam morgue and build a bigger one, then say to myself, "Well done, you now have a superfluity of exam questions. Sit back, lay it on them again, and take your ease."
Yipes! That means I’ll have to grade another set of exams. Who am I punishing here?
Time for some deeper thinking….
Aha! I will cancel the second reading report (it tends to be meaningless copying of ideas from the textbook) and have them research answers to the mid-term and hand that in instead. That way they will correct their own mistakes, prepare themselves for the final exam, and make it easy for me see improvements. I will tell them that at least two of the questions will re-appear on the final. That should motivate them with a carrot instead of a stick.
Meanwhile, I will give a lecture on how to write ideas that form a logical argument, thereby helping to drain the mush from their swampy minds and harden some dialectical bedrock as they climb the hills of higher learning.
I am smiling now, wiping the tears away, and looking for better things.
As Gilbert and Sullivan once put it in an operetta: A Professor’s Lot Is Not a Happy One.
This marathon (a whole course in 12 days) is approaching Heart-break Hill. Take courage, my soul. There are many more tears ready to overflow the brim and wash your optimism away.
I’d give anything to stop that conjugation that keeps tormenting me….
Flunko, flunkere, flunki, flunktus….

JWG with Python

The Sudheer Family

J Gustafson preaching at rural church in India

Rural church in India

Rural church in India

New Theological College

To see where these blogs are coming from, check out the NTC website.

http://www.ntcdoon.org/

White Calvinist preaches to Pentecostal Indians.

As new friends from the USA dress in their new saris and tunics to go to the college church, I don my old suit and wait for Sooraj and Preeti to pick me up.
Some years ago, when I visited the house church across the street from the leper colony, Sooraj perched me on the back of his cycle. But now that he has a family, we go in his car.
As is typical in house churches, throw rugs have been laid down to cover the concrete floor The room about ten feet by fifteen. As people drift in they find a place to squat. I am given a plastic patio chair. Others here may look older, but I am the senior, for sure. Maybe it's courtesy. Maybe I just look awkward. No matter, I am happy to be sitting. As we start to sing, more people drift in. Some sit outside the door as the space fills. One is a small dark-skinned old man with a suit that has not seen repair or cleaning in decades. Several worshipers are from the college, well dressed by comparison. Two older women are against the back wall. Preeti wheels out a heater that looks like a radiator and plugs it in. I guess she knows that the two old crones have not much to keep them warm during the two hour service.
Young children from two years to ten sit near the front. The younger have Bible story picture books to look at. They are mostly quiet and do not seem to disturb the adults.
A student from NTC gives a 15 minute Bible exposition from Lamentations 3. Every eye is locked on him as he drives the lesson home. Then it is time for music. By now there are perhaps 35 people covering every square inch of the floor.
In the corner at the front this same NTC student has a harmonium sitting on the floor where he squats. His left hand moves a bellows back and forth, while his right plays a melody with a few alto and tenor notes thrown in. Preeti and Sooraj have tamborines. Another lad plays a bongo drum that sits in his lap. The songs are all in Hindi, of course. But a few have repeated alleluias that I catch on to. The crescendo rises to a nearly deafening pitch. Some begin to stand and clap. The little old man gets up to dance, bent at the waist, with his arms and legs moving almost like a step dance. Hands begin to rise in praise to the Lord. One father, about 40 years of age, rises and sings at the top of his voice, segueing into prayer. Others are now praying aloud, quieting only when Sooraj begins to sing out the next song.
Sooraj had told me on the ride to town that several people had just come out of Hinduism and were troubled by demons. This is very, very common. I know you may think this is unscientific. But then, you have not been here with me to do your own firsthand research. As for me, I have no doubts, I tell him.
Sure enough, one young woman of about 35, Seema, begins to pray. As she gets more excited her face begins to twist. She is standing now, very proud and agitated. She starts to leap a few inches off the floor. It seems a mixture of ecstasy and agony. Pastor Sooraj gets up and goes to her, placing his hands on her head and praying with much fervor. I cannot get the words. But I sense what he is doing. I lift my hands in their direction and call on the name of Jesus to cover this woman with his blood and deliver her from her torment. In a minute or two she calms, melts to the floor, extending backward until she is horizontal between two ladies squatting nearby.
Prayer requests are next. At least eight go on at some length about their needs. One older woman next to me is in tears. I learn later that there is sickness and trouble in her family. More singing. An offering bag is taken around by a beautiful 10 year old girl with a sweet smile—the kind you want to take back home with you.
Sooraj introduces me. I have preached here two previous years. I will sit while speaking, as they will all have their eyes on Sooraj anyway, since most will not understand my words. Besides, I am closer to their level, and that is important for eye contact.
I take my text from Romans 8. Once we were all untouchable to our Holy God. But He found a way to come to us, cleanse us, and call us his dear children. Paul went through all kinds of trials, just as these people do. Many have been rejected by their families or ostracized by caste and disease. Many have lost dear ones to premature death. India has untold misery almost everywhere you look. And Hinduism is a dark demon-ridden religion. But God has a future for us all. The sentences roll forth. God is helping me, I know it. Sooraj and I hit a rhythm. I started at 11:30. Now it is after noon. No one is restless.
I end by telling of a father who had one son, who feels the call to ministry at an early age. Family responsibilities prevent him from starting his ministry until he is about thirty. A powerful preacher, many miracles attend his ministry. But people turn against him and his work is cut down after three short years. Enemies kill him in his prime, breaking his father’s heart. His name? Jesus—the one whom the Father raised from the dead and has seated on the throne. He enables us to be children of his Father. He will wipe away every tear. We, like Paul, will consider all our pain and suffering as nothing—slight momentary afflictions—not worthy to be compared with the glory he has prepared for us.
Sooraj closes in prayer.
After the service Sooraj is counseling the young woman under oppression. We lay hands on her and pray again. I put my arm on her shoulder and she lays her head on mine and squeezes me real hard. I learn the details later. She came to Jesus and her family tossed her out, along with three children, ages 6-13. She has a sister who believes and was with her today. Her husband has nothing to do with her. She must fend for herself. And the Hindu spirits come from time to time to oppress and torment her. No psychological therapy is going to help this woman. Only the delivering power of Jesus can set her free. And she is coming more and more to peace of mind. She is not going back into the darkness, come what may.
This week we observe the 500th birthday of John Calvin. Some of his disciples today say miracles died with the apostles. Yeah—right!
“The prince of darkness grim, we tremble not for him. His rage we can endure, for lo, his doom is sure. One little word shall fell him.” Luther got it right in this Reformation hymn.
Today we saw the Prince of Peace drive back the darkness in one woman’s life.

Of Schools, Snakes, and Beggars

Up and out early on a Saturday. Nine of us guests pile into to minivan taxis and head off for an adventure.
Our taxi driver is amazing. One drives with the horn in India. Either side of the road is OK if it is open. Now “open” is a vague term here. Oncoming traffic may be a bus or truck puffing along on its diesel smoke. Or a scooter carrying one, two, or even three if the last is a small child held in the mother’s arms, perched on the back like a gymnast who has mastered balance. Or it could be a bullock cart creaking along at half a mile an hour pulling sugar cane. Perhaps it is a bicycle ridden by a cripple who has rigged up wheels and gears so he "pedals" with his left hand. I'll not mention a swarm of people walking on either side of the road and on the road, too.
So the driver honks as he approaches a walker, a bus, a motorbike, or a fruit and vegetable pushcart. Then he sweeps into the oncoming lane, guns it, jerking back into place as oncoming mirrors swoosh by with barely an inch to spare from hitting ours. It’s a sport, really. Riding shotgun, I concentrate on not hitting the phantom brake pedal with my right foot—or sucking in my breath too loudly.
An hour of this brings us to a one-track lane hedged in by fields of 12 foot high sugarcane. And there it is—a two acre field with a bright iron gate, A sign on the arch says Krist Jyoti Academy. Jyoti is Hindi for “children.” Next door a 6 inch bore of water streams into channels flooding some rice paddies about to be planted. Egrets pluck insects. Crops grow 12 months here. A sugar crop and a wheat or rice crop.
The headmaster comes to greet us. I recognize the face. As we enter the small office room, I see another young man and a woman whom I had in my ethics class at New Theological College in 2006. They are running this school where there is no other school for several miles. We visit some classes. Kids all in a uniform dress, from teeny 4 your olds to the big kids in standard (grade) 7. If we enter, they all rise to face us and give a unison greeting. Soon some of our party are teaching them songs like “Deep and Wide” that have motions. Brooke (from Salt Lake City) teaches a lesson as the teacher translates. She blows bubble gum as an illustration of her points about the Pharisee and the Tax Collector regarding pride and humility. The teacher? He has no gum and blows no bubbles. At the end each child gets a piece of bubble gum.
In an older class we get all the kids into the center and sing and dance “The Hokey-Pokey.” It’s a way to learn some English—left foot, right foot, shake, turn about.
We learn how successful this ministry can be. All castes must be together. Some parents start coming to the startup church. They know their kids will learn the Lord’s Prayer and study about Jesus in history class. But they don't care. It's a better education than the public schools. In the after school program for kids in public schools there is more opportunity to teach Bible and Christian beliefs.
The leaders of Krist Jyoti Academy are praying for funds to put on a second floor so they can offer high school also. $50,000 would do it.
Santosh and his wife serve us a meal they cannot afford. Santosh does not eat—he is fasting. We pray for them—they lost a special needs daughter in July at age 7. Grief is still close to the surface, as are the tears.
“Lord, show us how we can help them,” is our prayer as we wave goodbyes.
In a few miles we turn off to a Dalit village of snake charmers. These untouchables have old suitcases and woven baskets on a platform. Each has a snake inside it. An older boy drops a dark plastic bag on the ground and starts pulling out a reptile. One foot. Two feet. Three, four, five, six, seven! A python slithers around. The brave among us have our photos taken crouching by the black and white animal, touching his beautiful skin. He ignores us pretty much.
Next a cobra raises its hooded head from a basket. The charmer waves his hand near. Hiss and strike! Someone says it has been de-fanged. Still—it is a fearsome specimen. And by the way, they say the viper is deaf to the music the handler plays, focusing only on the swaying motion of the instrument.
Sam passes some money to the handler. But an old woman is staring at us and shouting angrily. She doesn’t see the money transaction. When she turns she is satisfied and calms down.
After that, it’s Haridwar, (God’s Door or God's Mouth) a holy site where several million pilgrims are expected in a few weeks to celebrate a Hindu festival. Hawkers and stalkers are in the crowds. Girls about age 7 to 9 are bumping us and pointing to their little dishes for our money. We scowl and say no with a firm voice. Uncle says that if you give anything you will be mobbed like bees around a hive. Besides, they are pimped by handlers who take the money for themselves, feeding these urchins only enough to keep them working.
Our women are taking photos of bathers washing away their sins in the sacred Ganges, while the guys are trying to form a safety ring around our photo-snapping ladies. We spy three young men casting hungry eyes upon them. We do not stay long.
Pradeep has been shooting movie footage all day for the college. We get back to our cars and cannot find him. Needle in a haystack time. Sam calls his cell phone. No longer in service. Sam calls his wife back at home. Gets new number. Uncle calls and Pradeep answers. He is only a few yards away panning the crowd and sees Sam and Uncle in his lens.
Off we go. Past the little monkeys lining the road in the forest preserve. Begging is good for them as Hindus get merit by feeding them. Sam tells us of riding through here once on his bike when several trees were down blocking the road. Elephants push trees over here onto the road since the tops do not get hung up in the over-story. They know that they will come to the ground where they can eat the leaves. Unpredictable beasts. It takes courage to wait for a chance to pass by them. Sam has managed to bypass them various times—but not without a rise in blood pressure.
Roads are packed—and it is not pilgrimage time yet. That’s India—people everywhere in the cities and larger towns. Uncle says India's population is far more than the official tally. Perhaps 1.2 billion souls. 460 languages and people groups, hundreds never reached by the Gospel as yet.
That’s why we serve him. That’s why we’re here. To rescue some from the original serpent who still holds so many in darkness. We must pray—more. We must give—more. The church is starting to rise to the challenge here, the densest population of the unreached in the world.

Back to School

Having a bit of unexpected flex-time, I decide to join Doug Johns in auditing a class having to with implications of the Gospel for Indian society and culture. Doug is a Presbyterian minister from Canada and a long-time friend.
I am a tad late getting to the classroom. The windowless doors are always closed as classes begin. So I had to crack it open to be sure I was in the right place. Yes! The professor nods for me to come in. I do so and try to slip into the nearest tablet arm.
But—this is India. Doug Johns is in the front row and he stands to his feet. (Most of us do it that way—what a silly phrase!) The students rise. I motion them to sit down. No way. Two jump up to find a better chair for me. They cart it over and motion for me to sit there. I do so. Only then do they all sit down again.
Within a few minutes in comes another pastor—Tim, from California, and his “sparkly-braces” 14 year old daughter, Sheridan. They had been delayed—someone wanted to greet them along the way. Again we all stand. Two students rush to the empty classroom nearby and cart in two chairs for the guests. In a moment or two, all settles down again to the lecture.
I later asked Doug why he had jumped to his feet as soon as he saw me peering in from the hallway. “O—I just noticed what happened when the professor came in and copied the protocol!” I must say Doug is a study in quick learning.
Now the lecture is resuming.
He is asking what pastors and churches are supposed to do.
Win people to Jesus, they reply.
What about the culture at large? Not our focus.
Professor Samuel points out that the culture affects the individual believer so deeply that that cannot be our only focus. He illustrates his point by asking about what Christians put in Christian magazines when advertising for a husband or wife. All the students know the answer.
“Mr. and Mr. X seek a wife with traits X, Y, and Z for their son, 24. Applicants must have a good appearance, age 19-24, who (among other things) is a firm Christian and high caste.” (The same for ads seeking husbands.)
Is this scriptural, he asks.
No. But the point is made. Individuals may be converted to Christ but they are still shaped by the culture—in this case a caste-based culture. So we must study the culture if we are to serve the Gospel faithfully.
Another example shows that even good intentions can often hinder the Gospel if the culture is not critically examined.
Some Christians seek to reach out in Jesus’ name to a rural village. What do you need, they ask the villagers, who caucus and agree that they could use a better road and a well. The women have to walk several miles each day to get water. So they show Christian charity and improve the road and bore a well.
A few months after completing the project they return to see how things are going. Families of low caste living on the edge of the village are still walking miles each day for water. How can this be? The village leaders explain. We cannot drink water from a well that is used by those low caste people who clean latrines and haul away garbage.
Despite good intentions, these Christians had not done a critical analysis of the culture. They had not talked to the low caste members of the village at all. But they were supposedly following Jesus, who put the rights of the poor and oppressed at the heart of true faith. But the church in this case unwittingly favored those in power who oppress the poor.
Another example.
Well-intentioned missionaries from Britain came to India many years ago and built schools and hospitals, thinking that it would trickle down to all the people. But for the most part it served the upper castes, making things worse. Today Indian Christians own vast amounts of land and thus are wealthy enough to do much for the downtrodden. But the churches look like the culture—class separated from class.
An example of how land value can soar here. This college was built on land that was then a mango orchard. They purchased about 20 acres in 1986 at a cost of $5000 USD per acre. Now an acre here costs $500,000, a 100-fold increase in 23 years.
And just as in the USA, pastors can build big churches with palatial buildings and obscene salaries while the poor grow ever more desperate.
Professor Samuel bears down on his final point to justify this course in Church and Culture.
Social structure needs to be part of our concern along with individual conversion lest the world keep us in its mold to the discredit of Christ. The mission of Jesus and of the Apostles required a commitment to transform the culture not just save the individual. There can be no discrimination of rich and poor, educated and unlettered, male and female, elite and commoner. The epistle of James alone makes that point indelibly clear. “God chose the poor of this world…to possess the Kingdom he promised to those who love him. But you dishonor the poor, while the rich drag you off to court and speak evil of that good name which has been given to you.” James 2:5-7 “You must never treat people by their outward appearance, saying to the wealthy ‘You take the best seat here’ while telling the poor man to sit on the floor by my feet.’” James 2:1-4 Such discrimination is evil. Yet we allow it in our assemblies even today.
These future leaders are not going to find it easy to stand against centuries of caste that curses their nation. The great Ghandi knew caste was evil but in the end even he refused to stand against it, for he deemed it necessary to keep India, India.
To its credit, when this college starts a school in various towns in these hills where the Hindu gods reign supreme, it presents a different application form from other schools. Applications ask for the name, address, income level and religion of the family enrolling their child. But they have struck out the box that asks for “caste.” Some parents write it in themselves since caste is crucial here. Such a form is rejected and returned to the parents. The Christian school wants to be blind to caste distinctions that dominate the Indian mindset.
Parents often ask if their child will have to sit next to a low caste child. They do not like this. “We do not consider caste in this school. We follow the Christian God who loves all equally and does not allow such distinctions.”
Since the Christian schools are excellent in comparison to the competition, even Hindu families accept the policy that does not guarantee their child a privileged position.
So they are going through what the USA experienced when our schools were integrated some fifty years ago.
“Save souls; transform society.” A worthy lesson for church leaders here in India.
It’s good to sit and listen to a fine lecture and to meditate on how Christians in America need to model the Kingdom of God in which there is neither religious or secular, make nor female, privileged nor poor, for all are one in the Lord.

My Children

This is now my seventh teaching tour to India. I suppose that makes me a veteran. That word means the Old One. On this campus I am by far the oldest, with the venerable founder, Uncle George, a distant decade and one half behind me. So Uncle G and Dr. G, as we are called, represent the wisdom that comes from long experience. Such as it is….
Perhaps you wonder why everyone in authority here may be referred to only by his initials but always has a title of some sort. Indian tradition insists that any one with grey hair who is “somebody” has a title—doctor, pastor, professor, etc. The founder and his wife are honored with the title Uncle and Auntie. I wonder if the reason is that Uncle’s surname is Chavanikamannil—quite a mouthful. In my case, Gustafson is to their ears just weird. So it's just "Uncle" and "Dr. G."
Now—getting to the point.
I sometimes meet students who were in my classes years ago. Two of them bring joy to my heart—Kalpana, recently married, and Dalmesh recently blessed with a child. Each of them regards me as a father in the faith who added value to their education. It is very humbling to think that this poor kid from Boston could have an influence on young adults in far-away India.
I understand now why the aging apostle would four times refer to the younger generation as “my children.” Check it out in the letter of First John.
Scene One
Kalpana and her identical twin sister, Archana, were in my ethics class here five years ago. Married to Bonny a month ago, Kapu (her childhood nickname) and her handsome husband were feted last weekend here on campus, where Kalpana, being a faculty kid, had grown up since age eight.
Before leaving for their ministry in Delhi, Bonny and Kalpana came to say goodbye to Uncle G. As we chatted, she mentioned a few things that she still remembered from the ethics class. I asked her if the class had been of any benefit in real life. What could she say when set up like that? Still, her positive answer seemed sincere. Bonny is a wheeler-dealer evangelist type. He was given a few minutes for his remarks at the reception. After a minute of profuse thanks to all the family and friends, he couldn’t help but segue into an appeal. He sounded just like Billy Graham did in 1950. Passion. “Why are you here in Bible college? To get adulation? To have a secure income from a church? To please your parents? Or are you willing to die for Jesus in the villages and towns in these Christ-less hills? Close your eyes. Raise your hand if you will here and now re-commit yourself to God’s will.” That sort of thing. He was not about to lose an opportunity even in a setting where everyone is a Christian heading for ministry.
Back in Delhi he has found ways to get the message into schools and colleges and even the public square by featuring musicians. It reminded me of Soulfest. He gets a rock band into the huge malls in Delhi. Everyone gathers around for the music. Then the stars tell how they got out of drugs or whatever because Jesus rescued them. Amazing! In a place where a preacher would be clapped in jail, a “rock star” can give his testimony between sets. He has a radio talk show. This guy is a dynamo for the kingdom. And our Kalpana is there to reach out to women and girls. They are actually planting churches and starting schools for slum kids—in the style of St. Paul: "that by all means I might win some." (I Corinthians 9:22)
My time with them flew by. I asked them if it was true that they met on Facebook. Bonny blanched and was about to defend his honor when Kalpana, having sat in my classes for two weeks, just laughed and said they had been true to the Indian style of courtship—the parents are central, not the Internet.
Uncle George invited Pastor Doug and me to join a circle of prayer, laying hands on this beautiful couple and commending them to the care of our Lord as they keep laying down their lives for Him.
Yes—cast your philosophical bread upon the waters and it will come back to feed your soul later on.
Scene Two
Waiting for supper yesterday I decided to walk in the gardens here in the cool of day. The sun had just gone to its rosy-tinted bed. The moon and Mars were holding hands in the purple of gathering dusk.
I chanced on a figure walking toward me. As he drew close enough to recognize, I (miraculously) had his name come to the surface.
“Dalmesh!”
“You remember me!”
“O yes. You sat just to my left in the front row in class two years ago. I remember you well.”
The reason I recall this so vividly has to do with his story.
He was one of the first to enroll here from the caste know as Dalit. They are not perhaps the lowest of the low in India. But they are definitely among those who used to be referred to as the Untouchables.
That designation comes from the rules of the caste system. People are born into a caste on the basis of their deeds in past lives. The law of karma says you are rewarded for your good deeds and punished for your sins. Low castes are destined to serve the higher castes. If one does this without complaint, what goes around may come around in a future incarnation such that you rise to a higher level. If not, your soul could go down a notch or two. After a million cycles you might climb to the top caste, check out, and find release from the curse of re-birth.
As a result of this way of thinking people in the Brahmin priestly caste must guard their purity. They do not pollute themselves by contact with Dalits like Dalmesh. They will not deal with him. And he is required to take care lest his shadow fall on them. National Geographic had a telling article on the Untouchables of India several years ago. It will horrify you when you read it.
So Dalmesh had come to the college here to study for ministry. Christ makes no distinction of gender, ethnicity or class, as we all know—we are one in the Lord.
Do you recall how hard it was for the apostle Peter when God in a vision sent him to meet with and even eat with a non-Jew named Cornelius? Peter’s first cry was one of horror. “Not so, Lord, I have never eaten anything unclean!” But God says we are not to regard as unclean that which he has purified through Jesus Christ, the universal Savior.
Likewise Dalmesh was finding it hard to find open acceptance here. Sure, everyone is Christian. But we all carry our cultural baggage, too.
So when I was lecturing on the ethical demands of the New Testament regarding total equality in the church, Dalmesh was nodding while others shifted nervously in their seats. He added a touch of reality to our discussion. It was a teachable moment.
Other faculty later told me that Dalmesh has been completely integrated into the life of the college.
And now here in the dusk of a day in October, he beams with joy as he tells me is now married and living in the faculty block of apartments. His wife had a boy by Caesarean section and they were told not to have more kids. But they are pregnant again and trusting the Lord, the Great Physician.
The aged apostle remarked how his children have an advocate with the Father so our sins are forgiven. He warns them that the end is coming near and we should display courage under pressure. Then he shifts his term of endearment to “my friends.” He admonishes us to love one another, to guard against false prophets and false gods.
Most of us never know what effect we have on those around us. Sometimes God opens a window to us to see how seeds have grown and produced a good harvest.
Thanks be to God.

Doug Defies Death in Dehra Dun

The sun is slipping slowly toward the horizon. The air is sweet and still.
“Would you like to visit Dehra Dun, Doug? I am going to the Centrum to buy a new cell phone and you could see the sights downtown,” says Uncle George, our host. I think I detect a bit of slyness in his broad smile.
But Doug sees none of this subtlety. He nods his head, “all eager for the treat—his face is washed, his clothing brushed, his sandals clean and neat.” (Apologies to Lewis Carroll here.)
We buckle up in the tiny van, Johnson the driver. Uncle George and I are in back. Doug is in shotgun—to get the full effect of the terror he is soon to experience.
The Shahastrada Road to town is busy. Cows and dogs, people walking along the edge, cycles zipping along, cars, trucks, and buses. Johnson weaves noisily through the traffic, sharpening his skills for what lies ahead.
As we near downtown Dehra Dun, tensions mount. The ever present honking of horns rises in a great crescendo, like the squawking of a million seagulls at a landfill.
Uncle George repeats an Indian slogan—you can drive without wheels, but not without a horn.
Here we are at a parking lot, where we dicker over which patch of dirt we will occupy among the crazy quilt “patterns” of lined up vehicles.
On foot now, Johnson eases us into the fray as we jostle our way along the edge of the pavement, all the sidewalks being crammed with packing boxes, goods for sale and shoppers browsing at windows. Uncle finds his shop, where he will spend a half hour selecting his new cell phone. In this period of time he relates later how the clerks (in the upstairs of this hole-in-the-wall shop) sold five or six phones. The Indian economy is brisk in places like this, helping to float the world economy while Uncle Sam struggles.
Doug Johns and I stand on the sidewalk. Some kids are watching a flat screen TV at the appliance store. Smack Down is on—that totally fake stage play featuring brawny “wrestlers.” I will say to their credit that it is obvious they have practiced their stunts and grimaces with diligence. This shop, Doug notices, is about five feet wide and tapers about 20 feet to the end of the building. It has goods hanging from the walls, lining the aisle—enough to fill a spacious section in an American mall.
I turn to see that Doug—this Presbyterian pastor from Canada and once a pastor at West Congregational in Haverhill—is trying to photograph a telephone pole. He shakes his head. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” A rat's nest of wires sprouts from the top, lining off in every direction to deliver power to the sprawling cubbyholes below.
Meanwhile on the street moves a steady stream of everything imaginable. The din of horns is deafening. Some must turn in this jungle of flotsam to head off on one of the five roads that converge here. Cars, cycles, and trucks lurch a few feet to gain a few yards, like a running back churning his way downfield. It is dark now. Some have no lights—but why let that bother you? We have been here nearly half an hour and there has not been one break in the flow of traffic—none. It’s like the waters of Niagara splashing noisily toward the plunging falls.
Ah! Here’s Uncle with his new phone in hand—finally.
“Would you like to take a few minutes to see the bazaar across the square?” I notice that sly grin once again.
“O yes!” Doug says.
“OK, just stay right behind Johnson!”
Off we go. Into the white water of traffic we plunge. Johnson has a long stride. So I fall in behind, trying to match his steps. Thread your way through the jungle. Cyclists honk as we cut them off. Our hands push the cars back, so to speak. I learn to walk across the traffic while brushing against the rear of the vehicle ahead, since other motorists, miraculously, seem never to actually strike the read end of whatever is in front of them.
Why not wait for an opening, instead of taking your life in your hands like this, you ask? You will stand on the curb forever, that’s why.
We make it to the bazaar—a street blocked to cars and buses. I take a deep breath. It’s wall-to-wall people on foot, but we have cheated death to reach this oasis of safety.
But wait. Where is Doug and Uncle George? Ah! Here they come. Doug, are you OK? His pink face seems a few shades paler. He is shaking his head, wide-eyed.
“I’ve never seen anything like this! I can’t believe we made it through. This is unbelievable. I’ve just defied death on the streets of Dehra Dun. No one at home is going to believe me!”
Maybe you won’t get to tell them about it, say I, helpfully. We have to make it back across. What’s the chances of our doing that?
After gawking at the street vendors roasting peanuts or selling treats, backed up by gaudily lighted shops with wares from “Bangles Galore” (sounds like an Indian city 200 miles to the south) to trendy outfits (western styles are invasive here among the younger set) to rugs and house wares—you name it.
Well—it’s time to defy death one more time. Can you handle it?
“Is there a choice?” Doug asks.
Actually… no. What goes east must go west, unless we wait until midnight and walk 6 miles to the college.
“Now you have experienced India.”
Uncle smiles that satisfied sly smile again.

Potus Bumpus

POTUS BUMPSUS
This is not a phrase from my faded memories of five years of Latin at the Roxbury Latin School in Boston. No. There we learned, as our first day’s assignment in Class VI (grade 7), that God would never bump us, because He was "Pater Noster, qui es in caelis…." Our Father in heaven.
This was another "father—of planet earth—POTUS", the President of the United States, aka Obama the Magnificent. Air traffic control apparently closes all airspace anywhere his celestial chariots move—whether Air Force One or a hovering helicopter. Sort of the secular equivalent of Ezekiel’s creatures with all those eyes above and below along with six sets of beating wings.
Make no mistake, I am for the utmost protection of our president at all times, whether he is attending the United Nations or just taking Michelle and those bouncy girls of his to dinner and a Broadway show.
Hearing of the delay while still at Logan airport I rush to the desk at Gate A6, worried about missing my flight out of Newark to Delhi. “No problem, Sir,” she says, “it’s only for half an hour—you should be fine.” Whew! I would hate to spend a whole day in Newark waiting for the next non-stop to India. If POTUS bumps us for only 30 minutes, I can handle it with aplomb—whatever that means.
At the gate I meet a clone of Ross Kuehne (my son-in-law’s brother)—same face and beard, same quirky voice, same twinkly smile. He scans my ticket and bids me have a nice flight.
A mere 14 hours later I am in New Delhi. Five naps to the good keep me in a cheerful humor. BUT….
In India there is a new line as we exit toward the baggage belt (as they term it)—a counter with two guys wearing surgical masks! They take a form we had filled out on the plane asking if we’d had shots (for H1N1 swine flu). Are you coughing? Are you sneezing? I squelch a quip rising to the surface about the Seven Dwarfs and me being Dopey, not Sneezy.
Not until later did Doug Johns ask if I had seen the body temperature readout? No, I hadn’t—you’re joking. “No, there was a digital readout of your body temperature taken by infra red, to see if you had a fever!” Wow! Not a bad idea, since everywhere this plague is scaring health officials.
Now Doug is a long time friend—a Presbyterian minister from Ontario. Daniel, the host from New Theological College, and I waited for an hour after his plane from Toronto had landed and were about to give up on him, when he sauntered out of baggage belt area with a big red bag. Seems like someone had taken his bag off the carousel. He waited until only those sad pieces no one wants had gone by him several times, before he wandered to the far end and saw his bag on the floor about to be hauled to Lost & Found.
Soon we were off in a taxi for the Southern Hotel—a nice clean place, where we bedded down at 1 AM just in time to be finally asleep when the wakeup call came from the front desk. We had no time to spare for the breakfast that came with our $55 tab. John Varghese whisked us off in the predawn smog toward the train northbound to Dehradun.
It’s always enlightening to read the complimentary newspaper that comes with one’s ticket on the Shatabdi Express—that’s the name of the high class train—old but way better than the cattle car-like trains for the average Indian.
News item. Several teenage Muslims boys are in court for “love jihad.” Their strategy is to profess love for a non-Muslim girl, get her to marry if she will just convert to Islam. (This is real easy, since all you have to do is sincerely profess that there is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet.) At least it’s non-violent. It reminds me of “flirty fishing” that one Boston area cult practiced in the 1970s, where sweet young things would use their charms to lure guys to their cult meetings.
News Item #1 A woman in Sudan has refused to pay a stiff fine for wearing “indecent trousers” and no headscarf. Since it was her first offence she would suffer only 20 lashes in the public square. Later someone paid her fine, keeping her out of jail for a month’s sentence.
News Item #2. An editorial claims that the much-ballyhooed Muslim population explosion is overblown. The conventional wisdom is that in many societies Muslims have about a 2.8 birth rate as compared to non-Muslim birth rates of 1.9 in Europe and 2.0 in the USA. If true this would mean Europe would be taken over by Islam within 20 years and the USA within 50. This editorial claims that the birth rate in most Muslim nations is about 2.1 or 2.2, which results in no loss or gain to speak of. How does one know what to believe any more?
Hours later we get picked up by college staff in Dehra Dun. At the college now we settle in to our comparatively luxurious accommodations in Uncle George’s house—he is the founder of the college. I meet the dean to cover details of my teaching assignment. It’s not what I was expecting—as usual. But it’s no problem—an Introduction to Philosophy course I have taught over 400 times. 35 students.
I better get busy catching up on sleep. I need to have a fully–charged battery: POTUS MAXIMUS, c’est moi. Otherwise I’ll be bounced from the Flat Earth Society (of London notoriety) to the Flat Brain Society.

April Showers

Getting back home is a coy process. I wander around the campus in Kenya basking in warm clear air. I have a lunch made up of leftovers---mango, a soft-boiled egg, some delicious salad provided by Kim Okesson. I bag the leftover jam, hard tack, hot dogs and mango and give it to a man who lingers in the shadows of campus life. He has a lean and hungry look. Later as we leave the gate he is there waving his thanks. He is hungry a lot of the time, I’m sure.
At 6 PM we give the goodbye hugs, pile into the college van/truck and leave after 17 days with this lovely college community—an oasis of God’s people.
Over the road once again - the shakes, rattles, and rolls - in, out and around lorries that stir up dust adding to the haze of the setting sun.
The plane is off on time—11 PM. It’s eight hours of dark flight to Amsterdam. I go through the checkpoint after trying a couple of wrong ways on revolving doors. I must be sleep-deprived for I normally negotiate these mazes easily.
I am to proceed to Starbucks as a point of rendezvous. But there are two in the concourse. I pick the larger one. It’s 6 AM and the place is like a morgue.
I watch two guys wash and squeegee windows surrounding the coffee shop. Soon the staff come to fold all these windows away like a folding wall. Folks are soon queuing up to get a cup of Java to jolt them awake. I find out later that Starbucks is not permitted in this city, only the airport. The Netherlands wants to protect its hundreds of small shops.
I nod off a number of times. 7 o’clock and no hint of dawn. Its overcast—let’s call it rain. In Machakos showers like this would cause much rejoicing to save crops. But here it is just depressing winter. Occasionally some flakes will fall here. But they will not even whiten the ground. So it’s not a cheery scene. UNTIL….
It’s nearly eight, the time of rendezvous. I glance behind me—and there she is. April Joy Gustafson smiling like the sun. She waves, we give a bear hug—and all is changed. April showers her cheer with a bright smile and sparkling eyes. How did such splendor ever come from the likes of me? I know, I know—a much larger gene pool.
She has a coffee while I tell of my adventures. Then it’s off to the train to Amsterdam and the long walk to the hostel.
April decided to volunteer here on the staff of a Christian hostel. Scads of mostly young people float through this city, many of them coming to look for work. They come from all over Europe and the world. April and the staff give listening ears and quiet witness while serving meals and housing these transients. She takes her turn cooking and doing other housekeeping work. The staff lives in a house a five minute bike ride away, while taking turns by twos to sleep in the hostel as law requires.
Speaking of bikes. This is bike city. Thousands in public squares and along the streets. In the rain, on they go, holding an umbrella in one hand and steering with the other. There are bike lanes here in many places. April says she once saw a guy balancing a comfy chair on his head while pedaling away through the traffic. It's as aamzing to me as the African women who walk miles with a 50 pound load on their head.
A 20 minute walk in the rain brings us to the hostel where I meet staff from UK , Czech, and other countries. We sit in the dining area, where I put my gloves and shirt on the radiator to dry. Wish I dared take my pants off and do the same—they are pretty damp. April tells me of their daily Bible explorations and how some guests have professed faith—three being baptized not long ago.
I decide this is good place to change underwear, put on my Henley and otherwise get real about the cold weather in my near future. I head for the men's room, leaving wet stuff on the small radiator.
Now dry, I talk about April's plans, her passion. I find she is really insightful about life, what it means to follow Jesus, and how she can invest herself in kingdom work. She is a woman of prayer and seeking the will of God. I remind her that when she was a kid one would never guess that she would become a people person and adventurous enough to live 10,000 miles from home and be comfortable with it all. She even plans perhaps to go back to her work in the Great North Woods taking college freshman out on backpacking and canoeing trips for another summer. And we talk of her going with me to India next fall. This is the time to see the world and listen for the whisper of God’s Spirit.
It’s time to head back to Schiphol Airport. This time, even though it is now barely drizzling, we take the trolley. An obliging guy on the train platform snaps a photo of us. I mount the train to the upper deck and wave down at her as the car pulls away.
What a profound joy to see this bundle of joy I once held in my lap with her two cousins when they were just a few years old—now a grown woman with a world focus. And above all, she thinks her grandfather is cool. Does life on this side of glory get any better than that? And to think I have four other grand-daughters just as wonderful. (I’ll speak of the three grandsons another time.)
It’s January. But April showers have fallen on the soft earth of this heart.

A Day with the Family of God in Kenya

Out on a Sunday to the broad hills of valleys of the countryside southeast of Scott Theological College. George and I chat with Dr. Vundi as he races and crawls (depending on the road surface) toward Mukandawi.
On arrival Pastor Elijah greets us. His English is really good as he studied in Winnipeg for several years and has kids in Canada and the USA still. A son is in the US Navy.
A constant in African Inland Churches (the denomination Scott Theological College serves) is that the pastor and any guest preachers meet with the elders (all male) in the small room behind the sanctuary before the service.
Actually, the service has begun as the youth are doing a number before the congregation as they trickle in. The service begins a little before ten and will last until 1 o’clock. Its not a spiritual fast-food affair where you check in, fuel up, and check out like an air terminal. It is the event of the week and the families will relish every minute. More like a tailgate party indoors with all the neighbors.
I am an unexpected fifth wheel, with George the touted preacher. We all are briefed on how the service will unfold. We are on for a greeting, a duet, and George for the message from II Timothy 1.
The choir soon is doing its number. Thirty men and women in an African song about Adam and Eve. Swaying, shuffling, clapping, turning and bowing, with a lead singer and the oft-repeated chorus. A chap next to me and George on the bench whispers the general theme. It’s a long story that resonates with the hardships of life and of God’s grace in Jesus.
Meanwhile some folk just arriving come up to the platform area where George and I are sitting and put down plastic bags with goods inside. From previous experience I know what this is about. George pokes me when he sees one black sack has eyes peeking out—there’s a hen wondering why it has been deposited here. It gives George a suspicious look as if to say “What are YOU staring at—I’m just a lowly chicken in a plastic patch.” Later a second chicken-in-a-bag is placed beside it.
The youth choir sings. The women’ chorus comes next, followed by a song by a dozen or more widows of varying ages. Then approximately 25 men step out to do their part.
Soon the Boy’s Regiment is marching down the aisle under the command of a 13-year-old who barks orders. They do a military drill—real smart, too—that includes singing, parade rest, about face and all. A wee guy about two wanders up and stands between their legs imitating the drill. Priceless! All of this takes place before the platform on a section of the concrete floor that is about the size of the small parquet dance squares we see in restaurants and banquet halls.
Congregational songs are mixed in. An elder goes to the podium with an old-fashioned ledger book into which the notices for the week have been hand written. He reads through the list. Some papers are passed to him with late announcements.
The offering is on this wise. Are you ready? A young woman comes up and starts singing alone. First the pastors and elders file to the table that has four wood boxes with a sliding top attached to a 12 inch wooden handle. George and I follow the nod given us and join the queue. I slip in a bill. Next come the choir members and last the congregation, which by now (an hour and a half into the service) has swelled to about 300. We learn later that the congregation is growing so that they will have to enlarge for the second time so they can accommodate about 500-600. You can hardly have multiple services in sequence, can you, when things go in a single stream from 9:30 to after 2 PM?
Next the bags on the floor are tended to. A guy holds high the contents so those in the back can see. People without cash have brought produce—today it’s mostly mangoes—to be bid on by others. A big ripe watermelon goes for a good sum. Some teen girls take the bags to the purchasers and fetch the money up to the treasurer in front. There a few men’s neckties. Last they unclothe the chickens (one of which poops on the concrete floor) and have some brisk bidding. It’s not long drawn biddy wars here. Just a half-minute while two of three make offers. Soon the birds are placed, like orphans, in a nice family—with good references I suppose.
George and I go up to sing a duet. It’s an old piece I haven’t sung for decades: I Would Like to Tell You What I think of Jesus. It’s a bit rough when you have no rehearsal, but we get a big round of claps.
A prayer or two is mixed in to the order of worship. Then I give greetings from Ellie, my kids and grandkids, the church people. Later the pastor makes a point of a couple enjoying over 53 years of wedded bliss. I mentioned that I had left America under President Bush and would return under a son of Kenya, President Barak Obama. They all cheered. This is so huge in this country.
George now preaches a good simple down-home message about young Timothy who had advantages qualifying him for ministry even though he was young. He had a godly family background, good training under Paul, and gifts of the Holy Spirit. Vundi translates for him.
At the end George makes a presentation to the church from folks in Scotland who send money when George speaks about the church in Kenya. This is quite a few thousand shillings to enhance the widows’ ministry. (You know that HIV-AIDS has left even a lot of younger women widows.)
The pastor says he will report to George how the money is used. I know that some of it will be put into buying some ovens so there will be a way for them to sustain themselves by baking and even selling some breads and cakes.
George then comes up front for a reciprocal gift – a hand carved ebony elephant from the nearby Akamba woodcarvers. Photos snap as the woman in a bright red outfit makes a short speech.
I look at my watch. About 1:30 PM. Things will be winding down now, I think.
But the pastor comes down the aisle and starts speaking about grace. He turns every few sentences to tell George and me the gist of what he just said. He asks a question. There is a hand raised in the back. PTL. Then there is a second. It dawns on me. This is the altar call. No music, no tricks. Two young men come down front. The people are cheering. Pastor leads them in the sinner’s prayer. He asks me to come and pray for them. (Most people under 30 know English.) Then he signals for an elder and two women (whom he told me later he just picked on the spot) to come and say a word to these young guys. It’s beautiful to see their exhortations. The congregation extends their arms in their direction as prayers are made for them. More clapping. One of the men takes the mic and tells his testimony. He had gone to Tanzania to hear a band and have a few drinks. On the way back he had to walk part way and was met by a lion. He prayed that he would give his life if Jesus rescued him. After a tense few minutes the lion ambled off. He was here to make good on what Jesus had done for him. The other lad had been into drugs and his family had been praying for him. He finally turned himself in to the Great Physician.
A final song and prayer and the service ended—after 2 PM.
And you know what? I was refreshed and elated and exchanged greetings with dozens of people – kids, youth, men, women, old folks. We all KNEW we had been in the presence of Jesus, the Savior who lives and still changes lives.
We stayed with the pastor, elders and women leaders for a coke and some bread before packing up to go. And did I mention that George and I will be opening a fruit stand tomorrow? Many of the auctioned mangoes were given to us as a thank-you. George will give many of them away to the gatemen with the hungry mouths to feed.
En route home we stopped at the pastor’s house, where his wife, Grace, and last-born, Esther, had a good meal prepared in a lovely home. Cows were in the cattle shed. Planted trees lined the driveway. Flowers bloomed at the front entry. A nice modest home for Kenya countryside.
To me this is the church being pushed by the winds of the Holy Spirit rather than a model of church growth. Fueled by vital energy rather than budgets. And this is happening all over Kenya, all over Africa, all over India, South America. I am seeing an apostolic freshness here that I wish could be bottled and exported to Europe and America.
Why go to church of a Sunday for a Macdonald’s Happy Meal when you could stay for a multi-course feast and linger with the family in the Father’s House?

The Oven

When the rains waken us at night here we get excited and thank God before turning over for a few more winks. This is the second day of decent rains. I would guess we have had two or more inches by now and it is still showering regularly. I pray that each inch will save a few million lives here as crops recover. So many live right on the edge in Africa.
The odd trio of adjuncts (George Mitchell of Scotland, Nancy Crawford, and I) had our assigned meal at Dr. Vundi and Lillian’s place last evening.
It’s one of those places you love to go. Big welcome. Joyous atmosphere.
Vundi is a BIG guy – I would guess 6’3” and 260 pounds. He is really dark and I wonder how intimidating he would be in the line next to Vince Wilfork of the Patriots! But he is a gentle giant. He has been a pastor and still goes out weekends to preach. He is on faculty here also, teaching homiletics and pastoral theology.
Lillian is a quiet but cheerful woman who has a bright smile and can surprise you with some humor. Their daughter Tina is a student here still. I had her in class last time. She is bright and a joy to banter with. Later her brother Mark would get in from Nairobi. He was a typical teen two years ago. But when he arrived, in strolls this tall young man in a smart pinstripe business suit, smiling like he had swallowed the canary and had the world by the tail. Impressive.
The meal was superb. Tender chicken, mashed, mixed hot veggies, soup-like something or other. So we laughed and told stories and carried on famously for an hour or so over the meal.
But the highlight was a trip to the kitchen. It’s an old but modern small kitchen with the usual range, sink, small refrigerator, counters and cupboards. Sitting on the floor was something new—an oven that had cooked so much of our meal, especially the cake now coming up for dessert. The cake was like a pound or sponge cake with a sweet taste and crusty top.
But it’s the oven that was of interest. It was made entirely of scrap metal and resembled a sort of oversized camp oven you would use outdoors. You could make one with some casual tools and some iron and sheet metal in a day. Inside the large door (that slanted on the angle of a bulkhead door) were two racks for the food to be cooked or baked on and at the bottom a 10” by 10” drop box where you put the fuel. In this case a few lumps of coal glowing brightly but with no leaping flame. There is a damper system to regulate heat.
Lillian has mastered this simple appliance as skilled cooks readily do. With a pass of her hand inside she knows whether it is hot enough for a cake or some bread or even a chicken. And the unit produces comfy warmth on a rainy evening in a place where houses have no heating system—save for a living room fireplace that looks nice but cannot throw any meaningful heat. And in hot weather you just pick the oven up and set it out on the porch.
This simple technology is something Vundi is producing for his community development work. A number have now been made and given to widows—who often have no means of livelihood in this society. The unit costs about $80.
In Vundi and Lillian’s work, they give these ovens to a widow and teach her to bake for herself and to sell in her village. Seems pretty slim for us. But for them it is a huge step toward some income that means their survival.
Earlier in the day Lillian held a workshop for some nearby widows and they baked and decorated a birthday cake that was still sitting proudly on the living room table. Two layers with flowers and words made of icing. Somewhat short of perfection, but a great first try. These women will probably make some money baking for neighbors and local shops. Young Tina entertained their kids while the moms had their Home-Ec lesson. You know how many single women care for kids often their nieces and nephews when HIV-AIDS has taken its toll.
This is what Dr. Vundi is trying to do for community development—simple things, but things that work and have very low startup cost. He holds workshops to teach pastors how they can encourage their people to provide for themselves with a simple oven and some basic crop-growing tips. He sells improved strains of corn that grow twice a high as the local stuff and yield 10 times more often with less water.
Some pastors have to be convinced that this is part of a good ministry even though it is money-making. The book of James is his text. It is harder than you think to convince leaders that it is spiritual ministry to help people with their material needs.
Later Vundi showed me his new website. This is big for him even though it is just a beginning. I suggested that he should add a “Donate” button. People in the west would love to send $80 to provide an oven for some widows in a rural village. He is thinking about that— he wants not to seem mercenary. “It’s not for you—it’s for the people in need,” I encourage him.
This is a family that realizes it is not enough merely to understand the world but to change the world. Karl Marx made that his motto and blew it by using the force of government to impose it from the top. We know the sad result of that. But Vundi is doing it voluntarily from the bottom up.
You might encourage him by checking out the new website. He said you can Google Vundi and Lillian and find it. (He was obviously pleased with their presence on the worldwide web.) Or try grassrootsdevelopmentproject.com
And pray, too. The district officials are pleased with his efforts because it benefits the people and makes them look good. (Politicians!) But one pastor, when he found out there was no money in it for him, tossed Vundi out and would not allow him access to the people of his church. Can you believe it? Thankfully this is rare. But I could tell Vundi was hurt by this.
God is perhaps stoking his oven for those who callously keep bread from the mouths of the hungry. Made God help us all!
Sometimes I wonder how the Lord can be so long-suffering with the lot of us.
Meanwhile families like that of Vundi and Lillian keep plugging away.

Three Tidbits

Scene One
Three of us block professors go together to a staff home for dinner daily. Nancy Crawford is a Wheaton College graduate and has a PhD in psychology. Dr. George Mitchell is my pal from Glasgow, and myself.
Last night we climbed an outside staircase to the apartment of a newlywed couple—Elias and Chepcha. They were married one month ago to the day. We celebrated that first milestone.
She is not a looker—but what a cooker! “Mom taught me well,” she says. She only said about ten words the whole hour we were there.
Chicken – tender! Mixed vegetables. Potato salad – different. Chapattis, of course.
We three were all tired from grading exams all day. We hoped the conversation would take care of itself. It did.
Nancy knows the protocol—she lives in Nairobi. So she smoothes out all the right things to say, while George and I chime in with comments and smiles.
We ply Elias with questions, as he is now teaching apologetics here. He was one of my students some years back and went on for a philosophy degree. He was also teaching at a Scott satellite school in the north. It has about 40 students now, who no longer have to uproot and travel far south to this campus. Elias has also done live satellite radio programs. He would give some teaching on the Gospels or Psalms and then take calls and answer them. Not only was this live and unrehearsed, but the radio staff would go home and he would be running the whole station at the same time. Guy must be pretty good, that’s all I can say.
This reveals some of the fruits of the laborers here at Scott – a college only 47 years old but having a huge impact. We find Scott graduates in leadership and in teaching positions all over Kenya (and neighboring countries, too), often starting churches and schools in the toughest parts of the land. That includes urban Nairobi with all its crime to very arid outposts to the north where white folks seldom last long. We told Elias that he “has done us proud” as his Mwalim—Teachers. The little we do God multiplies in surprising ways.
Scene Two.
After chapel each morning we all take chai. A single cup of sugary tea and milk that is standard all over Kenya—maybe all over Africa.
George usually heads for the tiny refreshment kiosk next to the chapel after he has taken his chai. He likes to buy a Sprite and sit in the shade of the mango tree to jaw with students. He told me that yesterday there was a middle-aged man there just standing about. It’s someone we see from time to time on campus. He is not a worker here so far as I know.
George notices these people on the fringes. So he asked this man if he would like something to drink. “Yes, please,” came the reply. “Would you like a slice of cake to go with it?” “Bread,” he replied. The girl tending the kiosk sensed what was going on and found a bunch of slices of bread to serve with the drink. The man took it, went to the bench a few feet away. The half-loaf of bread was gone in a matter of minutes. Right in our midst, George had found one of the many in Kenya who are on the edge of deep hunger and he provided him that basic food—daily bread—for this day at least.
Scene three
A knock on the door this afternoon while I am grading my daily quizzes. I suspect it is couple of kids looking for George and his daily handout of balloons.
No—it is two of my students asking for a visit. Patience and Stella. Patience is a slim vivacious girl with fine features and a lively way about her. Stella is quieter but the smile is just as broad. Stella wears a leg brace that bespeaks of polio. She walks slowly with an awkward gait. But she is always cheerful.
They want to know my grading system for the midterm they just got back. So I explain.
Patience recently asked a teacher why he had a PhD degree but had never studied philosophy. He did not know. So I explained to her the medieval trivium and quadrivium division of academic subjects and how everything not theology was philosophy on those days. So that’s why biologists and English professors get a Doctor of Philosophy degree. I can tell she will explain to him with great relish.
I ask them what they think they will be doing in ten years time. Patience is going to go on for a master’s degree and go into ministry as a pastor, even though she may have to study part-time while supporting herself. She says that Scott is very much harder than the Kenya universities. Scott graduates are taken by the universities without an entrance exam because they know Scott grads typically take up to 10 subjects at a time when the average university student is struggling with the standard four. “We have to write papers here all the time, so there is no big challenge for us at the universities,” she boasts. Small college—but big reputation and big impact. The faculty here—now almost all nationals—is doing an outstanding job. So our church’s investment here over the years is well placed.
Stella wants to serve “somewhere in the world as a teacher.” She has a call to go overseas as doors open to minister the Gospel. “Maybe even the USA,” she says. I think that would be great. Here is a black woman, unpretentious, with a handicap, who would not seem a threat to anyone anywhere. What a great potential she has to go to the Muslims, the Hindus, the tribals in Africa, or to the lost in Europe or America. God has given her a great vision.
They apologize for coming “without an appointment.” I thank them for letting me get a glimpse into their eager desire to serve the Lord.
Our God knows what He is doing—outwitting the wise of the world every day with the likes of the least of these that the world mostly ignores.