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.