The Border

One night shortly before a meeting I took off down a dark country road toward the nearby village in hopes of finding either a soy vanilla cappuccino, with an extra shot and whipped cream, or a cup of tea. I wasn't going to quibble about which, because I'm a Christian, and if I had insisted these villagers give me a cappuccino when they lacked the resources, that would have made them feel awkward and possibly compromised my witness (I think I read this in a book on evangelism.) I had just managed to make out from one of the local residents that chai wasn't a likely scenario that time of night, when a few of the guys on our ministry team caught up with me and dragged me back to the meeting. They told me I shouldn't have been walking alone at night because we were too close to the Pakistan border (five kilometers I was told). What's more, they're making chai back at the meeting, idiot. At least, I'm sure that's what they said in Punjabi.

After one night of meetings, after the aforementioned marriage wake, we drove to the Attari-Wagah border--the only road border crossing between India and Pakistan--where we observed that exercise in neighborly bellicosity, the Wagah Border Ceremony.



Unless you're invincible, don't try to skip over by land any other way than by this Grand Trunk Road crossing. Mines, guards, floodlights, barb wires. Offenders are shot on sight. As a stark representation of the political conflicts that led to its construction and the artificial divisions such conflicts have induced, the fence is grimly reminiscent of the Berlin Wall.

Not ashamed

Right now I'm staying at the home of Pastor Simon in the sub city of Dwarka in Delhi. Last week he was visited by a friend of his, Pastor Amrit Ashish, his wife and three boys. The family lives, ministers and works (making handcrafted cards) in Dehradun, a city in north India situated between the Sivalik Hills and the Himalayas. I met Amrit four years ago at a conference in Dehradun.

During the course of our conversation, Amrit remarked on the number of Western "missionaries" he's seen who've come to India and acted in speech and in lifestyle just like the Hindus they were trying to reach, until you could hardly tell any difference. He's not the first Indian pastor I've heard decry this. Last time I was in India I stayed in Mussoorie, a hill station in the breathtakingly beautiful foothills of the Himalayas, with Pastor Edwin Daliya and his wife Nivedit (daughter of writer and speaker Vishal Mangalwadi). They told me similar stories. One couple they knew had even begun attending services at a Hindu temple. The challenge in India is impressing upon people the complete separateness of the Christian life, the absolute claims of our Messiah. Pastors often work long and hard at this only to find that Jesus has been accepted like another vitamin supplement: Probably beneficial, possibly negligible, doubtfully harmful--a dietary hedging of your bets. Hindu deities in India number 330,000,000. Jesus numbers 330, 000, 001.

Needless to say, Western "Christians" coming and attending religious services at the temple (an extreme example, granted) doesn't make the job of local pastors any easier.

Likely from the get-go, in most of these cases, the missionaries started out with an inordinate desire to be culturally "correct" and inoffensive. Inordinate because when you are too conscious of being correct, you are focused on yourself and not on loving those around you. Better to forget yourself, commit the occasional faux pas and concentrate on loving people; better a blundering bonhommie than a stilted "correctness. People want a flesh and blood human being they can relate to, not a floating enlightened Westerner. They want to be loved, not forced to endure Hans Solo attempting Yoda.

Amrit told of a Western missionary admonishing worshippers at her home to sing their praise songs less loudly. As Armit tells it, the Christians weren't being obnoxiously noisy; rather the missionary was concerned that her neighbors would hear all the Jesus clamor and set her down as an ardent Christian. Nobody likes to be pigeonholed, right? To be put in a little box, to be classified as narrowly prejudiced? (Perhaps she was concerned about her safety--he didn't say.) Of course, this undercover Christian mentality is universal, and I needn't look very far to see it in operation. I want to be Christian, but not too Christian, lest I'm thought strange, narrow or, what is worse, simple. While I smile indulgently at the attempts of eager Christian brothers to bring Jesus into every conversation, I inwardly congratulate myself on my more sophisticated and nuanced approach to evangelism. So nuanced, in fact, you often don't even know I'm doing it. Kapow!

How much happier would this missionary--and I--be if the words of Paul infused us.

"I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself up for me ... For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes, to the Jew first and also to the Greek." Galatians 2:20, Romans 1:16

Sunday in Amritsar

He lets rain fall

Yesterday Mona, one of the young men on our ministry team I mentioned earlier, lost his mother. I visited her at her sister's Amritsar home last week and prayed for her. She had been suffering for quite some time with kidney problems. When I met her, she was not looking well at all; however, I had no idea she was so very sick. Thankfully, Pastor Simon just flew back to Amritsar for a three-day evangelistic meeting and will be there to comfort Mona.

A few days ago my sister and her husband, Ante, lost almost the entire second floor of their house in a fire. My father and mother had just arrived back in Missouri after having experienced an emotionally trying ordeal across country. Everyone was about to go to bed when my brother-in-law came downstairs and asked everyone if something smelled funny. Yes it did. Eventually he opened the attic and smoked belched out. Everyone was hurried out of the house, including little Petra, and they watched the house burn until firefighters arrived. Apparently caused by an overheated chimney. Right now Petra is with my parents, and my sister and Ante are staying in a hotel. Many months will pass before the house is again habitable. I think my sister has received quite a bit of consolation from reflections on what God has spared her from, on what might have been. A few recent examples are before her.

John and Jane Ray are a really beautiful couple that my family knows from our time connected with Youth With A Mission in Arkansas. A few weeks ago, they lost their daughter Olivia, when she was struck by a car as she was crossing the street.

Earlier this summer another family we know well, the Kichlers, experienced the tragic loss of their son Aaron. (Aaron and his family honored me with their lively presence at my graduation dinner three years back--and we filled the crowded restaurant with show tunes.) Aaron was involved in an accident caused by a drunk driver, whose truck collided with Aaron's motorcycle. His brother Adam was driving another motorcycle immediately behind him and watched it all unfold. As often happens, the drunk was relatively unscathed, until, with Adam standing over his dead brother, the drunk took the opportunity to taunt. "It's too late, there's nothing you can do to save him." I imagine he's going away for a long time. What happened next between Adam and Drunkard only came out later and is easy enough to surmise, especially when you understand that Adam is exceedingly large and very tall. http://www.ottawaherald.com/story/072209wreck. Drunkard was taken to the hospital. I imagine Adam won't be prosecuted.

Caste no bar

The matrimonial pages are massive here. Clearly fewer people in India than in the States think love will just happen. Arranged marriages are still the norm, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arranged_marriages_in_India, though "love marriages" are on the rise. Just the other night at a revival meeting, a man in his early 20's was telling me about his courtship with his lovely young wife, whose birthday the church was celebrating that evening. "It was a love marriage," he said with some pride.

The Matrimonials page in the Sunday edition of the Hindustan Times is massive. It's organized mostly according to caste, profession and religion. Let's see. Brahmin girl seeks well settled handsome boy from decent family. Reasonable enough. Okay, Delhi-based, fair, slim, b'ful, veg, North Indian SPB/Brahmin girl , Oct75/153, wkg. as Sr. S/W Engg.(SAP) in MNE at Bangalore. Early decent marriage. Hmm. Some figures there I don't quite understand. I suppose that's 153 centimeters and not kilos. Not that it matters. Here's a photographer who describes herself as "smart, B'ful and wheatish." Wheatish? A lot of "Status families" are requested in these pages. A "very smart, confident and charming innocent issueless divorcee" is looking for a smart and educated very well settled issueless boy either in profession or business industrialist family with similar status and refined taste in life. caste no bar. That's going to be one heck of a marriage. Nobody with any issues. Oh I guess that's children. Another lady wants a "clean shaven U.S. resident." Yet another prefers a gentleman "tall, fair and handsome" (me, me ... me). Look how these girls go on. Refined taste indeed. Naked hedonism rather. A more rational perspective is looked for. Naturally, I turn to the Brides Wanted pages.

BEAUTIFUL, v fair, slim, tall, well-qlfd, strictly veg, homely girl with normal eye-sight (no specs nor lenses) for v fair, handsome, tall Goel boy 31 yrs/178 cs, BE, MBA, well-settled in own family business, of high status, philanthropic, affluent, reputed Delhi family, only Son, Caste no bar. Send girls profile, Box #, etc.

A man now who places the proper stress on a good set of eyes, which, as he clearly appreciates, are windows to the soul. Men shallow?

Wedding blues

Tuesday afternoon we attended a wedding at which I was asked to speak and present gifts. I know a great deal about marriage, having never been married, so I assented readily enough to the request. What struck me even more than the outlandish costumes the penitents were obliged to don, was the absolute lack of anything like joy on the faces of the grooms. They looked rather to be struggling with some opposite emotion—depression, gloom, even fear. I had been attracted to the men out of natural sympathy; I soon noticed a similar gravity on the faces of the females. Maybe they were all gleefully happy. Sometimes when I am really happy, I appear merely serene or even grave, a smile seeming too cheap an expression of what I am feeling. Possibly that was the case here. The likelier explanation is that one or both of the men had been scared to death for weeks and, by the time I saw them, were simply too broken to conceal their emotion. The women had probably wanted to be happy, but had gradually come under the influence of their fiancées' despondency. Incidentally, the after-dinner meal featured a very tasty halva, best I’ve had, and I began to forget about the plight of the couples. I was then whisked away to the Pakistan border (more about that later), and they were left to suffer.

Arrived back in Delhi yesterday around noon. Computer time has been elusive. Yesterday evening the young men on our ministry team took me out to dinner for my birthday. Here, birthday cake is served before the meal, a good quantity of it being applied to the face of the victim honoree. The guys dodged my retaliatory fistful of cake—except for Mona, who took a hit and appeased my desire for vengeance. His lack of agility may have proved cumbersome to him in the past, but by it was avoided the full-scale riot I was prepared to instigate, their relationship with the owner notwithstanding.

Sitting in the coffee shop here in Delhi, I'm reminded of the fact that India is a very traditional culture. Open displays displays of sexuality are frowned upon. Foreigners often misunderstand the dynamics here, and in so doing, open themselves up to judgment (judge not, lest ...). For instance, they might, as I, enjoy an espresso at Café Coffee Day—an Indian version of Starbucks—watch Bollywood music video after video on the flatscreen, observe the succession of scantily clad females gyrating like so many hungry vipers in the Well of Souls, and put this down as sexually provocative. Whatever it may be taken to be, it’s not sexual, because India is a very traditional culture, and open displays of sexuality are frowned upon. Bollywood producers understand this. Why don’t we? Again, visitors might listen to the coffee shop radio blare out a song about a girl’s wanting to “spend the night with you,” and think she’s proposing something unseemly. Do not be so foolish, mera dost. Allow any number of explanations—husband and wife romance, an evening out with friends—but do not fly in from your sex-steeped culture and automatically start assuming the worst. Keep your Western paradigms to yourself. India is a very traditional culture.

Amritsar

Amritsar, Punjab: This morning a copy of Hindustan Times was slid under my door. Let's see, RSS praises Rahul Gandhi's village visits, Suicide strike in Peshawar kills 49, 100 injured, Infosys shines in second quarter, Hassanpuri cremated. And here's an interesting one: Brand Obama wins Nobel Peace Prize (Yes He Did). Local media is hitting that one pretty hard: Peace Prize nominations closed 12 days after Obama took office.

Took along walk around this dirty, dusty, smelly, vibrant city this morning after tea. Took me a long time to find an Internet Cafe, but I finally nailed down this Cyber Cafe Association. I'm surprised how many stares, greetings, waves and hallos I'm getting in this city of 1.5 million. Of course the credit goes to my shocking good looks and air of high-bred intelligence and has nothing to do with my height and obnoxious whiteness.

Tonight I preach the second of a five-day series of open air meetings involving over twenty villages. My dad is not preaching. In fact, he didn't make it in the country. In fact, turned back at the gate. Very disappointing. As he tells it in his last newsletter:

"Off I went to India! From St. Louis to Newark, New Jersey and then a 14 hour flight to Delhi. Passing through immigration I had a current passport and a current visa. The officials told me that I should have also brought along the old expired passport from which the visa was originally issued. Because of this arcane technicality they would not allow me to enter the country. They sent me back to the US on the same jet that took me to India! My son Micah landed in Delhi just a few minutes after I arrived. We were to meet outside the airport. He called me as my plane was taxiing down the airway to fly back home. He was very disappointed. I asked him to take my place in the preaching and ministry."

That was a pretty dramatic call actually. Yesterday Simon Haqq, our friend and a Delhi pastor, preached. Tonight I will address the emptiness of life without Christ, using as a catalyst the unhappy lives of Indian celebrities. For instance, Silk Smitha, often called India's Marilyn Monroe, was the sort of extraordinary female talent that "even in [her] rare non-sexual roles ... impressed critics and audiences." http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silk_Smitha. She was found dead in her apartment, having allegedly hung herself. Last year, Sharanya Bhagyaraj, a rising Tamil actress, attempted to commit suicide by jumping off the top of her house. In May of this year, Monica Chaudhury, famous print model, hung herself from her ceiling fan, two failed marriages having been cited as causes. And on and on. Indian Cinema is an obsession in this country and its stars are accorded great and near universal reverence. But as in the U.S., so often they are miserably unhappy. They have everything and they have nothing.