On A Lighter Note...Musings

-In Kerala, we drink hot water and shower in cold.

-There is a skeleton in my closet. No, really, in my classroom at the nursing school there is a full human skeleton in a cabinet.

-If I said “There is a skeleton in my closet” here, people would think there was a skeleton in the toilet, their use of the word “closet.”

-For Dad, the word “film” here is truly thought to be “filim,” so you have many millions backing you up.

-We are entering into the winter season here, and people are gearing up for it with sweatshirts and sweaters. For 70-75 degrees Fahrenheit.

-I am pretty sure I was proposed to the other day by one of the ammachees.

-I know my posterior was pinched by another ammachee.

-The Malayalam for “crow” is kaka. The other day a crow pooped on my hand. So, I had kaka kaka on me. To take it further, the word for “hand” is kai. I had kaka kaka on my kai.

-When water runs out here, it is a major problem. Wiping is fully a bidet system.

-I teach conversational English to the first year nursing students here. The only handout I have given them so far is the lyrics for What A Friend We Have In Jesus. Unfortunately, I entitled the song What a FRIED we have in Jesus on the handout. That is great for the supposed master of English. I will use it as a segue into talking about fried chicken and bananas.

-You know the roll the hoop with a stick game that you would think of for pioneer times or while visiting Conner Prairie? I played the other day at a boys’ home here with old, flat bicycle tires. Those boys were masters, going up and down hills without the tires collapsing in on themselves. This guy was not a master. I think I only managed to get 4 or 5 revolutions in before it toppled to the ground. Still, I never thought the hoop roll could be so much fun!

-We just completed a retreat at Thomas John’s house. We wake up and begin our evening relaxation to the sound of Muslim prayer being amplified throughout the surrounding neighborhood. It is hauntingly beautiful music.

-Sometimes before the evening prayer, there is wildly rhythmic percussion emanating out of a nearby Hindu temple. When it happens to coincide with the Muslim prayer, we get a veritable concert of true religious devotion.

-There is a pickled item at each meal, which has become my favorite part of dining here. Variations include: lemon pickle, lime pickle, garlic pickle, mango pickle, gooseberry pickle, puli pickle (a vegetable grown at Mandiram), and a new one as of today—banana pickle. Now these pickles don’t taste like our vinegar based cucumber pickles at home, but they follow the same concept of sourness with a mix of spices. They sound horrible, but I have grown to love them.

-We just got to try out the local fishing method, which consists of giant nets tied to an impressive wooden structure controlled by a pulley system of ropes and rock weights. We didn’t catch anything but the smiles of the onlookers as we yanked on the ropes. I’m okay with that.

-I live with over a hundred grandparents and 13 younger sisters.

-I am in India.

We YAVs joke around that sometimes we have to remind ourselves how novel and exciting our lives are here. Our way of putting it is, “Hey, remember that time we were in India?” It is so easy to get into the routine of life, yes even in India, and forget to truly notice the wonder that is life. We fail to see the joy, the strangeness, and the sheer funniness that God so intricately weaves in to keep us interested and on our toes. We were not made to be creatures of the mundane, but too often that is where we thrive. Rather, we were created by an indescribable, awesome God in a world whose perfect functioning is logically inconceivable and shaped in a global community of truly unique and exciting neighbors—of the human, flora, and fauna variety. Somehow with all of this going for us we still manage to miss the big picture and the small details that point directly to that big picture. Life is exhilarating!

I mean, holy cow! I am in India!

Wait a minute, I actually saw many holy cows today…

The Dalit Church

Every once in a while you have one of those experiences that simultaneously manages to knock you off of your feet with awe for God’s transcendent and ever-present love and to crush you with the realization of the vast brokenness in this world. This past weekend happened to be one.

After about two months of discovering and getting settled into our respective communities, the four YAVs—Cameron, Cynthia, Sarah, and myself—gathered for a retreat with Achen (Reverend) Thomas John and his wife Betty. It was great to get together and share stories, laughter, struggles, hugs, and Halloween candy in a language that we all understand (not just English, but a shared language of having taken a leap and embarked on this journey together). The purpose of the retreat, though, was much more intentional than that. Through discussions and direct interaction, we were there to learn about dalit realities in Kerala. I will not describe the caste system in India at length because I am by no means qualified, and that would take several libraries’ worth of writing. The important thing to know for this post is that dalits are those who are without caste altogether. In other words, they are so low in the social order that they are excluded from it altogether. In traditional Indian society, the dalits were basically agricultural slaves to those who had caste. In modern times, those who are able to find work period are usually very poor day laborers.

To continue the history lesson, in the 19th century dalits started to turn to Christianity, as it offered liberation from a religion entrenched in casteism that dictated their oppression. And truly Christianity should be such a liberating force. Jesus offered salvation and the perfect example of his life to all, but it was the poor and the outcast of society with whom he chose to spend his time. He bucked the social system radically and explicitly empowered the oppressed of his time. For some reason the church has drifted from this radical empowering stance, though, if indeed it ever had it right in the first place. Thus, the churches that were already in place, called Syrian churches (claiming connection to the Syrian church supposedly started by St. Thomas in the 50s AD and that were what we would see in most mainline protestant churches in the U.S.—ethnically homogeneous congregations of the upper middle class), rather than welcoming dalits into their congregations as fellow members of a family of Christians, set up separate churches with separate congregations. So, welcome to ‘Christianity,’ but not our family.

Now, I have seen many churches in Kerala that are quite the impressive structures. Money and time have been poured into these buildings in attempts to make houses of praise fitting for the greatness of the God being worshipped. I had not encountered the likes of the church we ambled up to on Friday, though. There was a humble building with old benches, a pulpit, and an altar for Sunday worship. I would describe the ‘church,’ however, more as the community outside of this building. Surrounding it were winding paths leading to the small homes of the congregants. I think they called it a church or mission compound, for the entire neighborhood around the building is part of the church. We walked these paths into one of the most beautiful communities I have ever encountered. We were welcomed into homes where we prayed and tried to chat with our limited language skills. We were followed around by an excited and fast-growing group of children. We were offered tea, snacks, and smiles. We would see many of the same people pop up in different houses, because they were all welcomed as family in each others’ homes. We were welcomed as family into their homes.

Then on Sunday came the true highlight of the retreat, worshipping as part of this community. We went to the church building mentioned above with only the knowledge that we were to sing a few songs and give a little speech about who we were and why we were in Kerala. We got special chairs in the front of the church since we were honored guests. To my great delight, my seat was right next to a group of kids ranging from 2 or 3 years old to 12 or 13. Rather than paying attention to the sermon given by Thomas John, which was surely great but in Malayalam, I paid attention to this group of kids, and they paid even more attention to me. We held a whispered conference throughout the service about my name, why I was white, who my favorite actor was, what car I wanted, etc. in mixed English-Malayalam-Manglish. Really, though, they just wanted to talk with somebody who represents a world reality so different from their own, to get my attention and be noticed. Let me tell you, they got far more than my attention, they got my fullest love. I needed their attention, their smiles, their innocence and candor surely much more than they needed me. They gave me so much, some knowingly—one gave me candy from a hidden stash, for it was his birthday, and another gave me an amazing portrait drawing of yours truly (my cheeks are not that big these days, though!)—but unknowingly they gave me the realization that the very act of paying attention to somebody can be an unfathomably huge ministry of love and empowerment. Needless to say, I have never felt so welcomed by a new community in my entire life as I did with this one. It truly felt like being welcomed by Jesus himself into his people. After a rousing rendition of Siyahamba and a short talk followed by loud applause from my new friends in the front pew, we had communion and walked out. It was very difficult to leave this place, firstly because we truly felt like part of the family now, and secondly because the kids would not let go of our hands.

These kids and their families have so little in this world, little money, little social status, little notice by others, but they have one of the most vivacious Christian communities I have ever seen, they have each other, and now they have us. I have always thought that Jesus sought after the oppressed because they needed him most, that he did so as a supreme act of charity. In truth, though, I would not be surprised if his real reason was that in such communities lay the true heart of the Kingdom. Of course they needed him, but perhaps he needed them just as much to be his church.