Philippians 3:7-8 "...Yes, everything else is worthless when compared with the infinite value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have discarded everything else, counting it all garbage, so that I could gain Christ and become one with him..."
*note: if you have a weak stomach or are easily offended, you may not want to read this entry, or maybe you should...
Upon coming to India, I came upon the realization that there's not many trash cans around this place but there's a lot of trash. I didn't grasp the full gratuity of this until I got here. Except for some of the major cities, there is no sanitation system. The backyard is at your disposal. Literally. Ok. I'll stop with the puns. Anyhow, early on while in Visak (another city), I peeled an orange and couldn't find a waste basket anywhere. Peel in hand, I walked out on the porch and looked around, helpless. To my right stood Syam's brother Danny. I held out the small orange peel with a questioning look-- he simply waved his hand past the balcony and raised his eyebrows as if to say, "Um, anywhere, duh." Somehow, I still didn't feel comfortable just throwing waste anywhere. Maybe it's those "$500 fine for littering" signs that pop up in the recesses of my mind. But this isn't America; this is India.
The open sewage draining or clogging with today's excrements. Wild dogs that wade through it looking for scraps. Men peeing into those same sewage drains in broad daylight. Fresh killed goat hanging by the hooks, still dripping as flies dart to and fro around it. Cow dung piled in the middle of the dusty road. A tractor plowing through that fresh pile leaving a blast of fumes. Trash piles burning mid-evening, faint smells of charcoal rising above the tin roof-tops. This place has an unparalleled authenticity.
Beyond the obvious physicality of this place, I've come to find a people's authentic faith shifting my own. Their hearts as an open wound, beating with every artery of strength, crying out to their Maker. When people ask for prayer here, they mean now. "Pray for me," isn't a flippant request as each goes his or her merry way. They will show you what pains them-- one lady after a village church service, pointed out her head, I touched her head, prayed for her. Then her stomach. I prayed again. Then her knee. And again, holding her knee, I prayed for healing. When a pastor calls for prayer, more than one voice rises. The entire crowd begins to pray, to cry out to the Lord. On their faces, bowing, weeping before God Almighty.
These are people of raw faith.
I think, maybe, in America we've become experts at hiding things. Yes, our sewage is underground where no stray dogs will swim through it (and don't get me wrong, for that I am thankful) but what about our faith? What about our spiritual heart? When pastors ask who wants to receive Christ, why do they command the audience to close their eyes and bow their heads? Should we hide our new-found faith because, gasp, someone might be looking? Didn't Paul say, "For I am not ashamed of this good news about Christ. It is the power of God at work, saving everyone who believes." Every one of the disciples, excluding John, was martyred for their faith. If we can't even be bold enough to proclaim his name in front of a family of believers, how can we expect to live for him in the world, much less die for him-- if it came to that. Or when we ask, "Who wants prayer?" in typical American churches, maybe one or two, a handful at most, will step forward. Here, crowds bombard the front. There's been times when I'm just overwhelmed, thinking, "Lord, we need more help up here praying for these people. There are so many..."
Why is this? I think that fear may be crippling the American church far worse than the physical ailments of the people in India. Fear of what? Being found out? Guess what, we're all sinners in desperate need of a Savior. If we, the body, can't even come to grips with that basic foundation of our Christian faith, there's something deep within that remains unsettled.
And there the orange peels rots, out in the open.
*Comments welcome. I'm still working through this myself...
*note: if you have a weak stomach or are easily offended, you may not want to read this entry, or maybe you should...
Upon coming to India, I came upon the realization that there's not many trash cans around this place but there's a lot of trash. I didn't grasp the full gratuity of this until I got here. Except for some of the major cities, there is no sanitation system. The backyard is at your disposal. Literally. Ok. I'll stop with the puns. Anyhow, early on while in Visak (another city), I peeled an orange and couldn't find a waste basket anywhere. Peel in hand, I walked out on the porch and looked around, helpless. To my right stood Syam's brother Danny. I held out the small orange peel with a questioning look-- he simply waved his hand past the balcony and raised his eyebrows as if to say, "Um, anywhere, duh." Somehow, I still didn't feel comfortable just throwing waste anywhere. Maybe it's those "$500 fine for littering" signs that pop up in the recesses of my mind. But this isn't America; this is India.
The open sewage draining or clogging with today's excrements. Wild dogs that wade through it looking for scraps. Men peeing into those same sewage drains in broad daylight. Fresh killed goat hanging by the hooks, still dripping as flies dart to and fro around it. Cow dung piled in the middle of the dusty road. A tractor plowing through that fresh pile leaving a blast of fumes. Trash piles burning mid-evening, faint smells of charcoal rising above the tin roof-tops. This place has an unparalleled authenticity.
Beyond the obvious physicality of this place, I've come to find a people's authentic faith shifting my own. Their hearts as an open wound, beating with every artery of strength, crying out to their Maker. When people ask for prayer here, they mean now. "Pray for me," isn't a flippant request as each goes his or her merry way. They will show you what pains them-- one lady after a village church service, pointed out her head, I touched her head, prayed for her. Then her stomach. I prayed again. Then her knee. And again, holding her knee, I prayed for healing. When a pastor calls for prayer, more than one voice rises. The entire crowd begins to pray, to cry out to the Lord. On their faces, bowing, weeping before God Almighty.
These are people of raw faith.
I think, maybe, in America we've become experts at hiding things. Yes, our sewage is underground where no stray dogs will swim through it (and don't get me wrong, for that I am thankful) but what about our faith? What about our spiritual heart? When pastors ask who wants to receive Christ, why do they command the audience to close their eyes and bow their heads? Should we hide our new-found faith because, gasp, someone might be looking? Didn't Paul say, "For I am not ashamed of this good news about Christ. It is the power of God at work, saving everyone who believes." Every one of the disciples, excluding John, was martyred for their faith. If we can't even be bold enough to proclaim his name in front of a family of believers, how can we expect to live for him in the world, much less die for him-- if it came to that. Or when we ask, "Who wants prayer?" in typical American churches, maybe one or two, a handful at most, will step forward. Here, crowds bombard the front. There's been times when I'm just overwhelmed, thinking, "Lord, we need more help up here praying for these people. There are so many..."
Why is this? I think that fear may be crippling the American church far worse than the physical ailments of the people in India. Fear of what? Being found out? Guess what, we're all sinners in desperate need of a Savior. If we, the body, can't even come to grips with that basic foundation of our Christian faith, there's something deep within that remains unsettled.
And there the orange peels rots, out in the open.
*Comments welcome. I'm still working through this myself...
