At the Rich end of India

Closing out this blog came sooner than I anticipated. The number of changes in the past few weeks arrived without sufficient time for me to mentally process, much less blog. However, time has allowed me to settle down, reflect, and write this final blog.

As many of you already knew, finding a permanent job was a long and worrisome task for me. While I was working in Mumbai, I constantly sent out applications for positions all over the United States and other parts of the world. These efforts met with little success, and discouragement and resentment buried themselves in my heart. I frequently camped out in Phillipians 4 and labored to trust God with the anxiety. Although I felt that I did give some of the stress to Him, unfortunately, there were times when the worrying overcame my faith. Despite these things, God used His timing to strengthen my trust in Him, so that next time something like this happens, I can reach closer to a fuller trust that He has control. Further, the timing of the job offer and the type of work I will perform give me the confidence to say that God continues to direct my life. Making the previous statement is deeply edifying to me because of my past reluctance to attribute life-channeling decisions to divine direction… I didn't feel led by God to go to study political science or to go to law school. Sure, I felt led and called to go to IJM, but that is a much easier jump to make than to attribute God's direction to an ordinary job. Nevertheless, the struggles, the circumstances, and the surrender leave me with the sincere conclusion that He's taken the reigns. Unexpectedly, I find comfort and confidence in this system.

So, you may be asking, what am I doing now? I accepted a position as a staff attorney with Legal Aid of East Tennessee in Cleveland, Tennessee (near Chattanooga). I will provide legal representation and assistance to underprivileged persons in a variety of civil matters. For me, this is an ideal position. I get to work with the demographic of people whom I most enjoy, performing functions that help struggling people. Perhaps the most invigorating element is that, on any given day, I will have no idea which person or what kind of problem, will walk in the door seeking my help. The intimidating aspect of it for a green attorney is that I am the only attorney in the office in Cleveland. Regardless, the organization assured me that it will provide regular mentorship from the Chattanooga office. Needless to say, I am excited about working in legal aid. Most of all, I am confident that if I can take on the legal needs of brothel raids in a foreign jurisdiction, I can handle the people and problems that arise much closer to home.

Now that you know I'm home and where I'm headed, I want to take time to reflect on what I left. I reflected to those at the office about what it was like to come to Mumbai. I told them how many overly flattering compliments thrown my way- about how everyone told me how giving I was and about how great a sacrifice I made to go. And then, I told them my realization upon reflection: that my time in India met with much more receiving than giving. It's true that I did contribute substantially to the work in Mumbai, but it is also true that I received more than I gave. I received mentorship in professionalism from an organization that demands it. I received mentorship in spiritual development from those whom God already developed. I received mentorship in humility and servitude from those that choose to offer themselves as living sacrifices. And, I received encouragement from girls that rose out of the darkest, most oppressive brothels. It is difficult for me to imagine that I will ever be surrounded by such a close group of talented, dedicated, intelligent Christians than I had in India. I've written about their passion. I've written about their skill. I've written about their diversity. Still, I am frustrated by the inadequacy of my descriptions. I want you to know that there are inspiring people who perform difficult and dangerous functions every day without thanks. They do the work because they believe in it. In this belief, in this faith, I join them, and find myself sad to leave work with such substance. But, the voices and the stories that encountered me are embedded in my mind, and they cannot be forgotten, as they made an impact on the way that I think and on my very personality. I am not the same.

Finally, I want to close this blog with appreciation. First, to God, who has pronounced his direction for me, the doubter, in tangible fashion. To God, who sustained me and developed me through trials (both meanings of the word). Second, to those who supported me with encouraging emails, calls, money, and prayers- thank you. You were the people that God chose to use to contribute to the work of justice and mercy in Mumbai. You enabled me to go and do. Yet, your enabling offerings invariably left my verbal "thank you's" lingering in gross insufficiency. So, know this: more important than my appreciation for your giving, your giving made a kingdom difference in a distant land that pushed in the direction of God's will- that is a substantial contribution. God bless.

"Pastor Richard" . . . Movie Star?!?

It seems that India doesn't let you escape the things that it loves. One way or another, if you stay here long enough, you'll get pulled into the dancing or the singing or... the acting??? My acting debut started at the office with a favor to a colleague. He had a friend, who was good friends with a Christian film producer. My colleague introduced me to the producer, who told me in Hindi (which my colleague translated to me) that he found me sufficient for the role of a foreign missionary, as long as I wore a suit and tie and carried a Bible. When I took out my Bible, which I think is the largest and heaviest Bible in the country, he smiled. Irrespective of the fact that I felt a missionary in a suit and tie slamming an over-sized Bible might not accurately reflect an effective missions strategy, I agreed to take the role. However, I received no script, no description, not even a location, only a phone number and a time- tomorrow night.

So, Friday night after work, I raced home, threw on the only suit and tie I brought and tried to ignore all the stares I got when I jumped in a rickshaw. The first problem hit me- my colleague would not be there, which meant I was not guaranteed a translator. Nevertheless, I called the number the producer gave me and introduced myself to someone I only knew as Paul (apparently he had the best English in the group), handed my phone to the rickshaw driver, and crossed my fingers that I would eventually get where I needed to go. As a suit and a rickshaw are not conducive, my driver finally pulled up to a busy street and I exited the rick pouring sweat and trying not to stand out. Within 10 seconds a man identified himself as Paul and escorted me up the steps of a flat on the second floor of a strip of road with small vendors all along the first floor. Immediately upon entering the small church/film studio, I watched the eyes of all present shift to me and heard a greeting of "Hallelujah, Praise the Lord!" I smiled, perhaps more sheepishly than I want to admit, and found a chair on the side of the room. Normal Indian hospitality took over and no sooner had a I sat than a cup of chai was thrust upon me. Despite not craving the boiling tea when pouring sweat, I knew the easiest path was just accepting it and downing it. After tea and introductions limited to names, I met the man whom the film is about. He told me several times that the film is about his life story and his conversion to Jesus Christ. And then, they showed me the trailer for the film.

The first two minutes of the five minute trailer looked like an Indian version of Rambo. It cataloged the militia and rebel training of this man in the jungles of South India, and included bows and arrows, pistols, assault rifles, and frequent slow motion swinging on vines into murky bodies of water. The next stage categorized his life as a contract killer/kidnapper and involved several violent sequences, which I will not discuss. This intense segment transitioned into a flowery, nature scene where the protagonist/killer is shown prancing around with his brother in that recognizable fond memory type cinematography. In order to avoid going overly soft, the trailer then cuts to the man holding his brother, who has just been shot by the protagonist's own crew. Then, the footage shows the hooligans coming after the protagonist, who leaps off a moving train (I'm pretty sure no stunt double was used) followed by the goons, and narrowly escapes on a canoe out into the river. Meanwhile, his pursues project curses and malice from the shoreline. In one of the only English parts of the trailer, the hero holds his arms wide above him and shouts, "Hallelujah, thank you Jesus!"

The remainder of the trailer took a sharp turn and showed a picture of India with a cross over it and showed several sequences of this man preaching to groups gathered in Assam (a small state in the northeastern arm of India that reaches into what most of us think of as the area where China is). The ending involved a dramatic drumming crescendo, leading to the hero healing people in Jesus' name by pushing them down and/or making them convulse.

As the trailer played, others in the room had rearranged the room with rows of chairs and created a kind of pulpit area for the preacher to stand. The video camera, tripod and crew had positioned themselves in the back corner of the room and cast an almost blinding light on the front/pulpit area. I was reseated front and center. It was obvious to me that we were about to start the scene, but I had not received any instruction, at least any instruction in English as to what I was expected to do. The camera man shouted "Action" but the man playing the preacher said he needed to wait one minute and he bent over to me and said the following, "I introduce you. Then you get up and share five to ten minute message and also prayer, and then I walk you out." There it was. In about ten seconds, my acting role meant standing up and delivering an impromptu sermon to a charismatic crew of believers, whom I wasn't entirely certain would be able to understand what I was saying. Fear welled up inside me wondering what I could talk about on the spot with no time to think, in this environment. But, in India, you just gotta do it.

After my introduction, I stood up and surveyed the eager and attentive faces in the crowd. Strangely, I thought, this isn't acting. These are believers in one of the toughest places in the world to be believers. This is like the first century Christians, and I am fortunate to be given the opportunity to encourage them. With that thought, I started.

I'll try to write what went through my head and what happened while I was trying to speak on the spot- kind of a stream-of-conscious type:

My first thought, the Bible says that wherever two or more are gathered in My name, there I am also- which translated into, "I am so blessed to be here (interrupted host of 'Amens!' from the crowd, and startled expression from me) and so thankful that we serve a mighty and matchless God. And, I know that He is here with us today because His word (thump Bible to grunts of approval) says that wherever two or more are gathered in my name, there I am also. And I am excited to be with others who share the same saving faith as me (Strong Amens) In fact, (first verse that came in my head) the Bible says that we are saved by grace through faith, not of our own works so that no one can boast. And, I am so excited to see that faith in all of you and to talk with you about that grace. And about (next verse in head) His mercies, which are new every morning (One lone "Yes Lord" from the crowd). [At this point, I felt like I needed to find a direction or quit... and then Stephen popped in my head. When Stephen was before the Sanhedrin, he walked through the whole history of the Jews leading to Jesus... the same happens in Hebrews 11 about faith... this could buy me time. i thought, but only for a milli-second, before starting.] And I'm so thankful that we have His Word because His Word (I'm not going to write in the Amens any more, just know that they were there and insert them in your head) tells us many stories of men, like me and you, who had faith in God, and whom God led to victory. It tells of Abraham, who believed God and it was credited to him as righteousness. God made a covenant to this Abraham that would form the foundation of his plan to reconcile man. Later, it talks about David, a man after God's own heart, who trusted God enough to face the Giant Goliath, before whom the army of Israel trembled. And God led him to victory. It tells us about many more (I kinda drew a blank here) great men and women who trusted God leading up to Jesus (at this point, I found myself enjoying what I was saying and the act of saying it). At this time, God sent his only son as a man, a man that was just as much God, to live a human life. This man, this Jesus not only lived a perfect life, but he suffered pain and humiliation for each one of us, because, you see, he was perfect and died unjustly so that He could bear the sin and the wrongs that each one of us commit before God the father. He is our salvation. He is our hope. Even after this Jesus came and died, men, just like me and you, like Paul, began telling the story of Jesus to people all over the world. They did this so that each one of us could have something that the world can never give us: Hope in salvation. Hope after death.

(At this point, I again ran out of material, but decided that leading to a prayer would work well). It is my honor as a brother in Christ to share with you about the life of my savior. And, it would be my honor that because God is amongst us, that you would allow me to pray to him before you that he may strengthen and encourage us and make us more like him.

Let us pray. (I prayed, but I can't remember exactly what I prayed... most of it had to do with God giving us strength and allowing us to impact the people around us through His power.)

Nevertheless, when I finished the preacher actor shook my hand while the applause rolled. The camera went off and the people in the back started joyfully proclaiming "One take, One take, it only took one take!" They were laughing so much as they said it, that I gather that other scenes had taken much longer and they were glad that they might get out earlier that night. After this we did a few short sequences of the introduction and applause/ending, allowing the camera crew to relocate for different angles and a scene where I greeted the protagonist before leaving. The thing about the other three scenes was that no one told me what I was supposed to do in them at all. I just waited for them to say action, and then watched what other people did. When they walked around shaking hands saying "Praise the Lord," I did the same, when they filed out of the room- I filed out, when they shook my hand- i shook their hand. I guess I did fine, but this is the greatest example of "winging-it" imaginable.

Additionally, everyone around me kept saying what an incredible message it was, and that they wished I would keep going. I thought these were just kind words, until I realized they were serious. They wanted me to keep preaching off camera. Not only this, but the camera had been off for some time, and even though my character in the film was "Pastor Richard," everyone kept referring to me as "Pastor Richard".

I won't give you the entirety of my shorter, second, off-camera message, other than to tell you that it was based on the verse that states "He who has begun a good work in you is faithful and just to bring it to completion..." I shared this with them to let them know just how encouraging they had been to me and how faithful God would be to work done in His will. At this point, I was mentally exhausted and don't remember everything I said. To end the session, they invited the whole crew in, and asked me to pray over them. I prayed, greeted everyone a last time, flagged a rickshaw, sat down, and exhaled.

I still have no idea where and how this scene fits in the plot of the movie. I should get a copy of the scene, and maybe even the movie soon.

Bizarre Extra-Curricular Activities

Largely due to my recent series of illnesses, I've neglected blogging. However, now that I'm back on my feet, I am without excuse. Fortunately, several interesting things took place in the last few weeks. I'll try to give separate context for each one. And, based upon popular requests, I decided to actually put some pictures up with what I am writing. I hope this helps.

(1) Bollywood Dance Team

In case you are not aware, Mumbai hosts a major film industry known as Bollywood. Bollywood film stars saturate the host city much like Los Angeles in the US. The industry influences the whole of India and Bollywood stars know a celebrity status that rivals, if not exceeds, that of the biggest Hollywood celebs. Not only are Bollywood celebs movie stars but also all of the biggest songs in India come from the movies, merging celebrities of different industries into one. This is because Bollywood films differ from Hollywood films in that an average film runs three hours and a long film runs four or more. The additional time is filled by a series of music videos and dance scenes that space out different "acts" of the movie. It's as if each film is a full length musical added to a more typical genre like comedy, drama, or action... but always, always with some romance. It doesn't matter if the plot concerns a war between robots and dinosaurs with lasers- there will be a romantic subplot.

Everyone in India, including the rescued girls, know the most famous dance scenes from Bollywood movies. Accordingly, one of the Aftercare homes organized a talent show for the girls. Everyone participated the girls, the expats, the staff. During the week preceding this talent show, the expats gathered on several evenings to master a dance scene from "Lagaan," one of the most famous Bollywood films. I must say, I've never been known for my grace on the dance floor, especially compared with Indians who grow up dancing as much as sleeping. Regardless, my first experience as a dance team member went really well, and the girls were very excited to see that we knew something about Bollywood. It was a rejuvenating experience to hear laughter and see smiles on the faces of girls whose histories' I knew lacked these things. All had an incredible day, so much so, that my face hurt from smiling so continuously.

(2) Dahi Handi

As I've reiterated often- Indians know how to party. The festivals here have more noise and more color than anywhere imaginable. However, Dahi Handi has it all: Danger, Suspense, Joy, Celebration, Rewards, etc. Fifty feet off the ground, a clay pot filled with curd and lots of cash hangs tantalizingly suspended above the dense crowd of onlookers. All evening, teams arrive and try to build human pyramids tall enough to reach the pot, smash it, and collect the rewards. The stoutest men form the base; the middle layers are composed of light, but tall young men; and the top layers are made up by young boys with great balance and little weight. During the entire affair, live music is performed and enormous water hoses soak the drench crowd and competitors alike. Each team cheers and dances on each attempt. No patience is exhibited and the pyramids fully form in less than a minute, as the lighter boys scale the outside of the pyramid like army ants. The surrounding crowd crams around the pyramid and extends their hands, cheering the team on and waiting to catch any of the boys that fall from the top. As you might expect, injuries are regular, and even deaths- occasional. It is Dahi Handi, and it is so much more than a pinata.

(3) Goa

Brief escapes from the city are treasured times. A week ago, I was able to take a weekend and go a short distance south of the city to Goa. Goa is a Mecca for hippies and has always been a beatiful, tropical place full of bizarre folk. I want to share a few of the highlights from that weekend. First, Goa's mountains extend right to the edge of the Arabian Sea and riding anywhere in Goa is a treat. We rented scooters for the whole weekend for $10 and road them through the endless, terraced rice patties and frequent ocean overlooks. At one point we wandered to a fort that operated with cannons on turrets hundreds of years ago. The jungle has since invaded the fort and left it in green, mossy ruins. However, the fort remains on cliff overlooking a particularly rocky part of the coastline where the waves crash into the rocks fifty feet below. It was a surreal experience, and I expected a pirate to be waiting around each corner of the fort.

Another interesting element prevalent in this entire region of India, including Goa, is mass paranoia over swine flu. Every day the newspaper front page has an article about H1N1 cases. This paranoia is openly accepted by many citizens and everywhere I go, a variety of homemade and store-bought "swine flu masks" appear on the faces of people. It just seems strange that in a country that always deals with a tremendous variety of horrific diseases without so much as a second thought, that the miniscule chance of contracting swine flu would drive people to such extremes. Regardless, I love the types of masks people come up with and get a kick out of the whole thing.

Like many coastal tourist retreats, Goans know how to do seafood. Sampling fish caught from the nets and canoes that we saw go out each day was a real treat. However, some of the expats with us come from Chinese-American families. They raised the topic of the delicacy and honor in eating the fish's head and eyes. In fact, they illustrated proper technique for the remainder of us for both procedures. To make a long story short, we decided to play paper rock scissors to determine which of us had to eat the last remaining fish eyeball. As I had been sick recently, I was not looking forward to this competition. Nevertheless, upon thoroughly jinxing myself by mentioning that I only had a 20% chance- I proceeded to lose every round and got stuck with eating the last remaining fish eye, much to the amusement of my colleagues.

(4) Ganpati Festival

The most elaborate of my recent experiences involves the ongoing Ganpati Festival. The event spans 10 days and involves extensive decoration. Every street is strung with Christmas lights and tents and banners. No matter where you are in the city you are within hearing distance of a set of drummers and or a brass group. The focus is on lord ganesha, and all the Hindus go to the "idol store" and buy and elaborately decorated ganesha idol for the festival. The statues range in size from manageable, single home statues weighing 25 pounds, to ganesha statues three-four stories in height. What is consistent is that all of them will be ornately decorated with gold, flowers, red powder, and incense and paraded through the streets to the largest beaches, where they will be immersed into the ocean at significant points during the 10 days festival. It is direct idolatry in a way unimaginable to the Western Christian. I hope to have more stories as the festival continues.

Ode to Ginger Ale and Saltines

As I have likely overemphasized by now, this city is infamous for trash, smog and disease. And so, for many that come, sickness beckons them upon arrival. However, for an unidentifiable reason, I relished in pristine health for the first six months here. In fact, while numerous health-conscious colleagues were dropping like flies, I marched on. Nevertheless, the second half of the monsoon season proved more than my immune system could handle. On multiple occasions over the past few weeks, I've spent days and nights sweating through a hoody with a bucket by the bed. And in subsequent days, the recurring, striking irony of dehydration in the midst of the very mist of the wettest climate I've ever experienced.

Irrespective, I write to convey reasons why, contrary to my prior opinion, it is easier to be sick here than at home. Granted, it is not the same as mom tending to my every need and ensuring a ready supply of saltines and ginger ale. Nor are the distractions as nice- instead of the television, movies, high-speed internet, air conditioning, and hot water; I have spotty internet, no AC, the crow that sits on my window and incessantly caws at me, and only cold water for about three hours a day. If it appears I've painted the picture too bleak, please, permit me a few more paragraphs to make my point.

First, for me, sympathy during sickness is destructive. I feed on it (Note this especially if you're considering sending me a schmoozer email after reading this.). As a child... cough... ahem... college student... at times when I fell ill and mom waited on me hand-and-foot, I soaked it up. "Ahhh," I moaned, or "My head is going to explode," I whined, stretching out every syllable and coating it with shortness of breath to maximize sympathetic-absorbsion (not a word). And, try as she did to resist the lure of my hyperbolic sufferings, she conceded and brought the damp washrag for my forehead. Such sympathetic reactions drove me to adopt the misguided viewpoint that my condition merited sympathy.

Here, seeking such sympathy does not arise as a viable option. Not only is such sympathy not readily available, but thousands of sobering comparisons occupy the view from the window of my bedroom alone. Tempted to whine in usual fashion, I get up from my bed and look out the window. Seven floors beneath my ivory tower, thousands of people grunt through lifetimes without an ounce of sympathy inside makeshift homes suffering illness and disease far worse and far more frequent than me. To them, it is not a matter of movies and AC, but IF I will get well and IF anybody cares. From my window, I see more than the slum dwellers, I see the pavement dwellers, those incapable of even getting into a slum. Covered in sores, limbless, toothless, eyeless, their mattress is a concrete slab and they do not know sympathy- the very ones who deserve it. This realization compelled my focus to shift from gleaning sympathy to just getting better. It's really an expedited process, a lack of options, removing the "woe is me" part. Doing this allows me to heal faster and to be a lot more productive when I am sick.

My second and third reasons are remarkably lighter: that the healthcare available to, at least me, in India is wonderful to experience and that theories from national friends and colleagues concerning my illness provide a boundless source of confusion and humor. So, what I mean practically by the healthcare available to me is this: competent doctors promptly conduct home visits at a minimal fee. I'm not sure how this works in a macro sense. I just know that, yes, a doctor will come to my house, examine me, give me a shot and some pills, and charge almost nothing. Wow- is that different! Next, the theories (not from the doctor) on why I get sick range from the fact that I drink too much "Choco-Milk" because it is a child's drink and "you should not be having Choco-Milk;" to, "Peanut butter sandwiches are making you sick because you are from a cool climate and now you are in a warm climate and peanut butter is only for digestion in cool climates;" and even to, "You are drinking chilled water. Chilled water will make you ill. Do not cool the water." Probably, the facet I find most humorous is that everyone has a theory involving food/digestion that explains your sickness.

Finally, having no distractions and being forced to lie in bed all day forces me to spend time with God. It is like mandatory quiet time with God. When the hustle and bustle of work every day and activities every night diminishes my quality time with God, getting sick provides the necessary refocusing on the work and the task at hand.

And just for your information, in case you're a schmoozer writer, I'm doing much better today and am excited to return to work Monday.

Translating My Monsoon State of Mind

Work presses on through the brunt of the monsoon season. While I dreaded the rainy season before I came, my opinion has changed. After going without a drop of rain from January to June, I was really craving some rain. Fortunately, the rain also brings cooler temperatures. Combined with the sheet metal awning outside my window, the pleasant nights and the rapping and pinging of the rain make the recipe for a thorough sleep. Nevertheless, one frustrating irony remains. I, along with the vast majority of this city, get access to water for about two hours in the morning, and sometimes an hour in the evening. When it was hot and not raining, I felt content with this. However, it just feels wrong when it is pouring outside, for me to be unable to get water inside. In fact, the city just cut water access. I know it is due to planning for the water for the remainder of the year (for Bennett- think fat cows and skinny cows), but a morning without a shower can transform me into an ogre pretty quickly. Then, there is the increase in mosquitos, intermittent internet access, flooded sewage drains, and encompassing mold and mildew. Boo.

None of this affects the locals. They love the monsoon. Here, the heaviest rains summon people out on the street. Many simply choose to dance in the downpour. Teenage boys actually reserve their soccer games for the heaviest rains- they reschedule if it is too dry. It is entertaining to watch everyone enjoy the rain. I guess they've also been through it enough times to know that attempting to stay dry is futile. I depart home with water-proof shoes, a long rain jacket, and a golf-sized umbrella, only to find myself soaked by the time I travel the short distance to the office... horizontal rain is a cunning foe. Additionally, the rickshaws I love so dearly have no doors, and flooded roadways with congested traffic means you frequently get blasted by passing cars.

Now, I am coming to see all of this as attitude training. The professional and adult in me grumbles at the soaked slacks and whines when my drenched hair drips on my desk at work. But this is not always the case, I am happiest when the kid in me comes out: the rickshaw ride becomes an adventure surprisingly similar to an amusement waterpark ride, realizing that everyone that comes in the office is soaking wet starts to crack me up, and the fact that there is water everywhere stops ruining my day. I accept that it is just the way it is, and actually start to laugh about it. It is just another way that this country forces you to submit, something I'm finding to be a valuable lesson.

On another note, something unexpected has developed in the last few days. Before I left, a friend from my parents' congregation gave me a Hindi Bible. I have kept it out from the day I arrived, hoping to give it to the first local that took interest. This week, my friend Harish, who loves to translate for me and teach me Hindi, randomly picked up the Bible, opened it and declared, “First part- Old Rules; Second Part- New Rules, and then... finish.” I laughed at the translation of Old Testament and New Testament, and asked if he could translate certain parts for me. Unexpectedly, this translation contained a significant number of Sanskrit words mixed in with the Hindi, which fascinated Harish and made him all the more excited to tell me what it said. After a little bumbling around, he helped me find the passages for which I was searching. Here is what I tried, and the resulting translations (of which I was amazed at his ability to grasp the meaning of certain Christian concepts... I can't explain):

1.I John 1:9-If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.

We are doing things that are bad. It's like those people always going and dancing and drinking and looking at the girls at the disco. But God is good and we are pleading pleading with God. Its like that.

2.Romans 8:1-Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus

God will not be punishing people if the people are inside Jeshua. Its like that. Its like people that go and helping and giving and being nice- those are inside Jeshua (Harish volunteered that explanation!)

3.James 1:27-Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.

If the child has no parents and also woman with husband that died, it is good for people to care for them. It is like rich people looking at poor people and saying, I am rich, you go away I am not staying near you, but not like that. They are helping people.

4.Ephesians 2:8-For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— [I wanted to know how he would define grace.]

If you believe then God will give you a gift. Its like when we are riding in rickshaw in Bandra and the people are coming and “sir, sir” [beggars] and you are reaching and giving. But it is God giving you a gift.

Even as I write this, I am floored by what he said. I don't think he believed any of it. I think he was just excited to translate. But, his ability to give examples and grasp the concepts humbled and encouraged me... God's Word is for all. I want to share these truths more fully with him, but it is really hard in this place. You can get in real trouble and lose close friends. I guess faith is believing that it is more than worth the risks. Nevertheless, I am trying to be prudent with how far I go each time, and this is by far the furthest I have gotten. I gawk at the bulk of variables involved in these conversations, which are bigger than my mind, and realize that nothing I say or do can change anything without God. Fortunately, He is a God of miracles, a God who speaks through His Word, and a God who answers prayer. And, just like dealing with the craziness of the monsoon, the key is in submitting.

Finally, and by no means is this a side-note, another operation brought a handful of perpetrators to justice and extracted sixteen more girls from a life of oppression. I will wait for press releases to discuss the details, as I am not certain which details I am permitted to disclose. Nevertheless, I wanted all of you to know how continuously we pursue these cases, and that work continues in spite of all of these surrounding occurrences.

"Strengthen My Hands"

One of the astounding aspects of the work (and one of the best indicators that God sustains it) is that it keeps going. From my vantage point, people come and people go, but the work presses on. Case by case and rescued girl by rescued girl, the work places pressure on the oppression that has plagued this country for too long. Hidden behind a culture that is quick to point to the modesty demanded and exhibited in public dress, but which turns its head and ignores the prolific prostitution of underage, abused, non-consenting, detained, trafficking victims- our work sheds the light that nurtures widespread acknowledgment of such atrocities.

These thoughts prompted me to discuss what it is like to labor over individual cases. In one sense, it is deeply fulfilling to know a girl's face, and to know that she now knows a Savior and a new life because of the work of your office. There is also deep satisfaction watching justice come to oppressors, knowing that they will not do this again. Then, there are the failed cases, those that test each person's capacity to deal with frustration and those that pronounce the reality of the surroundings: that the task and the work are far from over, and that the end of prostitution, even just the end of oppressive forms of prostitution, has not yet even reached the horizon. It is the enormity of the problem that taunts and mocks those who choose to fight it.

For example, a few weeks ago, I accompanied a local friend to a "red-light" area for some observations. As we walked down the sidewalk, I was confronted with the public nature of the industry. These were not back alley whispers or sex compartments hidden in the back of disreputable establishments. This was public. In fact, nobody waited inside. The prostitutes and pimps lined the full length of the road and were so numerous that I occasionally had to weave just to keep moving. Everywhere, open doorways led to curtained areas shrouding the inside in darkness. Everybody knew this was where you went for it... and nobody cared. One girl, drenched in makeup, grabbed the back of my arm and offered a gentle tug. I spun around and she smiled, nodded in the direction of a doorway, and disappeared inside. I shivered and continued on. Disturbed as I was by what was on the street, I knew that the unseen girls had it worse. The solicitors had been either brainwashed or compelled. Those locked inside had no choice- they live as slaves for one purpose. I left discouraged, feeling like we could do our work for a hundred years and not defeat this problem.

At church a short time later, God responded through Nehemiah. The pastor introduced the task assigned to Nehemiah- the enormous challenge of rebuilding the wall that surrounded Jerusalem. He probably saw some individual successes that gave him deep fulfillment brick by brick or worker by worker, but that could not have blinded him from the enormity of the problems. The wall was huge, the deadline seemed to short, there was dissension inside the people of Israel about building the wall, and outright, hostility outside Israel. In fact, while the people worked half of them stood as armed guards for the workers and even the workers carried a sword at all times. It seemed an insurmountable task, and it is at this time that Nehemiah proves his worth (6:9), "They were all trying to frighten us, thinking,'their hands will get too weak for the work and it will not get completed. But I prayed, 'Now [Lord] strengthen my hands.'" What struck me about Nehemiah is that he doesn't ask God to divinely take care of it, he asks for God to use him to take care of it. He is asking for the responsibility of the task that he knows he can't handle on his own. It's clear the burden is too great, but he doesn't pray, "It's too much, please take my burden Lord." Instead, he prays for strength to meet the challenge... for God to make him strong enough, smart enough, diligent enough to complete the task God set before him. So, while not as much rests on my shoulders as Nehemiah's, I still imitate his prayer, "Now, Lord, strengthen my hands- so that You may use my work for Your justice."

A Visa Run followed by a Rocky Return

The past month has flown by! The office was busy during the weeks leading up to my trip. I guess I should describe my trip, and share with you how fortunate I am. In the months preceding my original arrival here, my family planned a family-wide vacation to the beach for this June. Accordingly, I anticipated missing out on this gathering. However, two factors permitted me the opportunity to briefly return to the USA to see them. First, my visa is a one year multiple-entry business visa, which only permits me to remain in the country for 6 months at a time. Accordingly, at some point during my fellowship a "visa run" is required in which I needed an entry and exit stamp on my passport for at least five days. Second, while there certainly are closer countries than the USA, a great airfare price permitted me to remain within my budget and still go visit my family for this trip.

I spent six days with my family and Megg on Tybee Island, off the coast of Savannah, Georgia. I cannot describe how refreshing familiar faces and accents; fresh air; quiet and smooth car rides; and mounds of beef and seafood were to me. Most of all, its impossible to describe how much it meant to spend time with my family and Megg. In fact, everything went so well that I wished I could spend another week doing the same thing.

With this mindset, at the end of the week my family dropped me off at the Atlanta airport on Saturday. My flight left Atlanta at 4:00pm on Saturday and after 23 hours of travel and 10 hours of time change, I arrived in Mumbai at 1:00am, Monday morning, knowing that I needed to be at work later the same morning. Tired and disheartened, I chose to focus on many of the negatives of this country- the pungent pollution that coats your throat immediately upon emergence from the cabin of the plane and ceaselessly clings to you during your stay, the unnecessary noise, the ruthless crowds, the delay in getting your baggage, the driver insisting on ripping you off, and the overwhelmingly discouraging thought that I was on my own again. I openly acknowledge that my mindset was not what it should have been at this time.

Actually, this is exactly the kind of experience that makes me long for Paul's perspective in Philippians 4:11, "I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances." And Paul was persecuted and in jail when he said this... looks like I've still got a lot of growing to do.

Nevertheless, this was the time that God chose to give me some unanticipated encouragement. As I dragged my jet-lagged self into the office around 8am, several of the coworkers who are closest to me met me with deep and sincere smiles and laughs. Their excited and kind greeting knocked me off my feet. I'm used to controlling and predicting my emotions more effectively- but not this time. I felt missed, I felt encouraged, I felt peace, I experienced genuine edification. It was a wonderful blessing and, undeniably, the answer to the prayers of some of those I left in Atlanta. After this divinely-orchestrated retransition, I resumed my duties with vigor and gratefulness, reminded of why I am here and of how much I believe in this work. Unexpectedly, each day this week got better. In fact, it was one of the best weeks I have had here. It made me realize exactly how much I enjoy doing my job.

Praise God... Guess who was behind this!!!

Check out these links about our operation last week. There are other links to media and journals all over India.

http://www.indianexpress.com/news/cbi-unearths-sex-racket-rescues-34-girls/467099/

http://in.news.yahoo.com/139/20090528/808/tnl-cbi-blows-lid-of-a-sex-racket-in-mum.html

A Sight to See

I've been in public settings, like addressing a courtroom or presenting before a classroom, in which I was the focal point of the audience. I've even been in foreign countries where people took more notice of me because of the color of my skin. Regardless of these experiences, it wasn't until I reached India that I came to know what it is like to be stared at.

In the good old USA, if an attractive girl catches a guy's eye, he may stare at her, but as soon as she catches him, he reacts- whether he sheepishly looks away or boldly catcalls... he must react. On the other hand, India is the only place I have ever been where the intensity and duration of the stare in no way depend on whether the object of the stare is aware of it. In other words, the stare doesn't change or diminish when I catch the person staring at me. I can dance, make funny faces, or speak gibberish- yet the stare continues and actually intensifies. An English friend of mine responds by staring back with equal enthusiasm, pointing two fingers at his eyes, pointing directly at the starer, and then shaking his head no... but still, the starer is not phased. We have to accept that the stare is a part of life here, even if nothing about it is casual. It is a goggle-eyed, jaw-dropping fascination with the fact that I live and breath and move. No one speaks when they stare either. In traffic, the perpetual horn-honking doesn't distract the guy on the motorcycle beside you or the girl in the rickshaw on the other side from craning their necks inside your rickshaw to gaze at you sitting and sweating, and, rest assured, they will not withdraw until the traffic clears ahead.

If the staring occurs long enough and in close enough proximity, the more adventurous gazers will often squeeze out a quick question, “From which country?” While responses to countries including Brazil and Zimbabwe have met with delightful success, my usual response is America. Further, when I say the US, I get the same two replies: (1) Ohhh, America- Home of the Brave and Land of the Freeeeee!!! (2) Ohhh, America, OBAMAAAAA!!!

The staring is one thing, but many people often take it to another level. I can't count the number of times people have requested a photo with me on their cell phone. Further, it is not just giggling teenage girls, but full grown men with families that ask for these pictures. It can get exhausting because as soon as you allow one, everyone around realizes you're a pushover and they also ask for pictures. My roommate had a whole platoon of army guys surround him for snaps (pictures) in Rajasthan. I have no idea where these pictures go or what purpose they serve, but they sure love'em here.

The ironic/hypocritical element of this blog is that I return my fare share of staring. There is just so much to see here. The colors are dazzling. Every evening the streets fill with people. The markets hold more fruits and vegetables that I can't identify than those that I can. Additionally, rows of canvas sacks overflowing with every kind of spice imaginable supplement the marketplace with dots of color, complementing the bundles of intense color made by the produce. Nevertheless, the brightest banana, mango, or orange doesn't hold a candle to the women's clothing. Women wear sari's here, long pieces of fabric that are wrapped around a woman and pinned in place- and none of them are bland. Vibrant colors all the way across the spectrum are embroidered with gold prints and patterns. Its just something you have to see to believe. The amazing thing is that none of these come off flashy, as they fit perfectly the wild eyes and the bright smiles of Indian women. They are unconditionally elegant, and I can't help but think that my Granny would absolutely love the way the women here dress. The colors don't end with the spices, food, and dress, but festivals frequently pop-up and add colors and lights to the dim neighbors. Fireworks go off every night. I am not exaggerating. In fact, about every three days I am awakened in the middle of night to a tremendous boom and explosion of color bursting through my open window. Needless to say, I don't enjoy these as much.

All in all, these things fit with what I am discovering-- that this country is a country of extremes.

Walking Tall in the Fiery Furnace

I know that the Word of God is written to the whole world, and that the stories in the Bible can be generally applied to most places most of the time. It just seems that certain people and cultures bridge the time gap more effortlessly than others. For example, Christians in China may more easily identify with Paul's stories of persecution than Christians in Canada. This doesn't mean that the words don't apply to both- I'm simply saying that a particular significance attaches to stories in the Bible when you are around people who experience them firsthand.

I write this because I am fortunate enough to have met a present day comrade of Shadrach, Meeshach, and Abednego. A man who was put to the test, given a direct command, and whose simple faith prompted him to decide to surrender to God's call, in spite of the pain and consequences.

"O King Nebuchadnezzar, we have no need to answer you in this matter. If this be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up." (Daniel 3:16-18)

My friend (As a coworker, I am not permitted to give his name) grew up Hindu. Every single member of his family was Hindu. In fact, his uncle was a high ranking Hindu religious official. In this way, his life was just like millions of his countrymen. But a friend introduced him to Jesus, and he was born again.

My friend is no different than the rest of this country in that family is everything here. In the slums, a man with bread, but no family is poorer than his hungry counterpart. To spend more than a day alone is a frightening thing. People here love to be constantly surrounded by others, especially their family, which means my friend was now a Christian in the midst of an established caste-adhering Hindu family.

Naturally, it was not long before his faith was tested. In one of the family/community Hindu rituals, each person was to bow before an idol, as well as, before my friend's uncle. In a place where conversion from Hinduism can be illegal and often evokes violence, standing up for Jesus meant stepping into the line of fire. Even more frightening for my friend, it meant expulsion from his family. It meant isolation for an indefinite period... maybe forever. But he stood firm. He approached his uncle and said, “I will not bow to you or to that idol. I met Jesus and now I only bow to him.”

It was a simple statement, but, as I saw him say it, his face showed what it meant to him. I would like to tell you that the family listened or accepted his stand and faith and converted, but they did not. His uncle pronounced the anticipated religious exclusion of my friend, and, like that, he was alone.

He then talked about how he spent the first few years of his Christian walk praying for his uncle, even without any sign that his uncle was interested in Jesus. Several years later, his uncle suffered a stroke, and his uncle asked my friend to tell him about the God that he believed in. My friend recognized that God had heard and answered his prayer, and he let God carry him on the rest of the way through the fire.

As if I couldn't find the parallel already, my friend shared with our group the story of Shadrach, Meeshach, and Abednego-- He told it with passion and admiration... he told like he did, with a wide, unashamed smile on his face, because he knew he had stood firm and had endured the same kind of fire.

UPDATE FROM THE FIELD!!!!

NEWS ABOUT WORK!!! SUCCESS!!!

If you have not already seen it, a report from a recent raid conducted by our office is at:

http://www.ijm.org/newsfromthefield/ijmandlocalauthoritiesrescueeightvictimsfrombrutalmumbaibrothel

(I had trouble setting a hyperlink, so just copy and paste the link, if you are unable to see the full link, the link ends with "mumbaibrothel")

Easter Elsewhere

It's been a week since Easter, but I still want to share some of what Easter meant in India. To be honest, the day started with a very disappointing feeling. I missed the secular parts of Easter: my mom's basket of candy (yes, even through law school), the Easter family feast after church, the bright formal spring clothing, and the large crowds and energy at church. Perhaps for the first time, I realized how detached my disappoints were from the meaning and purpose of purpose of Easter. I woke up early and droned over to my morning cup of coffee, and, mentally grumbling, switched on some worship music on itunes to try and set my mind and heart. It didn't work because my lack of sincerity prevailed. I went into static mode for the next half hour, insuring that my removed attitude settled and solidified, then got up, threw on a t-shirt and jeans and went out to grab a rick for the long ride to church.

The crowd was larger than usual at church, but the unfamiliar faces and lack of followers of Easter dress protocol cast a cloud over my spirit. I prayed for a change of heart and a revived spirit- I didn't want Easter to mean only this to me now, but I received no immediate response. Frustrated, I missed The Walk- I missed Sevier Heights, I wanted to hear hundreds of college students passionately praising God under the direction of talented worship leaders. I missed that energy, and I felt deprived and alone. Just when I was giving up- my answer came. I heard a familiar sound... the worship team was playing “Mighty to Save” by Hillsong- one of my favorites. As I listened to the words, I crumbled:

Everyone needs compassion / a love that's never failing /
let mercy fall on me.
Everyone needs forgiveness / the kindness of a Savior /
the Hope of Nations

Savior, He can move the mountains / my God is mighty to save /
He is mighty to save
Forever, author of salvation / He rose and conquered the grave /
Jesus conquered the grave

So take me as you find me / all my fears and failures / fill my life again.
I give my life to follow / everything I believe in / now I surrender.

Savior, He can move the mountains / my God is mighty to save /
He is mighty to save
Forever, author of salvation / He rose and conquered the grave /
Jesus conquered the grave

Shine your light and let the whole world see /
singing for the glory of the Risen King.

This- this was Easter! I looked around at the same unfamiliar faces and my perspective changed, as I saw them with their arms raised doing their best to praise a God mighty enough to save each of them. They got it. The point. Jesus died and rose to life again, and, in doing so, He bridged the abominable gap created by sin between God and man- He conquered sin, He conquered death.... for us... and.... we are given a chance each year to celebrate that victory. They didn't need fancy clothes or feasts or trained worship leaders, just a God who is “Mighty to Save.”

Let Justice Roll Down Like Waters

Before I jump into these two blogs, I want to explain that work kept me especially busy the past few weeks and I neglected to blog. Further, given the recent buzz of activity, the inability to discuss the details of my work is more frustrating than ever. I feel handicapped and deceptive towards my supporters, family, and friends back home. It is a difficult task to explain your experience without the opportunity to discuss the facts of what you came to do- what you spend the brunt of your time doing. Instead, I must ask for and depend on your trust.

Recently, I've seen and heard of deeper pits than I want to imagine. In the past, when “counting my blessings,” I almost exclusively thought about wealth and the opportunities that stem from it, and vice versa. However, being fortunate or being unfortunate continues to grow more distinct and more diverse than being rich or being poor. The reality is, men frequently carry out cruelties far worse than depriving a person of all his possessions. Nevertheless, it remains easier for me to believe in the prevalence of evils that tempt me, like pursuing wealth above all else. On the other hand, I find it difficult to relate to, or believe in the prevalence of, the dark acts of drugging, kidnapping, and imprisoning young girls for the perverse fancies of men drowned by lust. My point is, it isn't always the poorest that fall into this pattern. There is something in addition to money driving this- something else, something evil, something unfortunate.

Fortunately, we serve a God that is bigger than our problems- a God capable of forgiving all of our iniquities... even those I don't want Him to, and a God capable of unimaginable rescue. Still, what bothers me in Scripture is that God consistently calls us to “wait on Him.” It seems fair to someone like me, someone who knows God, capable of exercising faith in Him to overcome trials, but why should a child, who has never been introduced to my God, see so much damage and despair before God acts? I don't want to answer the problem of evil... the truth is, I'm not sure- but I do believe God calls us to act in a different way, and that he calls us to act now. For example, Amos prophesies about imminent judgment on the nation of Israel for their wrongs, in spite of the fact that they are still offering feasts, songs, solemn assemblies, and sacrifices to God. Instead, God finds their religious compliance empty and expresses what He really wants: justice and righteousness in abundance:

I hate, I despise your feasts,
and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies.
Even though you offer me your burnt offerings and grain offerings,
I will not accept them;
and the peace offerings of your fattened animals,
I will not look upon them.
Take away from me the noise of your songs
to the melody of your hearts I will not listen.

But let justice roll down like waters
and righteousness like an everflowing stream. (Amos 5:21-24)

Or, like Jeremiah pleading with God for help in a time of complete despair, and finding that God calls him not to fear and takes up his cause.

I have been hunted like a bird by those who were my enemies
by those without cause;
they flung me alive into the pit and cast stones on me;
water closed over my head;
I said, I am lost.

I called on your name, O Lord,
from the depths of the pit;
You heard my plea,
Do not close your ear to my cry for help!
You came near when I called on you;
you said, Do not fear!
You have taken up my cause, Oh Lord;
you have redeemed my life. (Lamentations 3:52-58)

My question is, when God “takes up causes” in the Old Testament, he frequently mobilizes Israeli militia, angels, or judges filled with the spirit; who then sweep across and slaughter the whole of the oppressor. It doesn't feel like God exercises that kind of judgment anymore. As much as I feel like it would satisfy me, we don't march through with assault rifles and demolish these evil men. How does God use us to take up His causes now? I believe God still desires justice and righteousness from us, rather than our equivalent of religious sacrifices and obedience in procedure. God calls us to first practice justice, mercy, and faithfulness. In his rebuke of the Pharisees, Jesus said:

For you tithe and mint and dill and cumin,
and have neglected the weightier matters of the law:
justice and mercy and faithfulness.
These you ought to have done, without neglecting the others. (Matthew 23:23)

If it is not sweeping, slaughtering judgment, what does this 'justice and mercy and faithfulness' or 'justice and righteousness' look like practically? I believe I am fortunate enough to have been given the opportunity to see it in action- in the missions, faces, and words of my coworkers. They make sacrifices, they take risks, they bring justice, all while seeking God's guidance. In short, they reach for righteousness and they bring about justice. In short, they show love. John describes them:

Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God,
and whoever loves is born of God and knows God.
Anyone who does not love does not know God,
for God is love. (I John 4: 7-8)
. . .

There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. (I John 4:18)

So, God is love, and God showed love by casting down his son; by making sacrifices for others, by humility through mercy and justice. This love, this active, complete, perfect love; this love casts out fear. To me, that is the kind of love that is simultaneously justice and mercy, and I have now seen it in other men and women.

Not the start of a bad joke: A Hindu, A Protestant, and a Catholic Attended Mass

During my time here, a friendship has developed with a local guy around my age. His name is Harish, and I now expect and look forward to his nightly appearances at my door. Harish is my link to the community: he cooks traditional food, takes me to festivals and weddings, reminds me I'm paying more than I should at the market, lectures on how much better cricket is than baseball, and tolerates/disregards the involuntary "watch out" & "you can't pass him..." yelps erupting out of me while riding behind him on the motorbike.

In many ways, we are similar: we love playing sports, eating fried food, and talking about family. In fact, Harish's entire family extends unwarranted courtesies to me on my visits. I love going there. In one roughly 10'x10' concrete/corrogated room, the entire family lives. The ceiling hangs low enough to permit an overhead platform to provide bedding for the entire family, suspended underneath the sloping metal roof. In his home, there is always laughter (often from my butchered attempts at speaking Hindi or Marathi), hot chai, and multiple generations. Yet, in spite of our common ground, from the moment I arrive, I can't help but notice the differences. First, shoes clutter the threshold, in a Hindu home, no one enters without removing his shoes. Second, in addition to paintings portraying Shiva, a small idol and shrine of Ganesh (the city's favorite god of fortune; the elephant man) adorns the corner opposite the entrance. Occasionally, the family insists on placing a ritualistic colored dot on my forehead. He tells me of the world famous golden temple in Punjab where his family comes from, shows me a picture of the cobra that is his god, and categorizes everyone he speaks of by religion. “Only Muslims serve pannicomb chai,” or “Everybody being Catholic in this area,” or “Hindu people never being. . .” On some levels, it is merely a social distinction, on others it is much more. For example, it is not enough of a boundry for Harish to distance himself from me, but I believe it is no coincidence that the vast majority of his other friends are Hindu.

In short, as we get to know each other better, I can feel the religious divide creeping towards the forefront. Further, as a born again Christian who believes Jesus when He says that no one comes to the Father but through Him, I must accept that Harish and his family, kind as they are, are living outside of the kingdom of God- lost.

This thought prompts me to be alert and prayerful whenever the issue of my faith arises. It is a tedious task, however, as Hinduism is much closer to relativism than Christianity. The traditions are oral, imprecise, and, occasionally, untranslatable. There are over 300 million deities and probably as many distinct versions of following them. In short, Hinduism lacks the absolutes of Christianity. Accordingly, I feel like absolute statements of Christian truths often sound presumptuous to Hindu listeners. And so, gradually, we have held more discussions about our faiths.

These minor discussions led to a curious event. One evening, I rode with Harish to see a lady that is helping Harish with the administrative details of his employment. She invited us onto her porch to talk, and while I was sizing up her enormous Great Dane named Stone, Harish introduced me as a Christian. The lady then asked me where I attended Mass, and, upon further questioning, I revealed to her that I am Protestant. She then insisted that Harish and I accompany her the next day to Mass at the only nearby Cathedral. Never having been to Mass, and sensing that this might get more dialogue flowing with Harish, I agreed.

So, there we sat (or kneeled , or chanted, or stood; depending on the appropriate moment), a Catholic, a Protestant, and a Hindu, pouring sweat in the sweltering pew. Expecting that I would attain the equivalent of counterclockwise, I didn't bother trying to cross myself. Additionally, we were both expressly instructed not to partake of the Holy Communion. After mass, as we walked back together the lady went on a short rant about the priest's bland tone, while I contemplated all that I saw and heard. On the other hand, Harish was quiet and dismissive of my attempts to discuss the event with him. Regardless of this one occasion, opportunities continue to arise, and I strive for readiness at each one of them.

Who Are the Slumdwellers?

My immersion into the subcontinent progresses day-by-day. Adjustment for most things occurs quickly; however, there are a few that I have yet to fully realize. Fortunately, a reflection on my Dhavari slum tour captures these hard-to-swallow distinctions more completely than my other attempts.
So, here goes:

Dhavari is widely recognized as one of the largest and most densely populated slums in the world. As such, it comprises a significant chunk of this city's staggering population. Nevertheless, something about “touring” a slum did not sit well with me. I feared feeling like my presence and observations exploited their situation- like I was descending from my ivory tower to monitor the beastly conditions with an “I pity you” look wrenched on my face. Fortunately, the company that took us through Dhavari grew out of the slum itself. The tours resulted from a growing desire to explain that life inside a slum has structure and that residents of slums do work hard. In fact, after the organizers informed residents of the purpose of the tours, the slum residents consented to the program, and welcomed probing foreigners.

We started in the commercial area of the slum. While there were many small businesses located inside the slum, the primary type of work involved recycling plastics and metals. Regardless of your feelings on the issues, without safety regulations or unions (sorry dad), no workers' compensation scheme, few public interest advocates, and a workforce drawn from migrant workers in the impoverished rural areas of India, working conditions were unfathomable. Enclosed under a ceiling of corrugated roofing less than ten feet high, I frequently saw teenage boys with no shoes, no hand protection, no lung protection, and no facial protection doing a variety of hazardous tasks, including stirring molten aluminum; crushing, melting, and reforming plastic; and recycling paint cans by burning off existing paint from the inside of the can. Naturally, noxious fumes of burning chemicals lingered densely before the already stale air trapped inside the corrugated enclosure absorbed them. I emerged from the commercial area with a headache, burning throat, and disbelief that someone could work dawn to dusk six days a week in those conditions. Of course, many don't survive work in these conditions and those with severed limbs, deformities, and crippling injuries testify to the ever-present dangers and find themselves trapped in the slums in great numbers.

Leaving behind the poisonous air of the commercial area, we merely exchanged odors with the unforgettable stench of open sewage in the residential area. The slum grew taller as we delved deeper. Now, four stories of slum houses towered above us at all times. The only natural light present was the sliver of open space immediately above our walkway. Even in broad daylight, the walkways penetrating the interior of the slum are dimly lit, leaving your surroundings full of shadows. The overwhelming part is realizing how many people live here. Everywhere we roamed, faces of children and mothers poked out of the open doorways of their homes, intrigued by our presence. The presence of families and communities inside the slum brought encouragement. The people inside seemed relatively happy and content. However, the positive lapse proved short-lived, when we emerged near a public bathroom connected to the open sewage line. Here were a dozen filthy, but functional, toilet stalls (racks with holes open to the sewage drain). Nevertheless, these twelve stalls served 1,500 people.

While these are the operating conditions of the slum, it is the people who made a lasting impression on me. Many migrant workers choose to temporarily trade poverty in quaint, rural homes for the opportunity to save a little to take home from unskilled labor in the city. Unfortunately, many of these temporary workers end up staying for many years, sleeping in the factories and shipping home monthly portions of their pay. As far as religion goes, the slum used to be a blend of Hindus and Muslims, but after the riots of the 1990s, in which death-toll estimates reached four digits, the slum divided into a Hindu sector and a Muslim Sector. The divide still exists, but both groups try to soften the impact areas by compelling both groups to celebrate all holidays of both religions... I'll get back to you when I figure out if that ever goes well.

Local Connections: Return of the Sprinkler Dance and the Population of Jupiter

My apologies for not blogging sooner. Last week, I lost my internet connection for several days, and have not found the time to blog since. Nevertheless, work is busier than ever and evenings are increasingly booked. Fortunately, the evenings are also equally diverse. Here are a few examples:

1.This past Friday, I attended my first Hindu wedding-eve festival. While I am accustomed to people staring at me, attendance at this ceremony drove my celebrity status to new heights. Before I get there, let me give you a taste of the atmosphere. Temporary party structures are booming business here and this wedding was no exception- 8-10 feet of sheer fabric in vibrant colors is draped over temporary tubing to create wide entranceways and festive gathering forums. Throughout the site, the fabric hangs overhead creating a colorful and undulating ceiling. The entire community is present and everyone smiling. Dosas, naans, rotis, and various curries are freely dispensed to those in attendance. The wedding party is getting ritually covered in turmeric paste globbed in chunks and streaks from head to toe. Then the dancing starts. This particular festival installed a host of sprinklers into the overhead pipes forming the ceiling. Suddenly, the sprinklers erupt and spew out sheets of water. Simultaneously, the enormous speakers hidden behind the fabric walls blast into Punjabi dance music. As seemed inevitable, those already covered in turmeric paste race to the area under the speakers and start dancing. Now, I am not a dancer, but then again, neither was I given a choice. In minutes, I found myself covered by copious amounts of turmeric paste applied by countless Indian hands, dragged underneath the sprinklers, and doing my best to keep up with the Punjabi dance moves of limber Indian men. I say men because, as wild as this party was, the conservative culture's presence still dominates, creating two separate groups- one for men, one for women. I do not feel the need or desire to comment on the awkwardness of being covered in yellow under a shower, while dancing with a host of energized men. Unexpectedly, however, I had a great time and really felt accepted into the community by my local friends.

2.The next evening, I hesitantly accepted my neighbor's perpetual invitation to go to the “club” with him. Fearing that I would end up in one of this city's famed dance bars, I was nervous about the trip. Nevertheless, his ceaseless invitations and kindness compelled me to go. I quickly found relief when we arrived at the club- which was a private club with tennis courts, pools, and a roof terrace restaurant. Our group headed to the roof and consumed a wonderful meal, courtesy of my neighbor. However, it was the discussion during the meal that remains with me. My neighbor is Hindu- a fact hard to miss considering the 7 foot Shiva tapestry and Ganesh idol adorning the corner of his flat. Almost before the first plates arrived, he engaged the table, which included two friends of mine who came for back up if the feared scenario arose, with Hindu beliefs and answers to life's most common questions. Even though his explanations were elaborate and alien stories to me, they were not the most interesting thing. My neighbor knew that we were all Christians. Interestingly, this knowledge prompted him to pick and choose various passages from the Old and New Testaments and synchronize them with Hindu beliefs. For example, he went on a long dialogue about how true some of the ten commandments are, especially “Do not kill.” He claimed that the significant part of this commandment is that it does not say “Do not kill men,” rather it says “Do not kill.” Ostensibly, this means do not kill men or animals, which pleased him. He proceeded to blend this concept with his choice to be a vegetarian as a Hindu stemming from his belief that this commandment was uttered cognizant of reincarnation. Our explanations and attempts to insert our point of view on the matter were largely rejecting, including my friend's mentioning of the term hermeneutics, which led to a long discussion on our limited understanding of the universe, namely the peoples and cultures of other celestial bodies like Jupiter and the sun. The evening ended without us getting much chance to communicate our beliefs, but we were assured that we would have many more meetings in the future. I look forward to these meetings both because they intrigue me and because I can't help but wonder whether our ever-present God feels humored, angered, saddened, or what, when he listens in.

There are many more stories to tell, but they will have to wait.

I am still amazed at the continuing support of people back home. Thank you so much. God continues to bless me.

Seeing Beyond Screaming Goats

It is an exciting time to do my work. Each day that I work, my brain
comes one step closer to fully comprehending the way our work
functions to combat the evils of sex trafficking. Fortunately, each
step also inches toward more insightful work product.

The social interaction of the office is unique. Arriving each morning
to the silence of stillness serves as a reminder of where our power
actually comes from. From outside, it might seem that no one is
working- but opening the door reveals an atypical scene: every desk
is occupied, but there is neither movement nor sound. Some desks
reveal an opened Bible, others a bowed head, still others a journal
recording the spiritual growth cultivated by this daily routine.
Thirty minutes later the stillness is broken by a peaceful migration
to the particular department where the entire office meets for prayer.
Soon, the arrival of every member of the office fills the room to
capacity. Here, time is spent discussing the issues and milestones
of current cases- good news is applauded, bad news is mourned, but
all news is petitioned in prayer. Assignment is unnecessary as
volunteers ensure that each concern written on the board sees
prayerful attention. Further, it is humbling to hear the type and
variety of prayer lifted up by those in the office. I didn't realize
that there are so many variables that effect how each of us chooses
pray: Australians from a different denomination may sound different
than the American or British expatriates, or, certainly, than a
national staffer from northern or southern part of the country--
nevertheless, all approach the throne of God reverently pleading for
God to bring the counterparts of justice and mercy to specific
situations. The ending is always the same and always appropriate-
"And all God's people said... Amen."

It is still morning when corporate prayer breaks, escorting the office
into the usual perpetual motion. In and out, up and down, each
department fulfills its purpose and communicates its accomplishments
to the other departments... it's like a colony of ants- each one busy
contributing his gifts to the colony. As if the office was not
crowded and noisy enough to begin with, two exterior influences shape
my work each day. First, neighboring our office is a Muslim goat
slaughterhouse. The smell, which combines with the open sewage system
outside, is enough to make me revile mutton forever. Most infamous,
however, are the periodic wails of dying goats. Needless to say, its
nerve-racking to be typing a brief and suddenly find yourself startled
by what sounds like an old man getting electrocuted while gargling his
mouthwash. Amazingly, this is not the greatest distraction at the
office. Laborers are demolishing the building immediately outside our
office window. No wrecking ball, no crane, no dynamite- just twenty
locals with sledges balancing on bamboo scaffolding. For the most
part, it is merely the rhythmic thudding of hammers; however, I will
not soon forget the tremors felt each time a given floor or exterior
wall takes its final blow and crashes to the surface far below.

I must admit that it is difficult not to discuss details of the cases
on which I am working. I want the people at home to know the specific
nature of the work God is doing here, but understand, and agree with,
the reasons that I cannot disclose these things. Part of my desire is
that I want people to realize how involved in the work they really
are. Prayer, encouragement, and financial support are producing
results here (not to mention sustaining me). For the most part, I
guess you will just have to be content to trust me about these things.
Nevertheless, I located another way you can support this work. One
of the people that frequently spends time with the group of
expatriates is not an employee of IJM. Rather, she is the founder of
an organization that vocationally trains girls rescued from
sex-trafficking in this locality. The training occurs at after care
homes in coordination with their rehabilitation. Notably, many of
these girls were rescued by the raids that our office conducted. The
girls produce jewelry that is resold in the United States. Of course,
all of the proceeds go to the girls. If you desire, you can go to
http://isanctuary.org and check out the work and the merchandise.
Let me know if you are interested in something and I can communicate
it to my friend.

On a final, lighter note, I experienced my first train ride in the
city this past weekend, when I decided to escape to a park in the
northern part of the city. I will never forget the ride. Crowded,
is a grossly insufficient description of that train car. Perhaps, you
can better relate if I tell you that, at several points, my feet were
not touching the ground- there was enough pressure from the compacted
bodies to lift me and support me by the numerous and uncomfortable
points of contact. And, while many things are much more difficult in
a country where the average man is half a foot shorter than you, at
this time, I was glad to be tall. I was also glad that everyone on
the train was willing to help me understand what stop I needed to take
(the graph was in hindi), even if it was awkward talking to someone
when both of your heads are supported in fixed locations, so close
that you expect to periodically touch noses. I was further warned, by
the face that composed my entire view, that if I wanted to get off at
the next stop, I needed to get closer to the door. Great- like that's
gonna happen. Nevertheless, due to deliberate and continuous work
over the next fifteen minutes, I managed to leverage and belly dance
the entire six foot span between me and the door, and escape.

On the Anvil

If I came to this city with any reservations about the amount of work I would be able to do or about the type of contributions I would be able to make, the first two weeks of work alleviated them. I hit the ground running and hammered away at the ever-increasing stack of legal work to be done. Thus far, I arrive early and stay late, in order to get a grip on things more quickly. Fortunately, it hasn't taken long to get acquainted with how the office operates. During this crash course, I frequently enlist the aid of two attorneys, both of whom seem ready and able to bring me up to speed. In these ways, God oversaw my transition and placed His people in my path so that I can be used by Him.

On the point of being used by God, this time feels different. I'm not really sure how to handle it right now. What I mean is that, in the past, the times I felt God using me involved more typical Christian services: serving the poor/needy, encouraging the discouraged, holding brothers accountable, resisting temptation, etc. These required much more Biblical intention than technical skill. This time, however, it is my brain and my work ethic that God is stretching. I find it uncomfortable to know that taking an extra break or missing a crucial holding in a case can mean a delay in God's work. After all, don't I possess authority over my work product? Further, isn't this whole process undeniably adversarial? There is one side we are on and another side they are on, the gray areas still exist, but are minimized. This means when we lose a case, our side loses. Perhaps, I am melodramatic, but I find this kind of service to be stressful. It is encompassing. I ask myself, “What if my legal work is poor, does that prevent God's justice from coming about?” Or, "What if someone else could do this better than me?"--- what foolishness --- I need prayer and reminders that I will truly believe that it is Him and not me who brings about God's will. . . I am only a vessel to be used (thanks megg, for slapping me with this reminder). I must learn to trust that God brought me to this point after training me in the skills I need so that HE, NOT me, could produce justice. This is a new kind of trust to me. Now, it's more personal- now He wants "my" work.

A Different Kind of Church

My first Sunday here exceeded all my expectations. It was worth the long rickshaw ride to reach this small group of believers. It is incredibly encouraging to know that this will not only be an avenue for communally worshiping God in spite of my surroundings but also will be an opportunity to fellowship with Christians who face faith obstacles largely unimaginable in Tennessee. Here, rather than being relics of the old testament, Hindu idols are physically visible on the street and Muslim prayers are chanted/sang at high volume out the loud speakers of all the surrounding mosques every couple hours. It is under this backdrop that the members of the church I attended this morning definitively live-out Paul's phrase “mutual edification.” There is something incredibly humbling about being in the midst of men and women smiling and shouting out praises to God... watching those from a Muslim family who have changed direction and followed Christ, or seeing a formerly Hindu man exchange a hierarchy of order under millions of Hindu gods for the freedom flowing from a personal relationship with the only Savior King. I couldn't help but be humbled, encouraged, and awestruck at the persistent faith of the minority. God truly works everywhere. Finally, I am excited about the opportunity to meet with a “cell group” of Indian young adults. Surely, I have a great deal to learn from them.

I'm Here!!!

I am finally here!!! Many thanks to those who covered my travel with prayers! Other than desperation to extend my legs and frustration at arriving three hours late, my journey was successful. Additionally, I should note that the snow that covered Knoxville, Chicago, and Frankfurt sharply contrasted with the 88 degree heat smothering the night of my first arrival.

Today is Saturday, January 24, and I just finished moving in to my new apartment. Naturally, it is very different than housing in the USA, but it is as close to western-style housing that could be found. I find the all-in-one bathrooms pleasantly efficient, the cook-tops sufficiently rugged, the fans utterly essential, and the assortment of locks on the door aesthetically comforting. Two things are not present: hot water and air conditioning. While I never expect to miss hot showers, air conditioning is already frequently on my mind.

The city itself is enormous. Grasping its scope is difficult, because you can travel for hours and still be in a heavily populated district of the city. The best form of travel I have found thus far is a rickshaw, which is something like a mini-bike three wheeler with a canvas top (a little smaller but much faster than a golf cart). These cost about 25 cents for a short ride and are never out of sight. Nevertheless, no ride is without excitement. Traffic is intense and because no one respects them anyways, there are no lines for lanes... in other words, traffic free-for-all. A majority of the side streets are too narrow for an automobile to navigate, thus, the rickshaws are perfect for quick deliveries and short-cuts. Crossing a major street on foot is a feat for even the most skilled frogger players, especially because traffic flows on the left side of the road here (my tendency is to look right). I am nervous about the trains as I have frequently been told by others who chuckled as they described how crowded they were- "No doors, so you hang out the sides" and "Pretty much everyone's faces are pressed together... sounds appetizing."

The religious practices are also very different here. At frequent intervals during the day, I here Muslim singing/chanting/prayer time blasting out of the sound amplifiers on the various mosques in the area. As unfamiliar as much of this is to me, none of it compares with the oddities of Hindu religion. The idols in plain sight are curious, but not as strange as the customs. For example, one common Hindu ritual is that marriages will be blessed if they occur on a specific date at a specific time. All Hindus are aware of these times, one of which was during the middle of last night. I discovered this when, prepared to go to sleep at the friend's house at which I was staying, we heard what sounded like a Latin-American marching band. We raced to the roof terrace of his apartment and looked down to see that an entire street was blocked off and set up with chairs and stages and food (too bad for traffic- there were no government officials controlling the roadblock in sight). Simultaneously, much of the crowd was funneling in behind the band forming a procession that marched zig-zag patterns throughout the surrounding blocks for hours. It was a noisy affair that apparently occurred throughout the city last night.

The people are just as unfamiliar as the religions. I expected nodding the head up and down to be a universal "Yes." However, here a yes is signaled by a rapid side-to-side motion that looks very much like the gyrating motion of a bobble-head doll. I have also decided that it would be prudent to stop introducing myself as Rich and return to Richard. Here, when I say, "I am Rich," the usually response is a confused look, sometimes followed by a "I am poor"- which is never good for relations when meeting new people. I guess emphasizing my NAME is Rich or just using Richard will solve the problem. Additionally, both bargaining and begging are concerns of mine. When you are unfamiliar with the currency and value of particular goods, it is difficult to know if you are getting swindled. Also, wherever I roam, there are frequently herds of children following and begging for money- I really haven't discovered how to handle this yet.

I am excited to begin working. Although I do not officially start until next week, I have already spent significant time in the office getting to know both the national staff and the expatriate staff. The office is crowded, but conducted in an organized professional manner. I have been welcomed with courtesy, tips, favor and laughter. Everyone appears excited to have me there, and this has greatly eased my level of stress. It is clear to me that this office is a place bursting with Christians who choose to act on their faith. I am sure there is much for me to learn.

Well, this is all I can convey for now as the jet-lag is taking great toll on my ability to focus. I am excited to complete the time adjustment in the coming week, as the afternoon time is difficult. I send my love and thanks to all of you for your support and prayers.