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.