9 December 2008, 3:25 p.m., Chennai
My arrival in Chennai was met with a cheerful Indian minister, Roy Knight, and three of the local congregation’s elders. The photo shows me with Roy, wearing the welcome lei that was made by his brothers and sister. This family lives together in a comfortable largish home that is something like a small condominium, Indian style – simple with marble floors and a central living area. I was given the missionary’s room, for guests who come to visit or help with the churches here. It is comfortable, very clean, and humid. Mosquitoes are amidst, but I have a room air conditioner should I decide to give in to customary American habits. Roy is a second generation Christian, born in 1979. His parents were baptized by J.C. Bailey, famous Canadian missionary to India from the 1960s or so. Roy became the evangelist here, with a congregation that now has two services on Sundays – one in Tamil (the regional language) for about 140, and one in English for about 70. Roy also evangelizes throughout the area, and has established or helped to establish congregations from Chennai to Delhi. He goes out often, on week-long trips, to encourage and help the congregations. On some of his travels, he himself is persecuted often, and he showed me the marks of beatings, burnings, and a nailing in his leg, all by Hindu priests who are not happy with an Indian trying to convert people to Christianity. He assured me that the area around Chennai is safe, and in fact the local authorities protect the church. So I will be with the Knight family for three nights, looking around at some of the Christian ministries, as well as exploring more Indian religion and culture.
I hesitate to mention Hindu persecution of Christians, for it reinforces the stereotypes that are all too common, that “all of the pagans” and “unbelievers” are out to get Christians, and (though not synonymous) Americans. In fact, there are radical Muslims and radical Hindus, radical Buddhists and yes radical Christians. Extremists in every culture and religion use their insecurities to justify plays of power and control, and even persecution and terrorism. But if one thing has become clearer to me on this trip, it is that most Indians – be they Hindus, Buddhist, Sikhs, Jains, Muslims, Christians, or atheists – are just trying to make their way in a complex and sometimes difficult world, and most want the same things that we want – family, health, peace, food, shelter, and joy.
I hope to have more to say on this later. slp

Homelessness, Love, and More

Monday, 8 December 2008, 8:45 p.m. Kolkata, West Bengal, India.

“You remember yesterday I saw you and asked for milk for my child, and you did not help?” So spoke the tearful woman, walking up to a young Western couple on Sudder Street as I passed by. I heard her well, for earlier in the evening she had said the same words to me. And because she was not asking for money, and had a good story, and milk is difficult to deny, I helped her buy the $4 box of powdered milk. I doubted at the time, but gave the money and watched her get the milk. And then later, my doubts are confirmed: she is part of an elaborate begging business in Kolkata. But don’t single out Kolkata; beggars make a living with creative schemes all over this country. I’ve struggled with the beggars – usually young children about 5 or 6, taking along and reaching for pockets, clinging to arms and risking life to keep up with me as a I maneuver through taxis, buses, rickshaws, and people; or women, with or without babies or children, insisting that they need money to eat and live. Sometimes they are the boys, or men, with stub arms and/or legs, moving along on roller carts, or dragging themselves through traffic and cattle, or just sitting or lying down, mumbling or crying out as I pass by. They are everywhere – beyond the glitter of special streets of course – and they are persistent.

How should I feel? How must I respond? My Kolkata host, Rupa, met me for dinner, and among our conversation topics, she confirmed my understandings. Begging is an industry here, and many clearly hungry looking people are working in elaborate systems of sympathy catchers. But indeed poverty and homelessness is a real problem here, and many, many people need food, shelter, and a way out of despair. Rupa, a doctoral student studying women in nursing homes, and the daughter of wealthy Bengali parents, says that she will always buy food for them, but never give money, and that generally those who beg and/or cling are not “real beggars.” During my trip, so far I have given change to some people, but by and large I have walked past, or said “No!” quite firmly, and I have been troubled by this. So today I helped the woman with milk powder, and then I hear her sale again. But my deed was done sincerely, and her possible deception is no count.

Poverty and homelessness, disease and hunger, are not limited to India of course, but India has so much of it. Rupa confirmed other impressions: The situation cannot be blamed on religion – after all, what religion? Indian religion is so very complex and pluralistic – but on a combination of overpopulation and a general resistance to accept Western modernization. Changes are gradually happening, but the sheer numbers of people will make deter any quick end to begging, poverty, and hunger. As a Christian with great affinity for Indian culture, the whole matter is greatly troubling; I don’t like walking past obviously hurting people, I don’t like the firm “no”, I don’t like the self-imposed guilt, and I don’t like the view of India that is given.

I suppose Mother Teresa struggled with some of these feelings too. A special blessing of this trip was a visit to her “Motherhouse” today, where her body is entombed in a simple, white stone structure. There are at least three main buildings in Kolkata that are Missionaries of Charity sites: this Motherhouse, where some of the nuns live and where she lived; a house for the dying, where those who have not hope and no home are given hospice during their last days; and an orphanage, where children are nurtured and loved, whatever their needs. The house for the dying, interestingly, is located very near to the great Kali temple (see the earlier posting). I missed it, but I did find the orphanage, where a sister guided me through sections for babies, toddlers, and handicapped children. In the toddler section, I was surrounded by boys who hugged my legs and jumped to say hello. The entire place was bright, cheerful, clean, and happy. At one point, in a room where physically disabled children were playing, I watched a sister massaging a child’s leg and carefully twisting her ankle, much like the way Mother Teresa does in a film that is widely distributed. What if there were hundreds of similar Christian houses in Kolkata?

I continue to be amazed at the way women work hard here. Often I see men playing cards, or drinking chai, but then I see women doing heaving lifting, or sweeping endlessly the dirt in the streets. After visiting the orphanage, I met this woman who had just sat down her five-gallon-ish water bucket, which she was to carry to a pile of mud and cement, for mixing. She was sweating, and showing a sigh on her face. On impulse, or male Western pride, I grabbed the bucket and carried it for her. She could only laugh, and I feared that I had offended. But later, I saw her again walking down the road, and she looked out and me, our eyes met, and she smiled. Another nice moment.

On this second and last day in this grand city, I also wandered through the university section, College Street, where the book stalls never end. I took a few wrong turns getting there, finding a market complete with chicken and goat slaughtering/sales, fish selling and cleaning, cow selling, and every variety of fruit and vegetable imaginable. I also found trash, and people rummaging through trash, and more of the views of life in the older parts of Indian towns. Suffice it to say, I learned today that my impressions of Kolkata as a clean city were a bit misguided; Kolkata was the British capitol for many years, and several sections retain that flavor of stately colonial days, but Kolkata is every bit as complex and chaotic as any other Indian town.

It is certainly more religiously diverse than some cities, with a large Christian and Muslim population. I also met a man today who is Buddhist. Perhaps I have given a wrong impression regarding religion in general, and Hinduism in particular. As Rupa confirmed, while most people are Hindu (at least 85%), not all who are Hindu are active in practicing daily prayer/puja, or in going to a temple. Probably no more than 60% of Hindus, overall, are what we might call “active” Hindus. The terms and generalizations are unfair, but they do help to understand a common global phenomenon: while nations claim a certain religious identity/heritage, not all citizens are active worshipping adherents. Even in India, however, the religious celebrations become national celebrations and family gatherings, and much the way we in America celebrate Thanksgiving as a semi-religious holiday, Indians honor special god celebrations as family and national identity and renewal.

So once again, similarities abound. Our daily lifestyles are quite different in many ways, but our need for community, spirituality, and identity are common.

And of course, so are are failings, our huddled hungry and homeless, our own powerlessness to heal, our own dependence on God.
slp

Worship on Sunday in Kolkata

Sunday, 7 December 2008. Kolkata. 5:47 p.m.

What a wonderful, pleasant end to an exhausting weekend in India. I had just finished an interesting visit to yet another Hindu temple, and I turned up famed Sudder Street to my hotel, when . . . yes, there was Christian singing. I then saw the Wesleyan Church building, a stately old wood structure, and realized that it was Sunday and they were worshipping. When I entered the building, a group of young adults with a guitar – a praise team, no doubt – was leading the introductory song: “Come let us worship and bow down; let us kneel before the Lord our God, our maker . . . .” I joined in the singing, and I felt a sense of peace and comfort. It was a nice surprise.

Christianity in fact has a long history in India, after the tradition that Thomas first traveled here to evangelize. In Kolkata (Calcutta), the British brought substantial church culture with them, and it stayed. I’ve seen several large church buildings, but this was the first congregation I saw and heard. They were about 150, largely Indian, and mostly young.

I arrived in Kolkata about 12:00 noon, a full six hours later than the scheduled train arrival time. This was the last of a series of “adjustments” that I had to deal with over the two days. On Saturday morning, I left Varanasi for the train station to finalize the rest of my travel plans; this took about four hours. It seems that Indian business works at its own careful, slow, and thoroughly documented pace; every action, it appears, must be documented in some ledger. Then I returned to the train station for my night train departure, and waited more than five hours. Finally I had my bed for the night, the upper side berth in the AC2 car of the Chambai Express. Although the price is right – about $25 – express it is only in principle. But indeed I made it across North India with little problem, and I join many foreigners in praising the extensive and reasonable train system of India.

Upon arrival here I found my hotel, booked by a friend of a friend. It was my first really bad room experience – up three narrow dirty stairways, down one, up one, around a corner, and into my room, which was dark and, well, dirty, and to my spoiled Western nature, unacceptable. So I traded the $11 per night room for one down the street at $19, and it has hot water as well! What I’m finding repeatedly is that I am not as young as most of the backpackers here, who seem as to match their very meager rooms well, and who seem happy with it all.
Kolkata is often perceived in the West as the city of poverty, in part due to the publicity brought by the ministry of Mother Teresa. Poverty and disease there is, but not measurably more so than in other parts of India. Kolkata indeed is the center of the great intellectual institutions in India, and it also has a rich British heritage in terms of culture, architecture, and infrastructure. So far, I’m finding it quite different from any other place in India that I’ve been. There are more secular dressed women, more large businesses, less cows, less garbage. But certainly my impressions may be skewed by the few areas that I’ve seen today.

Kolkata is known for the goddess Kali, and there is a famous temple here that has a very old history. I visited the temple, where I found myself lined up behind four teenagers who were coming again to this holy place. We walked into a cubicle room that I can best describe as a large wellhouse-looking place, with steps down to a central image of Kali. We snaked around the image and waited for priestly permission to stand briefly in front of Kali before moving on. Often, through a side door, people literally fell down, and were caught, then offered special prayers and were equally blessed by the priest. I was amazed at the emotion that people brought here. They are moved because they do not see the image as an idol, but rather as a manifestation of the god within it. The photo is from a streetside shrine on the way to the temple; no photos were allowed inside the temple area.

After the temple, and then the special time in Christian worship, I walked back to the hotel, only to be met by the loud Muslim call to prayer. Somehow, it seemed a fitting end to a busy weekend.
slp

P.S. Photos are difficult to download on some internet cafe computers. will add later.

A Morning Meditation on Fire

Varanasi, 6 Dec.

It is easy to see how water is central to this special city. The great river embodies t he mother goddess for the Hindus, and all life revolves around her. But there is also fire, as an early morning ride to the river confirms. In the West fire is often associated with destruction -- wildfires, house fires, refinery explosions, eternal damnation -- and the closest many of us get to fire is with a gas-log "fire"-place in our homes. For Hindus, fire sustains life; it provides heat for cooking, and already the tea and milk is boiling at street corner vendors. Fire gives warmth, comforting the morning chill for families in make-shift houses and policemen awaiting the day's traffic. Fire cleans and purifies, as small piles of garbage, carefully swept, are lit and miraculously disappear. Fire praises the divine, through candles and small fires at puja shrines, in temples, and with the morning offerings of "respect" for the sun and the new day. And fire enlightens, literally, giving necessary glow for house work and reading.

Ancient Hindu philosophers contemplated on the nature of fire: What exactly is it, and does it reflect reality? Is there fire without fuel, or fuel without fire? How is it so powerful, and yet gone in a flash (no pun intended)? Perhaps modern physicists and other scientists can provide technically correct answers, but the mystery, and the beauty, remain.

slp

I was lost, and then found....

6 December 2008. Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh, India.

When I began planning this adventure, the one place that I knew I wanted to stay a while was Banares, now Varanasi. I had first been moved deeply about Hinduism about twelve years ago, when at a scholarly meeting I heard Diana Eck speak about religious pluralism in America. Her own story is told well in the book Encountering God: From Bozeman to Banares. Reading that book, about the Methodist from Montana who found herself studying in India, encouraged me about the ways Christians might learn from these Hindus. And this city is certainly the place. For many a Christian, it is like being in Rome, or Jerusalem, but the comparisons fail. Christians hold place dear, but they do not see land and water as more sacred in any one location. But for Hindus, Varanasi is the closest to heaven, or salvation, and most importantly, to God, that they can get. And yet for me, being here has been difficult; it is so overpowering, the river and the religion, even while the din of traffic and toil and trash compete. It is like being at the Grand Canyon and not being able to fully experience it, as worries about missing something, and calls for our dollars for souvenirs, and confusion over where to start, and how to find our way on the trails, all cloud the magnificence that is among us and before us. Here at the holiest sight for Hindus, I am lost in the canyons, and yet I am aware how richly blessed I am.

I did get lost today, literally. The walled streets of the old city remind me of house hallways, or old underground passageways, like those in some northern cities between buildings. After a few hours on the ghats, I climbed the stairs up to the streets, only to find myself going in circles, or squares and rectangles, to be clear. The streets are narrow, so much so that when meeting a cow -- which happens often -- you have to squeeze by. After a while, I admitted defeat and asked the first young man who came along how to get a rickshaw; that's one word that communicates when English is not an option. Within minutes I was on my merry way back to the comfort of a simple hotel room. The rickshaw drivers are amazing. They are young and old, and they work very hard, cycling up to 10 kilometers among the worst traffic I have ever seen, and they receive anywhere between 25 cents and about $1.50 for the trip. The photo is one of the drivers I had today.

Walking the Ganges ghats is always an adventure. Today I tried to look for varieties of activities, and the photos picture some of them -- kite flying, clothes washing, bathing, praying, relaxing, boat repairing, and exercising.

I continue to be impressed at the resiliency and simplicity of these people.

slp

From Dawn till Dusk

4 Dec. 2008. Varanasi.

Every morning at dawn, and every evening after the sun sets, Hindus gather on several central ghats (steps) of the Ganges River to pray. They come individually and in small groups, but especially in the evening, they come as families, walking determinately toward these large gathering areas, bordered on three sides by small shops and temples which all open up to the great river. By 4:30 p.m., the crowds start marching through side streets and then through a final 500 or so yards, negotiating a dizzying maze of rickshaws, motorcycles, and food carts. At the ghats, people start settling in front of small platforms that hug the water's edge. Hindu devotional music blares over loud speakers, and women and children offer everyone small paper bowls filled with flowers and a candle, provided a small donation is given. On the platforms, Hindu priests begin preparations, and the anticipation rises.

And then for the next hour or more, the priests work through a series of rituals -- with smoke, fire, water, incense, flowers, and saffron spices. Circling their arms in the air, while slowly moving clockwise in place, the ceremony takes on the form of religious dance. Appropriate chants and music match each series, and both priest and the crowd ring bells and beat drums. Then prayers are offered, to the Mother Ganga and Lord Shiva, and some of the people take their turns lighting their candles and sending them off into the river, with prayers and reflection. The priests slow down, and quiet returns. The people go home, until the next day.

I have never seen anything like this, though the size, music, “stage,” and lights remind me a bit of some very large megachurch praise services in America. To the Western eye, it all seems a little Las Vegas and a lot of strange, but to the people here -- watching intently, clapping in rhythm, folding hands in prayer -- this is anything but strange or entertaining. It is, yet again, a way to worship, to honor that which is God, to see life and god and salvation in this holy water, to mark the end of the day as a day for the divine.

Hindus are very religious people, and there seems to be no end to ways that they worship and ways that they symbolize and understand God. Historically, this flexibility and endless imaginative theology has been Hinduism's great strength. But some other Indian religions have chosen different paths of spirituality. Near this town, at Sarnath, Buddhists gather to remember and pray, for Sarnath is the place that Siddhartha, the Buddha, came to gather his first disciples and preach his first sermon. After a very fast and bumpy auto-rickshaw ride for the 10 kilometers (a whopping $4, round trip), I arrived in Sarnath earlier today, for what proved to be a peaceful 4 hours.

The central site here is the Dhhamekh Stupa, a huge towering mound that marks the place where the Buddha preached this first sermon. Stupas in Buddhism traditionally house holy relics, perhaps pieces of Siddhartha’s clothing or writings, but this one is revered for the sermon. The stupa sits on the edge of well-maintained monastery ruins, and the entire park – with its quiet, cool atmosphere – provides a welcome reprise from the noise and crowds of nearby Varanasi. An impressive state-run museum is adjacent, including statues of both Buddhist and Hindu gods, as well as Siddhartha.

Siddhartha developed the principles of Buddhism in the context of early Hindu life, about 500 B.C. He objected to the then Hindu emphasis on sacrificial rituals, dependency on priests, and the highest spiritual goal of extreme ascetic living. He taught a “middle way” to salvation, or rather enlightenment, which focuses on awareness, simplicity, modesty, and something like contentment. Buddhists do not focus on a goal of salvation, or, being with God in heaven, generally; instead, they try to realize the “god within,” their own buddha nature, and they emphasize prayerful meditation. Thus, technically, they do not worship Siddhartha, nor any gods, but there are nonetheless a pantheon of divine figures, as well as the model of the Buddha, who provide religious focus.

And then there are Jains. We’ve discussed Jainism a bit in an earlier post. Their founder, Mahavira, is said to have lived and taught in this area, as did some of the earlier “crossing leaders, their tirthankaras, who mark the way to live – simply, non-violently, and modestly. A pleasant Jain temple sits near the Buddhist monastery, and I enjoyed good conversation with one of the priests there. Jains, he said, do not say “Namaste,” the Hindu greeting, but instead “Jai Jenadara,” which means “I see the you/good/god inside your heart.”

So there is here in Varanasi a large variety of religious life – worship to a multitude of forms of god, in colorful and extravagant ways for the Hindus, to self-reflection meditation on one’s inner whole, to committed nonviolent actions and spiritual reflection. And it is here, in north central India, that two grand world religions formed and continue to thrive, along the Ganges river delta, some 2500 years ago. It is easy, then, to see why India is so jam-packed with temples, priests, incense, and prayer. And why the people greet the dawn and the dusk with praise, repentance, and invocation.
slp

Down to the River to Pray, and . . .

3 December, 2008. Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh, India.

After a night of rocking and tossing, sleeping, snoring, and listening to snoring (and the large group of French tourists who surrounded us), I arrived in Varanasi early today. The overnight train experience was, well, like camping out, while moving, with strangers. The train cars are like very narrow hallways with curtains on each side. The curtains open to sets of berths, four on one side and two on the other. I was assigned the lower berth on a 4-berth side, meaning that I shared a very narrow space with 2 Indian young men and their woman friend. My larger bag slid under my seat/bed, while my smaller backpack wedged between the small table and my head space, and after spreading out the provided sheet/blanket/pillow, I was down and we were all respectful of each other’s quiet. I could easily reach my arm across to the other bed, but with the 2-tier structure, should I need to sit up, I could do so comfortably….if the others had not used the floor space for large luggage. Actually I slept about normal, but those moments between deep sleep cycles seemed to have a bit of a click-clack to them. I’ll try to provide photos on the next similar adventure, which occurs in a few days.

Varanasi (previously known as Benares) is by most accounts the most holy Hindu city in the world. The city sits on the great Ganges River, which is identified with the mother goddess Ganga, whose power comes forth from the far-off Himalayas and flows through a large portion of the Indian continent. The city dates back to 1400 B.C., long before the emergence of classical Hinduism, and as Mark Twain said after his visit here, “Benares is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them together.” Hindus believe that the Ganges is a river of salvation, and that those who die here receive moksha (release from reincarnation, and thus salvation) immediately.

In addition to the river, the faithful Hindus come here to visit a special temple dedicated to the god Shiva (the destroying and re-creating lord of the universe). Called the “Golden Temple” due to its large gold dome, this Shiva temple is a major pilgrimage sight, even though it is difficult to reach. One must navigate a series of very narrow streets (no more than 4 feet wide, and filled with shops) and turns, and then the temple gates/entrances appear. I’d love to have photos for you, but inscriptions in the original marble walls prohibit “gentlemen who are not Hindu” from entering. I did try to get near the gates, and after four security checkpoints, I was able to have a glance before moving on.

The city is full of temples and people, shops and traffic (a familiar refrain), but the Ganges ghats are the main draw. About 80 ghats (steps) line the river’s edge, with varying sizes of platforms, steps, and temple framing leading to the water, which rises drastically during the monsoon season. People (over 60,000 a day) come to the ghats for the numerous reasons: to wash their bodies, to dip in the sacred water, to drop lotus flowers after prayers, to swim, to wash clothes (forming a stunning tapestry of sheets and pants and towels spread over the steps and platforms), to wash their children, to wash cattle, to fish, and to boat. They also seem to gather for something akin to a day at the beach, with families forming little umbrella-marked areas for relaxing and drying after a dip in the river. And all of this is done at and in one of the most polluted rivers in the world, with sewage and everything imaginable dumping into it. This very dangerous water has become a matter of international concern by health officials, and though attempts are being made to change things, the pilgrims, and families, still come for days and dips.

And they come to let their dead go. At one of the two burning ghats, pyres of wood and bodies burn 24 hours a day, as Hindus bring their dead relatives here for cremation. I watched several family ceremonies today, where the dead are placed on specially prepared piles of wood and straw and then, at the appropriate moment after prayers and circling the pyre, lit and burned to ashes. A close relative finally takes the ashes, mixed with river water, and tosses the mixture over his shoulder and into Mother Ganga. Life begins, life ends, and life continues.

What could possibly compel people to risk their health in order to be washed in the river? What could make people ritually burn their dead relatives, all without a tear? These questions frame the mystery – and the majesty – that is the Hindu Ganges world. The connection with the gods is so dramatic, so truly natural, that there is no reason not to identify with the power that is god here. We might say, as possibly their own educated elite might add, that some religious practices must stop because they are dangerous. But a caution for all of us is in view. Who defines what is dangerous, especially in view of faith and the power of God? And what matter is it for the Hindu if this life is shortened a bit, so that the next may come? Or, how is it that Western Christians believe things that fly in the face of science, that some “educated” folk deem as dangerous to healthy living? And what similar uses of water as places of transformation exist in Christian worldviews?

Come to think of it, water is a common element in all religions that I know of. It purifies, and it symbolizes new life. In fact, it makes us live.

Until, at least, we realize the Living Water that transcends every ceremony and all death.

slp