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The Power of No

A short, crisp, and phonetically easy word that’s often misused in our day and age is the word ‘No’. No is a simple yet powerful word. In the Western world, it is the first verbal boundary marker for an individual. When babies refuse disgusting looking gooey grime targeted straight into their mouth, they let out with one little shout: No! When they grow into their little years and learn the right to own private property, they shoo friends away who try to take away their toys with one firm ’No!’ When they grow up into their teen years, they add gentleness to their firmness with a polite, ’No, thank you!’ whenever foisted upon with choices. This however is an alien concept in India.

In India, we are taught the opposite. From birth, we are trained to say ‘yes’ to everyone and everything. When disgusting food is brought near to our mouths, we are coaxed and coddled and finally the food is stuffed in despite agonizing cries. When old aunts hold us or pinch our plump cheeks, we are to gladly give in with a brimming smile else we are considered fussy babies. When called upon by the family to sing a song or play the violin for the guests who came for a visit, we must say ‘yes’ without a stutter else we earn the reputation of being belligerent kids. When old uncles pat our heads, hug us, or kiss on our cheeks, we are to say ’yes’ without batting an eyelid. When American companies ask Indian managers about the feasibilty of the project, we say, ”yes, yes!” with our characteristic side nod. When these same managers force an impossible deadline on their tech team , they are forced to say ”yes, yes!” even when they know they can’t. India is an entrenched yes culture that does not understand the word no, except in parenting relationships. It is one of the prime reasons that we conform to the pressures or our culture rather than challenge it.

I first learnt to say my firm ‘No’ when I became a Christian. Of course, if you asked my parents they would say I was always a naysayer. There’s a grain of truth in this statement within families with a strict religious upbringing. Let me explain. Growing up, hearing a ‘No’ was very common in my household, but saying a ’No’ wasn’t. If I wanted to go outside the gate of my home, it was a no. If I wanted to attend a friend’s birthday party, it was a no. If I wanted to sleepover, no. If I wanted to participate in the school choir, no. My grandfather even made it a point to choose friends for me and my sister! Until I was 16 I wasn’t even allowed to go to the corner of our 100 foot long street alone, let alone ride a public transportation with friends. So yes, considering that upbringing, I consider being called a naysayer a compliment. Yet, it wasn’t until Christ came into my life that saying my ‘No’ felt real and dangerous. Lisping it was brutal. It was devastatingly costly. It cut off my closest friends in college. It brought shame and dishonor on my family. It invoked threats, cried foul in family gatherings, invited ridicule, ostracized and diffused my social identity which was all I had since my birth.

Growing up, hearing a ‘No’ was very common in my household, but saying a ’No’ wasn’t.

When I was 18, my family undertook a pilgrimage to a south-Indian temple city. As was the custom, every individual needed to be part of the family identity and attend pilgrimages failing which they earned the ire of the family patriarch. My grandfather had passed away by then and I gently refused to go owing to my Christian convictions. Yet the gavel at home struck a resounding ’No, you must come!’ So I went, abiding. When I entered the dark and dingy inner court of the centuries-old temple of the goddess Meenakshi, my story turned out eerily different from my past encounters within this claustrophobic space. My ‘No’ took a profoundly loud and unabashed shape. When the high priest came with the customary miniature footsool of the goddess to bless me, I dodged his hand. When the holy ash and holy water were as poured into my hand, I flipped them instinctively behind me. My entire clan assembled in the tiny dungeon noticed and terror filled their faces, as they beheld my undecorated, pale face (for those who don’t know, the ash and saffron went on the forehead). There I was, my ’No’ turning out to be a war-cry and the gods arrayed against me in an unholy ensemble! Over the next few hours, my parents wailed and whimpered in secret, while my suspicious family taunted me with ”Christian” songs, prodding me to see if I would crack and open up. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Yet the very word ’No’, be it in my heart or my mouth, firmly established my right as a Christian and dispelled the enemies of God from my territory.

How often do we use the word ’No’ in our fight against the enemy and his taunts? I bet most of us don’t. Given our culture and nature to comply or die, we simply follow the bedazzling beckons of the enemy or give into his fearful threats of excommunication. We binge on Netflix to no end, we’re seduced by vile images on auto-pilot, we get drunk until the night becomes day, allowing our ship to be steered off course by the enemy far too long. Some of us cower behind closed doors, threatened that the day will come when we will be forced to chant an idol mantra and that we won’t be able to say ’No’. New believers shudder at the prospect of having to say ’No’ to their beloved parents: what will happen to me? to them? to my reputation? their lives? will I be thrown out of my home? Questions abound. Doubts paralyse our faith. We end up bribing men in power rather than refusing a bribe, get ahead in the line than get behind the bars because we said ’No’. Let’s face it: we have likely never learnt to use this phrase except to do our own will.

Yet, this one word in our mouths and our hearts dispels darkness and ushers in the light of God, through faith in Christ who sustains and secures us. How do we know this is even a Biblical thing to do? Listen to what James says in James 4:7: ”Resist the devil and he will flee from you”. Resist. The greek word antistemi has a war-like connotation: withstand, oppose. Push back. Put up a barricade against him. It is the same word used in 1 Peter 5:9, with an added injunction, ”Resist him [devil], [standing] firm in your faith” In this case, you are not called to flee the scene. You are called to protect your sacred house. Let him be the one to leave, you stand your ground. Shut the door of your heart on his face. Say a firm ’No’. Repeat it until he grows weary and leaves. Remember that the devil tempted Jesus with just three lies, and after Jesus’s stiff resistance, he left him (Matt 4:11). The devil has no patience for stiff resistance, he isn’t the persistent widow after all! Yet James doesn’t just stop at calling you to say ‘No’. He calls you to say ’Yes’ to someone else —to God (James 4:8). Christian warfare is an art. At the same time that we skillfully shut the back door on the devil and his lies, we keep the front door open to our Lord who commands His legions and secures our house. Our resistance, though it seems stiff for a time, is but for a little while (1 Pet 5:10) and God will bring us fresh comfort once we have stood our hour of trial.

I never told you what happened next in my story. My beloved parents had burnt their fingers with me and learnt a hard lesson. After I refused to bow down before the idols, I was never once forced to go to a temple, prostrate myself before these gods, or spread the holy ash on my forehead. At the same time, my communion with the Lord deepened and I found freedom to go to the church and worship the living God. With time, they began giving me rides to the church until one fine day, they entered the sanctuary with me to give me away as a bride to my now husband.

It all began with a simple resolution to say ‘No’. And God performed the rest of the act. Someone once wisely said to me, ”Stand with God, two feet together, and watch God leap you ten steps ahead!” Saying no to the devil seems trifle, but it is the sure way of seeing him out of God’s dwelling in us.

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The Megachurch and the Modest God

I waited at the threshold where I was told He would come.
I was desperate. I fled my abusers. Questions abounded. Confusion surrounded.
I thirst.

I was told He would meet me at the threshold of the church -the Horeb of God.
I stood still and helpless.

Then I heard a loud noise —
Clanging drums and cacophonic music conflated with loud Hallelujahs.
Clapping hands, thumping jumps.
Swaying as though a wind engulfed them,
each dropped nearly dead on the ground.
Everyone said, they experienced the Spirit’s move.
Yet my Beloved was not in the noise.

Then I felt the tremor.
A suave man appeared sporting a lapel and tee,
his face magnified a thousand times by a screen
separating him from me so much so that
I felt I was treading holy ground.
He read a portion of the Bible,
closed it never to open it again.
He pounded the pulpit with pet stories and style-slogans.
He coddled abuse with ‘It’s ok, we’re mere men.’
He raised his hands just to show off his tattoo.
He paraded his wealth and said, ’God will bless you too’
Everyone said, the voice of God shook them and moved them to tears.
Yet my Beloved was not in this tremor-theater

Then I saw the fire.
Click, click. All eyes fixed. Instagram flicks.
More and more were bent in austere posture,
not in humble contrition but in hashtag confessions
which lasted just a moment.
Suddenly something strange happened.
The man in the middle multiplied himself on myriad screens,
held in the palm of their hands.
He was ubiquitous —one with one and all, all the same.
A flicker became a raging fire, enflamed by the winds of
tweets, likes, reshares, sermon jams & memes.
The lone pastor loaning the Lord’s pulpit became an overnight star,
star-struck by social media paparazzi.
Everyone said, there was a revival —a fire that blazed through the city.
Yet my Beloved was not in the fire.

I was told He would meet me at the threshold of the church -the Horeb of God.
I stood there, still and helpless.

As I turned to go,
I heard Him.
A sheet of silence,
a wisp of whisper was all it was.
Yet the sound of it made me whimper in fear.
A raggedy old man was warmly embraced and given a front row seat.
A weary pastor wore the scriptures of God on his sleeve.
He pled with men to repent, amend, and relent from their sin.
He bled and died, with none to bury him.
A prisoner belted out the Psalms as he was put to the test.
A sinner surrendered to God as he beat his breast.
Brother pursued brother in love and forgiveness.
Mother scrubbed dishes in humble faithfulness.
Maidens savored the scent of their sweet Friend,
The disabled washed the feet of beloved saints.
In their quiet witness I heard my Beloved speak
Though silent or dead, they yet speak
a better word than the clamor of a thousand cheers.

I came to the threshold of God, hurt and screaming,
angry that I alone was told to go upstreaming.
Yet there were seven thousand and counting
who were the hill of God ascending, with feet so sore
but never once complaining.
For though their feet hurt and their strength so small,
they were ever looking to the One whose whisper carried them all.

(This spoken word poetry is a creative adaptation from 1 Kings 19:9-18)




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The Glory of the Pittance

Several years ago, a man named Ray Boltz wrote one of the most moving songs I had ever heard in my early Christian life. The chorus reverberates with these challenging words: what if I give all I have? It is a song about a little boy putting a dollar note into the offertory, because his mom told him it could actually feed about ten hungry children in a far away land. It was all he had, and what’s more, when he gave up his all, he remembered that he actually had more to give. He parted with his favourite model aircraft to a poor boy who had nothing to play with. Tears trickled down our cheeks when we watched the boy’s heart, what is more, the heart of God’s Only Son who gave up his all for sinners.

ENGAGING IN THE HARD EXERCISE OF HEART-FELT GIVING

During his earthly life, Christ taught that giving more of your little is worth more than giving little of your most. The poor widow’s mite* was worth more than all the gold and silver that went clanging down into the treasury (Mark 12:42-43). “But”, you may wonder, “how can the widow’s mite pay anyone’s salary? How can it pay for the sick and the needy? Does God not want the rich to come into the church and give? Shouldn’t our church pews be filled with the rich and the elite so as to feed the hungry and sponsor the poor and keep the church’s economic engine well oiled?” Don’t get me wrong here. I am not advocating poverty as a virtue nor am I saying that wealth is not a useful resource for church growth. I am all for magnanimous giving and tithing to the church and her causes! But the point being discussed is not how much we give. The point being discussed is how much we keep back from God.

God doesn’t want our money. He wants our hearts. He sees the heart that gives and multiplies the gift. Five loaves and two tiny fish were all it took for Jesus to feed five thousand. Your mite with all your heart matters more to Jesus than your wealth with all your might. 

MONEY-LOVE IN MANY SHADES

Money, however, comes dressed in many shades. Often the church succumbs to the pressure of elitism and favouritism too. We may tend to favour a person, a church or even a country because of some outward affinities. We willingly come under the influence of those who possess wealth, intelligence, a better privilege, or (sad to say!) even the color of their skin! We want to become like them, so we befriend them. We look up to them and look down on our brother from a village or from another ethnic group because they don’t have “much to give us”. Well friends, nothing could be farther from the truth. As James put it so eloquently, “…has not God chosen those who are poor in the world to be rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom, which he has promised to those who love him?” (Jas 2:5). James ties in the idea of favouritism with the wealth people possess. They are hand in glove.

The caste system in India is a classic example of favouritism based on birth privilege. I am yet to see a church governed equally by elders who have a brahmin, kshatriya, vaishya, shudra or an achoot (untouchable) birth status. The fact probably remains true in many parts of the West who don’t yet see equity in church leadership, wherein black minority or aboriginal groups lead side by side with the white populace. Why is this so? Why do we honour the privileged sort but pay no attention to those not so privileged? Why is it so easy to condescend on the black man in our midst but find it rather strenuous to sit under his tutelage? Why do we seek counsel from the distant white evangelical man preaching on youtube but pay no attention to the local indigenous pastor sweating his calling out Sunday after Sunday, pleading with you to amend your ways? Why do we prostrate ourselves before wealthy donors but fail to thank the inconspicuous men who paid our way through seminary? Why do we find it so easy to criticise our elders but find no fault with popular men who plagiarise? 

Why is the widow’s mite of no account to us in the church? Perhaps it is because we don’t see this bedazzling treasure with Jesus’ eyes. 

THE GLORY OF THE PITTANCE TWO WAYS

I saw the glory of the pittance in two personal accounts. Years ago, a couple of us decided to surprise a brother in our church for his birthday. Now, this brother comes from a village in a neighbouring state and at the time was still looking for a job. For several weeks, he had been inviting us for dinner at his home. We thought our visit would be an opportune time and asked him if we could sup with him. He never responded, which we thought was quite out of character for him. We finally met him and did celebrate his birthday, and during our time there, we figured out the reason behind his apparent silence. He had run out of cooking gas! But since his heart was bigger than his gas cylinder, he decided to treat us to a pack of fryums which he fried for us using an induction stove. We  cleaned up the entire plate and left absolutely nothing for him! But he was there, watching us with a satisfied, beaming smile. He couldn’t have been happier! And he had just given up the only side dish he had in his possession for the next day’s rice meal (no cooking gas mind you, and no job too). I could not shake myself from that picture of self emptying love. Some of us pat ourselves on our back for our immaculate hospitality and also sign it up as a “gift” we possess (mea culpa), when all along we only invite people into our homes when it is tidy, we look prim and proper and are not inconvenienced. But that giving is usually paid back in full with many compliments. The one of the sort I witnessed is scandalous, and more often than not, leaves one speechless.

I saw this same spirit at work in yet another friend who became a bosom sister during one of the most difficult emotional seasons of my life. My husband and I had just returned from the US and my world was falling apart. The women always have a harder time than the men, perhaps because we build our world with friends. And when those friends are no more seen, heard or felt, our world begins to crumble too. Added to this was the shift in spacial paradigms, from a culture of spatial and social tranquility to one of chaos and cacophony. During this season, it was very hard to find a friend to process this emotional turmoil with. Those around you thought it strange, and those who knew better were unable to be present. My help did not come from the spiritually rich. It came from a seemingly spiritually impoverished missionary friend who had no help nor support system herself.  She was alone with her family in a very dark part of India, where phone lines barely worked and the internet flickered. She was literally cut off. Yet, in those few moments when things did work, she would call me and listen to me, and cry with me. She would share from her life in that dark place and tell me everything Jesus taught her. Strangely, that brought healing and encouragement. She went before me, and out of her poverty she emptied out to me spiritual life. 

Who would have thought that a lone missionary would be the help for one returning from the land of plentiful? That I would succour at the bosom of one whose resources were sapped? 

Only God could work out such an equation. That one’s weakness would fill and satisfy another than one’s strength. Or that one’s poverty would feed a multitude. That God chose to fill ancient Israel’s hunger, not with meat but with humble manna, just enough. That manna is our Christ. 

Better far to glory in the pittance that Christ accepts than in the millions that Christ requires not. 

*mite is an old English word which means “copper coin” or a coin of very little value. Liken it to the dime, penny or paisa. 

PD: At the home of a loving family who treated to a sumptuous meal despite the hardships of COVID. Abhi is sitting in front of a majlis, a customary dining table of a muslim family with a delicious spread of salad, fruits, chocolates, butter chicken, paratas, chilli chicken, fried chicken and mutton biryani (not featured).

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A faithful friend until the end

Who is a close friend?

I’ve had diverse friends all my life. Growing up, I always had close friends for a season, but only for a season. It bewilders me even now as to how I lost so many friends along the way. My best friend in school was someone with whom I played after school, and even played some nasty pranks on. We shared lunches, rode on the school bus and did study sessions in each other’s homes. We practically did everything together. We even teamed up and did one-act plays for our school events from time to time. During one such act of Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice, for reasons unbeknownst to us, one by one, the characters began to quit. I was to play Shylock but seeing the others leave, I began to wonder if I should play my part or leave too. Few minutes before the play began, I realised that the show was going to flop. I slyly slipped back stage and scooted to the back row of the audience. My dear and poor friend pulled through the entire play, switching costumes as Antonio, Bassanio and Shylock, all the while being ridiculed by a thoroughly entertained crowd. At the time I was ashamed of being part of the play. Now I feel ashamed of abandoning my friend in a time of need. But she was a close friend. After all that was said and done, she did not abandon me. She stuck around me. Truly I was the Shylock, and she the Antonio.

But I lost her in time. I looked everywhere to renew my friendship with her but in vain.

Come college, and I had close friends with whom I had deep bonds. Some were Christian, some were not. But they all loved me. I lost them too, with time. I practically know the whereabouts of none but one.

I’ve had close mentors with whom I no longer have any contact. Providence kept us all apart, and for a good reason.

There was one friend, however, who somehow stuck with me through my college years and all through my life. He stuck with me through thick and thin. There was a season in my life when I may have even said goodbye to him, but God prevented that from happening. Thankfully, I married him!

When I survey all the close friends who have come and gone in my life, I see something of myself. I can see that God made me for deep communion and friendship. No man is an island. No Christian can closet himself from the need for a church. In a long-drawn era of a pandemic, we are prone to sail adrift into a churchless Christianity. Worse still, we become what I call “cocktail Christians”: we pick and choose parts of the church we like and discard the rest, including people we think are difficult. This topic deserves a whole another post. Later.

Strong relationships cause many of us to thrive in life. David, though singularly mighty and charismatic as a leader of God’s people, needed Jonathan to complete him. Without Jonathan, David could have never completed the call of God on his life (1 Sam 18:1-4). We need friends who build the trust enough to speak truth into our lives, whose wounds we count as a blessing compared to the facade of many companions (Prov 27:6, 18:24)

Sometimes, we need to have healthy friendships with those of the opposite sex. We must not think that all close friendships need to end in marriage! We can have a close friend who is also a brother or a sister. Timothy was encouraged by Paul to have such a healthy boundary and relationship with the women folk around him (1 Tim 5:2). He wasn’t to keep distance, but honour the women in his life. Paul did the same by calling Prisca, Euodia and Synteche as his fellow workers, working side by side with him (Rom 16:1, Phi 4:2-3). Jesus our Lord constantly had women companions in his ministry. When he was tired, He found comfort in his friends Lazarus, Martha and Mary. He would often retreat to their home in Bethany. Jesus never needed friends, but he made many friends for the Kingdom’s sake.

God gives friends for adversity. He comforts us through companions. I’ve known friends who have done nothing but sit beside my husband’s bedside during his darkest hours and listen to him and pray with him. Oh the balm that they were! Yet, often even close friends cannot enter the depths of our soul’s valleys.

Sometimes, God chisels a dark soul-way that only His footsteps can tread.

I have been reminded more often now than ever that when God desires your friendship, He invites you to suffer. In those moments, I find myself running from pillar to post looking for a human friend, when all the while God has been whispering to me , “Come to me, you who weary and are heavy laden…” I now desire and thirst this even more as friends keep shifting and moving into the distant past and times are trying. Loneliness welcomes Jesus with arms wide open. The Psalmist has been reminding me lately as I have been singing and humming in my soul, “Close friendship with the Lord will all who fear Him know, the knowledge of His covenant He unto them will show” (Ps 25:14).

God draws us into His Bosom in the vale of tears, as I hear him whisper to me,

“Come, die with me!”

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What if a tree falls and no one hears its sound?

There was nothing particularly unusual about this morning. I woke up to summons from my dear husband searching for his specs and stuff, all of which his wife seemed to perfectly remember while still half asleep. Woke up Abhi and did his morning routine. Spread veggie omelettes and ghee toast with Bournvita and milk on the table. Finished up breakfast. Cleaned up the mess. Sat down for family worship. Swimming, check. Wrote messages and emails. Prayer, check. Lunch prep. Homeschool lessons. Counseling. On and on, the routine never decayed.

There was nothing particularly unusual about this morning. Yet something began to bother me. Perhaps the unusual bother was in the mundaneness of it all. Do all these simple trifles of everyday life really add up to something more meaningful and rewarding? Why does the heart long for a holy climax, a more glorious ending to a drab life? Why does it always look for the extraordinary ending to the ordinary meanderings? Or is it just dust we return to, not stardust?

Think about it for a moment. What would life be like if you went to work to do your job expecting no pay checks, no performance reviews and no pats on the back. Would you even get up to go to work? What would it be like to get up and work out everyday if the weight machine clocked the same weight each day? Or running that pitiful treadmill that doesn’t move you beyond an inch? Or how about being an office admin sending out emails or a data entry operator punching in numbers? These are not creative jobs that get the oohs and ahas, right? What does it feel like in the ebbing years of a life, in the corner of one’s own home, unwanted and wasting? Cornered, maybe? Or when someone lays dying on a bed for days and years without end, with nothing but a wall between them and death? On my morning walk, I saw an old lady sit outside her mud-shed and clean out grain with a sieve. I envied her pace of life. Perhaps she envied my sense of freedom. For a brief moment, I pondered her life. All she knew would be sieving and cleaning and slaving for someone else. How does one live through all this routine purposelessness? Or was I only seeing a world that began and ended with me as life’s greatest purpose?

Perhaps my compass wasn’t pointing North at all!

It dawned on me then that somehow, somewhere, I became the center of my existence. My glory became the measure of my well-being. Encouragement from others became the fuel for good work. But in the end, all the pats, the paychecks, the ahas and the applauses will still not add up to a sense of purpose and worth.

If we are mere stardust, we will all be blown away. We are more than that. Yet, I thought so little of it.

In his book, The Praying Life, Paul Miller eloquently gives us a window into the secret life of Jesus. He was about His Father’s business all the time, not his own. He did what He saw His Father doing. He was sent by the Father. He was with the Father at all times. He quotes, “Jesus defines himself only in relationship with his Heavenly Father … Because Jesus has no separate sense of self, [not that He is not a separate person but He is not, in the American sense, an “individual”] he has no identity crisis, no angst. Consequently, he doesn’t try to ‘find himself’. He knows himself only in relationship with his Father. He can’t conceive of himself outside of that relationship”. Jesus was content, well, He was blissful in being lost in union with the Father and the Spirit. He didn’t care if His self had no worth in the world. He didn’t pick up a fight with His Father over the plan that He would have to be born in a stinking cowshed. Or that He would live most of his inconspicuous life sawing wood. Or that someday, He would be beaten, mocked, spat upon and cursed at. He tried to negotiate with the Father the cup He would have to drink from, but it wasn’t the humiliation He was concerned about. He dreaded drinking from the dregs of God’s wrath, from having a momentary suspension of His eternal communion with the Father.

Jesus’s glory wasn’t even here. It was secure elsewhere. It was secure in a Person. Jesus knew where He came from and where He was going, and therefore he got down to do the dirty work of sanctifying sinners (John 13: 3-5).

Sometimes in life, nobody will notice what you do. Your days may be humdrum. During such times, you ought to only remember that Someone’s invisible eyes watch you constantly. “He who watches over Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps” (Ps 121:4). I need to ask more of this question, “When He sees me now, will He smile at me?” Even a slave has great glory awaiting him, when He serves with an eye-service to His Master (Eph 6:5-7). It doesn’t matter if it is the New Year, mid-year or the end of the year. Your grand resolutions don’t matter, but a resolve to faithfulness in small things matter every year. Consistency matters, even in the mundane. Commitment matters, even to the smallest people. Courage, even if only a little, matters when you are cornered.

An early 20th century Physicist once posted a thought experiment with this question, “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” Some argue that the answer is no. Sound implies having a perceptive sense and is absent in the absence of a receptor. Nobody heard the sound. It doesn’t matter that a tree even fell. What a waste, one thinks.

Yet there are faithful saints, little known, who fell with none to record their life nor death, whose glory will be heard throbbing heaven’s throne room, on that glorious day.

Pray that we will all be found in such company.

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Come Home this Christmas

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year!” That old-fashioned Andy Williams song jingles in streets over the world as a segway into the Christmas season. For many of us living in snowless shores, Christmas celebrations are more fantasy than reality. We are so enthralled by the romanticized picture of commercial giants so much so that we put up fake christmas trees in our home with fake cotton-snow, pretend that we are in the West and dress up bellyless Santas in paper masks. Even for someone like me who doesn’t believe in celebrating Christmas, the distorted revelry does get under the skin. It is true for many of us, no matter which culture we come from.

The world is a noisy place, and this season just got more jarring.

When I turn on Instagram, every picture feels suddenly tinted in green and red, and everyone is just about in a happy mood, baking the best dishes and making the best gifts. We get the best emails from friends at the end of the year, the best discounts for avid shoppers, and perhaps even the best gifts. It seems like the world got better with all the shiny, happy people. But the reality is far from this idyllic Instashot.

Coming home has become overwhelming. Keeping up with family traditions and prepping up for family dinners can be really stressful for some. Coming home to a dysfunctional family with an absentee father or a controlling mother can be stressful for some others. Several suffer acute loneliness during this season, even as they scroll through endless photos of those who seem to be happier. Some turn the pages of the past with great grief in the loss of a loved one. Others scour the future with much fear and worry. Still others are stuck in the present, unable to move past a sinful habit or a ritual pattern that is so hard to get out of. Culturally we live in tumultuous times. Christians are terrorized by the threat of anti-conversion bills and right-winged bullies, constantly living their own rightful lives as though they have committed the unpardonable sin. Young blokes are calling for a ‘ghar wapasi’ (homecoming to the home religion) to seal the nation’s ethnic identity, unaware that such tactics make the idea of home more abhorrent. We have no where to escape and no place to rest our weary heads.

It is to such as these that Christ has come. In various parts of Scripture we hear this tender beckoning of Christ to sinners and strugglers alike. He bids us come, right where we are, not where we think He wants us to be.

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest”, says Jesus (Matt 11:28).

He doesn’t call for the lively and the energetic but the weary and heavy laden. Shopping malls and even churches pump up the amp to enliven the experience of Christmas “shoppers”, but Jesus does nothing of that sort. He knows that nothing from the outside can shake up a weary soul and decides to offer him the one thing he desperately needs: rest.

 “Come now, let us reason together, says the LORD: though your sins are like scarlet,they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.”, he says (Is 1:18). J

Jesus calls us to explain things to Him, to reason with Him, to dialogue. When he sees us robed in our scarlet sins, he is not grossed out enough to turn away from us. That happened only once, and once and for all at the cross. Behind the sin stained veil, he sees a wounded, hurting and guilt-ridden lamb looking for Someone to wash her clean. None else can do this but your spotless Christ. He doesn’t want you pretty looking and decked up for Christmas. He doesn’t want your best gifts, your best clothes and your best smiles. He wants you to come naked before Him and give Him your blemished heart.

“Come, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and he who has no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy? Listen diligently to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food.”, he says (Is 55:1-2).

Jesus calls tenderly to those thirsting and hungry but who know not the way to replenish themselves. He is giving Himself, the spring of eternal life to quench our thirsts. “Come”, he says, “to eat of me for I am the Bread of Life” (Jn 6:35). When we drink from the broken cisterns of this world, and numb our pain with meth fixes, pornhub, and drunkenness of various sorts, we are deaf to this free offer of God. “Child, why do you spend money for what is not bread?” Christmas will come and go, partying will last only a night, but Jesus is here to stay in your pain. When the fix wears off, and the pain doubles up, Jesus yet offers lasting relief and satisfaction in Him.

O prodigal child, you only need to lift your head in your utter ruin to remember that your father feeds the least of his servants better than what you’re feeding off. Run away from your corrosive life right into His waiting arms, and tuck your weary head into His loving bosom. (Lk 15:17-18). For this Father of yours does not merely wait as in the story, hands-off, for you to turn. No. He actively pursued you by sending His Son to a faraway place, away from His resting place, away from His Bosom and into a hostile and rotten place to bring back home sinners like you to Himself (2 Cor 5:19). As Dane Ortland puts it, “The posture most natural to him is not a pointed finger but open arms.” This Jesus is God in flesh, God who came to be with us, Immanuel. He doesn’t leave you alone, orphaned in this strange place (Jn 14:18 ). He is now preparing a place for you so that you can be with Him where He is. Home. (Jn 14-2-3). You only need to turn towards Him and come.

Come in the quietness of your room. Come in the heaviness of your heart. Come in the brokenness of your spirit. Come with eyes wearied from crying, pillows softened with tears. “But”, you retort, “I am still angry, hurting, and unclean. He deserves more, better”. He has never wanted more or better, only a broken and hurt sinner, so come. Here these reassuring words of Jesus: “All that the Father gives me will come to me, and whoever comes to me I will never cast out.” (Jn 6:37). By no means will He reject. Never. Nada.

So just come.

He bids us come, right where we are, not where we think He wants us to be.

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Home

This post was first written in 2017 to mark the day of my son’s homecoming. Today it has become a sort of memorial of God’s gracious promises and wondrous works in us.

December 6. Exactly a week from now, at about this hour, we will all be home together. For the first time ever, Abhi will have a home of his own. For the first time ever, Venky and I will have a tiny shoot sprout up before our eyes each morning. And for the first time ever, two pre-existing worlds are about to collide. Well, maybe not the first time ever. But our world is going to turn poles and so is his. I’m a bit of a late morning waker. Abhi wakes up on the dot every morning at 7. That means I would need to be up earlier than him. He needs to be picked up from time to time, and I’m still recovering from an injured spine. He’s onto a tight schedule while Mommy and Daddy just sway through the day. Our quiet space is about to be interrupted by noise, action and drama. It’s easy to sit here, a week early, and just type my mind out, because who knows, I may have to say goodbye to Facebook and all the other things out there that is caffeine for my mind.

Amidst all these seemingly polar unknowns, my iTunes is humming a song into my restless soul. It is Abhi’s favourite and has quickly become V&I’s hot picks too – My Lighthouse by Rend Collective. It’s a song about going home through rough waters. A song about learning to swim towards the shore where the lighthouse rests, unmoved. Lighting up the waves. Calming our fears. There will be many days when we have more questions than answers, more sick visits than soft pillows to rest on, more struggles than stasis. But knowing that there is a Lighthouse at the end will remind us we are not home yet, that we need to keep swimming. Do the next thing. Trust His promises. And just enjoy the moment -laugh, be silly, sing, and cry. It reminds us that we need to make the most of even difficult times. As Spurgoen once said, “[I must] learn to kiss the waves that throw me against my Rock of Ages”.

Pray for our fledgling family, that we will hold our anchor even when our sails let us down.

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Caricatures: Loving those unlike ourselves

A few years ago we had the opportunity to live in the US and the cultural experience was surreal. The midwest cities feature a historical and cultural display each year in summer, in what is called a “county fair”. It’s that time of the year when city blokes like us make contact with country folk, whose life is marked by corn, John Deere tractors, early 1900s costume parties and play acts, really fat pigs appearing on shows, and a lot of fried foodstuff. We got to try everything from corn dogs, deep fried Oreos, deep fried ice-creams and even something called a “garbage burger” (I wonder what they thought the trash can was!)

My first impressions of going to these farm fêtes was that everything from a country horse to a coke can was three times the size I’ve seen in India. Even their trucks and car tires were humongous. The people appeared huge and we seemed like pygmies posing next to them in photos. For once, I could savour the Israelite experience of spying on Amalek’s land – too good to be true yet too small to fit in! Huge people they, I mused.

Caricatures are a bit like my first-time country fair experience – you see the oddities and make exaggerated conclusions on matters that you only get to see or know for a very short span of time. Caricatures are interesting when you first make them, but then, if you’ve never seen the real deal, you mistake it for the worst or funniest representation of reality.

Caricaturing contexts may be more benign than caricaturing people. But what does it mean to caricature people? It means we look at quirks, oddities, or behaviours of people to make exaggerated conclusions about who they are and how they operate.

Take for instance the girl who comes to college with her hair covered in a beanie all the time, books hugging close to her chest, head held low with an occasional eye contact only to give approval. She is the kind of girl who is easily bullied and caricatured as the “nerd” owing to her awkward social behaviour. I once met a girl just like that several years ago. She had no friends at all, talked to cows and dogs and was easily missed in a crowd. But after befriending her, I got to know that she behaved the way she did because she was deeply grieving the loss of her dad. In a fit of anger, she had chopped off her lovely mane and was hiding her sorrows and disappointments under a beanie. What surprised me the most was that she befriended me when I was hurting and lost in my own wilderness. I call her my “bramble friend”.

We hear caricatures of people all the time even in the church. When someone new walks in, we want to get the inside scoop on who they are and where they’re from so as to create a caricature of them in our minds. We exaggerate their spiritual freckles, ruffle up their past, add one to one and come up with bizarre conclusions that often distances the real person from us. And if we’ve gotten to know someone and have been hurt in the process, we once again caricature the person as hurtful or insensitive and pass on that damaging imagery to others around us in a way that keeps that person always at arm’s distance from the rest. “That guy’s a weirdo, he never speaks a word in a conversation!” “She’s loud, brash and is out to take control.” “His English is terrible, he must be illiterate and dumb.” “That aunty is nosy. Better stay out of her way.” “He’s Pentecostal (no comments).” “She’s a Calvinist (make no comments to her)”.

When people get caricatured, a precious part of them gets lost in the assumption.

You may be next door neighbours for years, but have grown to think the other is quite alien, actually. You may be avoiding some people in your church because they just don’t “click” or are not your “wavelength” whereas they may be undergoing the sanctifying power of Christ in areas you think are weaknesses. You miss the privilege of being sanctified yourself by being with those unlike you, as iron sharpens iron.

Did you know that Jesus always welcomed quirky folk into his company? Think about Peter who was quick and impulsive and sometimes just plain silly. Or Zacchaeus the dwarf who got up the tree to see Jesus. John and James were fighting with Jesus like kids for a place on his throne. How about the woman who kept kissing Jesus’ feet in public? Quirky and awkward people like these won Jesus’ hearts everywhere he went. Much less than caricaturing them, he took the time to look them in the eye, listen to them and love them with a deep love.

What about you? Who are your close friends? Are they like you or are there quirks about them you never bother to think about? Does being in their company make you feel stupid or sanctified? Are there people you are avoiding in your church, college or workplace because they have been caricatured as weirdos or touch-me-nots? If so, then here’s a friendly suggestion.

Take a deep look into your inner mirror and see if thou art blemishless. And when you find out, know that Christ has not caricatured you. In fact, He created you as you are, and He calls you to be in a loving relationship with Him. As you walk with Him, He will change you into His image. Becoming then like Jesus, you will no longer caricature people as a sum of their bad behaviours, but look into their soul and love them as He loves you. And hey, maybe some of them will even become your bramble friends!

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Come child, you are welcome here.

About two months ago, something spectacular happened in our family (I’m still wondering how I failed to record this moment).

On March 25, 2018, our son Abhi was baptised into the Church (Body) of our Lord Jesus Christ.

That’s it? You may wonder. You call this spectacular? Ah, but wait. We know lots of things that happen behind veiled curtains when baptisms occur. When someone gets baptised, Jesus is right there, putting a seal over the one baptised exclaiming, “Mine!” (Ps 87: 5-6, Rom 4:10-12)

As the waters of baptism were poured over his head by one of our dear pastor friends, there were many who enjoined the scene with tears streaming down their cheeks. After the service, Abhi cut a special cake and everyone shouted, “Welcome to Anugraha Abhi!” It sort of reminded us of Abhi’s welcome party which happened on Jan 6, 2018, when everyone of our friends resounded, “Welcome home, Abhi!” His baptism was nothing short of a warm welcome into Christ’s visible family. It was also a season in life where we wrestled much about his baptism, and were questioned about the validity of infant baptism from various quarters (totally unconnected and random incidents, btw).

Abhi cutting his cake on his baptism

We had no doubt that covenant children needed to be baptised (I’ll explain that in a minute) but we were wondering about the validity of having one baptised at an age when discernment started to grow. Abhi is eight on paper, but really just three of four in his intellectual grasp (mentally though, he is way beyond his league! Sometime, drop in home to taste of the wisdom of this child). So, he couldn’t articulate his beliefs. But he never denied loving Jesus either. Yet, for all that, the most important reason we wanted to see him baptised was to bring his adoption a full circle. He is truly a child on the outside who is being brought into the Church. He is now coming in, not because of the regenerating work of the Spirit, but because of the Fatherly, Providential care which God has always been exercising with him, now being brought to fulfilment in his having a loving Christian family. He is brought into the Covenant through believing parents. When a child of believing parents sits in the church, God does not treat the child differently than he does the rest of the congregation. He does not “cast out” one who has been brought to him. The little children who were brought to Jesus exercised no will, except on the part of those who loved and cared for them. Jesus welcomed the weaklings, and baptism was the sign of their entrance into this precious covenant (Matt 19:13-15)

I’m writing this memoir for two reasons. First, to have a record of Abhi’s baptism and to remind him over and again, of what those waters that drenched him mean, and beckon him to the reality of that act within his little heart. I’m writing this for our family history and instruction. Second, I want to leave a reply for those who have questions. Some are verbal, some poke fun, and many are just silent. I’d rather not be silent but leave an informed biblical response. However, it is not meant to be a treatise. If you wish to get a more robust understanding of this doctrine, you may as well pick up the Westminster Confession of Faith (Chapter 28), Calvin’s Institutes (Chapters 15,16) or Word, Water and Spirit by J.V. Fesko.

First off, there are some basic assumptions.

Tota Scriptura (2 Tim 3:16)

To understand the biblical validity of infant baptism, one has to affirm that the Bible consists of the Old and New Testament, both having equal validity and authority for the church of Jesus Christ. The New Testament does not supersede in authority over the Old Testament but rather clarifies it, and where the New Testament clarifies, it’s intent is upheld. That my friend, is the essence of the latin phrase tota Scriptura. The Old Testament (OT) is not just the archaic history of the Jewish people, but the Word of the Living God for the church.

Israel was the Old Testament Church (conversely, the church is the true Israel of God ~ Gal 6:15-16)

Second, one needs to affirm that OT is the history of the church before Christ, and NT is the history of the church after Christ. Plain and simple. The division then is not Israel-church but rather Pre-and Post- Christ. Much like the division of any secular history. How do we know that? The word church in greek is the word ecclesia which means “called out ones” or “separated ones”. It is also commonly called the “assembly” in the OT, referring to the people of God (Ex 12:6,Deut 23, Ex 16:3, Ex 20:2). So, the church is not merely a NT word coined for NT usage.

Old Testament and New Testament are not disparate but continuous

Now, there are some crucial differences between the Old and New Testaments but it has to do with the degree of revelation and not the substance of revelation. I’ve made a map to illustrate this point.

Redemptive history and Progressive revelation

In both the Old Testament and New Testament, believers were saved by grace through faith in the Gospel of redemption through the Triune God (Gal 3:8, Rom 4:3-4,11-12). Moses considered the reproach of Christ of greater worth than all of Egypt’s wealth (Heb 11:26). Abraham saw Christ’s day and he rejoiced (John 8:56). These men knew Christ in much the same way that we know Christ, just that their light was dimmer.

I remember, several years ago, driving towards the great Rocky mountains. The view was breathtaking all the way through. We could clearly see the mountains, their breadth, their form, their majesty. But it wasn’t until we inched closer to the foot that we could truly see its magnificence, its details. It was awe-inspiring, I could touch it and feel so small in its aged ruggedness. But it was the same mountain that I saw from the distance. It had the same glory, the same majesty. I just experienced it differently later. The Bible is a bit like that. Saints in the Old Testament saw Christ from the distance and welcomed him with joy and saving faith. We now welcome him with that same joy and saving faith, but only looking backward. Our object of faith was and is and always will be Christ.

Now, some may object to this in this way: Paul distinguished the old and new starkly, so did Jesus in the parable about old and new wineskins. So aren’t the Old and New Testaments fundamentally different?

Paul was not distinguishing the Old and New Testaments. For crying out loud, in his time there were no two testaments! There was only Scripture and that was the Old Testament. The Spirit was illuminating the Old so that Paul and the prophets could really understand the same in the fuller light of Christ, as it really was. Paul was using the terms such as old and new covenants to distinguish those under the law versus those under grace. And by that he was not referring to those who lived in that era, rather to those who bound themselves to the Mosaic law for salvation (as most Jews did during Paul’s time). Abraham lived under grace (as Gal 3:8, Rom 4 indicates), and so did everyone who believed in the One to come. Jesus was using the parable of the wineskins to refer to the exact same thing – those who try to fit a square peg into a round hole. Those who thought salvation came by obeying the law (old covenant) instead of by faith in Christ (new covenant). So, the difference between the two was not the Old and New Testaments but the Old and New way (the new really wasn’t new and that was Paul’s main point in introducing Abraham, and the old is not meant to be erased as Jesus put it in Matt 5:17). Theologians have, through systematic study of the entire Scriptures, used some easier terminologies to explain this distinction – those under the Old way are under what is called the Covenant of Works and those under the New way are under the Covenant of Grace. This terminology is very helpful to assess the case of the “old vs new” throughout the Scriptures without dividing them across the eras (which is often the temptation).

So, this makes the case that there is more continuity between the Testaments than discontinuity.

Now, with these presuppositions , let me get onto the case for infant baptism.

Circumcision and Baptism were both signs or marks on those called out by God

In both the Testaments, redemption by God was marked by a sign upon the covenant people, and this sign was to signify the greater reality of the heart change that God wrought in His people. Under the old covenant, the sign that marked out the people of God was circumcision (Gen 17:10-13), and anyone who did not have this sign was circumcised (literally “cut-off”) from God and His people (Gen 17:14). Note that this sign was not a marker for ethnicity but for a covenant relationship, and Jews and non-Jews could enter into the covenant through this sign (we see an example of this in the incident concerning Dinah and the Hivites in Gen 34 as well as the Passover being permitted for strangers who circumcised themselves ~ Ex 12:44-48). Similarly, under the new covenant, the sign that marked out the people of God is baptism (Acts 2:41), and both Jews and Gentiles were welcomed into a covenant relationship with God through this sign (Acts 2:37-39).

Both circumcision and baptism signified regeneration (Deut 10:16, Deut 30:6, Jer 4:4, Mark 1:4, 1 Pet 3:21). Both were external signs on the body pointing to realities within the heart. The signs themselves did not imprint salvation on the individual but they were to mark out God’s visible church throughout every generation. Under the old covenant, children and infants were included in the covenant people through the sign of circumcision (Gen 17:25, 21:4). Under the new covenant this same pattern of continuity was assumed in the many household baptisms performed by Paul and Peter (Acts 16:15, 1 Cor 1:16, Act 16:31-34). Note that not everyone in the household is mentioned as those who “believed”, only the head of the household believed in most cases. The concept of familio solidarity was very strong in ancient near-eastern cultures and covenants drawn up with the male heads more often than not included their entire household (think about your ration card for a minute). If anything, the new covenant was a more inclusive covenant: the Spirt of God was poured out on all flesh, and a huge number of Gentiles came into the family of God, Women had the sign of the covenant too, which was not the case in the Old covenant. So, if all things remained constant, why then would children be excluded? This idea is completely foreign to near-eastern cultures. Moreover, God threatened to kill Moses when he did not have his firstborn circumcised (Ex 4:24-26). This child was “cut-off” from the covenant of God, and God was about to cut off the firstborn of Egypt, of those who were uncircumcised. God cared deeply about the infants of His people!

As you can see, there is hardly any difference between these two covenant signs. They are essentially the same, differing only in their place in redemptive history and in administration. I believe, that is the reason why the sign had to change: to mark the completion of redemption. Jesus had to be circumcised from God. The Holy Spirit had to baptise all flesh (i.e. the inclusion of Gentiles into the covenant). These two monumental events marked the change in covenant signs. But that is all there is to it.

Now, someone may object thus: isn’t baptism more convergent in redemptive history, and does it not mark out spiritual realities than circumcision did not? Was not Abraham’s family a type of Christ’s church, and therefore his circumcision merely a type of the reality of baptism?

To this I reply, let us suppose that baptism is indeed inclusive of the spiritual family of God whereas Abraham’s was merely the type. What then of those like Simon the magician and Nicolas (after whom is named the sect Nicolaitans who left the faith), who were all baptised into Christ? What then of Ananias and Sapphire who both were baptised and included in the church but were wicked in their hearts? If baptism was merely for the spiritually regenerate, why then the weeds in the church? If we cannot then discern the heart of the individual before we baptise, then why handcuff those who for the same reason baptise infants whose hearts no one knows but God? And why do we presume that God cannot regenerate the infants? Why, John was filled with the Spirit in his mother’s womb! When should his baptism have occurred? Until those around him waited for him to be “born-again”? There are umpteen examples of little children in my own church context who all come to Jesus, always believing and trusting Him and having been regenerated without the “crash-boom-bang” of a typical Gentile conversion (like the one I had!). What would happen if we all waited for them to be “spiritually regenerate” to be included? We will force alter calls and coerce charismatic, upper room retreats on these poor souls to prove to us that indeed they are regenerate. And by these very means, the weeds enter the church, who have all the external experiences but have had no heart change. And if Abraham and his family were only a type of Christ’s church, then by that token they are not part of the substance of Christ’s church, i.e., they are a shadow, and not part of the reality. This argument goes squarely against the biblical data provided by Paul in Galatians and Romans.

So, there you have it. A summary of by statement of faith on baptism. Once again, this article is not to debate the position held by my Baptist brothers and sisters, for I love them dearly. Since my position and beliefs have come under attack from known quarters, I have simply provided a reasoned, biblical position for my own belief. I also share this so that my son’s baptism may not be held in derision or doubt from loved ones but that they may know that what we do, we do so on the basis of Scripture alone and what accords with the doctrine of the historical church throughout the ages.

To end, here’s some lighter news to share. Abhi is now through to catechism question 40 in the children’s catechism. He is slowly growing in wisdom and stature, and is having a growing sense of sin, and desire for Jesus. He longs to go to heaven. He understands suffering. He knows Jesus will often be weighed on his balance of the world and he needs to keep trusting in Jesus for everything. More than his red cars and helicopters, Jesus is beautiful and desirable. I see a holy spark in his heart that needs to be fanned into flame so that the invisible work of the Holy Spirit may become more visible int he days an years to come.

Welcome home, dear Abhi.

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Psalm 23: When the Lord becomes your Shepherd

Psalm 23 has been a personal favourite for many, for centuries. Often it is the only Psalm still sung in some churches. The powerful Scottish-isle-like imagery takes our imaginations through surreal pastures sprinkled with snowy sheep bleating baahs and savouring refreshing waters by the streams. I confess that such a picture is too pristine and fantastical for my Indian sensibilities. Perhaps it has to be do with my daily encounter with pits and potholes as I drive through the ruggedy Bangalore roads. Perhaps it has to do with the abysmal lack of such patches in our crowded city. Hence reading Psalm 23 soaks up the mind with such earthly bliss that I barely meander the valley of shadow of death before I get to the part about us dwelling in ethereal bliss. I fondly remember hushing my son to sleep each night using this beloved Psalm when he first came home to us. It is a pleasant Psalm of rest, and so it should be.

Psalm 23, however, is not primarily interested in talking about our spiritual road trip. Its aim is underscored in the first verse, which sets the expectation for the rest of the Psalm in motion: The LORD is my Shepherd, I shall not be in want. When the LORD – the God of all created things and the Redeemer of God’s elect – this Christ becomes our Shepherd, it doesn’t matter where we meander. As His sheep, we have signed on the dotted line to follow Him, no matter where the road leads. It is the good LORD we have pledged to follow, not the good road. When young and new to the faith, we find ourselves reposing at the Palace Beautiful in Pilgrim’s Progress, lingering a day more, and casting our comforts on yonder Delectable Mountains. Indeed, there is nothing more comforting, nothing more satisfying than having that mountain-top experience with my Shepherd, we muse. He will lead me on green pastures, He will lead me beside clear waters, we imagine. Life with Jesus is pure bliss, we reckon. Yet the Shepherd makes no such promises. If anything, He promises suffering as the sure calling for the Christian (Phil 1:29, 1 Pet 2:21). The story goes that as Christian makes his journey towards these mountains, he is brutalized first by Apollyon that great Enemy, loses friends, is trapped in Vanity Fair, sees his friend burnt at the stake, slides through the easy by-path meadows and falls deep into the castle of Doubt and is beaten black and blue by Giant Despair. By now all hope of savoring the mountains or reaching Immanuel’s land is gone. Surprisingly then, mature Christian finds himself atop these very mountains, leaning wearily on his staff of faith, yet refreshed by the fountains, the orchards and the pastures of the great Shepherd.

It is the good LORD we have pledged to follow, not the good road.

Mature Christians know that what gives them the resolve on this pilgrim journey is not the pit-stops along the way nor the promise of ease or health; not the vanishing of problems or people, nor their prophetical predictability to see through the future and control it. We are not masters of our journey and the Psalmist doesn’t tell us what will come first: the pasture or the valley of death. Mature Christians follow their Shepherd wherever the staff leads them. They trust their Lord’s direction. They interpret circumstances in the light of their Shepherd and not their Shepherd in the light of their journey. Their hand is steadily on the plough, “Give what thy will”, they say. And such Christians will find themselves, more often that not, on the rugged valley of suffering.

Several years ago, I was running away from a threat to my life from a person I trusted. At 4 am in the wee hours of the morning, I found myself escaping on a dark road, with nothing but the low hum of the engine and the dim headlights lighting my way. I was all alone in a no-man’s land, my car being the only wisp of life on a long stretch of black nothingness. It was a strange irony of my own life, as I found myself wondering at that very moment, “Is this what is means to be a Christian? Is this why I followed you Lord? Are you really who you say you are?” I was ready to give up. Make a u-turn back to my old life. Escape. Then the Lord in no unclear terms whispered into my silence, “I am your Good Shepherd”. Had those words been uttered by anyone but my Lord, I would have fled the scene. I hung on those words as dear life, and they brought the comfort I needed. I couldn’t understand it then, “Why would a Good Shepherd lead me into dangerous nooks?”, yet I dared not to question my Lord. Years later, I understood. I don’t question my Christian journey, but learn from the encounters my Lord puts me through. What matters ultimately is not where I have been, but whom I have been with. I have put my hand into His. My Shepherd is good, even when the road is rough.

He will tend his flock like a shepherd;
he will gather the lambs in his arms;
he will carry them in his bosom,
and gently lead those that are with young.

~ Isaiah 40:11

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Seeing Him smile.

There are two kinds of children who earn the Father’s displeasure. The one obeys and performs that he may boast, looking down on his siblings who are imperfect. The other cries many tears of imperfection before Him but is obstinate and wilful in secret. These two have one thing in common: they think they have figured out the Father, and that somehow by their performance, they can earn the Father’s pleasure. Well, alas! Neither have it. Therein you have a picture of the Legalist and the Antinomian, for one performs his duty to his death being still under the curse of the Law, while the other performs a charade all his life having treated grace as a license to sin. The child, then my friend, who has earned the Father’s pleasure, is the one who obeys the Father because he knows no better way, and seeing himself a great fool bound to folly, trusts in the love of his Father, clings to the perfection of Christ and casts himself on the resurrection power of the Spirit, to do what He wills. #notetoself #pronetowanderLordIfeelit

“Unless you live in the Gospel, you cannot live out the Gospel.”

— Sarmishta Venkatesh

Disability is Normal

One of the biggest hoops that the disabled and their caregivers have to hop through in the Indian landscape is the obsession for perfection. Since the time of our adoption, I have met several who have indicated this subconscious obsession, unbeknownst to themselves, one way or another. A parent talks to me about their desire to adopt and finds in me a favourable ally, until they utter these unfortunate words, “But we want ours normal, ok?” Another parent was excited to see A on the wheelchair basketball team, and when enquiring details about the same, makes it a point to say, “But I want my son in a normal team, ok?” Or how about this one which hits home for many: children and strangers walk up to me, sympathetic-eyed but sincerely desiring to make friends with Abhi, and then ask him this face-palm of a question, “What is wrong with you beta?” Perhaps you have thought these same things, albeit quietly in the corner of your mind. Perhaps it never struck you as an odd comment or question, until now. But it is not normal. Our world is obsessed with perfection. It is part of our collective psyche.

Think about it. We want perfect, luscious, blemishless babies in our wombs so much so that the moment the doctor lets out that ‘something is not right’ with the baby, we weep and wail as though our world has come crashing down. We want perfect scores for our kids and centums in board exams that anything less is met with emotions ranging from rage to, “it’s ok” almost as if they lost a war. Our sons have to be the crown of our heads, never the sandals for our feet. We want a seat in the best colleges and workplaces that we go to atrocious lengths to be ‘in the club’. We want the perfect match in life, the perfect scene for the engagement, the perfect wedding moments, the perfect insta-shot. We kill ourselves to perfection.

Everything around us spins undistorted on our own axis, until someone comes spinning the opposite way and we ask, “What’s wrong with you?” all the while assuming that our world is running the right way. But it is not. What is wrong with us? Everything.

Normal is a misnomer for our off-spinning world.

Since Adam’s fall in the Garden, this world is a living aberration. Sin has marred perfection, and distorted our reality. We have come to believe the lie that the world is essentially good with elements of evil, not that we are utterly corrupt in toto and in need of redemption(Rom 3:9-18). We are an abnormal world with deeply broken people with whom we brush shoulders everyday, except they seem to mask it well. Your son’s classmate is probably suffering from bullying in his school and is suicidal at times. Your friend may have a secret porn addiction stemming from her perennial need for felt affection. Your own children may be lonely and exploring substances to heal their deep wounds. If this is likely true of our village, children who have been adopted or fostered have even deeper behavioral issues stemming from a traumatized childhood. Our neighbours are heard fighting often and we assume it’s all part of “normal family life”. Divorce has become normal. Unnatural and uncovenanted sexual acts have become normal. Smoking and drinking and porn issues have become normal. But the child on the wheelchair is not normal. How did we even get here?

Jesus walked this corroded earth, and he never once said, “Welcome to the normal”. It grieved his heart to see people without a shepherd (Matt 9:36), and moved with compassion he healed the sick, mended the lame and raised the dead (Matt 14:14, Lk7:14). He dined more with anomalies and aberrations in his society than he did at the privileged perfectionist club. He never once asked, “What’s wrong with you?” to the lame, the adulteress or the leprous but responded to their requests with utter grace. When the Pharisees brought an adulteress woman to Jesus to see if he would “get rid of her”, he challenged the righteous stone-pelters, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.”(Jn 8:7) In effect Jesus was saying, “She is not the problem here, you are.” Jesus leveled the playing field. He turned the world right-side up. He saved people from their sinful off-spinning. And if we are to see people the way Jesus saw them, we need to change our orientation and fit into Jesus’ normal world, not expect the have-nots to fit into our abnormal world. This is one reason why the inclusion language for disability is inherently flawed and worldly. We don’t include them, they exist in their God-given place in this God-ordained world which we share in. We dont let them live, we live with them. We don’t applaud them for being super-achievers for just living and doing life or performing in their areas of giftedness, we work shoulder-to-shoulder with them.

The table is one place wherein Jesus leveled the world. There he sat and broke bread with tax collectors and sinners, with the once-lame and leprous, the rich and the poor. When you invite the disabled into your home, your table and your church, you are leveling the playing field and learning to live in God’s world as equals. Only then are we ready to hang up the sign that reads, “Welcome to the normal”.