The Dance.

A couple weeks back my pastor began Sunday morning with a Psalm, as he does every Sunday. I sat quietly and listened to the words. As the reading concluded, I mentally checked out of our small fellowship, everything that would follow Psalm 113. The few words with which it ended were bursting with promises of God's character and presence, and yet I had not so much been moved to worship or thanksgiving, but to questions...

“He raises the poor from the dust...”
“Lifts the needy from the ashes...”
“Seats them with princes...”

A reading like this usually would have and has prompted a good deal of comfort and hope in this past year. The Old Testament on into the new is full of such language, of the God who defends the fatherless, the widow and orphan. For some time now, Jesus' inauguration speech in the Nazarene synagogue, reiterating Isaiah's Jubilee proclamation as his Kingdom agenda, has been music to my ears. But currently I find myself trying to figure out how that music fits with the rest this city's soundtrack. In the context of simply hearing or reading, I can and have celebrated such passages. But living here, amidst story after story of seemingly forsaken life, I'm left holding onto God's character more so than confidently speaking of it. The last few months have either led me to the feet of the crucified God or significantly far from him. Again and again I find myself leaning entirely on the promises, the restorative language, my hope in the Creator's love for the created. Much of this hope has come from reading beautiful words proclaimed and prophesied, spoken by the likes of Isaiah. There is not a more life giving meditation than words like those found at the end of Isaiah 55:

“As the rain and snow come down from heaven and do not return without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all of the trees will clap their hands. Instead of the thorn bush will grow the pine tree, and instead of the briers the myrtle will grow. This will be for the Lord's renown, for an everlasting sign, which will not be destroyed...”

This Word did become flesh, a moment in history when God was no doubt with us. I celebrate that and yet still find difficulty in conceiving God here and now. To the thin and frail man sleeping on the sidewalk, whose only companions are the flies gathering on his face and blanket, or to the young girl lifting her skirt to pay off a debt that she never chose for herself, what word can be confidently sown? These are the lives and stories which have humbled my thoughts and opinions this year, to consider life that has every reason to question the goodness and love of God. In such thought processes, Isaiah's words remind and sustain me, as well as force me to reflect on what I can't see or have yet to see, to try and live in prayer and hope at the places where this world is in pain. Without such meditation, I would have long ago lost sight of what might and can be.

My first year in this city has felt much like a balancing act. In one sense I am to believe that with or without his people, God can and will accomplish whatever he desires. I do. But there are places and circumstances in this world which scream responsibility, situations that force me to ask what Jesus really handed his disciples as he left to go to the Father. I recently heard someone go as far as to say, in his reflections on the promises found in scripture, that either God is a liar or we are not doing our part. Many would say it's much more complicated than that. At the least, I feel it is a statement worth pondering, more so now than ever before.

In my many difficult doses of reality this year, it has appeared to me that life sometimes seems our best attempts at “sharing and bearing the pain and puzzlement of the world so that the crucified love of God in Christ may be brought to bear healingly upon it,” as one theologian so eloquently put it. But most days I feel more like a spectator than someone sharing or bearing. One thing I am sure of though, as I reflect on Paul's letter to the Romans, is that there is a Spirit within me groaning for liberation, for change. And although that Spirit seems to blow here and there most days, it is very much alive. This is not to say I'm always chasing it around. But life here is something of a dance. And anyone who knows me well enough can vouch for me when I say that dancing is something I've never been good at.

Entitled.

Entitlement is in our blood. We feel entitled to choose, to speak, to know, to listen when need be. This city has continually reminded me that these most basic forms of freedom are hardly possessed by everyone. This very day I was entitled to my opinion in regards to a woman that I had met two months prior. She is a professional beggar. She asks and receives for a living. Unlike the last time we met, she no longer had an infant in her arms. She sadly explained to me that her child had passed away. In that moment, I felt entitled to choose if I should listen, to believe her words or not, to respond to them or to kindly bow out. I am able to go about life in such a way that this world displays the thoughts and opinions I've projected upon it, my actions hinging upon all my preconceived notions. I decided whether this woman's words were true or false. In this way, entitlement is power.

Recently, in conversation with an Indian friend, I spoke openly about Sari Bari's vision and hope, he did so about the red-light areas. Bluntly he said, “without the existence of such areas, the good women in our society would be put in danger.” He was not defending his own actions, a young man who has not and who will most likely never visit such an area, but expressing an opinion I've read and heard a good number of times now. This opinion he was entitled to shielded his eyes, as well as much of society's from considering the reality of how a woman has become “good” or “bad,” how a girl has come to find herself working in a brothel. His later explanations of karma spoke into the “bad” woman's conceived fate. I cringed inside as I listened, as I have many times sitting and listening from a church pew. There is power in expressing one's opinion. And in my own thought processes, as well as the words of others, I've come to consider that a sense of entitlement, believing it one's right to think or act a certain way, can become something of a disease, one that easily blinds us of everything outside our own point of view.

Today I passed a man on the sidewalk, his screen printed t-shirt read “one drop of ink can make a million people think.” The shirt reminded me of something I had recently read, another double standard to add to the list of others. In a law commission report written here in 1992, regarding prostitution laws, it was stated that:

“the professional prostitute, being a social outcast, may periodically be punished without disturbing the usual course of society... the man, however, is something more than a partner in an immoral act; he discharges important social and business relations, is a father or brother responsible for the maintenance of others, has commercial or industrial duties to meet. He cannot be imprisoned without damaging society.”

And so it appears a man is neither good nor bad. He is simply a man, who can only control so much of himself, entitled to think and act as he wishes. He is of course the backbone of society. And the young girl trafficked into brothel, her body is but an object for the entitled man to project his opinion upon. She is there by choice or however he imagines it, she is making a living and could not do so otherwise. His money provides for her, it entitles him to do with her what he pleases, it justifies and fulfills his cravings for lust and power. He is free to consider her circumstances however he wishes. To him and society, she is simply a protector of the “good” woman, knowing she will never be one herself.

Opportunity and Choice.

For a good number of months now I've been gifted life with the women of Sari Bari. I feel as though I can say that I've witnessed brave steps considered and taken, confidence awakened, women believing and realizing what society has kept from them. This small group of ladies have, time and time again, shown me the necessity of opportunity and choice. More and more it seems to me that true freedom cannot exist without the two. There is no greater beauty found here than in seeing a woman once undervalued walking somewhere along the road to rediscovering herself.

Accompanied by their fellowship have been thoughts of those yet to have a choice, or yet to choose. I've been reminded of the many ways males like myself have scarred and maimed the hearts, minds and identities of woman in this city. I have been reminded of society's double standards, all over the world, a mentality which can use and reject a person in the same sitting. But in this context I feel a bit more overwhelmed by it all, the most intimate of acts performed behind a curtain or door and the simplest of social interaction rejected outside of it, a woman or adolescent girl left to bear the weight of it all.

From reading an author's research on trafficking in this part of the world, I have again been led to visit the origins of what could lead families to sell their daughters and sisters into the trade, a husband sell his wife as one would a bike or some grain at the local market. I've been reminded of the social stigmas that suppress a woman's choice, her say in the matter, the poverty and desperation that feed into her exploitation. A woman sold into the trade, asking no questions of her right to choose, speaks immensely into her dependency on the one who sells her, on her lack of freedom. There is a proverb I have heard here which reads “don't water another man's garden." It embodies the perceived burden and potential commodity which a young girl's life may sadly possess.

The importance of freedom has always been spoken into my life, patriotically sung into my ear since I was a child. It is obviously present in my being able to up and move to this city, the choices I make everyday, and it is overwhelmingly absent in the lives of so many women and young girls in this part of the world. I write this post having been discouraged and shamed by what I have been reading lately. Frankly, it has been difficult revisiting and hearing for the first time the many ways women are reduced to possessions and objects of pent up male aggression. But in the same breath, I can say it has reminded me why I've come here, and the redemptive ways I hope to carry and communicate myself in this city.

A Lack of Words.

It would seem I really don't have a lot to write theses days. My sporadic posts bear witness to that. It's not so much a lack of thought processing or inspiration, this city provide plenty of both, but not always knowing how to interact with this place and myself internally. It's difficult to expound on the many ways this place can quickly take you from comfortably numb to utterly spent. Maybe it's just the way I am, easily torn in two, left conflicted by many decisions I make here, for myself and my neighbor. Feeling conflicted leaves me little clarity with which to write, mostly with many more questions to ask.

But what I am sure of is that I am blessed in my fellowship here. The ladies of SB continue to allow me into their lives. It's beautiful actually. Beginning to hear some of their stories, to know of their pasts, these are difficult things to hear, but at the same time I am left hopeful. Their resilience often comes to mind in the moments I sit with them and really consider from where they've come. We recently went on an outing, I met many of their families for the first time. It was a day in which their smiles reminded me how privileged I am to know them.

Gitanjali.

Here is thy footstool and there rest thy feet where live the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.

When I try to bow to thee, my obeisance cannot reach down to the depth where thy feet rest among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.

Pride can never approach to where thou walkest in the clothes of the humble among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.

My heart can never find its way to where thou keepest company with the companionless among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost.

~Rabindanath Tagore (1861-1941)

Walls.

Last week I came upon a large billboard advertising vacant flats in a new housing complex called Eden Gardens. Anywhere else, I wouldn't have given the compound's name a second glance, but this city has a way of conjuring up thoughts of the many faces it shows you from day to day. One's eyes can hardly escape the disparity here. Privilege meets you as you lay down to rest on a soft mattress, take out what you consider trash or grab a snack from the small shop across the street. Today I had gone to buy a bit of chocolate and as I approached the shop, noticed an impoverished little girl buying a few essentials for her family. My plans changed. Her presence caused me to quickly turned around and head to the flat chocolateless.

Eden Gardens is just one of many affluent pockets in this city. The south side literally has a small town within it, surrounded by a twenty foot wall keeping the rest of the world out. If the chasms between the rich and poor weren't so immense here, I might simply consider that the walls had been erected for security's sake. But understanding the ways in which I struggle perceiving the differences between myself and the small girl I met today, how I sometimes want to close my eyes to the affluence I'm still married to in this city, I can't help but wonder if the walls weren't built with other underlying intentions. I can't help but compare them to the walls I've put up since returning here.

The irony is that "we were meant for the garden," as I heard a friend recently say. Sometimes it seems we're a bit confused as to what that garden should look like. This walled in housing complex exemplifies that confusion, but it might be a place from which to begin considering how we've gone wrong. This city is one of extremes. Most days I am unwilling to enter the confines of Eden Garden's compound, which is in some ways similar to the moments I hate myself for hesitating to hold the unwashed hands of God's beloved on the streets of this city. There are many walls here, seen and unseen, right now I'm just trying to work through the ones I've constructed myself.

Fasting?

This month I was gifted the opportunity of spending more time with our Indian staff. I've been blessed by their fellowship, their correcting of my Bangla. There have been some really great moments. Just after the new year, Upendra and I found ourselves, for no apparent reason, simultaneously growing beards (Or so we thought there was no reason at the time). It's possible to do so here in the winter season, I would never attempt it in the summer.

As the facial hair blossomed, we one day discovered that our beards were not grown in vain. While meeting with a landlord, in a slow moving contractual agreement for new property, Upendra was hit with a stroke of genius. The man took notice of our matching facial hair, not so much the color, but that my usual five o'clock shadow and Upendra's mustache had morphed into something much bigger. It was in that moment that Upendra informed the man that we were not shaving until the contract was finalized and signed. I'm not sure if I would call it raising the stakes, but the man did seem a bit taken back to find that we were fasting from our razors until the ink hit the paper. Time will tell if our whiskers dictate the progress. So far, nothing.

Hopeful.

I continue learning what life might look like for me here, freedom for the Sari Bari ladies, transformation for the red-light areas. Days spent at Sari Bari leave me hopeful, and conversations of women and young girls struggling to find release from their brothels, the opposite. But I recently talked with someone who lived in this city a few years prior to my arrival. He spoke of the changes he had seen on the main lane, the lack of young girls that once worked many of the lines. It reminded me that I can only perceive so much myself, the significance of allowing another to speak into the ways I think and feel.

There was encouragement, as well as difficulty in the conversation. It shed light on my own limitations, the progress that gets lost in despair, how badly I hope for change and forget the commitment it requires. The fellowship reiterated how long freedom had been a dream before a reality. Hearing a former staff member speak of the countless hours spent wandering lanes, day after day, had me asking a lot of questions about my own hope in this city without the ladies of Sari Bari. I sometimes forget the significance of their laughter in my life. I thank God for the moment's I'm left hopeful, this was one of them.

Aradhna.

If I'm going to be completely honest, the music here hasn't grown on me yet. I have some serious doubts as to whether it will, especially as I see the trend of traditional Indian instruments being blended with techno/hip hop beats. But here are some musicians who have reminded me to never say never. They call themselves Aradhna. And if you're curious, the music I've been writing has yet to move in the direction of anything like this...



www.aradhnamusic.com

Mirror.

A couple posts back I wrote a good deal about humanity, about self-perception, the difficulties in seeing the truth of our being, and how that might directly effect the way we look at ourselves and our world. I haven't been able to walk away from those thoughts. It hasn't been so much by choice, but I've taken notice of a common thread woven through most of my recent quandaries on this side of the globe. Last year so much of being here was struggling with the realities this city had laid before me, an inevitable encounter with the crucified God in the face of injustices and suffering as I'd never seen before. But present circumstances have seemed to adjust my vision a bit. I am still seeing and struggling with what and who I encounter here on so many levels, but the city has become much more like a broken mirror than the puzzle I'm desperately trying to piece together.

By this I mean my seeing, for the first time, so much of my true self here. Fear, anger, confusion, presuppositions, emotions and thoughts that would only so often rear their head before my coming here this second time, have created opportunity after opportunity for me to see my reflection in this city. And what I've gazed upon only continues to remind me how far I am from fully embracing humanity, on the whole of course, but mostly that which I see in myself, that which I believe I'm called to try and see with new eyes.

Last week a man successfully swiped my cell from from my pocket on the metro. Unfortunately for him, I noticed his being uncomfortably close to me and checked for it soon after. I asked him for it back. Others around me began to take notice of what had happened and found the phone in a man's pocket who was standing next to him. Yelling turned to grabbing, grabbing to pushing, pushing to punching, and I soon found myself helplessly trying to stop the crowd around me from throwing anonymous fists at the two men on the floor of the metro.

Witnessing the angst that I saw in the crowd, to push and swing at the two individuals as they did, the pent up aggression and frustration let loose on the men who had stole from me and not them, brought to mind the many moments when I've discovered, in myself, feelings and thoughts I'm thankful never came to full fruition in action or words. But they are thoughts nonetheless, that I can't reconcile to Jesus' sermon on the mount. His words ring loudly here in this city, cutting through the exterior to one's thoughts and heart. And so I continue seeing that I've been gifted a good look at my true self in the context of life here, and trying hard not to look away.

The Bigger Picture.

This past weekend brought me to revisit many of the issues that accompanied me in the four months I spent here last year. As busy as things have been lately, most days being present at, traveling to and from, as well as pondering Sari Bari's present and future issues, responsibilities have kept me a bit preoccupied from much of this city's remaining motion and expression. I would by no means call it a distraction, but a slight case of tunnel vision. Nonetheless, it was significantly addressed, came to a great climax Friday evening on the bus ride home.

The day began with my passing a sick man on the sidewalk, on the way to work, communicating to myself that I would return to check on him; I didn't. After Sari Bari closed, we attended a Christmas program. I waited outside with tickets for our staff who were running late. On each side of the Church gates sat two old women with their small tin bowls. As the crowds filed past the two impoverished women, under the unnecessarily large marble cross, through the security check, and into the front doors, I watched their eyes, hoping for at least something from the well dressed church-goers.

I'm not sure I can do many more extravagant Christmas programs in Kolkata. At least not a repeat of this particular one. Before the songs were sung of a King born in a manger, the MC was sure to request applause, numerous times, for the corporate elites who were in attendance that evening. I couldn't help but think of the Rabbi who asked his disciples to not desire places of honor but of service, who's fellowship was with those like the two women who sat on the sidewalk outside the brightly lit church and not in its reserved pews. The songs were well rehearsed, well performed, but I had trouble reconciling it all with what I had seen and would soon meet outside the pomp and circumstance.

After the program had finished, we walked to catch a bus at the main road. If you've been to Kolkata, you understand the dynamics of Park Street. Unlike Sari Bari, where most days one can have some clarity in what he or she is doing, peace and hope in sitting with the ladies, freedom evident in their fellowship, the road gifted its normal confusion and helplessness. A young girl asked if I might give her some change. A bit of food was the alternative gesture. The girl turned into 8 children and by the time an attempt was made at giving all of them some, it was torn from my hands as they scrapped with one another for it. All I could do was walk away, a bit numbed by what had taken place.

My mind isn't sure how to interact with so many of the realities in this city. Forgetting sometimes seems a blessing, I do it often, but it can honestly be my greatest vice. The sick man I neglected to check on the sidewalk did need help. Luckily I was reminded of that by someone, he now has a bed in one of Mother Theresa's homes. The women I wrote about last month, whose head wounds seemed unrepairable, has only one spot that has yet to entirely heal. The man who bandaged her head called it a miracle. Yet to escape the smell of death that accompanied her last month, I can now celebrate the hope that is tangible. But it's her life, her situation and those of so many others, that continue asking me to reconsider compassion, how I am to interact with and love the least of this city, knowing that in no way will I understand most of the lives and situations I come upon.

As Yourself.

In light of the space between this post and the last, one would think that I should have something significant to report, that my mind is perhaps overflowing with all sorts of experiences to share. But the reality is that time has passed quicker than I've realized, the most recent weeks more so than the previous ones. Being a small part of what is happening at Sari Bari, continuing to learn and partake in all the practicalities that go into dreaming and hoping for continued freedom and new life, have quickly brought the end of this month, and soon the year to a close.

Generally, my mind hasn't so much been in the smaller details, although many are still yet to be ironed out, but rather preoccupied with bigger pictures and broader brush strokes. Now residing outside of the patterns and assumptions that were well defined and comfortable in the States, both intentionally and unintentionally, I have been asking a lot of questions of myself and my surroundings. Fellowship with those much different than me has provided many introspective moments, opportunities to reflect, to assist my eyes in seeing things new.

Recently, I was thumbing through a book I had read a few months back. I came across a sketch that a friend of mine here in the city had drawn of me. As I scanned the portrait, remembering him grabbing the napkin in the restaurant and not taking his pen's point from it until he had finished, I was able to embrace something of myself for the first time in a long while. Most days I would have only reminisced for a moment and carried on with whatever else I was doing, but this particular day I had been reading Poverty of Spirit, by Johannes B. Metz. In his book, Metz had expounded on the Greatest Commandment, suggesting that our self-love, which appears to be the standard by which we ought love others, speaks immensely into how we might understand and view ourselves. He suggested that this "self-love" might be seen as "accepting the humanity entrusted to us," bearing the Image by which we have been created.

I'd never really considered the first half of the commandment, to love as I would my own self. Honestly, it seemed a bit strange to do so at first. But I then began reflecting on how difficult it is most days for us not to hate ourselves, who we were, are, or are becoming, our flesh which has been tagged decaying and our scars which seem to most emphatically define us. My friend's sketch was beautiful, and yet it reminded me of how prone I am, humanity is, to not embrace our realities, our humanity, in hopes for something other-than, removed, metaphysical.

There is something, some might even venture to say everything about Resurrection which speaks restoratively. I'm often guilty of struggling to hang onto the idea that God created the world and it was good, that there is still some good left, especially when it means looking for remnants of that creation in my own self. But my friend's napkin sketch, it's conglomeration of crooked lines, scribbles, and blots reminded me that this is the way I am woven together. Although flesh is not always beautiful, and often times ugly, it is something God himself tried on. As a friend of mine recently wrote, "when God became human, the goodness in humanity was restored in Christ, and with the possibility of restoration came the hope for redemption." And so this city continues asking me a lot of questions, something I'm thankful for, even when I've no idea how to answer.

A Few Thoughts.

Two weeks have gone by rather quickly, without my posting anything new, as I continue settling into life here. Being at Sari Bari on a regular basis has been a blessing. As I've taken on some administrative responsibilities, I've been able to better see and appreciate all that goes into providing freedom and hope for the futures of the women of Sari Bari. The ladies are beautiful as always. Sitting and listening to them talk and joke with one another, sow with one another, has been good for my language as well as my heart. Although some moments I can hardly make sense of the words being spoken, their joy never ceases to bring a smile to my face.

Spending more time at Sari Bari has also reminded me of the many difficulties the ladies still face, current circumstances and past struggles that suddenly resurface. Those moments of realization help me better understand that praying "Thy will be done" in their lives must still be spoken with great hope and expectation, but that healing is often a process. It isn't something likely to happen in an extravagant moment of grace, but many moments, one following the other. Their stories are all different, as well as their pain, and so their steps will be also.

If you're unaware, as I've failed to mention the news in these past couple of weeks, the Sari Bari Website is officially alive these days. The purchasing process has changed a bit, as you can now officially buy the blankets and bags right off of the website via google checkout. I'm not sure how much product is currently available, but am sure there will be more arriving before the Christmas season. Know that your eyes and ears are appreciated as I continue to live with and learn from the people of this city.

Beloved.

I write this post having recently been convicted of the way I perceive my surroundings. The inclination really began in Dhaka. As I found myself constantly having new experiences and interactions, I thought it necessary to share them. And so naturally, I did. There was something therapeutic in doing so. And slowly, I found myself not so much looking for the humanity in these mega cities, the image of God in those around me, but a story; something to write home about. There was an unspoken obligation I felt, a need to convey my thoughts, in light of my decision to come and live on the other side of the world. When I found myself interacting with the poor and marginalized of the city, my mind would quickly travel from their difficult circumstances to how I might put what I was seeing or hearing to words. The blind man who sang on the side of the road, thumbing his outstretched and empty palm, was a metaphor brewing in my head. Slowly and unintentionally, I had become something of a journalist rather than being present in the pain of those I met.

Only recently, a few days after putting some of these thoughts to song, I was going about a normal day at Sari Bari. I had gone to xerox some documents and as I rounded a corner, I found myself in the presence of a women I initially presumed dead. I stopped just after passing her, her skeleton of a figure only briefly adjusted as she lay on the sidewalk. I decided to quickly make the copies and again return. The quick errand soon became an hour and upon my arrival, I found her in the same place. She was sitting up. I thought this to be a sign of progress. But as I approached her, the flies rose from her matted hair. She was despondent as I knelt down to ask her if I could take her to a Mother Theresa home, and it was then that I noticed her head.

I really don't know what to say from here. I feel reluctant to describe it. But through the woman's matted hair, I saw her skull. The first large wound led me to notice another on the other side of her head, then two more in the back. I froze. I wondered how she was alive. Dumbfounded, for a few minutes, I aimlessly wandered down the busy road she lay beside. I found a rickshawalla willing to carry her to the Home for the Dying. It was about a half mile. As I walked beside her, the dead flesh on top of her head was all my senses could take. There were moments when the smell took my breath away. At this point, despondent myself, all I could think of and mutter was profane. As one of the volunteers at the home shaved what he could of her head, I poured water on the wounds and watched the maggots leave the flesh they had burrowed into. I almost cried, then and numerous times throughout the couple of hours I spent with her. I'm wondering now how I hadn't.

I write, as I said before, reluctantly. I wasn't sure how to communicate my meeting with this woman on the sidewalk; the absurdity of her condition. I felt compelled to write something, anything on her behalf. Her wounds, her condition, her depravity have haunted me these past few days. One would think, would hope that humanity should never reach such a forsaken state. But she had. How could it have happened? Who was it that left her on the sidewalk? Kolkata has its extremes. I've written of them before, but nothing like this, nothing like her destitution. Perhaps that's why I decided to sit down and write this post. Maybe I'm sharing this because for the first time in a long while, in the presence of this woman, I found myself thinking little of how I could put her circumstance to music or word, but simply trying to mutter anything coherent, trying not to lose it as I walked beside the rickshaw. Whatever the reason, I did. And so please pray for this woman, that she would find rest and healing. I don't know her name, but she is God's beloved. There are many like her in this city; broken, waiting, searching, hoping. I'm one of them.

Good Fellowship.

The Puja festival I spoke of in my last post granted me a week of rest here in the city. As Sari Bari closed its doors for the holiday, I found myself with time; to recall some of my life from the four months spent here last year, to see the faces of individuals who spoke into it during that time. I returned to work at Prem Don for a few days, the same sisters who were there last year once again graced me with their presence, their steadfastness in caring for the least in this city. Many of the patients who provided sanctuary for me last year did just the same upon my return. The man who broke into silent laughter every time I gave him my eyes, the soft smile of a man with large tumors on his neck which couldn't seem to diminish his joy, the muted man who told me his wordless story with length and expression that seemed long overdue, I hadn't smiled that much in quite a while.

Yesterday, I had the privilege of listening to a lecture given by Jean Vanier at a local university. A man now in his eighties, Vanier started a organization called L'Arche, which has established communities all over the world that firmly believe "people with an intellectual disability can be real teachers who are able to lead us back to the essential." They provide environments where the mentally disabled can develop their talents, build relationships, where they can fulfill the potential in each of their lives. I mention Vanier's organization and lecture because his words resonnated with my week's experiences. Much of what he had to say was of the life of Gandhi, the ways Gandhi has challenged his own faith. How over and over again, as it seemed with Gandhi, God has made Himself known in the faces and persons of the poor.

On one occasion, as he was greeted by a group of Lepers at a train station, Gandhi said that "God had sought him out" then and there. This week, as I sat in Mother Theresa's Kalighat home, many of the patient's lives nearly expired, I could have said something very similar. The somber atmosphere carried with it a hint of God's presence, not so much in the sisters or the volunteers, but in the fragile lives of the men themselves. The small building, quiet and intimate as it was, helped me to briefly meet with the crucified God, while in the fellowship of the patients. To come to grips with the realities and sufferings of this world, to learn from the men something new as well as be reminded of old. As I heard a sister say to one of the volunteers this week, in speaking of his working at the Kalighat home, "you need to spend time there, not for the men's sake, but for yours."

A Few Words and a Photo.

I've been in this city for a couple of weeks now, constantly being reminded of the ways it laid its foundation in my heart last year. Her beautiful and ugly tendencies always on display for whomever wishes to take notice of them, occurrences that leave you wondering about what might or should have taken place. Like the boy who approached our taxi with no hands, one arm cut off at the shoulder and the other at the wrist. I had no small change as Beth fumbled through her purse. The light turned green and he ran alongside her window. She carefully placed the coin on his forearm. I turned to watch him balance the change on his limb as if it were a precious stone, his eyes fixed on it as he navigated the oncoming traffic. Soon the two free hours I had came to mind, the meal I might and could have shared with him. Hindsight continues to challenge me to pray for a spontaneity that has no holds, an ability to react without first considering myself...


Today begins the Durga Puja festival here. One might equate it to the Christmas season in the states. It's a week long religious celebration of lights, food, music, and immaculate structures built of bamboo and cloth called handels. These temple-like structures appear as though they are made of stone or marble, their detail deceives the eye of a distant beholder, having taken only a month's time to be put up. The spirit of competition throughout the city, as to which neighborhood can create the most ornate structure, translates to hundreds of thousands of dollars spent, not to mention gifts that are bought for family and friends during this season. This puts financial pressure on individuals, families, on the ladies that work at Sari Bari. Please pray for them, for continued freedom and restoration, that this week would be one of rest for them and not one in which they find themselves wanting or needing.

Settling In.

I've arrived safely back to India. The border crossing, as I again went by bus, made the trip a little more interesting than I'd hoped. Having handed my luggage I.D. tags and bus ticket to a man at a checkpoint in Bangladesh, to receive and carry my luggage through customs, I left the ticket in his hand and proceeded across the border. Just as I finished my journey through customs and into Indian territory, I remembered I had no ticket for the rest of the journey. Luckily, I recalled my bus and seat number in Bangladesh. That along with them finding "Kule Scott" on a sheet one of the staff came up with out of thin air, confirmed I was a passenger. The experience made the trip a little sweatier than it might have been, but things were ironed out quick enough to not postpone the journey.

Before leaving Dhaka, I had a very candid conversation with a Bengali there. Feeling comfortable enough to freely express himself, he told me he wanted to come to my country to be a missionary, then proceeding to say he would live in a castle and find himself "an internship or something." He was laying the sarcasm on thick at that point in the conversation. He really had no intention of coming, but the conversation sprung from talk of an international school which he was qualified to work at, he might like to work at, but would never be granted the opportunity. The fact that he has seen many foreigners, less qualified than himself simply arrive and begin work at the school obviously bothered him on so many levels.

His words, as well as the vision of our field here, have set my mind and conscience into motion regarding my own arrival. I'm not planning to live in a castle, but I did arrive still having many questions of my place here, details yet to be ironed out. My intentions are long term, but so might be many others' who have lived in and loved this city their entire lives. I feel blessed having time to begin assimilating into life here, learning the ins and outs of Sari Bari, mapping out what a week will look like for me, but in light of my Bengali friend's words, I'm convicted to continue thinking and re-thinking how my actions and livelihood effect those I work alongside. It's reminded me of the freedoms I have and so often never think of.

The conversation wasn't discouraging by any means, although as mentioned before, certainly convicting. It has gotten me thinking more about my adjusting to this city, amidst its people who most likely see things from an entirely different perspective than myself. Two days ago I had a really encouraging meeting with our field director, about her vision for Sari Bari's future. As I listened, I felt encouraged and energized to even be mentioned in that conversation. I'm glad to be here. And so I begin settling in, having recently been reminded that my doing so will not go unnoticed.

Theological Reflections.

A few days ago, I overheard a man explaining the significance of Jesus' death on the cross. He spoke of the passover lamb in the Old Testament, the parallels existing between the two, that there would be no more blood stained doors in order for God and man to be reconciled to each other. I've always appreciated the way such an explanation connects the Old and New Testament. It's very obvious the two are married to one another, the latter without the first can easily misconstrue the greater narrative found in scripture. As I've heard numerous times, Jesus himself was Jewish. His desire was not to found a new religion, but to fulfill and embody the promises of Yahweh. To establish the Messianic Kingdom that Israel was awaiting. But it didn't look like what many had already imagined it would.

The more I engage scripture, the Gospels, the words and actions of Jesus, the more I feel there is still room for further explanation. Forgive me for the irreverent analogy, but if we're not careful, Golgotha becomes the part of the movie we fast forward to, missing foundational parts of the plot, a story which builds to a great climax in the cross. It is very early on in his ministry that Jesus begins to embrace his redemptive vocation. The lame were healed and told they were forgiven, the paralytic on the mat, gifted more than he'd hoped. And naturally many said, "Blasphemy, who can forgive sins but God alone?"

And it is the temple, the greatest symbol of God's forgiveness and incarnational presence, that Jesus emphatically upstages. As He moved amidst the first century Jewish context, his words and actions communicated that the temple of God was being restored, as Israel had expected their messiah might do, but there were no stones required. God's forgiveness now had two feet, that welcomed the outcast, the unclean, into the temple courts, while ironically cleansing them of the traders and moneychangers. All that he did symbolized Yahweh's promised return to his people. Old Testament prophecy was coming to full fruition in the life of Jesus.

His actions and words claimed precedence over temple law and rituals. He had not entirely abandoned them, but was reforming and making known to Israel that in his presence, God's forgiveness had burst open to flood creation, as Isaiah's words had forewarned. "It is too small a thing that You should be My Servant, to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the preserved ones of Israel; I will also make You a light to the nations..." What Israel, God's servant, could not do, Jesus had taken upon himself. And so the Old and New Testament come crashing into one another. Before His body was broken, his life had cryptically said so much. From here, the atonement conversation might take firmer roots and grow itself in the first-century context that Jesus lived.

Thankful.

Yesterday, I returned from my second village visit with the Grameen Bank. After a three hour bus ride, which should have taken four, I arrived unscathed. I heard the man next to me say many prayers to Allah as our bus swerved into and out of oncoming traffic. I might have said a prayer or two myself. Nonetheless, with each hour spent at the two branches visited, I’ve come to understand the Grameen system; its philosophy and pragmatics. Broken English and my little bit of Bangla have provided enough to manage relatively clear communication. No doubt, the experience has been a blessing as I look to return to Kolkata in two weeks time. As I’ve continued contemplating my future in India, with the ladies of Sari Bari and those yet to taste the possibility of freedom, I’ve come away from this internship with much to chew on when considering empowerment, dignity, and the restoration of one’s self-perception.

But also, I’ve simply been blessed and enlightened by the experiences outside of the city. In terms of better understanding the culture and seeing a life lived so differently than my own, I could have no better opportunity than in the villages. Whether it be sitting at the local tea stall for some evening conversation and laughter or visiting the home of a proud Grameen Bank borrower, simplicity and contentment have constantly been on my mind. In terms of faith, the Muslim livelihood has challenged me in its praxis and devotion. This month is Ramadan. Every day, a fast from very early in the morning to the evening is observed by many of the men I have worked with and now know. I have shared in a few of the meals that break their fast; the fellowship has provided many good conversations, from religion to lifestyle. And as I have seen first hand the empowerment of women through the Grameen Bank's loans, the burkas they wear, which leave everything but the woman’s eyes covered, have brought me to a new appreciation for concealed beauty and mystique.

When the lights go out in the village, which is basically half of the time, life is always more interesting. It leads to things like my evening visit to the small train station just outside the village. Inside, a man sat and switched the tracks for the one train line that runs through the area. The man and his forty year old German switchboard were all that stood between two trains colliding with one another. His fellowship was one of the gems in my most recent visit. You also learn a lot about yourself, the ways you respond to challenges that come your way. Some things more difficult than others. Like peeling back your big toenail, after accidentally kicking a dresser, while navigating through your room in the dark. The willingness of the village doctor to come late in the evening, to remove what was left of the toenail, embodied the hospitality that I've been extended by so many of the people here. His "surgery" was no doubt memorable, but not one or my favorites.

Thoughts From the Village Pt. 2

"I've seen a good share of farm machinery, the inner workings of a combine, seen and read about many of today's latest gadgets, but I write these words having just been mesmorized by a man and his sari hand loom. After a few moments of watching him work, an art form of motion, coordination, as well as stamina, an impression was quickly made. The man's body moved with precision as both his hands and feet pushed and pulled on the pedals and levers, bringing the hundreds of threads together in a sea of clicks and clacks, fluidity like that of an orchestra's music, one's sight being the most rewarded of the senses. Reds, Blues, Yellows, colluded with one another to make the beautiful colors and patterns of the sari. As two separate streams of thread were flowing from the back of the machine, each foot brought its stream vertical then back. One of the man's hands sent a shuttle, a single string attached to it, flying across the loom through the alternating threads. Timing was everything as his body moved in unison so that the shuttle might squeeze between the streams, a very small window of opportunity. His other hand pulled a lever which tightened the pattern together after each single string was added. Slowly I watched a bit of the pattern form, dictated by a design mechanism, a series of wooden pegs which rotated on something like a wooden chain hanging from the ceiling. Like clockwork, it changed the thread colors and location of the floral pattern that began to appear on the canvas. Even after ten minutes of watching, I had yet to make sense of it all..."

Development is Freedom.

Each day I further spend in Dhaka, the more I am a believer that the children who ask me for money and food here in this urban context are among the most neglected in the world. Last night, as I sat down in the restaurant to have a sandwich, I watched a security guard push and chase off the group of kids, like a pack of stray dogs, that had followed me up the steps. He wouldn't let them have a peek inside the window through which I sat and had my dinner. Ironically, while I ate, I was reading the book Development as Freedom, by Amartya Sen. Only just beginning to crack the spine, I had soon understood the core message of the book. It is freedom that ultimately releases the chains of poverty, whether it be economic, social, psychological, political, etc.

These children, as they adopt this lifestyle of asking (of course some individuals have no other choice, hence the lack of freedom), are becoming entrenched in a lifestyle of dependency. I realized this last night as one of the children proceeded to then cross the busy road and perch herself on a wall in order to watch for my departure from the restaurant doors. Unlike so many other children who eventually will graduate into a life of independence, the futures of these children (if their parents' are of any significance to this conversation), will most likely reflect their present livelihood.

It is my own tendencies, my responses and inclinations to their presence in my life, that further indicate the ways in which neglect reigns supreme in their existence. Having little genuine relationship and interaction with those outside of whom they roam the streets with each day, most of the child's remaining interactions are those of rejection, avoidance, individuals intentionally ignoring their voice and presence that frantically follows after a pace that has quickened and head turned since the child began his or her pursuit. And as a child develops self-perception, as many of these children are doing now, these interactions have roles in that development. And if development is freedom, there is little positive happening here.

What these children choose, or are asked to do each day leads them down the road of un-freedom, a life which has little control of its direction, another's pocket book having the upper hand. But for the man or woman with the pocket book, there is another side to the conversation. How can freedom come in the life of such a child? If freedom is not today's, how should one respond to their beckoning? And of course, how does one's response effect tomorrows efforts for change? What are love's conditions, or is it to be unconditional? The lives of these children are conundrums in a sense, leaving us more confused when our developmental principles meet our hearts, more recently for myself, when hesitancy to create dependency meets the feasting proclamations of Jesus, "When you give a luncheon or dinner, do not invite your friends, your brothers or relatives, or your rich neighbors; if you do, they may invite you back and so you will be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind..."

A few bananas and bread are by no means a feast. But I sometimes wonder if fellowship and conversation, in the context of giving, might counter the developmental claims of digression. Freedom is a complicated ideal to fully grasp in knowing these children. My seeing their lives has reminded me that there is more than a physical poverty to be addressed. Most days, it seems, this city wants little to do with them. They are in many ways marginalized and forgotten. I would describe these children as, like a friend of mine has written, "a prophetic presence" in the time I've spent here. Their circumstances have spoken into my life, the broken world we inhabit, as well as re-emphasized the God who wishes to restore his creation. Their lives seem unwanted and mostly bothersome. Mother Theresa called this a spiritual poverty. She writes, "Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat." If her words are correct, I should continue to redefine and reconstruct the ways I know the poor. Bread alone is one thing to offer, but time is quite another. Her words, no doubt, extend beyond the reaches of poverty, into every relationship we have.

I didn't think this would turn into an essay. Thanks for finishing this one out. Know that your ears are appreciated.

Thoughts From the Village Pt. 1

Today, I returned to Dhaka from a few days spent in the rural areas of Bangladesh shadowing an organization that provides financial support for the poor. I will be learning from them in this last month as I continue with my language studies. I thought I'd share a little of what I wrote during my stay.

"Lokhi, a woman in the latter part of her fifties, sat before me in her weathered sari. Without being prompted, she began telling me her story. After the liberation war, she was given to be married. The marriage lasted only four years, in that time she gave birth to two daughters. Her husband left her unexpectedly, her two young children to care for. Circumstances worsened as the only job she could find provided her family one Taka per month. Translated, they had nothing to eat. The struggle eventually took the lives of her two children and Lokhi found herself begging, literally, for her own survival. This was her story, a story that needed no exclamation points, her eyes said it all.

For twenty years she lived at the expense of another's charity, until four years ago when a man asked her to stop asking others for money and take a loan from his bank. Could she really be credit worthy? She was. And yesterday, four loans later, she proudly sat me in front of her tin home in a small village, showing me the sowing needles and dyes that she sold door to door in order to build it. She boasted of the most recent 15 days that she had eaten three meals without having to ask anyone for anything. Her eyes welled up as she spoke of her past losses, but soon dried as she shared her desire to become an official Grameen Bank borrower. She is a struggling member now (her loans interest free), a program initiated to help those who beg in the rural areas sustain themselves without an outstretched arm. If she can pay back this final loan as a struggling member, she will achieve borrower status. First, she told me, with the larger loan she would buy a cow and begin selling milk to the local market.."

One More Month.

I write this brief post having realized the date today, that I haven't written anything for quite some time. The last few weeks have come and gone rather quickly. This past week was spent with my co-worker Upendra and his family, as they came to visit me here in Dhaka for their vacation time. Their company was much needed and the food Upendra's wife Rhada prepared was incredible. It was a needed break from my own kitchen concauctions which mainly consist of eggs and potatoes.

Two Bangla courses have passed as I enter into my last, before returning to Kolkata. This final month of language will be accompanied by an internship I've recently finalized with the Grameen Bank. Their vision is to help the rural poor (predominately women) of Bangladesh climb out of the depths of poverty by financially empowering them. They believe that the poor possess the knowledge and ability to make a living, but often lack the financial opportunities (loans) to do so. My hope is that the experience will provide opportunity for me to improve my Bangla, as well as provide knowledge for my future spent in Kolkata with the ministry of Sari Bari.

I continue to meet and interact with so many walks of life here in Bangladesh, the poor who reside in this city as well as others so different than myself. God continues to challenge and reform the simple-mindedness with which I so often engage life. I'm reminded daily to return to the Gospels in order to find the Jesus devoted to crossing cultural divides and breaking down walls so that his movement might take it's course, the greatest commandment thrive. Here in Dhaka, my revealing that I'm a Christian continues to create the most consistent lulls in conversation. It happened with my two new friends I made last week. As did it with the man on the bus who asked me, because he wore his Muslim prayer cap and his beard, if I thought he was a terrorist. Or the boy, on one of my trips to the older part of this city, who kept pointing to a Muslim man near the mosque saying, "Osama Bin Ladin." Residing in Dhaka has reminded me that there is a need for healing in the world, I'm learning every day how complicated the remedy might be, but how necessary.

Normal.

Seth's visit to Dhaka was short lived, but a very rejuvenating time for myself. Good conversation and fellowship were accompanied by Seth's uncanny desire to record and describe what he is seeing and feeling in his travels throughout Asia. His blog is proof of that commitment. In the few days he was here, conveniently a holiday weekend, we spent a sufficient amount of time wandering around the older, historic parts of Dhaka. The little Bangla I knew and his camera lens provided all that we needed to lose track of anything outside of our being present there. We were offered numerous tea times, places to sit and rest, photo requests from proud shop owners, as well as chances to talk life and politics. We had gone to see "shadaron jibon," the Bangla phrase for normal life, and we undoubtedly found numerous examples of it. In almost every instance, there was time for a little conversation as well as hospitality extended to the outsider. Bangladeshi pride met us in every interaction, a desire for us to see, to know, to understand their city and livelihoods.

As "shadaron jibon" was surely on display, its complexion quickly changed from moment to moment. The beauty of a simple man's work, the bicycle repair shop owner who greeted us with a smile and tea, a place to sit and rest for a moment in his small shop. His life accented by the normalcy of another man's, who sat inside the trash dumpster just down the road. Despondent, filthy and seemingly unaware of his whereabouts, he no longer searched the pile of garbage he was perched on. I imagine if he had found a white flag in the heap of trash, he might have started waving it. An air conditioned ride to church on Sunday, classical music providing a moment of rest for my soul as crippled legs and deformed hands appear on both sides of the car. Individuals peering through tinted glass, weaving through stopped traffic, hoping for the crack of a window, or ever better, a wallet.

I would venture to say there isn't a word as relative as "normal," one man's burden is another's freedom, one man's hope is another's reality. And as Seth and I visited the bus station, wishing to acquire a ticket and be on our way, the flies rose from a blanket covering the half naked woman's body, only to settle again after she lay still on the sidewalk. A few bananas and pieces of bread. An offering hardly received, although sitting up, which helped me to believe a little more her capable of eating it. Normal. I would certainly, with confidence, cry "No!" But her response might be the same as she pondered my privileged existence.

Unresolved Mysteries.

Once again, it's been a good deal of time since I last posted some thoughts. The past couple of weeks have consisted of a lot of language study, seeing new parts of Dhaka, as well as a visit from my Kolkata friend Melissa. As of today, I have officially completed my first phonetics course. This means I have a lot of Bangla words floating around inside my head which have yet to naturally flow from my lips. Hopefully, in the second month, my mind will begin to think in the backward ways of the Bangla sentence. This evening I anticipate the arrival of my friend Seth who is currently sojourning the globe. I'm anxious to hear of his travels, the unique stories and new perspective that seemingly always accompany someone who leaves what is familiar and normal to them.

I've just finished reading a book called Blood Brothers. It's the life story of a Palestinian Christian, a pastor who has given himself to reconciling his people to their Jewish brothers in Palestine. It's been his life story, his perspective on the Jewish and Palestinian conflict, that have reminded me that perspective so often deals us the hands that we play in our conversations and thoughts. This was very evident as I saw my own ignorance exposed in the peacemaker's point of view. Perspective continues to lead me to ask a lot of good questions here in Dhaka.

I think of the children who wander the streets, who spend their time and energy finding plastic and asking me for biscuits. These children, or "trash urchins," as the local newspaper sadly identified them last week, have no time in their busy days for the likes of education. When they walk with me and embrace me, frequently being shooed off by the passerby and sometimes avoided by myself, I have to ask... How do I respond to and really know them? How does perspective effect that response? When there is no thanksgiving on their behalf, or a fabricated look of anguish on their face until they receive something from me and run away laughing, am I scathed? I think of the man who sits on the sidewalk just down the road from where I am staying, his contorted body lying on the pavement every day. I recall a recent evening when I passed by him. Ready to call it a night and sitting upright, although still frail, his posture might have led me to believe that a miraculous healing had occurred. As he sat and counted his money, did I walk away unscathed by what I had seen?

Perspective is difficult. It can easily leave you full of compassion or entirely void of it. I'm slowly learning the many ways that I need to take a second look, a second breath, in order to embrace a life here which is rarely simple and hardly ever caters to the Sherlock Holmes inside all of us. Unsolved Mysteries. That was such a horrible TV show, but I think I'll steal the title to end this post. Well, I'll say unresolved mysteries, for copyright purposes. It seems most days, that's how I'd describe my relationships and interactions with the poor and marginalized people I've met here. No conclusions, only more questions to ask.

Details.

I'll blame the space between this post and the last on a pretty impressive virus I came up against last week. It was one of those transformer viruses. Just when you think you've got the fever beat, congestion and sore throat...

So to say the least, I struggled a bit last week to focus on language studies. Now feeling much better, I'm once again functional and seeing the sun a lot more often, although it is rainy season. I visited the Grameen Bank yesterday, looked into a short internship for my time here in Dhaka. This was the first time I ventured out of the district I'm currently staying and studying in. It was good to do so. You see how the city changes complexion from district to district. The language school is in a more affluent area. Therefore some of the streets and building are a little nicer, and as I've mentioned before, the kids collecting discarded plastic are out in large numbers looking to capitalize on discarded items in the area. But no matter which part of Dhaka I find myself in, it takes very little time for a foreigner to attract a large crowd of the city's begging population. Yesterday was no different.

Surprisingly, It hasn't been my consistent interaction with the begging population of Dhaka that has instilled the greater questions and thoughts within me as of late. What I struggled with yesterday I also did a year ago. And of course I will tomorrow. But here in Dhaka, it has been the actions of the non-poor classes, toward the poorer, that have left me asking new questions. Even today, I watched a restaurant attendant hit and chase off a group of boys collecting plastic near his door. When I soon crossed their path, one of the boys was sure to ask if I had seen what the man had done to them. Last week, as three impoverished children followed me down the road asking for a few Taka, A businessman grabbed two of them by the head and aggressively pushed them the opposite way. I'm not sure what he said to them, but his tone was enough for me to make an uninformed translation.

These instances have all pointed my thoughts back to something which was brought to my attention only this past year. Something simple and beautiful, but which can be easily missed. In all of the parables spoken by Jesus in the gospels, stories which include the likes of Kings and Patriarchs, only one name is ever given to a character. Only one short story pauses to reveal what many would consider a "minor" detail. His name is Lazarus, and he is the man begging outside the city gate. As Jesus retells and redefines the story of Israel with his parables, he is sure to remind the hearer that this man begging at the gate has a name, something I and the businessman in Dhaka are in constant need of hearing.

I've heard a theologian say that a proper exegetical question to ask for so many of the parables found in the gospels, as we consider our lives today, is what story might I tell if someone were to ask me "What is the Kingdom of God like?" Interactions like the ones I've had this and the past week, whether a word was spoken or not, only continue to emphasize the art or storytelling. What am saying, and what parts of the story have I left out?

Adjusting Again.

After half a day's bus ride, as well as the memorable experience of crossing the border on foot, we arrived in the capital city of Bangladesh. In many ways, life in Dhaka is similar to Kolkata. The language, frequent tea times, the food (although now having the luxury of a little beef every now and then), all resemble the Bengali livelihood found in Kolkata. This makes sense as both West Bengal and Bangladesh were once bordering states rather than countries. It seems that religion has mainly shaped the cultural differences. The city streets here are no longer adorned with Hindu gods and alters, but rather one might easily find him or herself wandering upon a mosque. The air, with it's potent smells reminiscent of Kolkata's, is now filled with the sounds of the Muslim call to prayer throughout the day. Rather than greeting someone with "Namascar," it is "Asalam Alecum." There are many more women here who cover their heads as well as men's faces with beards. In many ways Dhaka is like Kolkata, in many ways it is so different.

One thing that remains unscathed from one Asian city to the next is the very obvious chasms between the poor and wealthy. I have met a Landrover on my wanderings in this city, as well as a boy who collects discarded plastic which will bring him just under a dollar for a day's collection. I've seen a woman begging over what seemed to be her deceased mother on a walkway while I now sit in an air-conditioned internet cafe writing this post. I believe the most absurd moment thus far, although unbeknown to anyone but myself, took place when two children began asking me for some money. Just then, a man began shouting to them from his store as they then proceeded to leave my side. Above the man's head read "Pest Control." Of course, in his occupation, he probably dealt with rodents or cockroaches, but the sign behind him symbolized what I have already seen in some of the expression and words extended toward the likes of these children. Living here will be no easier for me than Kolkata, but my difficulties will pale to a bright white in comparison to life for so many in this country. I am anxious to be able to soon speak with, listen to, and possibly understand some of their stories.

On that note, I'm two days into Bangla study. In the mornings I'm learning the phonetics of Bangla, in the afternoon, the script. I'll soon find out whether I can handle both at the same time. One thing is for sure. I no longer have the mind I once had as a first grader, which for the most part is a good thing, but in some ways it would be nice for these next few months of learning.

Get on the Bus Gus.

I've arrived here in Kolkata at a very busy time. I'm not necessarily speaking of the traffic and crowds, those come standard here, but the motion and schedules of the staff. Right now the executive director of Word Made Flesh is visiting. Along with his wife and a few others, he has been meeting with us as well as seeing life and work here from day to day. It's been a gift spending time with him and the others in this first week of transition. I'm thankful to have arrived at such an opportune time.

Already I have seen change. Within the four walls of Sari Bari, there are new women who have taken the brave step toward freedom since I was here last. Each day, along with the new faces, I hear bits and pieces of the ladies' stories that leave a person floored but hopeful when they smile or laugh. One year ago Sari Bari's business was blankets, actually freedom, but the tangible product was one. Now they have initiated the production of bags, very beautiful bags, along with an assortment of new blanket sizes. There is a demand for what the women are creating at Sari Bari, as well as ladies who are waiting to set their hands to the plow. There only remains the need for more space. Currently staff is looking for a new location, a bigger building to accommodate that space necessary for more women to come out of the trade and into our family. It seems that I have come at a time in which Sari Bari is bursting at its seems, waiting for the time when opportunity will present itself. It's a beautiful thing to see and anticipate.

This will probably be my last post before I board the bus headed for Bangladesh. After three months, my hope is to return to Kolkata having composed a Bengali love song (something to tuck in the wallet for future reference). But most importantly, I look forward to being able to speak. Numerous times each day I find myself wanting. I would appreciate your prayers for clarity and a mind which can retain and sustain itself for the three months of intense study. As I said before, please write, you can do so at scott.ky@hotmail.com

*And for those who might want to receive a notice when Sari Bari products arrive in the states, please send an email to: melinda@saribari.com.

Adjusting.

I have arrived safely in Kolkata. Travel time passed with ease as I slept well and ate seemingly synthetic plane food in between long naps and a few stiff necks. That combination leaves the body begging for stimulation. It wasn't until New Delhi that things got a little more interesting. While sitting at an airport with no furniture for ten hours, I met a man named Mohan. Having finished graduate school in Sweden, he was returning to India to apply his engineering skills. His company passed the time and brought a few smiles to my face. The most memorable was when he pulled out his laptop and started Playing "In This Club" by Nelly. And now i am officially embarrassed that I know the title and artist of that song (I'll blame that one on my brother). Also, very reminiscent of last year, when I arrived in Kolkata my luggage didn't pass through the carousel. It is still in Delhi, in the hands of customs. I spent most of the day yesterday trying to get the luggage to be sent here. But according to new Jet Airways policy, I may have to go to New Delhi to pick it up myself. Here's hoping that is not the case.

I've begun reacquainting myself with the city. My senses have been adjusting from fresh cut hay to diesel fumes, silent nights to persistent horns, solo car rides to public transportation, country roads to crowded streets. Having only been here for two days has reminded me how very different life looks and feels. It's also re instilled within me a desire to know well the Bengali language, to be able to sit with someone, speak into their life as well as receive a word from them. I leave for Bangladesh a week from tomorrow. I will be there for three months, hoping to find in myself uncanny language learning skills that have yet to be harnessed. My only wish is that my luggage would arrive before I get on the bus. I will try and write on a regular basis. the next few months will be a little more precarious as I travel and am not sure what things will look like where I'm staying, but thank you for checking in on me and please shoot an email my way whenever you wish to. It's always good to hear from friends and family.

Two Weeks.

This evening it dawned on me that some might have visited or will soon look to my blog for news regarding Kolkata. I'm not sure why it's taken so long for me to realize this, but I finally have. My departure is a mere two weeks away, that is two weeks from this past Monday. I fly out of the windy city on the twenty-third of June and look forward to thirty hours of non-stop flights and airport leisure. My leaving actually falls close to the date that I had arrived back in the states only a year ago; kind of crazy to think that much time has transpired.

The proximity of my flight has begun to stir my insides a bit as I continue to work on the farm and spend time with the people I love. Most days consist of work, writing reminders on my hands, and then trying to bring those reminders to fruition in the evenings before the ink disappears. Working on a farm and my horrible memory both make that all the more difficult. And so the days are disappearing and the reminders continue resurfacing... There has been a ton of encouragement from all directions. A beautiful piece of artwork, a journal to read rather than write in, a book I had hoped to find time for, some good conversation and a hug, I've been blessed with the fellowship and generosity of so many.

I believe sitting and listening to my grandfather tell stories and revisit his life has meant the most. Those moments are so important and yet so uncommon to me. I've had to ask myself more than once why this is so, why I'm prone to ask now and not before. Nevertheless, there is no doubt his presence and words have been really significant these past few months as I've moved toward departure. This time of transition has and will continue to be a strange one, a difficult one, but God has granted me peace and people. Without a doubt, these two avenues have always reminded me who I am and how to breathe.

Fine Dining.

I recently had a dream. Let's call it a nightmare. In it, I found myself dining with a couple of friends. When the waitress brought the check, we were floored in finding that our bill totalled something in the neighborhood of $11,000. What I remember most is looking at the bill over and over again, doing the math which made no sense numerically, yet every time I was unable to find a single mistake. Leave it to the dream world to put you in such a helpless state of mind. One of the finer details I do remember is that my friends both ordered $300 salads.

These kinds of dreams seem to be reoccurring. The things that linger in my mind throughout the day creep into my dreams at night and turn initial concerns into utter chaos. I recently dreamt I was married. It was so very sudden. I believe it might happen one day. But sparring you the details, it was the scariest sleep I've had in a long while. These dreams really do get you into the habit of thinking. They shed light on your inclinations, of course many times in great disproportion. But nevertheless, there's light. The moment I remember most vividly from the first dream followed receiving the bill. My stomach hurt. My checking account balance came to mind. I began uttering out loud how far the money we spent on that dinner could have gone in the lives of those I knew in Kolkata. One of my dining companions immediately asked me to keep quiet, people were starring. What I had said was inappropriate, not what we had spent.

The dream led me to return to something a colleague (I believe this is the first time I've used this word) of mine wrote. In speaking of Word Made Flesh, Brent Anderson addressed that "there is truth in the assertion that WMF staff traveling overseas is inefficient." The money that I spend on the plane ticket, as oil prices continue to spike, can be used in so many other ways. I think of how I am inclined to give to the likes of a Word Vision. Their capacity to act and react to the world's vulnerable is important to me and how I make sense of stewardship. When looking at the grander scale of humanity, it's wars and disasters, I'm often left as helpless as in my dreams. But when I find myself taking residence within a community that lives and hopes as I do, on the other side of the world, I can begin to find peace and understanding in why I've come. I will always have trouble reconciling the plane tickets and American passport with the frugal life I aspire to live in Kolkata, the ways in which I want to honor my nieghbor with my lifestyle. There are probably many more disturbing dreams to be had, and of course reality itself, but my hope is best communicated in what Brent has written on his blog. It is what I have been trying conceptualize myself, the hope that my going to Kolkata will be inefficient "in the same way that long dinners with family and friends around the table are inefficient." I can think of no better illustration.

Mark My Words.

This past week I was speaking with someone. I shared that I had finished my most recent album a few months prior, that I had traveled a few places and played a few shows to share it and the stories that made the music what it was. The person then asked what the album was titled. I drew a complete blank. As a matter of fact, I couldn't think of it for a good thirty seconds. When it came to me, so did many other thoughts.

As some of you know, the album is called Kovita's Voice. Kovita was a women who lived in Kolkata. She was employed in one of the red-light areas. She lost her life in the four months I was there. Her story reminds anyone who hears it that there are cracks in society, voices that are quieted, lives literally disposed of. My hope was that in the album title, I would honor her life. In telling her story, I would allow her voice to speak into the hearts and minds of myself and anyone else who might be listening.

Today I shared the vision of Sari Bari with a church near my home. As I did so, I spoke of Kovita. I couldn't help but wonder how her story had changed me, if it had at all. I remembered what I had forgotten only a few days prior. Were my words this morning synthetic? Did I have the right to share as I had? I thought of an article I recently read. Is what I had to say of her life this morning something that honored or exploited the memory of her? Failing to recollect the title of my album this week spoke volumes into the brevity with which I told her story today. When I had forgotten her name, in that moment, the album had ceased to be what I hoped it would. Speaking this morning reminded me of that.

Who Is My Neighbor?

Immigration is, and will continue to be one of the predominant conversations for our nation and its future. I sometimes hear the way that people brazenly speak on the issue, words of disrespect and degradation, and I worry. I realize it's not a simple issue, and what I am sharing is of a completely different context. But for myself and the church, I can't help but to emphasize the God who instructed Israel to take care of the widow, the fatherless, and the alien. Hospitality and care are decreed again and again throughout the early establishment of Israel. There is something to be said of this reiteration, and there is good reason to reminisce upon the words recorded by Moses in Leviticus. "The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love him as yourself, for you were once aliens in Egypt."

I write all of this with something I have recently seen on my mind. I want to introduce to you a movement in Russia, one that is very ugly and contagious. Its roots travel much deeper than immigration itself, but the issue is at its focal point. It is when we pledge our allegiance that we must be careful not to lose our sense of a greater humanity. When our eyes are fixed on ourselves, only our needs, our thought processes can be dangerous. This movement is an extreme example of that. The video is a little long and a bit disturbing, but something that needs to be seen and digested.

Click Here To Watch

Remembering.

I have a horrible memory. I listen to the words of a theologian or work to memorize some Bengali (language I'm learning for Kolkata) and if I'm not persistent in trying to remember what I've heard or read, I slowly forget. I'm in this constant state of needing reminded of so much...


This weekend I went to Omaha, NE. I took part in a commissioning service for my future with WMF. In being commissioned, I received the cross of San Damiano. Later that evening I was also gifted with a ring. I now wear them both not as ornaments, but as mementos. In the cross of San Damiano, I am reminded of St. Francis. I'm reminded that service is not without sacrifice, passion not without reform, and hope not without action. I'm asked to preach the Gospel to the world and when necessary to use words. In the Brazilian ring, I'm reminded of our colonial past. Those who went forth from the "civilized" nations in order that they might make a convert, only to find that they had carried with them a culture and morality which had little to do with their God and much to do with their own identity. But I'll also remember those who have gone seeking true community and solidarity with those they met and loved. I need to be reminded. These small pieces might decorate my finger and adorn my neck, but they will also ask me to remember. And God knows I can use all the help that I can get in doing so.

Carter's Controversy.

Last week former president Jimmy Carter, defying the wishes of our government and the Israeli government, met with Hamas leaders in Syria. He did so in order to discuss the subject of Palestinian peace with Israel. Hamas has been labeled a terrorist organization by our president and a handful of other countries. The former president's actions have stirred up a lot of controversy in the international community. My initial thoughts are that it might be a step in the right direction. Any thoughts?

To read one version of what has transpired, click here.

An Artist Worth Your Ears.

His name is Fionn Regan. He is Irish. And he is good.

Truth.

I couldn't sleep. So I laid down for a bit and spoke silently to myself and the man upstairs, came to this PC because I felt I should write something, and now I'm not really sure what it is I would like to say. I just finished watching Into The Wild. I now feel like I should read the book, or wish I could read the man's actual journal. Watching the story unfold sort of brought me to one of those moments. You know, the kind that ask you why you're sitting where you are at that very second. How today ended up looking like it did and what say you had it in it, or how you might have said otherwise. I believe those moments are some of the most freeing we have. They reacquaint you with the difficult questions. Reinvent, however long you allow them to, ideas of your existence. Toward the end of the film Alex, reflecting on his sojourning, composes the words happiness isn't real unless it's shared. He does so between the lines of a book which has kept him company in in the wilderness. If I heard that line in a song, I wouldn't have given it a second thought, especially if it were of the country genre. But instead I watched a man grip his pen as tightly as his frail body would allow, knowing very well that the ink he was spilling would outlast the blood that moved through his veins, in order to write what he had learned of relationship in confined solitude. The irony, of course, is that there was no one there for him to share it with. The truth is that he had found what he was looking.

Ugandan Peace.

If you're familiar with the situation in Uganda, the longest standing civil war on the continent of Africa, then you have knowledge of one more situation on the continent that embodies the complexities of economic and social development there. The country has been in the news again this week. Once again, peace talks between the LRA and Ugandan government negotiators have come to a halt. Why? Joseph Kony, the leader of the LRA, who has been accused of atrocious crimes (child soldiers, child concubines, rape, and mutilations as seen in the photo above) against women and children, failed to show and sign the peace agreement. Why? There's something still looming over his head and over the people of Uganda, war crimes against him for the things mentioned above have yet to be clarified. It is still unclear what is to be done with this man. The dance continues, as the peace talks have again failed to move forward.


And so we have come to a place of conflict. I'm not speaking literally, of the country's civil war, but of the country's pursuit of peace. If justice is to be the answer, Kony will pay for these crimes. But as we have seen over and over again, he is not going to claim the accusations against him. And he is not going to attend these peace talks unless the accusations are dismissed. In many articles I have heard the voices of civilians, maimed and unmaimed by the war, say that peace has become of greater importance than justice. Some have said otherwise. Last year the president issued warrants for the arrest of Kony and some others in command. He has declared that the warrants will not be removed until the peace talks have concluded and a final deal signed. Some worry that if Kony and other LRA leaders fear capture, they will again begin attacks in North of Uganda. And so things sit at a stand still. Many Ugandans are more than willing and ready to forgive, to allow the LRA amnesty and to move on with life. The question remains, what will it take for peace to constitute itself in this country? Something has to give.

Kenya and Now Zimbabwe?

Kenya remains politically unstable as talks between the two leaders vying for power have been suspended once again. Violence is down but the country's turmoil has by no means settled. Today rioters took the streets in Nairobi in response to the delay in talks...

And now another election has "concluded," this time in the country of Zimbabwe. Once again the outcome is in limbo. Electoral officials have delayed the release of the results. Rumors are beginning to stir that, although the votes are in, there is trouble with how they've been tallied. There are reports that the opposition of President Mugabe's leadership are being persecuted, that militias are rearming. Rural areas are seeing small pockets of violence...

Slum Worship.

If we're honest with ourselves, we'll be sure to say that life is not full of simple circumstances with simple answers. We'll see the world, in all its good and all its ugly, and have questions. We'll wonder what hope looks like in a country, a slum, a community that appears to be in shambles. Chris Heuertz, the International Executive Director of Word Made Flesh, has recently written an article which takes us to such a place to meet a community of people who have given themselves to "finding the goodness of God in a bad world." I thought I'd share it with anyone who might stop by the blog.



Click Here for the article.

What Now?

I heard it said once that the task of the church is to implement resurrection and anticipate new creation. I have remembered and appreciated these words ever since. But if resurrection is to be that which personifies all the church is to give itself to, it would seem that we will have to move beyond our cultural dichotomy of the spiritual and the physical. Resurrection itself is not simply the idea of moving from one type of existence into the next. It is not simply "out with the old and in with the new," but rather restoration of that which once was and now is...

Christ arose, and indeed was transformed, but did not rise in a removed, metaphysical sense. Instead, Thomas was granted the opportunity to feel the places where Jesus had been pierced. The disciples were prepared a breakfast on the shores of the Galilean Sea. Something had taken place which transcended the physical but hadn't abandoned it. Something was said, in word and deed, that announced the possibility for this world to be transformed through this one idea: resurrection. But how will it play out in our day to day lives? How will our words and actions exude anything close to resurrection?

"As the Father sent me, I am sending you," Christ said to his disciples. This call to imitation might be as good a place to start as any.

Historical Significance.

"If for Jesus, and indeed for the whole early church for which we have any real evidence, the God of Israel defeated evil once and for all on the cross, then why does evil still exist in the world? Was Jesus, after all, a failure? The New Testament answers this question with one voice. The cross and resurrection won the victory over evil, but it is the task of the Spirit, and those led by the Spirit, to implement that victory in and for all the world. This task demands a freshly-drawn worldview: new praxis, stories, symbols, and answers. These come together into a fresh vision of God in which—precisely because of this re-discovery of who God is—history, theology, spirituality, and vocation recover their proper relationship. For Jesus’ followers, finding out who Jesus was in his historical context meant and means discovering their own task within their own contexts."

N.T. Wright

Poor People.

My friend Lauren told me to look into a book called Poor People, I recently found it at the public library and have enjoyed the author's uncanny ability to share the stories of the people he meets. I've also enjoyed the many questions he has for them. Are you poor? Why are you poor? Why does God permit this? Why do some people have more money than others? Can you change your destiny? All of the questions we've answered on behalf of "poor people" are often rebutted by the individuals William Vollmann meets. I'm only a quarter of the way through the book but have appreciated his work and attention to detail. Here's a little bit of the text:

"On the back steps of the Central Railroad Station (which also happened to be where she slept because when she slept on the front steps, people would come and push her away) sat a dark brown, very, very skinny beggar-girl whose hands were as small as a ten-year-old's; perhaps she was fully grown, perhaps not. She wore a once-white blouse which was much too big for her, even the giant white buttons an insult to her, a sort of domination.

Her name was Wan. She existed alone; Her mother lived in Uban Rachitani, which again is far away in the northeast. She'd come to Bangkok two or three years ago to seek a job but there had been no job. Unlike the cleaning woman, she couldn't begin to estimate how much money she made in a day. She seemed to be crazy. She'd found no food today, so she had no energy, which naturally meant that no one gave her anything; the first requirement of beggary is to stalk and intercept the rich, however tactfully and aggressively, so that they notice the beggar. Wan failed in that, so people didn't see her.

She said that she wanted to go back home (but I think she never go back, remarked the interpreter). Already missing as many teeth as a middle-aged woman, she sat struggling to keep her sad, dull little-girl eyes on my face. She was twenty-three.

Life slowly entered her face as she ate a meal I bought in one of the station restaurants; she drank a stranger's half-used water, gulping and coughing, shivering in the fan-breeze, anxious about her possessions, the sarong and clothes in the small white plastic bag outside on the station steps; I never learned why she dared not bring them inside with her.

What's the most money you ever made begging in one day? I asked, and she didn't know.

I asked about those strange white patches on her cheeks and arms, and she said: Some disease. I don't know. She didn't know anything.

Do you have some dream for your future?

Yawning, head now listless on her little fist, she said: I just want to go back home.

I gave her what she said she needed to go back home on, guessing that tomorrow and the next day she'd still be there, and then I asked her: In your idea, why are some people rich and some poor?

I think I am rich, she said dully.

She was already slipping into death, and perhaps had never been alive; which I don't mean that she might not somehow eke out another twenty or fifty semiconscious years. The last I saw of her, she was sitting sideways in her place just outside the railroad station entrance, clutching her white plastic bag of belongings beside her, not looking anybody in the face."

Small Arms.

I'm not sure if you've ever been to an open air market, but most times you can buy some fruit, vegetables, meat and other marketable items from the small stands on the sides of the road. In a country which is politically unstable, when there is demand for means of self-defense, a road side stand might take on new form. If you've ever wondered where the stock piles of small arms go when they are outdated and no longer needed by our ever-evolving military conquests, take a trip with me to Mogadishu, Somalia...

Click Here for AK-47

Thanks.

To everyone who has recently persevered a sobering evening of music with me as well as purchased a mediocre album; thank you. In doing so, know that you have supported the ladies of Sari Bari in a very significant way. I've been taken back by the generosity which has been extended at the concerts. All this to say that you have given close to a thousand dollars which will no doubt be a part of the freedom that is happening now within the walls of Sari Bari and in its future. I can't thank you enough for your open ears and hearts. As I've shared my music, I've tried to share with you the vision of Sari Bari. Sarah, the WMF Kolkata field director might best define its "business" and others like it. She writes:

"My friend Kerry, who inspires a business for women coming out of the sex trade, will often single out a woman and ask her, “What is our business?” I have never heard a girl answer with anything but a single word—“freedom.” It is a word that all the women we work with both in the trade and out of the trade understand. Kerry is in the business of freedom, the girls may sew bags with their hands; however, in their hearts they are working for and living out a life of freedom. We are all in the business of the Master, the business of making things new. From the darkest lanes and most horrible circumstances, freedom and newness is coming in conversations over hot tea, in those tentative steps toward a different job, in the hands that sew beauty into blankets and bags, in the lives that become new as they walk into the arms of Jesus."

Why Microfinance? Pt. 1

Microfinance has made quite a name for itself. Whether there is potential in it is no longer the question, but rather where and how it can be applied. For those who might not have heard the term before, it could be summed up as financial opportunity for the poor and or those who do not have the means to obtain or borrow capital. Even more specific, micro-loans are what have created the most buzz in this emerging field of development. One of the pioneers in microfinance, Muhammad Yunus (Founder of the Grameen Bank), simply decided one day that he would lend a total of $27.00 to a group of 42 women in a village near his city. The women were builders of bamboo furniture. But in order to obtain the materials for construction, they were paying high interest rates to corrupt moneylenders. Yes they were able to obtain a loan, but one that barely allowed the women to break even in their business ventures. So with the simple offering of a loan, without the ridiculous interest rate, Yunus was onto something. The women quickly came out of the impoverished cycle they were stuck in. It seems very simple to Mr. Yunus. He writes:

"I truly believe all human have an innate skill. I call it the survival skill. The fact that the poor are still alive is clear proof of their ability. They do not need us to teach them how to survive, they already know how to do this. Experts on poverty alleviation insist that training is absolutely vital for the poor to move up the economic ladder. But if you go into the real world, you cannot miss seeing that the poor are poor not because they are untrained or illiterate but because they cannot retain the returns of their labor."

And so Mr. Yunus literally began traveling from village to village asking women what they might do if he were to give them a small loan. And as their imaginations slowly came to life, so did a movement that has brought many families out of poverty and many individuals into a self-sustaining existence. There is more to micro-loans than simply giving someone some cash. I might try and explain the praxis and philosophy behind the loan in the near future. I'm no expert. But I thought I would share something that has peaked my interest in the past year.

Tree of Life.

"In Revelation 22, the river of life flows from the city to irrigate the surrounding countryside, and on its banks there grows the tree of life: not a single tree, as in Genesis, but many trees, now freely available, bearing fruit each month, and with leaves for healing. This image of the tree of life, and of the radical and beautiful healing it promises, has generated an extraordinary work of art, commissioned jointly by the British Museum and Christian Aid, and created by local artists in Mozambique after the end of that country’s long and bitter civil war. The work is a sculpture of the tree of life: it stands nine or ten feet tall, with spreading branches a further nine or ten feet in all directions. In it, and under its shade, are birds and animals. And the whole thing, tree, creatures and all, is made entirely from decommissioned weapons: bits and pieces of old AK47s, bullets and machetes and all the horrible paraphernalia of war, most of them made in peaceful western countries and exported to Mozambique so that the government aid given by the west to that poor country would flow back to our own industries. But the point, of course – and it is a stunningly beautiful object at several levels at once – is that this Tree of Life reflects the Isaianic promise that swords will be beaten into ploughshares, and spears into pruning hooks. The Tree stands as a reminder both of the horror of the world, with all its multiple human follies and tragedies, and also of hope, the hope of new creation. It has an immediate and powerful message for the people of Mozambique itself, who had forgotten how to hope, had forgotten that there might be such a thing as peace, as sitting once more under the tree and enjoying its fruit and its healing. But it is also a sign of what genuine art can be, taking a symbol from the world of the original creation, building into it the full recognition of the horrors of the present world which by themselves would lead us to despair, and celebrating the promise of the new world, a world full of God’s glory as the waters cover the sea. It offers celebration without naivety, sorrow without cynicism, and hope without sentimentality. Standing before it is like glimpsing an apocalyptic vision, a vision of the beauty of God."

~N.T. Wright

Biography.

I have almost finished reading a biography on the life of St. Francis of Assisi. I've thoroughly enjoyed learning bits and pieces of his life and legend. It has been the author, G.K. Chesterton's literary genius that has brought so much of the story to life and shed so much light on the subject's character and virtue. If you've read anything by him, you'll understand how the author has done a supreme job in his storytelling. Here is a snippet of the text:

"The transition of the good man to the saint is a sort of revolution; by which one for whom all things illustrate and illuminate God becomes one for whom God illustrates and illuminates all things. It is rather like the reversal whereby a lover might say at first sight that a lady looked like a flower, and say afterwards that all flowers remind him of his lady. A saint and a poet standing by the same flower might seem to say the same thing; but indeed though they both would be telling the truth, they would be telling different truths. For one the joy of life is the cause of faith, for the other rather a result of faith. But one effect of the difference is that the sense of a divine dependence, which for the artist is like the brilliant levin-blaze, for the saint is like the broad daylight. Being in some mystical sense on the other side of things, he sees things go forth from the divine as children going forth from a familiar and accepted home, instead of meeting them as they come out, as most of us do, upon the roads of the world. And it is the paradox that by this privilege he is more familiar, more free and fraternal, more carelessly hospitable than we. For us the elements are like heralds who tell us with trumpet and tabard that we are drawing near the city of the great king; but he hails them with an old familiarity that is almost an old frivolity. He calls them his Brother Fire and Sister Water."

Darfur.

The last post I addressed that there has been little news on the Darfur region as of late. Today I read the article linked below. 12,000 more refugees displaced and counting, as well as 200 more civilian fatalities from clashes just this weekend. By air-strike and on horseback the violence continues in the region. It's also been said that the recent escalation of violence in Chad is directly connected to that in Darfur. With refugees spilling over the Chadian border, camp populations are growing while the future of Darfur remains in question...

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7237326.stm

Worth Watching...

This afternoon I watched a documentary called "The Devil Came on Horseback." Basically, it is the story and first hand account of an ex-marine who, after finishing his tour of duty, happened to fall into a "monitoring" position in Sudan. This followed the signing of the 2004 peace agreement there. He spent four months weaponless, taking photos and speaking with the victims of the conflict. Violence began to escalate once again, this time it was mostly isolated in the Darfur region. In his conversations with victims, and even more so with the Janjaweed leadership, it became very obvious that what he was seeing was what no one wanted to call it; Genocide. The Janajweed shared, very candidly, that they were trained by the government, and paid by the means of freedom to do and take what they wished in their attacks. The protocal was almost always a governmental air raid quickly followed by the arrival of Janjaweed rebels to pillage, kill, and rape the vulnerable villages into submission. The interconnectedness of it all made the situation very obvious, the ex-marine could no longer stay and take photos. He returned to share his photos and stories with our country. He also learned a few lessons in doing this. I would recommend the film to anyone who might get their hands on it...

Oil production continues to fuel economic purposes in the north of Sudan while the Darfur region remains in ruin with millions of its people displaced. I couldn't find any articles addressing the region on BBC since the new year, but did find the most recent one that highlighted the disparity within the country. Villages burnt to ashes and a hotel shaped like a sail boat:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/6573527.stm

Compliments of a Good Conversation.

A Ghost in the mirror,
Or is it Someone I've always walked with?
Beside me or above me,
Within me or without me,
You'll do as you please.
Or must I allow it?

Reverence is relentless.
I've never been the first to run,
But speed will take your cap if you're not careful.
You see I've built for you a temple,
Or were you the one that constructed it?
It's possible I'm very backwards.

But I am sure of this one thing,
It would take me more than three days to rebuild it.
I just want to be sure the doors are left open,
You need to breathe.
I need to live.
It seems we're in this together.

Kyoohei.

This evening I watched a documentary called "White Light Black Rain." It is a compilation of graphic accounts that are told by individuals who experienced first hand the devistation that our atomic bombs unleashed on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan in 1945. Two very brief moments in history, a matter of seconds that wiped out something like 210,000 human beings. I feel like I should pause for a second after a number like that... Their physical and mental scars are accompanied by many photos and video footage that I didn't know existed. Some images are very difficult to look at. The stories they share remind the viewer that they were simply going about life when it happened. Their descriptions of what they saw and felt afterward are unreal.

The movie was shocking, but it also brought to mind a conversation I had with a volunteer one day in Kolkata. He was Japanese. His name was Kyoohei. Our conversation was all over the place, but at some point we had arrived at the topic of politics. This somehow led me to mention Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I let him know of my remorse and frustration with what had happened. I appologized for what our country had done. Kyoohei was taken back by the fact that I thought our actions were wrong. We talked for a while longer and shook hands afterward. From ealier in our conversation, Kyoohei knew that I was a Christian. Why was he so surprised that I thought those bombs were a mistake? Why was he taken back by my apology? How are we, as American Christians, percieved in the world today? There was a lot for me to ask after speaking with Kyoohei.

New Album.

For anyone who might be interested, the new album is finished. I'm going to begin working on the production line in the next few days... burning, printing, wondering if there was something I should have changed. A lot of the songs have taken on new form since the post in which I shared their lyrics after returning from Kolkata. If you would like a taste, I've added a few of the songs to my music page. They should be on the site in the next twenty-four hours. Here's the link:

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=246011340

Legal.

I have just learned that a long awaited day has arrived for Sari Bari. The ministry has just acquired its trade license. It is officially operating legally. The next step is business registration with the Indian government. The long-term desire is that it would become a full fledged LLC (Limited Liability Company) in the coming years. This is an immense answer to prayer. A day for celebration. A testament to the freedom of 27 women, as well as another step toward freedom for many others.

Happy Belated MLK Day.

Since we're on the subject of declaring news, and in light of the recent holiday, I thought I'd briefly highlight a few of Dr King's words. In "Letter From Birmingham Jail," he is sure to let his fellow brothers in the faith know why he has gotten himself into the jail cell he writes from, those who thought his actions "unwise and untimely." Here lies his answer as to why he could not "wait" for change...

"Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, Wait. But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate-filled policemen curse, kick, and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six-year-old daughter why she can't go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five-year-old son who is asking, "Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?"; when you take a cross-country drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading "white" and "colored" when your first name becomes "Nigger," your middle name becomes "boy" (however old you are) and your last name becomes "John," and your wife and mother are never given the respected title "Mrs."; when your are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of "nobodiness" then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience.

More...

"One who breaks an unjust law must do so openly, lovingly, and with a willingness to accept the penalty. I submit that an individual who breaks a law that his conscience tells him is unjust, and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for law."

A little more...

" Actually, time itself is neutral; it can be used either destructively or constructively. More and more I feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people, but for the appalling silence of the good people. Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men willing to be co-workers with God, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of stagnation. We must use time creatively, in the knowledge that the time is always ripe to do right."

News.

I listened to a theologian today who said that the gospel is not good advice, it's good news. This of course was said in the context of a lecture concerning Jesus and the Kingdom that he had brought with him into the first century Jewish context. But the words spoken by this theologian could be seen just as scandalous now as they would have been when Jesus spoke of this good news a couple thousand years ago. It seems that we as human beings are mostly prone to appreciate another's opinion, especially when there is authority and credibility behind what is being said. Advice is ok because it isn't something which is necessarily true. We can take a hard look at ourselves in light of what has been said, then take it or leave it. Advice can rock the boat, but then be tossed overboard. I'm sure the Pharisees and High Priests were ok with the Rabbis who offered good advice, who uttered "you've heard it said, but I say" every now and then. But then there are those who come with good news. News is something which is happening now. Something which has come, such as victory won or the birth of a successor. And so when a man born a carpenter begins to do miraculous things, to speak in rhetoric that stymies even the Pharisees, who turns society's norms and the Jewish anticipations of a redeemer on their head, declaring news can become something that might get you into some trouble. It seems the controversy comes when you begin to embody that news which you've proclaimed.

A Monk On Society.

For a man who only watched television a handful of times in his life, who spent most of of his time with penance and prayer as a Trappist monk, writing a large number of books and essays, Thomas Merton had much to say about the world around him. He was still able to make an assessment of society as far removed as most would consider his life to have been. Reading some of his writings further causes me to continue in wondering how I have come to understand this world I live in, the voices that tell me of my and another's status, how I should find happiness or not, etc. When I sit in front of the tube or listen to the radio, I have to wonder if the desire that I feel, in doing so, is real or exactly what someone else has hoped for. Here is a snippet of Merton's writings:

"We live in a society whose whole policy is to excite every nerve in the human body and keep it at the highest pitch of artificial tension, to strain every human desire to the limit and to create as many new desires and synthetic passions as possible, in order to cater to them with the products of our factories and printing presses and movie studios..."

He continues:

"If we are fools enough to remain at the mercy of the people who want to sell us happiness, it will be impossible for us to ever be content with anything. How would they profit if we became content? We would no longer need their new product. You are of no use in our affluent society unless you are always just about to grasp what you never have."

No Need For Introduction.

Please meet, through an article she has written, someone I hope to know well and learn from in the future. She is part of the Word Made Flesh community in Kolkata that I will soon be a part of.

http://www.lausanneworldpulse.com/urban.php/884?pg=1

I See It In Myself.

In both a conversation I recently had with a friend and an article I read yesterday in Sojourners, I continue to see the Christian tendency to stop short in fully conceptualizing what it means to be a globally minded individual; myself especially included. It is understood that we are to be bearers of good news, to hold strong to the convictions that we have, to establish ourselves virtuous and righteous. All of these things are good and true and have been entrusted to us. But it must be recognized that such a life can be lived without leaving the confines of familiarity. Both mentally and physically we are restricted by that which is close to home. That which makes sense from our place in the world. Our convictions can find and fulfill their allegiance without even acknowledging a larger body of Christ throughout the world, with very different experiences and points of view. How we see the conflicts and situations of this world, the persecution and violence, justice and oppression, should be done with intentionality. To be done not only with our eyes, but also through our brother's and sister's. We should constantly remind ourselves that the angle with which we view the happenings of this world is most likely skewed and or tainted. Not necessarily wrong, but partial. To remedy that bias is to simply realize that our existence is one. That there are billions of others. The body of Christ itself is a conglomeration of differences. We must remember this as we make our assessments and simplify the greater issues of our time. I'm not really sure if I've gotten anywhere with this. I simply saw, in myself, that we are prone to draw our conclusions when everything, or should I say everyone, has yet to be taken into consideration.

Food For Thought.

"The cross in the church symbolizes the contradiction which comes into the church from the God who was crucified 'outside.' Every symbol points beyond itself to something else. Every symbol invites thought. The symbol of the cross in the church points to the God who was crucified not between two candles on an altar, but between two thieves in the place of the skull, where the outcasts belong, outside the gates of the city. It does not invite thought but a change of mind. It is a symbol which therefore leads out of the church and out of religious longing into the fellowship of the oppressed and abandoned. On the other hand, it is a symbol which calls the oppressed and godless into the church and through the church into the fellowship of the crucified God. Where this contradiction in the cross, and its revolution in religious values, is forgotten, the cross ceases to be a symbol and becomes an idol, and no longer invites a revolution of thought, but the end of thought in self-affirmation."

~Jurgen Moltmann

A Friend of Mine.

I have this friend. An entrepreneur of sorts. A carpenter. He makes things. This website and it's contents are only the beginning of what he hopes for in the future. Please take a look at Aaron's work. It's good. Here's the link:

www.cratebydesign.com

Music.

If anyone is curious, I am still in the process of writing, editing, revising, and reformulating the songs that were written while I was in Kolkata. Some of the songs have hardly changed, while others have taken on new form. My dissatisfaction with the makeup of many of the songs (mostly their simple chord structures and highly predictable patterns) has caused much of the reformation currently taking place in my music. That might be too strong of a word for the changes I am making. Although the reality is that I still do enjoy and make a lot of music that is in many ways "predictable," listening to other artists' music, like my friend Frank Sweikhardt's, has inspired me to work on my unwanted tendency to simply move to the next chord that would seem to fit the melodious pattern. And so that said, I hope to be done with it all by the new year or soon after. We'll see how things play out. No pun intended. I'm considering taking a few weeks this winter to travel around the Midwest and share the music. If you, your church, etc. would be interested in me stopping by wherever you are... let me know.

Here is a link to Frank's Music (mentioned above). Listen. It's good.

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=78749266

Story Telling.

Recently, many of my car rides have consisted of listening to a theologian by the name of N.T. Wright. I've begun to wrap my mind around what he would call a proper narrative theology. That the death and resurrection of Christ are not the entire story of redemption in themselves, but part of a bigger picture if you would. From the calling of Abraham in Genesis, a decision to bless the nations through the lineage of one man, came the birth of Christ. It was His resurrection, a launching pad for what we call today "the Kingdom of God," that swung wide the gates of restoration and redemption. And it is here, today, that we are called to pray for this healing, "on earth as it is in heaven." That we are to be people that live and breath this moment in history when God launched something monumental in the cross, as well as become signposts for the day when tears will be no more.

New Creation. We are given a small glimpse of it in Revelation 21. It has left it's fingerprints all over this world, however small they might be. From the declaration that Jesus made upon arriving in Nazareth (Luke 4:18), to the miracles and words that declared his restorative power over sin and death, through his fellowship that broke social norms and prejudices; something new was happening. It is a linear movement, a story, that trumps our desire to forget this world and wait for the day when we leave our troubles behind. One that leads us to the realisation that we are to bring something here, to this earth, that is indefinably brilliant. And when asked what the Kingdom of God is like, we might only be able to do as Christ himself did. Tell a story. "There once was a man who had two sons..."

Revisiting a Good Read.

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."
(Matt 5:4)

I recently had a good conversation with a friend. I believe I told him that I was in "a constant state of dissatisfaction." With myself, the world... He simply reminded me that I mustn't allow it all to steal from me my joy. There is a call to suffering in the cross, but also joy and celebration. Ironically a few days later I stumbled across this piece of literature. It was another great reminder...

"Jesus' concern was, finally, for the joy of the kingdom. That is what he promised and to that he invited people. But he was clear that the rejoicing in that future required a grieving about the present order. Jesus takes a quite dialectical two-age view of things. He will not be like one world liberals who view the present world as the only one, nor will he be like the unworldly who yearn for the future with an unconcern about the present. There is work to be done in the present. There is grief work to be done in the present that the future may come. There is mourning to be done for those who do not know of the deathliness of the situation. There is mourning to be done with those who know pain and suffering and lack the power of freedom to bring it to speech. The saying is a harsh one, for it sets this grief work as the precondition of joy. It announces that those who have not cared enough to grieve will not know joy.

The mourning is a precondition in another way too. It is not a formal, external requirement but rather the only door and route to joy. Seen in that context, this is not just a neat saying but a summary of the entire theology of the cross. Only that kind of anguished disengagement permits fruitful yearning and only public embrace of deathliness permits newness to come. We are at the edge of knowing this in our personal lives, for we understand a bit of the processes of grieving. But we have yet to learn and apply it to the reality of society. And finally, we have yet to learn it about God, who grieves in ways hidden from us and who waits to rejoice until his promises are fully kept."

~Walter Brueggemann
The Prophetic Imagination

Come Be My Light.

Today I finished reading Come Be My Light, a book that contains the private writings of Mother Teresa. I had little idea what to expect when I began; what I found was a very honest and faithful woman whose life progressed in a way that would extinguish most faiths. A nun who felt the persistent call to leave her early order and start anew a sisterhood that would give themselves to the poor and destitute of Kolkata. Who in the beginning, felt the peace and presence of God in her call, but who later felt nothing but His absence. Her greatest suffering was her "thirst" for His presence. One priest she frequently wrote to explained that it was this thirst for His presence that indeed confirmed His place in her life. In the latter part of this absence, she expressed that she "had come to love the darkness." That she understood that "the darkness was the mysterious link that united her to Jesus." Her inner deficiency of being was always countered by her commitment to faith in the "darkest night." The inner darkness was always accompanied by her external light. The last words of the book are given to Mother Teresa herself in the form of a story she tells. One that exemplifies the light, that even her inner darkness could not extinguish:

I will never forget the first time I came to Bourke and visited the sisters. We went to the outskirts of Bourke. There was a big reserve where all the Aborigines were living in those little small shacks made of tin and old cardboard and so on. Then I entered one of those little rooms. I call it a house but it's only one room, and inside the room everything. So I told the man living there, "Please allow me to make your bed, to wash your clothes, to clean your room." And he kept on saying, "I'm alright, I'm alright." And I said to him, "But you will be more alright if you allow me to do it." Then at the end he allowed me. He allowed me in such a way that, at the end, he pulled out from his pocket an old envelope, and one more envelope, and one more envelope. He started opening one after the other, and right inside there was a little photograph of his father and he gave me that to look at. I looked at the photo and I looked at him and I said, "You, you are so like your father." He was so overjoyed that I could see the resemblance of his father on his face. I blessed the picture and I gave it back to him, and again one envelope, second envelope, third envelope, and the photo went back again in the pocket near his heart. After I cleaned the room I found in the corner of the room a big lamp full of dirt and I said, "Don't you light this lamp, such a beautiful lamp. Don't you light it?" He replied, For whom? Months and months and months nobody had ever come to me. For whom will I light it?" So I said, "Won't you light it if the sisters come to you?" And he said "Yes." So the sisters started going to him for only about 5 to 10 minutes a day, but they started lighting the lamp. After some time he got into the habit of lighting. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the sisters stopped going to see him. But they used to go and see him in the morning. Then I forgot completely about about that, and then after two years he sent word- "Tell Mother, my friend, the light she lit in my life is still burning."

Poem.

Since my return from the weekend in Omaha, more often than not, my mind has continued to be with the future. A week before the interview I spoke with someone who asked about my possible return to Kolkata. She was concerned. She explained that when I had come back to the states, it seemed to have taken a few months for me to return to my normal self; that I had not left unscathed. Her words were true. I had come home with the faces and stories of many. Suffering is not something that someone is so easily released from, even for the ones who merely experience it through relationship. While reading a book in Kolkata I came across a poem. Although its content is unique, its expression is universal. Whether we recognize it as privilege or responsibility is another matter, but the pain of those in our lives will sooner or later become our own. Here is another way of putting it...

"I came to bring
God to the slum;
But I am dumb
Dismayed
Betrayed
By those
Whom I would aid;
So sad
I fear
That I am mad.
Pictures
Race through my brain
And lie
Upon my heart
Pictures like this
A man
Legs rotted off
with syphilis
And yet
He need not fret
That money
Does come
Because his wife
Is rented out
And brings
Sufficient sum.
One month in the slums
And I am sad,
So sad,
seem devil-possessed
Or mad."

Toyohiko Kagawa
"Song from the Slums"

A Contract.

I signed a contract this weekend; one committing myself to three years of service with Word Made Flesh, a community of individuals who have committed themselves to serving Jesus among the poorest of the poor around the world. So in the coming year, I plan to find myself living and working alongside the WMF staff and people of Kolkata, India. The weekend was one of peace and confirmation, anticipation and joy, sobriety and celebration. It was the beginning of something which has seemed unknown, yet long awaited...

Hands on the wheel, nose in a book...

Driving an 18-wheeler for my father, hauling soy beans and corn to the farm and to town, has consumed a lot of my time lately. But it also has provided segmented opportunity for reading during this harvest. I recently finished The Politics of Jesus by John Howard Yoder. Now, it has nothing to do with democrats nor republicans. But it addresses the social implications of a Jesus who is often limited to a scapegoat or door, his words and life for personal enrichment, rather than ethics for a tangible Kingdom's coming. It was a good read. Although many of the words were over me, Yoder's thoughts were refreshing as he constantly pivoted from Paul's writings and the epistles to the words and life of Christ, bringing them to unison rather than shedding light on the differences. There is much to take from this book. But I thought I might give you a snippet of the text which I enjoyed reading and will have to do so again:

"The Kingdom of God is a social order and not a hidden one. It is not a universal catastrophe independent of the will of men; it is that concrete jubilary obedience, pardon and repentance, the possibility of which is proclaimed beginning right now, opening up the real accessibility of a new order in which the grace and justice are linked, which men have only to accept. It does not assume time will end tomorrow; it reveals why it is meaningful that history should go on at all..."

Ground.

"It is necessary constantly to keep in mind the ground of human hope. It does not lie in disgust at and hate of the present, but in the situation of the crucified God, and is recognized by insight into the pathos (experience or emotion) of the loving and suffering God. The central symbol of Christian hope, the resurrection, is expressly related to the assumption of all human reality which is spoilt by sin and condemned to death. It therefore represents a hope which is indissolubly coupled with the most intensive sense of reality..."

~Jurgen Moltmann

Where is God?

If someone is intentional, he or she will not find it difficult to recognize the sufferings of this world. Whether it be the dire economic and social strife in Africa, buying and selling of human beings in the darker corners of Asia, or those directly effected by the warfare and conflict all over this planet; humanity is in a constant state of struggle within itself. When we seriously give our minds and hearts to these sufferings, we must ask...

An excerpt from Night, by E. Wiesel:

"The SS hanged two Jewish men and a youth in front of the whole camp. The men died quickly, but the death throes of the youth lasted for half an hour. 'Where is God? Where is he?' someone asked behind me. As the youth still hung in torment in the noose after a long time, I heard the man call again, 'Where is God now?' And I heard a voice in myself answer: 'Where is he? He is here. He is hanging there on the gallows."

I am still reading The Crucified God, by Jurgen Moltman. His words are still changing me....

In regards to the excerpt above he writes:
"Any other answer would be blasphemy. There cannot be any other answer to the question of this torment. To speak here of a God who could not suffer would make God a demon. To speak here of an absolute God would make God an annihilating nothingness. To speak of an indifferent God would condemn men to indifference...

He later writes:
"There would be no 'theology after Auschwitz' in retrospective sorrow and the recognition of guilt, had there been no 'theology in Auschwitz.' God in Auschwitz and Auschwitz in the the crucified God; that is the basis for a real hope which both embraces and overcomes the world, and the ground for a love which is stronger than death and can sustain death. It is ground for living with the terror of history and the end of history, and nevertheless remaining in love and meeting what comes in openness for God's future. It is ground for living and bearing the guilt and sorrow for the future of man in God."

"The Word became flesh," and made his place among us, beside us, within us...

Starting Point.

I'm currently reading The Crucified God by Jurgen Moltman. Here are some of his thoughts:

"The historical and hermeneutic question, how Jesus who preached became Christ who is preached, is therefore basically the christological question, how the dead Jesus became the living, the crucified the resurrected and the humiliated the exalted..."

He later goes on to write:

"Thus ultimately it is not historical criticism which calls into question every church christology and every humanist Jesuology, but the cross. He who proclaimed that the kingdom was near died abandoned by God. He who anticipated the future of God in miracles and casting out demons died helpless on a cross. He who revealed the righteousness of God with an authority greater than moses died according to the provision of the law as a blasphemer. He who spread the love of God in his fellowship with the poor and the sinners met his end between two criminals on the cross. Thus in the end the basic problem and the starting point of the christology is the scandal and the folly of the cross."

The cross has always been so simple for me; salvation and hope. And in these ways it remains so. But my eyes are slowly being opened to the cross' many questions; the man before and the Christ preached afterword, the significance of abandonment, the law that led him to his death. The mystery of the crucified God; it's much greater than I have always considered it to be. Its simplicity as well as its complexity.

Fish.

I just finished watching a documentary released in 2004 called "Darwin's Nightmare." The premise behind the film is a hard look at the fishing industry surrounding the largest tropical lake in the world located in Mwazana, Tanzania. Everyday, the villagers watch at least two large cargo planes arrive to pick up hundreds of tons of fish to be shipped to Europe. Ironically, while the documentary was filmed, and as an immense amount of fish were being shipped away daily, a famine had struck central Tanzania. The documentary captures many aspects of this village directly effected by the large Fishery. It provides a picture of the lake's ecosystem and its bleak future in light of a past experiment. It also provides a window into the lives of the villagers who are directly or indirectly effected. Throughout the film, the producer also makes known his desire to reveal the contents of these cargo planes upon their arrival in Africa. Most are empty when arriving in the fishing town of Mwazana, but they often make their first stop in many other countries. One pilot spoke of his frequent visits to war torn areas such as the Congo and Angola, regions where millions have died in civil conflict. One navigator claimed to have no idea what the contents of his plane were. The documentary ends with the rather revealing interview of one cargo plane pilot. He speaks of his most recent route into Africa. He first lands in another country to drop of small arms weapons. Comes to Tanzania for fish. And he will soon travel to Johannesburg in order to bring grapes back to his country in Europe. His words as I remember them were, "at Christmas time, children in Africa will receive a gun for Christmas. In my country, children will receive grapes." The documentary is a bit long, and its focus is sometimes blurred (which I enjoyed), but it is an outstanding piece of work.

Modern Day Prophecy.

I recently finished reading a book called The Prophetic Imagination. It was written almost thirty years ago, but definitely hasn't lost its relevancy. In reflection on Moses' vision for a new community, Isaiah and Jeremiah's prophesying, and the voice and life of Jesus, Walter Brueggemann provides the reader with insight as to what their proclamation might mean for our voices today.

One of the main issues the book deals with is the "royal consciousness." It was present in the hierarchy Moses faced in the likes of Pharaoh, what the prophets faced in Israel's Kings, and the ideals that Jesus found himself squaring off with frequently. Brueggemann spoke of a constant need for an alternative consciousness, a pursuit revealed in all of those named above. Moses had vision and dismantled the Egyptian empire. The prophet Jeremiah bore grief in order to eat through the numbed royal conscience of a nation, while Isaiah's words were full of energy and hope. But what Brueggemann brought to light in the life of Jesus caught my eye and heart.

He writes, "The ministry of Jesus is, of course, criticism that leads to radical dismantling." From Jesus' healing on the Sabbath to his dinners with the outcasts; the morality of society, what is acceptable and unacceptable, clean and unclean, right and wrong were all "obliterated," as Brueggemann describes. Jesus' more serious claims such as the forgiveness of sins and speaking directly about the destruction of the temple furthered his friction with "the righteousness of the law." In light Jesus' criticism of the current society and his solidarity with those who have been neglected by it, Brueggemann writes, "The heavy criticism of Jesus holds the offer and possibility of an alternative beginning." But it is his cross that inevitably shows us how we might be a voice for change.

Brueggemann has this to say on the matter:

"Therefore we say that the ultimate criticism is that God himself embraces the death that his people must die. The criticism consists not in standing over against but in standing with; the ultimate criticism is not one of triumphant indignation but one of passion and compassion that completely and irresistibly undermine the world of competence and competition. The contrast is stark and total: this passionate man set in the midst of numbed Jerusalem. And only the passion can finally penetrate the numbness. The cross is the assurance that effective prophetic criticism is done not by an outsider but always by one who must embrace grief, enter into death, and know the pain of the criticized one."

I am convinced more and more each day that only the crucified God can lead us to change, inspire us to care, help us to love. Modern day prophecy, God help us.

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted." (Matt 5:4)

Tolstoy.

This is something I found in my readings a few months ago. I thought it to be one of the best and simplest explanations I've heard in regard to the teachings of Christ. I'll begin my blogging here in the states with it. I do realize this man drove himself insane trying to adhere to Christ's teachings, eventually neglecting his family as well as denying the importance of mysticism in our faith. But his words here couldn't be any more precise.

"A man who professes external law is like someone standing in the light of a lantern fixed to a post. It is light all around him, but there is nowhere further for him to walk. A man who professes the teachings of Christ is like a man carrying a lantern before him on a long pole: the light is in front of him, always lighting up fresh ground and always encouraging him to walk further."

~Leo Tolstoy


I guess I'm trying to find my place in this blogging world. Being in Kolkata presented me something in my life I thought might be necessary to share. Perspective from the other side of the world. I find myself wondering a lot recently, about anything and everything. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually schizophrenic. The strongest and weakest of sensation all in one day. It comes and goes so quick I couldn't expound if I wished to. Hopefully I'll make some sense of it soon. Until then, I'll just share the thoughts of great minds like Leo.

Thank You.

Thank you all for taking the time to read my blog entries while I was in Kolkata. I am currently working with my father on the farm, a job which has been a blessing more than once now as I try and figure out what might be next for myself. I won't allow my being back in the states to prevent me from writing. I will try and post a blog once every week or two...as far as the subject matter, I've no idea. One more time, thank you all.

Songs.

My time in India did inspire a few songs, as I mentioned previously. They are as follows:


"Imago Dei"

Self perceptive poverty,
Fatalistic tendencies,
The sun is setting on the block,
The city's dark, the conscience gone.

Sometimes hope is all we have,
I can learn to live with that.

A woman's smile, her dignity,
Restoration slowly be,
Some blankets and redemption's cry,
Imago Dei is recognized.

Sometimes hope is all we really need,
Enough to bring us to our feet.


"Scales"

This rickshaw has its days,
But I can't seem to make,
Enough to feed a child and lose this cough.

A Sudder Street affair,
Benevolence my chance,
To make a descent wage with babe in hand.

Existence never fails,
To help remove the scales.

A child's insistent stare,
Dirty matted hair,
A glass of water and the ocean floor.

A husband asks his wife,
To stand in the red-light,
I try and understand, impossible.

A woman and some coins,
An ever present void,
I often wonder how the soul replies to a warm set of eyes.


"Untitled"

Discouragement and Kingdom metaphors,
Scattered seeds on less than fertile soil,
Unattended, Unexplained,
Suffering and a sudden spout of rain.

Childhood dreams and stark reality,
What you've done for them you've done for me,
Family ties and legal flaws,
Confusion and a Jericho of walls.

Where is God in all of this?
The infamous faith inquiry,
Fallen man, Incompetence,
But the Word Made Flesh is suffering understood.

Ye of little faith come rest your head,
Reason's never put the mind to bed,
Thomas and my visual defeat,
Blessed is the hope that hasn't seen.


"Untitled"

First John excerpts, could you spare some change?
Where's the love I thought I once explained?
Hesitation, shoulder barricades,
What I had I know I could have gave.

City of Joy, how can I hold this cup?
Half empty of full, God give me your eyes.

Eyes wide open, once so far removed,
Giving sometimes deems a man a fool,
"She's a thief," he whispers in my ear,
Thief or not a child of God revealed.


"Economic Blues" (literally)

My mind fell short of a clue,
And reason quickly withdrew,
The wagons circle,
I've got a mouthful,
I spit it out though, trying to make some sense.

Beggars breaching the walls,
Dark eyes piercing my soul,
Scientific,
My stomach's twisted,
God forget it, give a man some bread.

I'm not a mystic,
Although many days I've wished it,
Lord, grant me vision, greater than this day.


"Consideration"

I may not understand, what brought you here,
The circumstances and the blame,
World apart but footsteps closer than you think,
Consideration stings.

Living like a King, the jester wears his cap
And money entertains,
I admire my crown but someone intervenes,
Relativity.

I'm not sure if I have changed a thing,
But knowing you I'll never be the same.

Oh prosperity, for the sake of Joy I'm often listening,
But your absence seems to always set me free,
Lilies of the field.

Metal wanderings,
Journaled words and often troubled songs to sing,
Out of sight and out of mind but suddenly,
Kolkata city streets.


"Meditations"

Third world meditations, man I love them and I hate them,
Everything under a microscope,
Seeing is a privilege, an eraser to the wish list of the things I thought I needed most.

Stomach pains and money, as far as meals there's only one,
He can't afford to eat the fattened calf,
Questions and indulgences, A needle and a rich man's wish,
This city has a lot to ask.

Patience and injustice, theologically restless,
Of the mountains I can't seem to move,
Lessons in submission, some days I don't care to listen,
To the things of God I know to be true.

Oppression and the anecdote, Isaiah and the words he wrote,
Fasting of a different kind,
History and her prophets, generations, hands in pockets,
Responsibility defined,

One day every tear will dry, the curtain fall the wrong made right,
A banquet for the least of these,
But waiting on a flash of light can blind you in the darkest night,
Open eyes will set you free.


"Whole"

Blessed are, narrow is, you've heard it said,
Hypocrisy, a cup of wine, a loaf of bread.

Here's my yoke, take up a cross and find some rest,
Go and make, a drop of ink and righteousness.

Make me whole.

A child-like faith, persistent doubt, obscenities,
Withstanding hope, but not so tall amidst the weeds.

Sacred law, selfless love, symmetry,
Gospel truth, A Kingdom come, eternity.


"Commerce Bridge"

I crossed the bridge a second time,
And to my surprise, my bewildered eyes,
I saw a man selling ice cream,
And by his cart stood a beating heart,
She was also selling something,
With nothing in her hands, sensual demand.

Side by side, commodities,
A human being, a frozen treat,
Commerce bridge, the water flows,
A woman's body, an ice cream cone.

Injustice and its silent ally,
Negligence, at whose expense?
This city often shows you something,
Ludicrous, cowardice,
Human beings left to ponder,
Who they are in the makers eyes.


"A Widow's Tithe"

So the revelation come as a matter of fact,
Nothing from a burning bush or mountain top,
A blessing and a curse, freedom but a conscience bound to burst,
Every morning brings to light, a widow's tithe.

And what does it truly mean to die?
My choices and true self denial.

Admiration of the poor, a simple lot,
Suffering I'll never know, but a steady diet,
A Savior's dying words, my neighbor and a selfishness to endure,
Privilege and confidence, in light of a widow's tithe.

Sidewalk.

Today I spent a little more time with my two friends who beg on Sudder Street. After grabbing a bit of food, I spent an hour sitting on the sidewalk with all of the women who beg and their children. Being there for more than a few minutes showed me a few things. These ladies and their children are one big family. Of course their begging is a survival mechanism, but for the most part they are in it all together. They take care of each other's kids, share food, water, and stories from their inquiries for money from foreigners. They talk and laugh just like I would with those whom I love and share life with.

I also was able to experience their neglect. Of the five to ten people that Furyda said "sister or brother, how are you" to, zero turned their head to even acknowledge us sitting on the sidewalk. I know that many understand these women will no doubt ask them for money, that they are often labeled "thieves" and "manipulative," but can a smile hurt your pocket book? Furyda pointed to one women, telling me that her response to a hello yesterday was "F*** Off." I still don't know how to handle all of my interactions with these women. Even the two that I've become quite good friends with. But sitting with them today opened my eyes a bit to the reality that people with needs are often the ones most neglected. There is something exceptional about these women though. Day after day, they are ignored, avoided, and degraded by those who pass by them in their respective place on the sidewalk across from the internet cafe. And still they will say "hello brother, how are you," believing that the next person might stop and give them a few minutes of their day; maybe even a few rupees. My time spent on the sidewalk today caused me to regret the many times I crossed to the other side of Sudder Street purposely avoiding that interaction.

At midnight tonight I head to the airport for an early morning flight back to the states. Thank you all for walking with me here. Looking forward to seeing everyone.

A Wise Man Once Said...

"Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit."


It's very difficult to condense the entire Message of Christ into a few words. But I might argue this to be one of Jesus' most exceptional efforts. His life and teachings coexist in this kernel of wheat; a cross and a call to tirelessly lose ourselves in the hope for a healed world. There are few things that I am certain of, that I can rest my head on at night. This is one. There seems no other way for change in this world. I've tried to die time and time again here in Kolkata. Most attempts were met by failure. Unfortunately, death isn't so easy. All we can do is keep trying...

Thanks for reading friends.

On the Walls.

The clock is ticking on my time here in Kolkata. In less than a week I'll be on a plane heading back to the States. Things have gotten busier as the time of departure approaches. There are so many people to spend time with and say goodbye to. In my work at Prem Don, I've come across so many interesting and admirable people volunteering. I am leaving with many friendships and places to stay if I ever find myself on their side of the world. Being here has shed light on the diversity of this world. In one city, in one short period of time, I've experienced and learned things that challenge every bit of me; heart, mind, and soul. I'm thankful for it all.

I've written some songs since I've arrived in Kolkata. My mind has been in constant motion from the start. Music has always been an important medium for fleshing out what's on my mind. My time here has been no exception. The people and happenings have provided much to chew on. Many moments, as I wrote in one of my songs, I can't help but to spit it all out. Luckily some of it has landed on paper in the form of a few songs I hope to share when I get back. I played them for my WMF friends last night. It was good to finally put together and share what's been brewing in my head for some time now. But even still, what I've "spit out" onto paper and into song has mostly been a lot confusion and a constant recognition that I need to hold tight to truths such as a persevering hope and necessary trust.

Today we took the women of Sari Bari bowling and out for some South Indian food. Weekly, we've put back money in order to pay for this final time of fellowship. Our time with them was wonderful. Many days I've sat inside of that redemptive business, watching the woman create something beautiful out of a few old garments. My mind suddenly reflects on the unknown pasts of the ladies. The ways that they have been wronged, manipulated, lied to, and used. But when I spend time with them, such as on our little excursion today, I see exuberant smiles. I see bouts of laughter that sometimes lead a woman to tears. I see a community of women united by one thing; love. So many times I've been a part of their small celebrations and times for tea. Sari Bari is a business, but if you spend more than a few days here, you soon realize that it's a family. The love of Christ is written all over the walls of Sari Bari. It doesn't take long to make out the words.

Supernatural Things.

I preface this entry with the fact that I am not prone to believe everything that I hear. Most of the time I discredit stories which don't make total sense to me; try to forget them. I've read many books which contained encounters with the spiritual realm. Most of those readings I passed off as extraordinary; things I will never encounter myself. While in South India, I met a women who had many stories to tell, all of which challenged my standoffish view of the supernatural. Here is just one of them...

Nancy has led an interesting life. She now has a home and takes care of over 45 orphaned children. Before coming to start the home she currently heads, she found herself working in a government hostel in India taking care of abandoned children. One evening, three boys were returning home to the hostel. Unpredictably one boy picked up a rock and threw it at what appeared to be nothing. Immediately he fell to the ground. When the boys walked over the see what had happened, the boy immediately began to spew profanity at the other two boys in a deep voice that sounded nothing like his own. Eventually they brought him to his feet and into the hostel to Nancy. She was left in charge as the only adult on duty in the evenings and through the night. At first the deranged boy would not enter into her office, she thought he was merely misbehaving. Finally she said, "in the name of Jesus get in this office," he then entered. After this strange and immediate response, she realized that something spiritual was happening. Upon entering he began to argue with Nancy. This would not be abnormal, except for the fact that he was speaking perfect English in his deepened voice. The Tamil boy that Nancy knew could speak little English, if any at all. She began to wonder if a demon might be involved, something she's experienced before. Nancy began to ask the spirit to leave the boy time and time again, the deepened voice would respond with "I don't have to listen to you," or "I'm going to stay in this boy forever."

Nancy had a bottle of water beside her and began to silently pray that the water would represent the blood of Christ as she drank it. She then tried to give some to the possessed boy, but it rejected the water having full knowledge of Nancy's silent prayers. She began throwing small amounts onto the boy as he recoiled in horror. The deep voice began to compromise a bit. He demanded to be given food, then he would leave the boy. Nancy hesitated, and then responded with "I don't make deals with demons" ( I found this commentary a little amusing when I first heard it). She continued to demand the demon's departure.

Finally the possessed boy said, "I will leave as long as you make him leave." Nancy had no clue who he was speaking of. Upon asking, the deep voice muttered Jesus and spat on the floor as he pointed to a spot in front of Nancy. With a sudden sense of confidence she felt that anger would not be the avenue that would drive out such a spirit. She embraced the young boy and began to cry uncontrollably onto his head. After twenty minutes or so of prayer and tears, the boy's voice returned to normal and it seemed that the spirit had left him.

Later, the boy explained what he could remember had happened to him. While walking home with the two boys, he passed an abandoned car which sat alongside the road near the hostel. He saw a small dark figure standing near the automobile. The figure resembled a friend of his who had died in a car accident years ago in his early childhood. As the figure came closer the boy identified him as his friend but he looked so much different; a bit evil. This is when the boy picked up the rock and threw it at the approaching dark figure. The figure responded by thrusting himself onto the boy, knocking him off of his feet. This was as much as he could remember...

I'm not sure why I chose to share this story with you. It was just one that pierced through my inhibitions and doubts of an unseen world. Thanks for reading.

Ten Rupees.

Even after four months I still struggle with need here in Kolkata. A few days ago I failed to give when walking by a man begging near Park Street; as I have so many times. Right now you're probably thinking, "I've heard this from you before." I glanced in my wallet to find that I had only one small rupee note and a few large bills. The small bill was my motor rickshaw fair home. So I held eye contact for a brief moment and continued on. When it came time to pay the rickshaw fair, I opened my wallet to find three small rupee notes tucked away in the pouch.

Now, I'm not going to say that those extra bills weren't there to begin with, that they mysteriously came into existence. Most likely, I didn't see them when I quickly glanced. I often lean toward skepticism rather than the supernatural; a tendency I regret to admit and would love to change. I don't think that I could have fed every beggar in Kolkata a meal by the means of a nearly empty wallet and the faith of a mustard seed; although something of the like has been done before (i.e. some loaves of bread and some fish). But I do feel that the experience was a reminder. That God clothes the lilies of the field. Why should I be worrying about myself or a motor rickshaw fair, when I visibly see a brother in need. That my giving to this individual just might be like the sun that shines and rain the falls from the heavens so that the lilies can grow. God's ascension and the responsibility left behind for the disciples sheds a lot of light on the needs of this world and my response to them. The extra rupee notes were a great reminder of a few things Jesus had to say; stop worrying about everything and take care of my people.

There has been a lot of hope and potential lately in Sonagachi. Kristen recently took a small group of women to see Freeset. Freeset is an NGO from New Zealand, like Sari Bari they provide alternative work in order for women to leave the sex trade. They make bags out of Jute; it is a wonderful place that has brought freedom to over seventy women. Their link is to the left. A month ago it seemed that there was a lot of discouragement for the staff here. But lately, with one woman's visit to Freeset, there is hope for a "revival" in the red-light area. Places like Freeset and Sari Bari are still myth in the minds of many women. When you have been trafficked, owned, or purchased all of your life, it makes sense that you might not trust someone who says they have a great job for you. Especially when there is nothing that they want in return. Their interest is to help you; too good to be true. Following her visit, the woman returned to tell some of her fellow red-light workers that what they heard was all true. There really is this place they can work; everything was true. Word of mouth is a beautiful thing. Hopefully truth will prevail.

In a few days we will be heading to south India for a week. After returning, I have a few weeks left here. I'd appreciated your prayers for the future. But pray especially for the poor and oppressed here in Kolkata. There are so many obstacles that wander into the paths that lead to faith, hope, and love. Pray for freedom.

Peace.

Once again, it's been a while since I last posted a blog. Much has happened since then, so I'll try and sum up what has been going here and in my head. Work continues at Prem Don. For a while, the work was becoming a bit tedious. There were some moments when I found myself just going through the motions. But more intentional interaction with the men has brought life to my time there as of late. But there have definitely been many moments when I truly admire the sisters and their dedication to a life of service in these homes. There is one man I've come to befriend. His name is unknown, as he is unable to speak, but my interaction with him is wonderful. I smile, he laughs, and then proceeds to push his nose sideways and draw an imaginary circle around his face with his finger while puffing his cheeks up. I believe he is trying to tell me something. Whatever that message be, we both get a good laugh out of our time together.

Recently Jesse and I went to a village which lies a couple of hours outside of Kolkata. We went to help repair the home of one of the women who work for Sari Bari. We arrived planning on staying for 3-4 days. We ended up only spending two days and a night there. Long story short, the contractor didn't want our help. He wanted another contractor. Of course he didn't tell us this until we had spent the day buying supplies for the reparations. He then proceeded to try and change the price he had originally agreed on; a lot of phone calls and frustration. So we spent they evening in the village and returned the next afternoon having accomplished little. But it was good time spent with our friend Upendra, a chance to experience rural Indian life, and many lessons learned in patience.

There is less than a month left in the time allotted for me to be here. Things are going to move rather quickly now. I recently sat down with Beth and talked about the future; this trip coming to a close. My doubts, questions, and inability to commit were definitely on the agenda. It was a lot of me talking and her asking questions. But it was good. So far my life has consisted of commitment in small doses. One of my biggest fears is just that; commitment. The irony is that a close second is the fear that I will never give myself to something long term. I have a tendency to float. To look on what others are doing and say, "amazing," but continue wondering myself what I might be capable of. Closed doors scare me. There are many open ones right now. Free will, especially that of an affluent individual, is such a blessing. But sometimes it can be quite the headache. I'm praying and wondering about the future; trying to find some peace. Thanks for reading and for caring.

Reborn.

Recently, one of the Indian staff members of Sari Bari was baptized. To celebrate the occasion we came together at Sari Bari's place of business. The person baptized took a few minutes to share with the group her thoughts on her choice and the ramifications. Her words on the concept of a "new life" brought to mind, as it has come to mind many times before, this concept of rebirth, which is something found in both the Hindu faith and Christian. But the ideology behind each seem to be much different.

In the Hindu faith, the concept of rebirth is something to be discovered in the next life. In this life, we have come from another life lived, and where we find ourselves now is the product of the sins which have carried us into our current livelihoods. Our circumstances are our fate. What we do now, in this life, determines our next life, and so on. Rebirth isn't seen as something attainable in this life. But it seems that the women of Sari Bari are beginning to see their lives in a different light. Coming from their oppressive lots in the red-light area of Kalighat, they now find themselves working for three women who love them immensely and would do anything for them. A drastic change if I must say so myself. I find it hard to imagine what a person might think of their maker if they find themselves selling their bodies each day, or what their maker thinks of them, understanding that what they are doing is their fate. It is who God has predestined them to be. Even within the realm of Christian faith, knowing and seeing many of the oppressed can force you to ask many questions of God's providence. Nevertheless, the women have taken notice of change in their lives.

A few of the women teared up as they shared a few words. One woman shared how much her life has changed for the better since given the opportunity to leave the trade and come to work for Sari Bari. Their lives have changed so drastically that this concept rebirth has come into effect, most definitely in the way that they see themselves. I can only imagine their self-perceptions before leaving their work in the red-light area. But now they are constantly reminded of who they are each day that they come to work at Sari Bari, of their significance. Being "born again," in the Christian faith, has always been associated with someone deciding to devote their life to following Christ, as with the employee who was recently baptized. But there is a rebirth of sorts happening among the women of Sari Bari. I caught a glimpse of it this past week in our time together. It's a beautiful thing to watch the revelation of self-worth. Beginning with how they view themselves, these ladies are being reborn.

Being.

Most times that I sit down to write a blog I have a certain something on my mind. Today is not the case. I realize that I have not written anything in a while, not because I have not been learning, but because time has been precious. This past week or so has been a bit different than usual; a bit difficult. I have been getting to know people better here as the weeks progress. This includes some of the patients in the Mother Theresa homes. When I returned to work this past Monday morning I found out that one of the patients I befriended had passed away. His name was Delepe. I really didn't know much about him. But over the past few weeks I would pass by and simply say hello each morning or ask him a few questions about his life with my limited language capabilities. He could not have weighed over 60 pounds. Skin and bones, he never left his bed. But his smile and eyes drew me to him most mornings. It was strange to enter Prem Don and see his place occupied by another.

I spent the last couple of mornings with a young man who was probably around my age. In the late stages of Tuberculosis, his lungs were shot. It was inevitable that his life would soon be cut short. So on Monday and Tuesday of this week, much of my time at Prem Don was spent sitting with him; holding his cold and frail skeleton of a body, helping him to drink small amounts of water with a spoon, praying. Today I arrived at Prem Don to see his bed empty. A sister told me that he passed away yesterday afternoon in my absence.

It's difficult to see human suffering like I have here in Kolkata. Not only in the streets, but also in the homes. I have recently started spending Tuesday afternoons at Kaligat, Mother Theresa's home for the dying. Most of the men there are in bad condition, many close to death. At Prem Don one is able to engulf himself in work; cleaning, laundry, shaving, never having to stare in to the eyes of a dying man. The case is not so at Kaligat, it is a very small and intimate setting. In the afternoons there is not much else to do other than sit with the patients. Yesterday, I sat with an elderly man too weak to sit up. He leaned against me and I fed him some yogurt. I whistled some old hymns out loud. The more I whistled, the closer he moved his head to mine. It was one of those moments where you want to cry because of the overwhelming sadness of it all, but also cry tears of joy. Being able to only speak a small amount at Prem Don and Kaligat has taught me a lot about just being with an individual. Recognizing the importance of being present in some one's life when they most need it. This was all that the elderly man wanted of me yesterday. It was good for my soul.

Everything here has been very real lately. I do believe that it is because I am getting to know the people of Kolkata. Death, trying to get some boys from the red-light area into school, a woman finding out that she and her two year old daughter are HIV positive; it's all very real. I recently was part of a conversation with a young couple, both around the age of twenty. They've been married for a year or so now. The wife was trafficked into India from Bangladesh, but now has earned her freedom. She chooses to still turn tricks in a local hotel, that is with her husband's consent and encouragement. This is done in dreams of one day building a home outside of the city with the money. It's difficult trying to understand where they're coming from, especially the husband's point of view. But this is reality and I'm learning that it sometimes sucks. Some days seem fruitless in a city where the ground is so hard. There has been a passage in Mark chapter 4 that keeps me going. It is the parable of the seed that grows without the farmer doing a single thing for the plant. He simply plants the seed. I'm still learning to trust and hoping for change. Thanks for reading and caring.

Consideration.

Over lunch today I heard a woman from England talking about her childhood. She spoke of a friend she had. When the two would go shopping, her childhood friend would have no limits on what she could spend. She was free to buy at her own will. At the same time, the woman sharing the story had very few pounds to spend on herself. Her spending was restricted. The woman shared the story as an illustration, in relation to her current living situation in Kolkata. As a Westerner residing here, you find yourself standing next to and walking past individuals who have little to no liberation in their spending. Many haven't enough to eat a good meal every day. On the other hand, everything that I and the English woman spend money on is done so with choice. I can eat at a stand on the side of the road for a 25 cents or find my way to a nice restaurant; lessons on freedom once again visited. I could easily relate to her story and thought the analogy to be a good one within the context of India. Let me share with you a recent occurrence.

Jesse and I spent the evening with Upendra and his family. Upendra works for Sari Bari and has become a close friend. We went to a park along the River and then to dinner. The night was great, time together wonderful, but as the evening progressed the condition of my stomach digressed. Let me explain. We took them to have some good old fashioned fried chicken at KFC. Now, in the states if you take five people out to eat for $13.00, the night wouldn't be considered extravagant. But in the context of Kolkata, things look and feel a bit different. I wouldn't have realized this until I watched Upendra's wife pick of the receipt for dinner that had been left on the tray. Her eyes scanned the list of items purchased. It was then that my stomach began to churn. I thought of their current living conditions; the one room house in which we had shared fellowship. And then I began to realize that what we had just spent on dinner equates what they might spend on rent for the month. It was probably a little under what the family lives off of each week. My world and theirs collided inside my head and on the receipt in KFC. The effects were felt as my stomach went to knots. I could not stop wondering what was going through Upendra's wife's head as she saw what we had just spent on fried chicken. By the way, Indians don't like KFC much. I also failed to mention that while preparing to enter KFC, I was approached by a young boy, he asked me to buy a pack of gum for twenty rupees. I had no small bills. All I could do was appoligize as he prostrated himself at my feet, abandoning all his dignity so that I might buy a pack of his gum. I then entered KFC, as if entering another world, away from the suffering and desperation of the boy and so many others like him. I have second guessed the decision on dinner ever since.

Recently we listened to an audio recording of Shane Claiborne speaking in Omaha at a Word Made Flesh Beggar's Society meeting. One of the things he said, I had read a few months past in the states. It has since hit a lot closer to home. He said, "We can admire and worship Jesus without doing what he did. We can applaud what he did and stood for without caring for the same things. We can adore his cross without taking up ours. I have come to see that the great tragedy in the church is not that the rich Christians don't care about the poor but that rich Christians do not know the poor."

Over the past four years God has gravitated my heart to the plight of the poor. Through scripture, articles, documentaries, stories, and statistics I have been broken time and time again. But since I've taken residence in Kolkata, I have unintentionally begun to live life in consideration of those I know and interact with. By consideration, I mean those thoughts you can't escape as you go through daily routines. It might just be the Holy Spirit, all I know is that these thoughts are changing me drastically. Being in relationship and community with Upendra and his family effected the way I felt about spending such a large sum on chicken. Constant eye contact and interaction with the poorest of the poor on the streets of Kolkata changes you as well. It makes you question everything. Knowing and interacting with the poor effects the way you think, act, and live. It is in the faces of the poor that I am changed. I remember Chris Huertz (WMF Director) speaking in Chapel during my college years. He said, "We need the poor to see the face of God." This is becoming a reality to me more and more each day I am here.

I've mentioned before this conflict in my head between sustainable economic development and providing the beggar some food this very day. Right now for me, it's impossible to overlook the tangible needs of an individual in pursuit of long term change. I'm not sure if that will ever change. I'm not sure if it should. Development often takes a back seat to compassion in my daily mind wars. But there has to be more to compassion than a handout, right? The word help is being redefined everyday, with every person. What I am sure of is this, the people of Kolkata are changing me. Change is a good thing; a necessary thing. My world is shrinking with every individual I come into contact with here. The smaller the world gets, the more questions I have to answer; or at least contemplate. But if you know me well enough, you know that I have no problem with questions. This city keeps you on your toes. I like that about this place.

Wanderings.

In the past month, I have gotten into the habit of wandering around this city. We are given one morning off each week, and lately I have chosen to use that time to venture out and see the daily lives of Kolkata citizens. Many times I find myself burdened during my wanderings, the walks are very difficult as there are so many needs evident along the way. I haven't much to say with my language handicap, so I speak a little and help the best I can.

The walks can sometimes be very difficult. There are so many people you come across with missing limbs, expressionless faces, and outstretched arms, while their dirty and half naked children are running around them. Kolkata is a place where in one walk you can pass a well dressed man wearing Diesel Jeans, and a few steps later a child passing excrement on the side of the road. It has truly been an eye opener for myself. A walk I took a few weeks past brought me to a bridge on which stood a woman selling her body. Next to her stood a man selling ice cream cones. They were arms length apart, side by side, each one selling their commodity. It was one of the most disturbing things I have ever come across.

Today, I took one of these walks. As I said earlier, many times I am discouraged by the things that I see. But today proved to be different story. I would almost go as far as to call it a day of divine encouragement. I wandered for a while off the beaten path through some smaller roads and was greeted by so many different people. Usually there are some who wish to talk, but today I received so many smiles and greetings. The city we very friendly. Not that it isn't from day to day, but this day was different. I finally walked across a concrete bridge. Down the hill and to my right was about an acre of grass surrounded by a half built wall. Inside were fifteen to twenty boys playing cricket. I crossed the street to the side they were playing on and watched from the sidewalk for a minute or so. Of course I was a distraction, they all stopped and looked at me. So they asked me if I like cricket. My response was yes, so they invited me to play. The next few hours were great. When I was in the field, the younger boys would come and chat with me, the older boys would then shoo them away because we were in the middle of a match. But soon the older boys would come and talk to me as if their conversations were more meaningful and appropriate. This made me laugh. When I sat and waited to bat, they would all sit near me and ask questions. An older boy who spoke English had to translate most of it. I fell in love with the boys from the start. When the match was over, they told me every day they play at 10:00 a.m. I was invited to join them whenever I could. I walked back to the metro with a big smile on my face. Today, although my walk still brought me to see the suffering and poverty of the city, it also brought me to meet a group of amazing boys. This city is trying hard to win my heart, and doing a very good job at it...

Resurrection.

I believe that this was the first Easter spent away from my family. In some ways it was difficult, but in many other ways it was a new recollection of the cross. Here in Kolkata, I experienced for the first time the "stations of the cross," a Catholic tradition which reflects on Jesus' last hours on earth. Many small details that took place are very easily missed, the stations help you to see the event in it's entirety. The prayers of Mother M. Angelica are read for each station. They provide a lot of introspective questions of our lives in correlation with the cross. It is a reflective journey that I would recommend to anyone.

On Easter Sunday I attended a small church of around fifty members. At least 35 are children. My time spent there was encouraging. The youth ran the show. Reenacting scenes, songs, dance, kids are always entertaining and funny of course. I thought another Easter had come and gone, but on Monday evening we had a book discussion. The book we read was written about the sex trade here in India. There was good dialogue, and as this Easter holiday was waining, the wheels began to turn in my head.

Our discussion came upon the topic of dignity and self perception. As I've written before, these are words no longer applicable to the women working in the Brothels of Kolkata. Outside of their children and fellow workers in the trade, everything and everyone else tells them that their lives have come to a screeching halt. Redemption and restoration are no longer possible. Fatalism says, "this is your life." This is what you were created to do. If they are lucky, in the next life they might be dealt a better hand. They are a community of social outcasts. They've accepted that.

The concept of the "Imago Dei," that we are all made in the image of God is, and has always been one of the theological beacons in my life. No matter the circumstances or behaviors of an individual, no matter how far a person seems to have fallen from grace, nothing can take away the fact they they are beautifully and wonderfully made. This truth has been drastically tainted amidst the women in the red-light districts here. As I began to think about how powerful a message this "Imago Dei" might be to someone in such a situation, I was also reminded of how ridiculous it might seem. "Your life has meaning." "You matter." If suddenly you heard this from someone, after spending a large portion of your life confined to the realization that you have received the worst of fates, you were born to be a sex worker, what would be your reaction? Such a statement would seem absurd. But this message also seems to be the only one that can truly transform a woman, body and soul. But she does not simply come to the realization that she matters by an exchanging of words or a walk down the Romans road. She will only come to understand slowly and hesitantly, as she walks with someone who understands that her life is something to be valued.

Without incarnate relationship, person to person, words will remain words. But the Word becoming flesh happens in Kolkata when Kristen, Sarah, or Beth look women in the eyes and tell them that their lives matters. In educating them and providing alternative work, dignity is restored and value communicated. Through empowerment, the women brush shoulders with the truth. Slowly but surely the "Imago Dei" is realized. Redemption and restoration are not foreign concepts in this life, for me they are a present reality in the small group of women who are working for WMF. I see it in the ways that they smile and laugh. It's not a quick fix, it is relationship. It is understood through trust. It takes time. It is a privilege to see and be a part of dignity and self-worth being resurrected here in Kolkata. This is what I have learned this Easter, that resurrection is happening every day. I am seeing it here in the women of Sari Bari.

"Resurrection is not a consoling opium, soothing us with the promise of a better world hereafter. It is the energy for a rebirth of this life. The hope doesn't point to another world. It is focused on the redemption of this one. Resurrection happens every day. In love we experience many deaths and resurrections."

~Jurgen Moltmann

Privilege.

Yesterday was the first day that I walked down the main road in the heart of the Sonagachi red-light district. It was a short lived visit to the area, but a walk I won't soon forget. Since it was early morning, there were a few groups of young girls huddled around doorways leading up into the brothels. Their ages were impossible to guess, but most could not have been any older than my little sister Brittany. She just turned seventeen. That struck a chord in me as I made the connection. Girls this age are the hardest to mentally carry. They have most likely been trafficked and purchased, this means that they are owned. The only way to win their freedom is legal intervention, which I've shared is a mountain to climb. The other option is the buy their freedom, but this isn't really an option. The last thing a trafficker or brothel owner needs is the incentive that Westerners are now in the business of buying girls. This will only provoke them to find more girls to traffic and sell. Kristen said most times you will only see these younger girls out in the mornings. As things pick up in the district, their presence is still know, just not visibly seen. The teenage girls were scandalously dressed with too much makeup on. It broke my heart the walk past them in such a state. As I said, it was a short lived walk, but one that is ingrained in my mind.

We then turned and entered into the dark hallway of a brothel, up the stairs, and into the one of the rooms in which numerous men visit every day. I must admit I found myself rather uneasy at first in the room and sitting on the bed. The woman was very hospitable, as was her "babu," a man that lives with her and her children. He may be the father, Kristen is not for sure. He was nice though, and it seemed that he cared for the children. After a few minutes, the place no longer seemed so dark. The woman slowly woke her two boys, as we had come to take them to the zoo. They had been anticipating the trip for days, but you could not tell at first. They were sleepy and grumpy. Soon enough they woke up, bathed, had some fruit, and got dressed. Mornings for the family are very much like any other family outside the district. A brothel always seemed so surreal to me, but yesterday I sat on the bed and watched the family slowly go through their morning routines. The children are loved and cared for to best of the mother's ability, just as I was as a child. This was important for me to see.

The boys names are Akash and Bishal. They are brothers and they are sons of a woman who works the lines in Sonagachi. As I said, we took them to the zoo. If anyone has seen the documentary "Born Into Brothels," for me yesterday was very reminiscent of that film. If you haven't seen it, check it out. We took a taxi to the zoo, the two boys hung out the window conversing with each other the whole way about all of the sites they were seeing out of the taxi window. It's fun the experience something with someone for the first time, especially children who are intoxicated by the new things that they see and experience. My time spent with them was truly a blessing. They were two of the most well behaved little boys. The mother has agreed that Sonagachi is no place for the children to grow up and be educated. Currently Beth is talking with a boy's home, which Jesse and I have spent many hours playing soccer at, to see if there is space for the two boys. The sex worker's union has a "school" in Sonagachi for children of sex workers, but it is not sufficient for a good education. I hope and pray they are able to get into the school. Most boys and girls that leave the area for school never return to live. The long term goal would be to bring transformation to Sonagachi, that children would be able to receive a proper education, grow up, and find employment in the area. Right now this is not the case, but maybe and hopefully one day. For these two boys, the boy's home seems to be the best option. The one issue is their one year old sister. The boys are very attached to her, and a very important presence in her life. Many days she is left with the two young boys for most of the day as the mother attends to her work in the brothel. The well being of this little one is a concern, her health is also not so good.

As I said, it was a privilege to spend the day wit the two boys. Yesterday was a great day altogether. Many things seen and experienced, the good and bad, but hope is alive. I saw it in the two boys.

Fallen.

I write this blog feeling a bit sick. I thought that I'd return to Kolkata with a steal trap for a stomach, but last night provided a different story. Instead of working this morning at Prem Don, I am writing this blog I have been wanting to write for some time now and recovering from a long night.

While in Nepal I was a part of many great conversations. Brooke, who lives in Kathmandu, shared many stories of what seemed to be miracles and interventions which cause an individual to stare reason and the supernatural right in the face. I spoke with a man named Samuel who had fled imprisonment in his country of Pakistan after deciding to pursue a life dedicated to Christ and his teachings. His wife and kids are still there, daily harassed by the Muslim group he left and his son has gone into hiding. It was definitely a conversation that redefined freedom and devotion.

One of the most enlightening conversations I had was with Silas, who has lived in Kathmandu for almost ten years. He told me there is a saying in Nepal. "Never water another man's garden." This is a poetic way of saying, don't invest in your daughter's future. She will soon be the responsibility of another man. A daughter is often seen as a burden. He told me that women in Nepal are mistreated and disrespected even more in Nepal than India. There are obvious exceptions, I met a few beautiful couples, but it seems this is a common perception. If a woman does not give her husband a son, she is considered to have bad DNA. Even sometimes when the first child is born a daughter, the man's family will demand the husband find a new wife. As Silas said, the ironic thing is that the husband carries the chromosome that decides whether the child will be male or female. Extreme cases leave a trail of murder. The wife disappears, but of course the young girl is not disposed of. She can be sold to traffickers for a good price.

This perception of women in Nepal is made real when one realizes the overabundance of Nepali women who are found in the Sonagachi red-light district, a place I will be entering for the first time this Friday. The Nepali daughters and wives meant nothing to the husband and his family, were a commodity to the sex traffickers, and are now merely property of the Brothel owners. Fatalism taints the minds and hearts of the woman found in Sonagachi. Most have arrived there by some sort of oppression; kidnapped, raped, bought. The woman find themselves indebted to a brothel owner, a debt which is many times insurmountable. This is their fate, they would tell you. They have accepted their role as a social outcast and an embarrassment to the family. They will try their best not to let their families know of what they do. Being tricked or forced into the trade has no matter, they are no longer fit be called family. If the family does find out, a woman will often become "the workhorse," carrying the financial burden of her siblings and parents by the selling of her body. No longer "acceptable" in the eyes of her family, she still has the cultural responsibility to provide for them. These women are so far removed from the knowledge that they are beautiful and dearly loved by a Father who asks nothing of them but to love Him back.

Kristen shared of a recent occurrence in Sonagachi. It might help to further explain how women working in the trade are seen. Kristen was walking down the main road and came across a girl lying half naked on the side of the street. The sex worker's union, (yes there is really a union of this sort), informed Kristen that the girl was being taken care of. This union has a lot of push in the red light district and is not to be messed with, so Kristen was forced to trust that what she was told was the truth. She returned a day later to find the girl in the same place and condition with a different change of clothes. This time some of the girls working one the lines asked Kristen to do something. She called a Mother Theresa home and was about to take the girl when a union member insisted they not. The union member told Kristen they would take the girl to a clinic. Kristen returned a day later and the girl was nowhere to be found. She asked one of the women where the girl was. The woman responded, "they threw her away." A bit taken back, Kristen asked the same question again and eventually the women pointed her in the right direction. A few blocks away, Kristen found the girl lying under a heap of garbage. She was left for dead. Kristen thought for sure she was just that, but soon found she was still barely alive. She took the girl to a Mother Theresa home. Kristen is still a bit nervous about the repercussions of her actions. Going behind the back of the Sex Workers Union, who wanted the girl disposed of could be dangerous. Taking the girl is a risk that could cost Kristen's freedom to roam the streets of Sonagachi.

If you ask the union about the status of the 10,000 women and girls in Sonagachi they will tell you that they are all over eighteen years old and have the freedom to leave whenever they wish. They reality is that the union is not "for the women," but for the brothel owners and traffickers who want to legalize prostitution. Women working the line have to pay the union for every condom provided. One of the local government officials actually lives within the red-light district of Sonagachi. His mother runs the brothel that illegally traffics Nepali girls. The police are corrupt on every rung of the ladder. No one can find a good police officer willing to help with a raid on the brothels of Sonagachi.

We live in a time when still the voices of women are muffled and many times non existent. I will be the first to say that Partriarical societies breed so many injustices. A male dominated third-world that is hard for cash permeates the presence of a fallen human condition at its worst. When human beings are reduced to property, when a woman can no longer see herself as beautiful, when a child's innocence is stolen by a middle aged man, it's obvious there is a need for drastic change. The Kingdom comes when women are restored and resurrected back to a place of self worth, but it also comes when a man is broken, when he realizes that his actions are bigger than temporary self fulfilment. Let justice role like a might river, but grace has to heal the calloused hearts of this world.

Sunrise.

I shared in my last blog that we would be spending a week in Nepal. I am writing this blog from there. We are currently in a small town called Pokarah. It sits on a lake in the foothills of the Himalayan Mountains. This morning at 5:30 we took a taxi to the top of one of the tree covered foothills that surround Pokarah. From there we watched the sun rise and illuminate the snow capped peaks that seemed only a small hike away. In reality they are rather far. They rise 4,000 to 7,000 meters from the ground, and when the sun hits them right it's unreal. I can't really describe it well. I can do the beautiful scenery here no justice. It really makes you appreciate the hands which formed such a masterpiece.

The town is quiet, tranquil, but a bit of a tourist trap. It has provided a silence that I appreciate, but at the same time I've found myself missing the bustling streets and people of Kolkata. We head back to Kathmandu tomorrow, Nepal's capital, and fly back to Kolkata in a few days. I'm looking forward to the return. I've learned a lot being here, even for only a few days. Conversations with those here have provided a lot of insight. I'll share more later. Thanks for your prayers and thanks for caring.

Learning.

So it's been over a month now since I first arrived in Kolkata. In this span of time, I have had to face much more than I anticipated. I tried my best to come to Kolkata with no expectations. To the best of my ability, I came with only the hope to serve and love the least of these. I had no idea the suffering I would see up to this point and the circles my mind would run in. I spent this past summer asking a lot of questions about God. In the end, most days I would come to a similar conclusion, "I really don't know." I had fallen in love with the mystery of Jesus, the way that he would hardly give a simple equation or explanation, but would answer his disciples' questions with another question, speak in parables, hyperbole. "I don't know" had become a place I could rest my head at night. I was learning new lessons in humility and trust every day. But now in Kolkata I find it hard to rest in such a state of mind. I want answers. I want to be able to solve issues of poverty now. I want to end suffering, oppression, injustice. To be honest, there have been moments and even days of hopelessness. In the end, after the smoke of a difficult day clears, I realize that I have not lost my hope but have simply found myself overcome by all that my eyes have seen. But this realization still does not satisfy my cravings for redemption and hope in the hundreds of somber faces on the streets of Kolkata.

This past Friday I shared a bit about my life with the group. As I began to share why I had come to Kolkata I teared up a bit. I dread those moments. I'm not really a big fan of vulnerability or being transparent, but those moments are significant in understanding that my heart has been changed. I can't fake cry, I can't even fake a smile for a family photo. The tears that welled up in my eyes were confirmation. A mandate has been placed on my heart to go, to hope, to dream, and believe that change is possible. Those moments are when I realize I am no longer capable of living a life outside of what Christ has called me to. We've all heard the saying, "knowledge is power". It is also responsibility. The more that I see and the more that I know will not allow me to turn away, forget, to dismiss something or someone as hopeless. If not hope, then what do we have left?

I'm leaving for Nepal tomorrow. It's just a short flight north into the Himalayas. We will spend a little over a week there visiting and staying at a WMF project, working in another Sisters of Charity home, spending a little time away from Kolkata. I would appreciate prayer for guidance. I'm not really sure about the future. Thanks for reading. I would appreciate hearing from anyone via email: weezer_ks@hotmail.com

Dignity.

I visited a friend in Chicago this past summer. We walked around the city and saw a sufficient amount of beggars and street dwellers. I particularly remember one woman. She was probably in her twenties and simply had in her hand a sign. It read the destination that she was trying to get to and her lack of funds to get there. It was not the sign that caught my attention, but the woman's posture. She did not look up once in the time that we spent waiting on the corner to cross the street, and it wasn't just a few seconds.

This past experience came to mind yesterday when I decided to take a few hours and walk through parts of Kolkata that I'd yet to see. I met an elderly woman, hard for cash who was very pleased to receive a ten rupee bill when all she had in hand were a few coins. She touched my chin and spoke some beautiful Bengali to me. Her smile warmed my heart. We exchanged names, I said "namashkar," their greeting for hello and goodbye, and went on my way. This is often the response from an individual asking for rupees, they are well pleased to receive such a gift. But there are instances, such as the one I shared from my trip to Chicago that are a bit more difficult to deal with. I experienced one yesterday.

After walking for a bit through a part of the city unknown to me, I stumbled upon a sickly man laying on the side of the road. To be honest, I could not tell if the man was alive or dead, I watched the blanket covering his body and saw little to no motion from his chest. I had just passed a woman selling fruit a few hundred feet back, so I went to buy the man some. I walked up to him, softly tapped him on the shoulder, and he awoke startled. He looked at me in a dreamy state, I gave him the fruit, he touched my feet in thanksgiving. He then moved his hand from his forehead to his mouth. I have learned a Hindu does this to say thank you or when he has touched something unclean. This situation pertains to both, my feet and the fruit. To this point I was standing. I then crouched down and asked him his name. He turned away from me promptly and would not respond to my inquiring at all. He wouldn't look me in the eye. After a few moments I continued on.

This is the moment that I began to remember the girl from Chicago. She had been begging for so long that her dignity no longer shown. She stared at the sidewalk, not looking up once, as thousands passed her by without a second thought. This man, in his wretched straights, had been neglected so many times that he would no longer look me in the eye. He wouldn't speak with me. These two individuals' situations, lives, and geographic locations were very different. But my mind brought them together yesterday. What was was the connection? A world which has communicated, "you really don't matter to me."

This seems to be the hardest poverty to see. As Mother Theresa said, "Being unwanted, uncared for, forgotten by everyone, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat." Yesterday, I saw first hand the poverty of this man's soul. I can only imagine what the man thought of himself. When I look at him, a man made in the image of God, I am discouraged. One, obviously because there are neglected people like him all around the world. But second, that I am more than guilty of passing by many of these individuals. I did not stop to talk with the girl in Chicago. I pass by numerous beggars every day here in Kolkata. What am I saying in choosing not to help my brother or sister in need? I hope that they wouldn't take it as "you're not worth my time," but what else would they think? What we choose to do for each in our times of need might just make or break the image of ourselves, strip away our dignity and self worth. I don't know, but I saw in these two individuals something missing. Their eyes, or lack there of spoke to me. I'll leave you with one of my favorite quotes:

"People travel to wonder at the heights of the mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long course of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars, and yet they pass by themselves without wondering."

~St. Augustine

Under the Table.

This isn't really a blog to be read by children...

I have yet to step foot inside of Sonagachi. It is the red-light district of Kolkata that is one of the most infamous in all the world. I shared of my small brush with Sonagachi in a blog entitled "Freedom," an occurrence in which I walked past a group of young women lined up a set of stairs on the side of a busy Kolkata street. That street, I soon found out bordered the Sonagachi district. But I have not entered the small roads and back alleyways where much of the soliciting of sex occurs. In seeing the young girls openly displayed that day on a very public street, one cannot imagine what happens in the darker corners of Sonagachi. It's size is only about one city block. But in this city block it is estimated that 6,000 to 9,000 women work the lines on a daily basis. An estimated 20,000 men visit the district every day. If not living in the brothels, women called "flyers" travel to and from the district daily to rent out brothel space for their work. Sarah, the director here dreams of one day having a business in Sonagachi where women would come to pick up supplies for making blankets rather than renting space to sell their bodies. A dream worth fighting for if you ask me. I will soon be spending some afternoons in the district.

I had to share with you Sonagachi and thoughts on the trade because of a film I watched last night. It is called "Fields of Mudan." It's a thirty minute short film which forces you to face the harsh realities of child sex trafficking. One is not only forced to acknowledge that such an injustice exists, but even more so to step in the mind and heart of a child who's innocence was disgustingly stolen from her. After watching the film, I could not help but question what was happening just down the street in the darker corners of Sonagachi. I did not want to try and imagine, but the film forced me to.

These issues of injustice can easily fall by the wayside, not because one doesn't care, but because we are so far removed from anything like it. This has always been my struggle living back home in the States. I cannot even begin to relate to these girls, their suffering. But watching this film just down the road from Sonagachi forced me to put the film's contents into a very real perspective. We have to bridge the gaps of this world somehow, but walking that bridge just might be the most uncomfortable place we've ever found ourselves.

Many of these woman are slaves, owned by a pimp or brothel. But slavery is considered to be a thing of the past right? Being here in Kolkata says otherwise. Research done in 2003 by National Geographic states that there are approximately 26 million slaves today around the world. This is more than were extracted from Africa during the 400 years or transatlantic slave trade." Slavery is no longer in the public arena and may look a bit different than years past, but this does not mean it's gone. The margins of this world are not pretty. It's sad that power does not set the oppressed free, but rather keeps them shackled. But we cannot allow ourselves to simply brush the ugly issues of our time under the table. As a matter of fact, it seems that is where many already are. Get out your brooms friends.

A Small Mistake.

Last blog I spoke a bit about Upendra, an amazing friend I've made here in Kolkata. But I also spoke a bit about arranged marriage. After speaking with my host parent Lata, I learned arranged marriages have been on the decline. She estimates that just under fifty percent of marriages anymore are arranged. Often times today, two individuals will arrange a meeting of the parents to discuss their coming together in marriage. But many traditions still remain, such as the dowry. This is a payment made from the bride's family to the groom's. Today, this looks a bit different. Maybe it will come in the form of a motor bike or furniture. Just as the caste system is considered to be extinguished, it's traditions still linger in the minds and hearts many today. I would attribute the neglected poor here in Kolkata somewhat of a product of this way of thinking. Arranged marriage is still very common in conservative circles, but it also is changing. I didn't want to mislead you.

A Small Mistake.

Last blog I spoke a bit about Upendra, an amazing friend I've made here in Kolkata. But I also spoke a bit about arranged marriage. After speaking with my host parent Lata, I learned arranged marriages have been on the decline. She estimates that just under fity percent of marriages anymore are arranged. Often times today, two individuals will arrange a meeting of the parents to discuss their coming together in marriage. But there is still remnance of the dowry, which is a payment made from the bride's family to the groom's. Today, this looks a bit different. Maybe it will come in the form of a motor bike or furniture. Just as the caste system is considered to being extinguished, it's traditions still linger in the minds and hearts many today. Arranged marriage is still very common in conservative circles, but it also is changing. I didn't want to mislead you.

Hospitality Redefined.

Today myself and four others had lunch in the home of Upendra. He is an employee of Sari Bari, a man who has a wife and two children who are under ten years of age. They are a beautiful family. I cannot remember all their names at the moment ashamedly, but on the other hand I cannot forget their generosity and hospitality. They live in a home that is smaller than most sheds we have outside our homes in the States to store our riding lawn mowers. It is a small square room approximately 5 foot by 5 foot. There is a platform which sits 3 feet off the ground on which we sat and ate a meal which his wife prepared, this platform is also their bed on which they sleep. Under the platform is where the wife crawled to prepare us a delicious meal. This, for many Indians, is the typical home. One room, no matter the size of the family. They are not a normal Indian family though, being that their marriage was one that was initiated by feelings of love. Most marriages are arranged. Love seems to be seen as more of a discipline that is learned after marriage than something to build a relationship on, not to say true love cannot come from such an arrangement. Their coming together is referred to as a "love marriage," pretty self explanatory, and is not so socially accepted. Meeting each other in school, falling in love, and getting married has not proven to be easy. Both of their families disapprove and to this day have not accepted their joining hands in marriage. But they have remained faithful, even as their conflicted relatives live just down the alley. They have a great story to tell. It was a privilege to share fellowship with them in their home. Sitting there I had to ask myself, could I live like this? It's a good question to ponder. Every day here in Kolkata provides something new to think about. A new perspective to try and view the world around me from. Of course some perspectives are easier to place myself in than others. I just thought I'd try and share a little of Indian life with you. Thanks for caring.

Reality.

After working this morning at Prem Don, I grabbed some lunch with some other volunteers. On my way to check my email I unintentionally sat down for a second lunch. A woman named Rotima and her four year old child asked for me for some rupees (money), but instead I asked in broken Bengali "Where is the food?"So we sat down briefly at a small restaurant on Sutter St. for some lunch. I had a cup of tea and they some rice and curry. An elderly women beggar followed us in and I invited her to join the party. The woman with the child was very talkative. Of course she shared with me her need for rupees, but we also made plenty of small talk in both English and Begali. She thanked me and called me brother frequently.

I share this experience with you because of the conflict that has arisen inside of me since coming to Kolkata. I want to "help" the poor here in Kolkata. But there is a conflict. Sharing lunch with these individuals, from an economic perspective accomplishes little to nothing. Of course the experience is much more than an "economic one," but many would say that I am only encouraging the beggars to remain in their current state of dependency. They mght be taking advantage of me. But have they any other option? Should I even consider the developmental side of things as I know that I am called to love and simply take care of "the least of these?" When should I think and act in terms of the bigger picture, the long term effects of my giving? And when should I just give because I know there is an need? I will not always have time to sit down for lunch with people. Should I simply give, trusting that the money will go where needed? I have been warned many times of manipulative beggars here in Kolkata. Is it my place to judge the hearts of those who I am called to take care of?

The economics of God are interesting, very difficult to address here in Kolkata. As I read books on development and the poor, the stress is always that someone would reach the point of a self-sustaining life. No need for charity. But it seems in most passages, New and Old Testament, that the poor's strife is a burden that we are to carry. No questions asked. If there is a need, we are called to help. Since arriving in Kolkata, I have been trying to define this word "help." This collision of God's call to unconditional giving and my trying to make sense of true economic development here in Kolkata has proved to send my mind in circles. Many time throughout the day I am overcome trying to balance these two perspectives. In the end, I know that I'm called to simply love. This is the greatest commandment. My heart will not allow me to pass by a brother or sister in need without giving...or wondering why I have chosen not to give. I only wish things weren't so complicated.

Oh reality, it has hit me like a brick in this city. I'm searching for some clarity at this moment, unsure if concrete, tangible answers are even what I really need. A heart which is in constant communion with that of Christ's is most likely the remedy. But I am many times impatient and in need of solution. "Blessed are those who cannot see, and yet believe." I am very thankful for the Mustard Seed parable that Jesus speaks of. Its metaphor reminds me that this Kingdom of love and hope is moving, although many times hard to see, it is. There is much suffering here. Every day brings a new challenge. Every moment another question. As I've said many times before, Lord help me. I would appreciate your prayers. Thanks for caring.

From Day to Day.

Today, after two weeks I have tracked down the whereabouts of my luggage. This morning Beth and I successfully recovered my lost personal items from customs in the Kolkata airport. Fresh boxers are a wonderful thing. Today I will celebrate.

I realize that I have been sharing my feelings and thoughts as promised. But I have failed to share with you what a day looks like. This is a bit too general, as days never really look the same...but there is some consistency. Most mornings we are spending at Prem Don. This is one of Mother Theresa's homes. It is particularly for those with long term injury and sickness. We basically take care of the men. Wash their clothes, dishes, massage their thinly framed bodies, help them to the restroom and serve them meals. I'm trying to converse with them with what little Bangla that I speak, the vocabulary is growing daily. It has been very humbling working at Prem Don, but also a blessing.

Travel takes time from place to place. The metro is our main avenue for getting around the city. It runs a straight line down the center of the city. From the metro you take motor rickshaws... basically they are three wheeled go carts with a small back seat in which you sit. If you are lucky, you might squeeze in next to the driver up front for a get to know you session...too close for comfort. Jesse and I live on the South side of Kolkata about 50 minutes travel from Beth's apartment and 40 minutes from Prem Don. As I said earlier, no trip is a short one. Traffic is always backed up, sidewalks are always full, and the metro at rush hour is packed like sardines in a can. I am getting used to all of it, but living on the farm for the six months prior the this trip was so different. Silence is non-existent. Dogs barking, horns honking, vendors yelling, the streets, even after midnight are noisy. But I have been able to sleep.

The afternoons change from day to day. Right now we are preparing to serve in the Sari Bari ministry, which means we are to be studying the Bangla language. Soon many afternoons will be spent with the women who have recently started their transition out of the brothels and into a new life. I am excited to be a part of their lives. This first month, the afternoons will often be open for reading, study, and getting to know the city a bit better. But as our language develops we will be assimilated into the ministry of Sari Bari more and more. A few afternoons a week I spend doing this, letting you know what's up.

Thanks for caring. Shoot me an email every so often...I love to hear what you guys are up to. Happy 17th b-day to my little sis Britt. Peace Brethren.

Separation.

Paraphrasing: "If someone with material possession sees his brother in need and does not have pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear brothers, let us not love with words or in tongue, but with action and in truth." ~1 John 3:16-18

This passage has become a rather difficult one to deal with in Kolkata. It immediately brings to mind the many homeless individuals I pass by on a daily basis. A few days ago I walked passed a beggar giving him a few coins. Only catching his glance for a moment, I saw a look of painful disappointment cross his face. A few steps later I began to realize what had just taken place. I had given the man the equivalent of a few pennies in U.S. currency. Not even stopping for a moment to acknowledge his presence, I continued on. I can't even remember if I held eye contact for more than a brief second. This was his gauge of self worth. A rich white man gave him literally nothing. I had conveyed to him that he was worth a few cents. I didn't even have the guts to turn around and face my hypocrisy.

I must confess that I am intimidated by those who beg and dwell on the streets. My mind is so easily lost in their situation. Reluctantly, I admit avoiding eye contact in some cases. I am frustrated by the language barrier, which I am just now beginning to crack. I want to sit down on the sidewalk with them, ask their name, what they love, what they would rather be doing, how I can help, convey to them the truth and love. They are children of God. I am their brother. I walk past them discouraged and frustrated. There is separation. Their situation is beyond my capacity to comprehend. My white skin is a symbol of possible sympathy and charity. How can two people so different understand each other...know each other? This is my dilemma.

In the train station there was a girl with a younger boy, possibly her younger brother. The boy was covered from head to toe with scabies. As she asked for change, the little boy stood and scratched vigorously at his infected skin. I could hardly look at him. This was one of the most difficult moments I have had in Kolkata. Sarah told the young girl of a free clinic which would treat the boy. The girl would not listen, she was only interested in money. The young boy's physical aliment was a meal ticket. Why would the girl and or her family get rid of such a thing? For a moment I was angry. How could someone use this little child like this? But then I realized that I am in no place to judge. I can in no way understand their situation.

This city is hard. Please pray that my life would convey the unconditional love of Christ. The people of Kokata are beautiful. Their eyes deep, dark and many times empty. My hope is that I might be a bit of light and encouragement.

Currently Reading:

"Banker to the Poor." This book is fascinating. Muhammad Yunus started, in 1983, a non interest loaning bank to the rural poor in Bangladesh. It is called the Grameen Bank. Since, it has helped millions climb out of the depths of poverty and has fought corrupt moneylenders who trap the poor with high interest loans and costly supplies. I havn't been able to put it down.