On Christ and Cookies

Beams from the scorching Indian sun mercilessly sent familiar beads of sweat careening down my face. I again attempted to wipe the monsoon season humidity from my dirtied cheeks. My effort was futile. We inched further along one of the muddied side roads of Tangra, a slum in Kolkata (formerly Calcutta), India. This day the monsoon rains had brought the frequent flooding not uncommon at this time of year. What normally was a 10-minute walk now took a half hour, and my impatience mounted with the palpable heat.

I focused intently on my own feet. Avoiding the assortment of trash notoriously strewn about the streets. Avoiding the puddles of water that floated raw sewage in the aftermath of the afternoon showers. Avoiding the crowds gawking at my foreign features.

I was ungrateful. Exhausted from the heat. Annoyed that the hem of my pants was soaked. That mud and God knows what else had seeped into my shoes and made a home between my toes. That people didn’t point or laugh inconspicuously. That the smell of curry mixed with stench of street trash and holy cows made me nauseous.

Until I saw her. Rather, she saw me. A little girl no more than four or five. Stringy hair matted with dust. Distended belly displaying malnourishment. Simple shirt worn through with holes that barely covered the top of her thighs. Her circumstance was the picture of poverty, but her smile was the picture of joy. She was standing on the street, eating a tiny cookie, the crumbs of which freckled her pudgy cheeks. She stood frozen, peering at us through doleful brown eyes.

I half expected her to run back to the crowded room that was obviously home, crying from behind the knees of her mother. Instead she offered us her hand. It seemed casual, but our approach unveiled reality. This little girl was offering us her cookie.

Myriad thoughts flashed through my mind, first of disbelief, then through the flood of grace no monsoon could measure. My heart raced to the story in Luke of the widow’s offering:

“[Jesus] looked up and saw rich people putting their gifts into the treasury; he also saw a poor widow put in two small copper coins. He said, "Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all of them; for all of them have contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty has put in all she had to live on." (Luke 21:1-4, NRSV)

This little girl was offering me, a stranger, all she had. As I shook my head, sure this was a mistake, the girl gestured again her pleasure in offering to us what may have easily been her daily bread.

Christ speaks of righteousness in terms of those who give to the least of these, “for I was hungry and you gave me food.” Suddenly in that moment I faced my own poverties, of compassion, justice, commitment, love, faith, and hope. But that little girl, with the physical offering of her tiny biscuit, spiritually invited me to the abundant banquet of Christ, to taste and see the Lord is good.

God is good. God is good here in Kolkata. In the midst of broken realities, from slums to sex trafficking, the love of Christ is that much more sweet. Not because foreigners are here, or even because Christians are here. Rather, because Christ has always been here.

That little girl was Christ to me. I thought that my momentary suffering justified my attitude. I thought that my love, sometimes my food, too, was the gift to be offered. But that little one reminded me that we, the Church, the body of Christ, rely on each other. That we need those who represent the wounds in that body for the working of our salvation. That there is so much left for us to receive.

My eyes have been opened to the heart of God for the poorest of the poor in the world. In response, I pray I am as willing to give my life, my possessions, and my love as freely as that sweet child saw worthy to give unto me. Amen.

The Kingdom of Kolkata

(from Leia's journal)

Most days I walked with my head down. At first I told myself it was so that I could watch my steps as to avoid tripping and falling into the compost lined streets of Kolkata. And even though there is validity to this argument, it’s not wholly true. Kolkata’s streets are lined with beggers. Men, women, children, all homeless, jobless, hopeless. I stared at my feet, yes, to concentrate on each step, but more so that I wouldn’t have to concentrate on my surroundings; so I wouldn’t have to think about, or take in what I was having to see, having to smell, and sometimes even having reach out and touch me.

I discovered my reasons on the Metro, the subway line in Kolkata. Here, those who can afford this luxury, travel throughout the city. The train is usually filled with middle class Bengali’s headed to work, school, or shopping. It is here that I truly discovered the real reasons for my downcast head. Sitting just across from me were two other Indian young ladies. Much like any other day on the train, just about everyone was staring, some whispering, some pointing and even laughing. I held my head down, and realized that when I did so, I didn’t have to see my own objectification. Staring at my feet allowed me to escape the task of bearing witness to it. This was my escape from the world around me.

In this city, I am the rarity. People stare at me, sometimes puzzled, sometimes disgusted, sometimes just stare, at my western clothes and failed salwar attempts, at the strange coiled locs that are my hair. They stare at my mouth and gawk at the weird accent and strange words that come from my mouth. Yes, here I am the rarity. How strange for me this is. How strange indeed for my western eyes. Here, in Kolkata, India, in the State of West Bengal, where every boy has the same hair cut, every man the same mustache, and every women the same hairstyle, the African American with western clothes and the southern accent is peculiar.

But for my western eyes, when they were ready to see, saw this world much differently. My downcast head only allowed me to escape momentarily. Soon, looking down forced me to witness children sleeping on the street. Infants playing only inches away from raging traffic while their parents rested on the concrete that I use as a sideway and that they use as a home. My lowered head forced my eyes to see the brokenness of elderly women, probably widows, with tattered clothing and missing limbs, unable to stand, unable to walk, unable to work, unable to eat, only able to sit on the fringes of life and death. And when I closed my eyes, feeling tired and betrayed by myself whether morning or night, still I was unable to escape my surroundings. My dreams were filled with them. And in the mornings, during my breakfast, I could hear the cries of a child, wails from the depths of his empty belly, the same hour I filled mine.

How strange is this world that we live in. How strange indeed. Here, I am odd, a foreigner, a stranger, a phenomenon, while poverty, begging, homelessness, and disparity remain the norm. Here the African American and her western garb are displeasing ascetically, while the tattered clothes and dirt covered innocent faces of children are the rule. Here my presence is continually queried while the perpetuation of the continued commodification of the bodies of women of all ages goes unquestioned. How strange is this world that we live in, how strange indeed.

Checking in ...

... it feels like it has been so long since we've had a chance to reach out, connect, reflect here. Internet seems sparse, and when it is available, our tiredness and fatigue seem to so insubordinantly rush in.

Needless to say, the last few weeks have been amazing beyond words, phrases, or pictures. Here is the blowby version, though, of what is burning in our hearts and minds these days ...

.....

In Chennai, our hearts were broken as we walked through the memorials of the Word Made Flesh children who have passed from life into eternity. Their headstones, tangled among the hundreds of monuments in the cemetary, were stone monuments of courage and conviction. These children died with dignity and with love. And yet, we can hear their cries from beyond their graves, echoing in the eerie silence we found lurking within the cemetary walls, on behalf of their brothers and sisters, our brothers and sisters, who are the among the poorest of the poor in this world. Who will care for them? Who will respond? Will we? Will I?

As we sat in silence, with thoughts and prayers and emptiness, a small hearst pulled into the dirt drive. As it passed, the open door revealed but a glimpse of the tiny coffin within. It was a child ... someone's beloved. Another who walked through the valleys. Another who reminded us of the gift of life, if we choose to give it. If we choose to share in the sacrifice that brings about abundance ...

...
Later that day, as we travelled with "Arthi" and "Devi," sweet sisters and dear friend, I again saw abundance. Arthi noticed I was scared of the raging traffic on laneless Indian roadways. I've almost been hit. I've been in a car that hit someone. I've seen an accident happen. I've had dinner with an old man who is recovering from a hit-and run. I never said a word, but Arthi noticed ... as we winded through the city streets, and were preparing to cross yet another road, I looked up to see her wide smile beaming at me. Her tiny hand grabbed at mine and, positioning herself between me and the traffic, led me across the street.

Once we had made our way, she continued to squeeze my hand, laughing graciously, not letting me go. Even though I didn't "need" it in the moment, she still held on to me. Even when I felt comfortable, she still remained. Something akin to the Holy Spirit ...

.....
Arthi and Devi didn't just touch me then. They begged Phileena Auntie to take them to a dress shop. Never before had they asked her for anything, and she eagerly obliged. As it were, the dress-shopping was a hoax. The sisters has planned the entire thing to get P into the dress shop to buy for her a salwar. P pleaded that they wouldn't ... that it was too much, too costly ... that she should be the one lavishing upon them.

But as I watched, I saw in their eyes the hearts of worship, the love of God within them. As they poured out their love, like the most expensive and fragrant of perfumes, on their dearest Phileena. As they sacrificed, in the most logical and rational of senses needlessly, from their version of an alabaster box. What grace, what love, what power in their gifts ... more than the tangible or practical items of clothing, this was a sign of extravagant love, of abundance, of grace in a world where scarcity menancingly looms. To have the heart that Arthi and Devi have for us, but for those who are most despised in this world ... to lavish our love upon them ... to be the light of Christ in darkness ... these are the lessons slowly, painfully, meticulously etching themselves upon our hearts ... God is here.

An Unlikely Cross

The worn plaster, tinged ever so slightly pink, formed the unintended shape of a Cross. Perhaps, in reality, it didn't -- ay random insterection of the rough interior facades could have formed the simple, perpendicular symbol that, for me, held so much meaning.

I found myself glancing at its unimpressive speldnor regularly. Just left of the single threadbare lightbulb that dimly lit the dngy walls we didn't completely wish to see. As things often go when traveling - as UNexpected - we had found ourselves hot, tired, but expectant in the city of Chennai. As we rode through kilometres of laneless traffic free-for-all, we found ourselves at our supposed residence ... but with no reservations.

Disheartened, we settled for a guest house a short "auto" ride away -- a place that Chris would describe as "really local." A place I was inclined to describe as a bit of a dump. The sipid heat only encouraged our disappointment - our new home was, even by missionary measure, filthy.

We set about, though, in high hopes, false as they perhaps were. While we were prepared to live simply, our exhaustion did not give way to the stark reality that we would now be "roughing it." Still, with electricity (when it remained connected - it failed without fail multiple times a day), a Wester toilet (of sorts - but still a luxury), and a television that blared Bollywood, we were still living as royalty compared to most of the city's population.

The cross on the wall took shape.

With each day, I could feel my body slowly adjusting to the stifling heat. The swelter of cobwebs and ants somehow began to go less and less noticed, even when one morning's sun awoke us to their infiltration of our packs. I slowly began to appreciate the tacky stickers, hidden by day, that illumined in day-glow green the paths of unknown stars and planets across our crumbling ceiling. We strung up simple rope, tied at one end to the decorative iron gate that guarded our second story window, coiled tightly at the other end to the protruding socket of our single light bulb. A makeshift clothesline, upon which we hung the assortment of "quick-dry" belongings harbored in our single packs, their colors providing a welcome interruption to the blank mauve walls of our small cell.

As we met more and more family and friends in Chennai, our own small room became more and more our sanctuary, our home. Amidst the busy Anna Nagar street, incessant beeping of traffic, blaring music arguing with the announcements of prayer from the miniaret of the nearby Mosque, the ringing phone always left unanswered, locks and chains and doors and rumbling fancs in a cacophony of opening and closing and keeping cool - somehow, in the midst of it all, we found peace.

And while the dim light from our lone lightbulb did little to keep the shadows of our tucked-away home at bay, it perfectly outlined the cross that became increasingly more clear, in my eyes and in my heart.

"You are the light of the world ..."

Hot. Sticky. Sweaty. Salty. Dingy. Dull. Dirty. Protruding. Inadequate. Low-Watt. But abundant to make clear the cross of Christ - that beautiful sign of hope and love in the midst of suffering and brokenness - strikingly clear in the place we'd least expect.

Psalm 23

"The Lord is my shepherd. I lack nothing."

Psalm 23:1, as displayed at Saint Thomas Mount in Chennai, India. What a difference, in context, a translation makes ...

A Reflection on Patpong

***Patpong is one of the red-light districts in Bangkok. "Disguised" by a night market and seedy bars, this area -- which dates back as a place of "respite" for US soldiers during the Vietnam war -- marks the stark contrast of cheap trinkets and women's bodies as equal commodities. This is a reflection on the contrast I wrote after walking through the open market, as people nonchalantly shopped, while naked women dancing on tables were in clear, almost inescapable view, and the horrors of the second and third levels of these bars was clear.***



Herein. Lies. Patpong.

Come! Buy!
Beautiful trinkets of colorful jewels, semi-precious stones brilliant with clarity, reflecting even the most reluctant of light!


Trinkets and bells, sure to jingle the sound of pure delight with even the most minute of movements! A song for your soul!


T-shirts and tattoos, all with slogans and symbols written just to remind you of fun times in market squares.

Oriental silk, smooth to the touch, makes only the finest and fashionable of purses, the exotic envy of all your friends back home!

Have you hair twisted into locks right here on the street! It adds to the exoticism of the experience. Not your planned Thailand take away, but no matter. It’s a cool thing to do. It’ll make for a good story.

Lists and lists of food, ready to order. Pick out the one you want. Cooked before your very eyes. Add spices to taste, or just try it all! We even accommodate requests not on the menu!

A Rolex to keep track of the time spent living it up in the city!


Dior sunglasses to stylishly shield your eyes as you conspicuously display your wealth.


Chanel. Citizens. Fendi. Vuitton.
The real people with power.
Knockoffs of anything your heart desires!

And, can you believe these prices?
Such a great deal! What a discount!
So cheap! It costs nothing!


Come! Buy!
Beautiful Thai eyes discolored by abuse, souls not even semi-precious in our sight, clouded by the darkness of the sin and evil we perpetrate.

Tinkling baht exchanged in the greasy hands of pimps and traffickers, sure to jingle the sound of pure horror. Suffocating all joy as she painfully endures even the most minute of unwelcome movement within.

Cuts and carvings forever mark the spiritual scars of the bodies used for fun times in market squares.

Oriental skin, smooth to the touch, makes only the finest and fashionable of prostitutes, the exotic envy of all your friends back home!

Have her hands forced into locks right here on the street! It adds to the exoticism of the experience. Not your planned Thailand takeaway, but no matter. Asian girls are a cool thing to do. It’ll make for a good story.

Lists and lists of sex acts, ready to order. Pick out the one you want. Prepared before your very eyes. Add tricks to taste, or just try it all! We even accommodate requests not on the menu!

A Rolex valued more than her life, keeps track of time spent with her body and soul in bondage.

Dior sunglasses to stylishly shield our eyes from ever having to look upon her with dignity and humanity, as she is conspicuously displayed for our pleasure.

Tourists. Citizens. Perverts with hard-ons.
The real people with power.
Knock up anything your heart desires!

And, can you believe these prices?
Such a great deal! What a discount!
So cheap! It costs nothing!

Patpong. Lies. Herein.

PingPong.

***This one discusses our work with organizations that address sex trafficking throughout Asia -- please be advised about the nature of this post.***

Ping. Pong.

Everyone was feeling a bit tired, so we decided to see a bit of Bangkok at night. Khao San Road. Where the hippies hang, and all the Western tourists find themselves. Here you can buy random trinkets, find two-for-one drink specials, and indulge in henna tattoos and hair locks on the street.

Our guesthouse had a staff person flag down a tuk-tuk for us. It was a chance to ride in the Thai transportation of choice, to have the pungent open air fill our lungs as we took in the splendor of the royal city at night.

For only 100 baht, we sped around corners and down sidestreets, allured by the colorful lighting of temples we did not understand, enticed by the endless multitudes of street vendors preparing the delicious fare we could not recognize.

We arrived. Leia's locks caught the attention and admiration of the Thai Rastafarians. We had already become accustomed to the noticeable lack of presence of black people in these parts. We were a commodity, folks openly staring, gaping, even tripping over themselves as we walked by.

Down Khao San we went. Picking up the random bangle here, examining the silk purse there, watching the traditionally-dressed women hawk little wooden frogs that, with the help of a small instrument, imitated the call of their real-life counterparts. I had my eyebrows done for one dollar. We stopped to have some gelato. We walked around a bit more, then were off to negotiate our tuk-tuk home.

"250 baht," he said. I eyed him in disbelief, before asserting that 100 baht was my final price. A cardinal rule of negotiation is to always begin lower than your actual price, but I knew I was fair, and I hate feeling cheated. He tried to bargain me up, but I refused (some of you know my stubborn side).

"I am only a student," I insisted. "We came here for 100 baht, we are going home for 100 baht. That's it."

I was tired, and not having much trouble remaining firm. I conspicuously glanced over toward the row of tuk-tuk drivers, all eagerly positioned to serve one of Khao San Road's rich, naieve patrons.

"Ping-Pong," I heard the man say. He repeated it several times, but I had no idea his meaning. As I began to walk away, he followed and handed me a card. In neat, bold face type, I made out the phrase to which he pointed:


PING PONG SEX SHOW

Startled, I knocked his hand away in disgust. The man was upset at such an affront, an unusual response of agression and emotion from me in an uber-polite culture. He immediately arranged our tuk-tuk home. The price: 100 baht.

The moment of anger lingered but soon passed as we found ourselves again riding through the windy streets of the city, away from all of the madness. I had been so offended by the man's proposal. A Sex Show?!?!?? Who did he think I was? Leia quietly shook her head (as she tends to do), and quietly responded, "I wonder how many people answer 'yes,' though?" I didn't want to think of the answer.

A little ways ahead, we saw some tourists, all women, taking pictures in another tuk-tuk. All smiles, they laughed and waved, as our tuk-tuk drivers passed each other back and forth along the open roadways. They shouted to us and yelled, American-college-style, in our direction. We waved and yelled playfully back - it felt good to be in Thailand on tuk-tuk.

Until we came to the stoplight. The girls' tuk-tuk made a sharp right turn away from us. Our driver smiled and pointed after them, saying the words that broke my heart; "Ping-Pong Show."

This time, I didn't need any card to spell out the scenario for me. Leia and I looked at each other with a deep sense of sadness. The girls in the tuk-tuk had probably been excited to see us because they had assumed that we, too, would see the ping pong show that night. Those girls, had, like thousands and thousands of tourists come and gone, answered "yes" to the invitation to participate in the first lair - sex shows - of what is one of the most renown sex trades and trafficking industries in the world. While at their open bar and show on the first floor of the tall buildings you find in Bangkok, they would probably be offered menus from which they might choose sexual acts to watch or participate in. For men, some may even be invited to the upper floors -- working brothels -- or whisked away to where the youngest, most vulnerable victims of sex trafficking - children - would be held captive for the enjoyment (ie, abuse) of tourists from around the world.

Ping. Pong.

Do we not know that lives hang in the balance because of the games we choose to play?


(from Amey's journal, June 19)