24 January 2011: Exploitation (?)

We're safely back in the states, though hardly through the time-less limbo of jet lag where three a.m. is the new 8:30, and little children never sleep. Throughout our stay in the Megamall in KL, I thought about this quote from David Mitchell's novel Ghostwritten, spoken by a young Japanese man working in a second-hand jazz record shop in Tokyo as he contemplates a quartet of teenie-boppers space-headedly parousing the stock. I think it could hold true for the youth of Malaysia as well:

Then one of them asked why Japanese kids try to ape American kids. The clothes, the rap music, the skateboards, the hair. I wanted to say it's not America they're aping, its the Japan of their parents that they're rejecting. And since there's no homegrown counterculture, they just take hold of the nearest one to hand, which happens to be American. But it's not American culture exploiting us. It's us exploiting it. -David Mitchell, Ghostwritten

The OTHER Nathan Lee

While it's always fun to give a shout out to my friend and fellow blogger Nate Lee, he will be the first to admit that a gentle lesson in humility never hurts. Which means he won't mind being reminded that he is not the most famous Nathan Lee hounding the internet these days! While packing to return to the States, I heard this song playing on my mother-in-law's CD player in the family room. Nathan Lee's backstory is powerful: after building a successful six-figure painting business, he found himself living on the street and re-converted to his life-long love of music. A self-described prophet for the broken, Lee is also wildly popular in many Christian music circles. These tracks are taken from his break-out album, "Risk Everything," which resonates with me after hearing a sermon by the Malaysian Lutheran pastor Rev. Sivin Kit yesterday that riffed on Mike Yaconelli's call to "leap first, fear later." Admittedly, Lee's Bruce Springsteen routine borders on what my friend Brian Johnson affectionately calls "wuss rock," and his take on faith and brokenness is far more Luther than Calvn, but despite its derivativeness, these tunes provided water in a thirsty time. I pray they might serve you the same way.

"STILL"
C. 2006 NATHAN LEE / PAUL MOAK

PARTS OF ME ARE BROKEN
PARTS OF ME ARE WHOLE
PARTS OF ME ARE OPEN
AND SOME I JUST DON’T KNOW
I’M OUT HERE IN NOWHERE
AN EMPTY ROAD AHEAD
ITS HARD TO START WALKIN’
BUT I CANT STAY WHERE IVE BEEN

SO I WILL WALK UNTIL ITS OVER
I WILL CRY UNTIL IM DRY
I WILL SEARCH FOR THE ANSWERS
BUT I WILL NOT BE STILL

PROSTITUTES AND PORN STARS
PROPHETS, PRIESTS AND KINGS
THEY SIT AROUND MY TABLE
AND SELL ME ALL MY DREAMS
NO ONE REALY KNOWS ME
PERHAPS NOT EVEN I
BUT I SURE AS HELL CANT STAY HERE
CUS’ THIS AINT NO WAY TO DIE

THIS IS MY CONFESSION
MY REPENTANCE AND MY PRAYER
CUS’ WE ALL WAKE UP
WITH OUR OWN CROSS TO BARE
IF MAYBE TOMORROW
I SEE YOU ON THIS ROAD
COME WALK BESIDE ME
FOR YOU ARE NOT ALONE

"BLEEDING BLACK"
C. 2009 NATHAN LEE / BRAD WARREN / BRETT WARREN

GO ON AND RISK LOVE
GO ON AND RISK TIME
WALK THE PATH THAT’S HARDER
GO ON AND RISK IT ALL

NO TELLING WHAT YOU’LL FIND
IF YOU’RE WILLING TO WANDER
RISK A PAINFUL CONVERSATION
GO ON AND RISK IT ALL

FOR ITS THERE I FOUND THE WATER
I’M NEVER LOOKING BACK
FOR NOW I CRY IN WHITE
I'M NO LONGER BLEEDING BLACK

THERE AINT NO EASY WAY AROUND
YOU GOTTA’ BE WILLING TO FALL
ITS ONE THING TO WANT TO
ITS ANOTHER TO RISK IT ALL

OH THE MEMORIES I’VE MADE
FINDING MY WAY HERE
WELL I HAVE RISKED IT ALL
I HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO FEAR

"BRING DOWN THE FIRE"
C. 2008 / NATHAN LEE

IT AINT FAITH UNTIL YOU JUMP
IT AINT FAITH TILL’ THE 11TH HOUR
IT AINT FAITH UNTIL YOU’VE LOST YOUR WAY
IT AINT FAITH UNTIL IT BURNS LIKE FIRE
IT AINT FAITH UNTIL YOU’RE OUT OF ANSWERS
IT AINT FAITH UNTIL YOU’VE GOT NO PLAN
IT AINT FAITH UNTIL YOUR STANDING IN THE MIDDLE
OF WHAT YOU WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND

SO BRING DOWN THE FIRE
SHOW ME THAT KINDA’ FAITH
BRING DOWN THE FIRE
SHOW ME THAT KINDA’ FAITH
BRING DOWN THE FIRE
SHOW ME THAT KINDA’ FAITH
SHOW ME THAT KINDA’ FAITH
BRING DOWN THE FIRE

IT AINT FAITH UNTIL YOUR LAST BREATH
IT AINT FAITH UNTIL YOUR LAST CENT
IT AINT FAITH UNITL YOU GET THERE
IT AINT FAITH UNTIL THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE
IT AINT FAITH UNTIL ITS TOTALLY QUIET
AND YOU QUESTION WHERE YOU STAND
IT AINT FAITH UNTIL YOU’RE IN THE MIDDLE
OF WHAT YOU WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND

23 January 2011: Chinese New Year

We couldn't leave Malaysia (tomorrow!) without partaking of the nation's celebration of Chinese New Year - a national holiday that's been packing the malls, jamming traffic, and greatly profiting the economy ever since we've been here. Think Christmas preparations in the United States a month after Christmas has already been celebrated - given the plethora of plurality of traditions in Malaysia, gift giving opportunities abound, and with them, reasons for partying!

Chinese New Year is one of the most important festivals for the ethnic Chinese, and from what I've gathered from my travels here in KL, is accompanied not only by generosity, but also by extravagent decorations (the proliferation of red banners and lanterns gives the impression that the city's commercial centers have spontaneously converted to communism), cultural performances, and in particular, great hopes for prosperity.

Prosperity is perhaps the most prominent motif winding its way through the various manifestation of preparation and celebration of Chinese New Year, at least here in KL. Earlier this afternoon, we had the chance to witness a Chinese Lion Dance, performed by a local troupe of high school acrobats. The Dance is meant to exorcise evil demons from the site of its performance, thus opening space for the in-breaking of prosperity and blessings for those in attendance. Throughout the ritual, the lion both eats and spews forth mandarin oranges, symbolizing gold, particularly to those who are willing to stroke the mane of the beast. Lion Dancing is apparently a national sport, complete with world championships each year, the most exhilarating of which feature a duo of acrobats executing the dance atop a series of six- to seven-foot pillars. After the main performance, our lions proceeded to prowl throughout the mall, casting out evil spirits from such locations as McDonald's and Starbucks, while also making stops at bank teller windows, jewelers, and also crowds of admiring children. Baptism of empire, subversive street theatre...or, in true Eastern fashion, something beyond simple dichotomies? Much needed work, regardless of the ultimate motivation!



The mall has been the locus of our experience of Chinese New Year here, and questions of exorcism and consumerism aside, its afforded us some wonderful opportunities to expose Abigail to new cultural horizons. On our way to dinner (back at OUR mall!), we passed yet another dance troupe, this time performing with fans and scarves.





And of course, our journey through the intersection of the corporate and the communsitic would not be complete without experiencing the culinary offering placed upon the altar of the new year by none other than Mr. Ronald McDonald himself. One of the most popular take-away dishes in Malaysia at present, Micky D's foray into the mandarin, the Prosperity burger, comes complete with special curly Prosperity Fries and a scintillating Prosperity McFizz. I was particularly intrigued by the slogan on the server's trademark McDonald's visor: "What is prosperity?" A wonderful question to contemplate as the year of the rabbit bounds its way into the present moment, shaping the hopes, desires, and prosperity of the greater part of the world's human population. (Here I am with Chris, earning luck for the year to come - he's the reason we're here on this amazing adventure, so when you see this, wish him extra prosperity for the year to come - his generosity towards us more than merits it!)

21 January 2011: Malpractice

21 January 2011: Friday Travelogue - Malaysia Masala

Normally, Friday Travelogues are meant to serve as recaps of the previous week's posts, but given the combined paucity of blogging with the plentitude of experiences here in Kuala Lumpur, I thought I'd use this as a chance to provide a few glimpses into the wonderful diversity that is Malaysia.

Many will speak of Malaysia as Christians do of the Holy Trinity: one nation of (at least) three distinct ethnic/religious groups. Officially, Malaysia is an Islamic country, and all ethnic Malays are considered Muslin by birth. The domes of mosque dominate KL's skyline, and Islamic architectural forms have influenced both corporate buildings, as well as the construction of former colonial seats of power in KL's central Merdeka Square. The Muslims are amazingly tolerant - I was especially surprised to find so many Islamic agencies, many run by the state, on hand at the Hindu celebration of Thaipusam, whose wild extravagance could not furnish a more polar opposite to the more reserved ethos of the followers of Allah.





While the Malays have risen in prominence due to an aggressive government program of positive discrimination, the ethnic Chinese are the economic powerhouse of Malaysia. The Chinese experience reads much like the journey of the Jews in American and European history. Imported or driven to south by the British colonial project and forcefully employed in the mining of tin and other sultry hard labor, the Chinese built on their relations with home, as well as a rigorous work ethic, to amass wealth, power, and influence, despite being derided by their Muslim neighbors as amoral and unclean. If you see a woman minus a headscarf wearing a short skirt or tank top, chances are she is Chinese. While most Chinese Malaysians are either Buddhists or Taoists, many also engage in some form of ancestor veneration. The pictures below are taken from a temple tucked away in an alley in KL's lively Chinatown, which is bustling in preparation for Chinese New Year. Due to the government's spirit of openness and tolerance, the whole nation gets into the swing of things, with shopping malls decking out in red and yellow in anticipation of the Year of the Rabbit with vigor that rivals our own December trimmings!





Malaysia's Indians, particularly her Hindus, have already made several appearances on this blog, particularly in connection with their celebration of Thaipusam, from which some of the pictures below derive. Like the Chinese, most Indians came to Malaysia during the days of the Empire, mostly from India's lower castes, in search of opportunity. Unlike the Chinese, their low social standing has been maintained, perhaps not unrelated to their darker skin and the greater divergence of their religious practice with the monotheism of Islam and the stoicism of Chinese spirituality. KL sports a vibrant Little India, and Hindu temples abound in the most unlikely nooks throughout KL. A small percentage of Indian-Malaysians are practicing Christians, particularly in the Anglican Communion congregations.




While it would be wrong to idealize Malaysia's relative unity within diversity, equally tragic would be to undervalue the remarkable manner in which three very distinct ethnic groups, each of which contains within itself a plethora of religious and cultural expressions, manage to coexist, maintaining their relative distinctiveness and particularity, while also encountering one another in ways that bring into being an undeniably Malaysian synthesis. Particularly in the mouth-watering array of Malayisan foods, which blend the best of traditional Indian, Chinese, and other Southeast Asian cuisines into a culinary ecstasy of goodness, it is clear that whatever obstacles continue to inhibit the development of "One Malaysia" as the campaign runs, even so, we have much to learn from this Muslim nation which manages to tolerate without subsuming difference, celebrating value without undervaluing paticularity.

A word should be said in closing about the underbelly of this otherwise beautiful land. As in any story of progress and vibrancy, scapegoats kneel beneath the foundations, holding the whole edifice on their backs. In the case of Malaysia, the ethnic Orang Asli, the last remnants of the peninsula's indigenous population, bear this burden (Their plight is expertly detailed in Eliza Griswold's chapter on Malaysia in her must-read The Tenth Parallel). In addition, government toleration is not all its advertised to be - its still illegal to evangelize or even to translate the Bible into Bahasa Malayhu, and a local pastor even told me reports of the government swooping into Indian funerals to claim the bodies of Hindus who they've reported to have had death-bed conversions to Islam. Political prisoners are routinely denied due process, and censorship hangs a heavy curtain over the freedom of the press and media. These and other injustices are not to be taken lightly - nor are they to be too harshly judged by those of us who are citizens under a government who is not above its own forms of bending the rules of freedom and equality to suit the spread of its own Gospel. Its been an honor, a privilege, a joy and a shock, to have been given the opportunity to get to know this beautiful country, warts and all, over the past two weeks. I pray these steps have not been my last journey with the people of Malaysia.

20 January 2011: Thaipusam

My father-in-law Chris and I set out at 5am by-way of 140mph insane taxi driver for the Batu Caves, just north of Kuala Lumpur, to witness the Hindu festival of Thaipusam. The clean version of the tale is that the celebration commemorates the giving of a vel (spear) to the deity Murugan, the Tamil god of war, (also known as Skanda) so that he could vanquish the demon Soorapadman on behalf of the devas (deities). In preparation for the festival, those devotees who have vowed to offer a kavadi in return for deliverance from a calamity in their life engage in a 48-day period of fasting on special vegetarian food (satvik) while continuously meditating upon a deity. On the day of the festival, their heads are shaved and after prayers and rituals, the kavadi (a large circular float carried on the shoulders) is taken up and carried along a pilgrimage route, finally to be offered in the shrine or temple of Murugan. Often, as a sign of penance and/or devotion, and as a way to attain greater merit for one's self and family, the devotee will allow him or herself to be pierced by hooks and chains, which can be attached to the kavadi or hung with additional offerings of fruits or prayer bells. Malaysia's Batu Caves are one of the major sites for the celebration of Thaipusam. That's the clean version.

The reality of Thaipusam exceeds words, and the experience of its meaning saturates even the most vivd photographs. When we arrived in the darkness of early morning, drumbeats pounded primal rhythms from every direction as singers and celebrants chanted and wailed. The sound of jingling bells danced about us. From the corner of my eye, I saw a man lay hands on a young woman, showering ash and oil upon her forehead, before feeding her a block of incense - fire-end first, while her eyes rolled back in her head and she began to dance. Processions of safron-clothed men and women carrying large silver urns on their heads, their feet treading on the waste and refuse of over two million people who had been celebrating for the five days previous to our arrival, wove their way through the pressing throngs of Indians of every shape, size, hue, and disposition. Children and women slept on the dirty concrete, while others stood along the stairs leading up the cave, red-eyed yet awe-struck by the men whose bulging eyes gazed about as if in search of something invisible and tormenting, while young men pulled tightly upon the bungey chords that were connected to the entranced by hooks in their backs. There was no blood. Devotees seemed to feel more fatigue than pain, often swaying under the heavy load of the kavadis until one of their entourage quickly sidled up behind them crying "stool stool stool!" before guiding the weary traveler to a seated position. Before each pilgrim, a troop of drummers and singers channelled the very essence of the waters from before the time when the void was given form, wrapping the faithful in cloaks of ecstasy and prayer. A man strode past, a large cigar dangling from his lips - attached to his hooks was a large cart, upon which sat his son, painted blue and fast asleep next to an image of Krishna and Murugan. Above us loomed the 203 stairs climbing to the awesome limestone cathedral of the Batu Caves, while behind us, as far as the eye could see, seethed an ocean of humanity, of music, of incense, of devotion.

We walked further. A carnival was set up next to endless stalls of street-vendors hawking purses, watches, incense, piercings, and infinite varieties of curry and satay. Below a highway overpass in the sewage-brown waters of the railway drainage canal, a mass of shirtless men stood like kingfishers gazing intently at a holy man in white, who offered blessings of purification, mere meters away from a family, gathered in prayer around the father, who sits stoicly breathing in incense and eating strange leaves that may or may not have anesthetic qualities while behind him, barefoot in a trash-filled gutter, a man in red inserts row after row of silver hooks connected by chains about his spine. The father's eyes are closed until, at the crucial moment, the piercer stands before him, bids him open his mouth, and in one swift, terrible movement of precision, drives a small spear through his tongue, sealing his lips and initiating a trance-like state that overflows into a whirling dance in which his spirit is no longer his own, and he can hold a mountain of offerings upon his narrow shoulders, enough to pay the debt he owes for whatever grace moved him to swear any vows at all. Around him, like hipster paparazzi, stands a circle of young Malaysians and Chinese who wear their own ritual adornment of bright yellow Nikon and Canon camera-straps, eager to decipher the essence of the mystery and carry home the exotic. I stand back at a distance. I do not know if I am in Babylon or in Batu. I cross myself and whisper Salve Reginas and the Kyrie. This is all much bigger than me.

14 January 2011: Phromthep Sunset

15 January 2011: A Pad Thai Story

My Lonely Planet book on Phuket told me the best pad thai in all of Thailand could be found at a local shop "spilling out of a woman's front porch" just minutes from the Hilton Resort where Chris' points had been scoring us amazing free breakfasts and bottomless happy hours. On the eve of our departure, it was time to find out if the guidebook could be trusted. I set out in the pitch dark, walking along the side of a busy road, dodging speeding motor scooters and the bidding hands of Thai go-go dancers to find "the Pad Thai Shop." After a mile of walking, I was still alive, standing outside the Ping Pong Bar (its across from another fine establishment simply called "the Drunk bar" - which gives you an idea of the district in which I found myself!). I ventured inside to see if anyone could point me in the direction of culinary ecstasy - only to find another go-go dancer, this time with a pole. No English, no problem. I left, and after several more inquiries and another half-mile of hiking, and I gave up and headed home dejectedly.

Thankfully, Leah was so thankful that I returned home still alive that she was all too happy to encourage me to take a taxi back for one last look. This time, I found the place - literally, as the LP book said, spilling out of a woman's house, with a sign in Thai such that a lowly American like me could not have hoped to locate it. Bafflingly, just inside the front porch hung a floor-to-ceiling banner with the Lonely Planet review under huge letters that declared "the Pad Thai Shop," though why this wasn't in plain view was beyond me at this point. I was just thankful two hours of trekking had brought my taste buds within reach of nirvana. So I ordered a pad thai. Medium.

While bliss in a banana leaf was being created, the proprietor accosted me, wondering where I came from and how I had got here. I told her about the review, that I had wandered up from the HIlton and had my would-be backpacker intentions thwarted, been ripped off by a taxi driver to come back, and that I just wanted some good non-room service food. For good measure, I mentioned LP's ringing recommendation of her food. Unconcerned about the obvious fact that I spoke no Thai and she didn't care for English, she demanded my guidebook, looked at it proudly, and then jabbered at me with gestures and a tone that could have only meant something to the effect of "you poor stupid American bastard, you are a sad strange little man and you have my pity - but you are here so you can't be all that stupid. I like you." Thanks Pad Thai lady.

More jabbering. Then two young men come forward who seemed to be her sons. She pointed to me, to the road, and then said, "you no pay. He take you back. Free." I liked this last word as much as I understood it. With a hungry child, wife and brother-in-law waiting back at the hotel, I was all too thankful to accept such hospitality and care. I asked her for her name - she said "Momma Pad Thai." Ok then Mama Pad Thai, do you own your own copy of the LP guidebook? A shaken head. So I gave her mine, feeling she should have hard proof of her prowess, a small consolation for the fact that her best-in-Thailand Pad Thai was located on the opposite side of the island from where the usual reader of such books would normally venture. She beamed, gave me a big hug, and then handed me a gigantic steaming package of goodness incarnate wrapped in a banana leaf.

Then she pointed to an old blue scooter. The kind that island people who believe the shortest distance between two points is as many dodges, weaves, and zig zags between cars as can be made while going 70mph down narrow unkempt roads in the dark of night. But I wanted my pad thai. So taking a cue from Big Buddha, I emptied my mind, asked prayers of the Blessed Virgin and commended my spirit to Jesus, climbed on, and clung to a strange Thai teenager with as much strength as would keep me alive without making things more awkward then they had to be. From the shop to the hotel was all downhill. It was the longest two minutes of my life. And also some of the most thrilling. As was the pad thai. It really was that good.

I'm not ready to go off and start an intentional community named "Momma Pad Thai's" in honor of the hospitality and care I received at the hands of strangers. But on the other side of the world, lost, hungry, dejected, and weary, a woman who did not speak my language treated me like Christ, and so showed me the meaning of my vocation to share the works of mercy with others. The food would have been reward enough - her love, just desserts. I went out looking for my daily bread - and found a lesson in what it means to be the bread of life for the world. Thank you Momma Pad Thai.

15 January 2011: Ya Noi

I spent most of Friday in Phuket feeling incredibly dejected that I spent more time writing final papers than researching our impending trip to Southeast Asia. Had I done the latter, I would have discovered that just off the coast of Phuket proper was Phi Phi Island - setting for the film adaptation of one of my favorite novels, Alex Garland's The Beach, as well as site of Jack Shepherd's tattooing in Lost - not to mention one of the most beautiful places in God's great universe. Anyway, long-existential-angst-story short, I came to terms with my blunder, realized we simply did not have the time to sail away on this particular trip, found peace and detachment from unattainable desire, and prayed for gratitude for the gifts I had been given - a weekend of relaxation and renewal with my amazing family.

Who, incidentally, forbade me to follow in Jack's footsteps to seek a consolation prize at the tattoo parlor. Probably a good career move and a wise choice in terms of personal hygiene, but even without being inked, I very much felt an affinity with what Jack's shoulder read: "he walks among us, but he is not one of us." My brief quarter-life-crisis regarding Phi Phi reminded me that family means dying to self, that the life of a free-wheeling, adventure-bound back-packer is mine no longer - and probably never was, if I'm honest with myself. The obligatory white-male pilgrimage of embodied existentialism into the unknown in search of one's self may be an abeyance or a boon for many, but my life has always felt more fixed, more determined, more created then all that, and try as I have, like Jonah I've never been able to escape my destiny in Ninevah. Even when a suitable Tarshish lies around every corner. Among the bloggers, backpackers, hipsters and hippies, I may always be at best an admirer, at worst, a poseur, but always, a pilgrim in the midst of pilgrims, a stranger in the midst of strangers. But I have not been left an orphan.

All this is prelude to a celebration of where we did eventually end up - on a secluded white-sand beach known only to locals and Scandinavian snow-birds called Ya Noi. Leah and I only had an hour of kayaking and snorkeling, and we traded in backpackers for schools of fish and coral reefs, but I will say, there aren't too many better ways to spend an afternoon in this life, and no better companion with whom to spend it.

14 January 2011: How to Build a Buddha from the Ground

Lament for D-Town

Buddhic enlightenment aside, I wanted to give a quick shout out to my dear friend and fellow Lutheran Joelle Hathaway, whose blog, Musings on Theology and the Arts, always offers provocative commentary on theological aesthetics, particularly regarding architecture. Her most recent post discusses a recent photography project, "the Ruins of Detroit," by Yves Marchand and Romain Meffre, a series of haunting pieces that explore the implications of the urban decay of a once proud driver of industry. Joelle notes:

At the turn of the 20th century, the automobile and its production put Detroit on the map; making it the fourth largest US city during the 1950′s. Soon, however, “the logic that created the city also destroyed it.” Cheap, convenient, and autonomous transportation lead to the creation of the suburbs (among other social factors), draining the city of its population. Detroit’s economic rise helped shape the social fabric of modern society, yet the only thing left to witness to this moment in history are the spaces and buildings left behind.

This collection strikes a strong cord with me – What is a Christian response to the Western desire for autonomy? Are miles and miles of strip malls and parking lots conducive to building true community? How can spaces such as these witness to the ephemeral quality of history and the inability of humans to build for ourselves a “paradise”?

As I look out from my hotel balcony at a paradise of my own, my heart aches for the town where my great-grandmother arrived from Macedonia with my grandfather, who labored his whole life there to make a better life for my father, who has strived his whole life so that my family could leave the country at will to sit on a beach in Thailand in peace and comfort. I'll be sporting my Tigers cap around Phuket today in homage to the Motor City, and as a prayer that these labors will not end in a life of ruin, for Detroit, or for the Nickoloffs. Thanks Joelle!


(Check out the inscription: "And thou shall say God did it." Ponder...)

14 January 2011: Good Morning Phuket

That's POO-ket. My father-in-law Chris opened the treasury of his merits (ie. billions of Hilton points from galavanting across Southeast Asia on business) and booked the whole family into a weekend on white sand beaches and pristine sapphire waters on the west coast of Phuket, Thailand! And when such a free gift of graciousness is offered - you better take it!

Watching the sunrise from atop the mountain next door is the Big Buddha, the world's largest statue of the master of enlightenment, made of Burmese alabaster and rising to over 45 meters of golden beauty. Can't wait to see him up close. In the meantime, off to the executive lounge to receive more indulgences before heading out to the earthly paradise...thank you Chris for your generosity and care!

11 January 2011: Foundations Pt. II

Conundrum: do I receive a blessing from the holy woman who prays in the Hindu temple at the foundation of the mall? We wander down in the early hours of the dawn to see if it is unlocked, and discover a trio of devotees gathered around a cup of flaming fire under the visages of Vishnu and Shiva and their countless manifestations. Another rings a bell that sounds like the clang of a buoy warning ships in a fog of a jagged coastline. There is a deep beauty in their movements, in the sounds and in the symmetry and harmony of the dance before me. Is all beauty Christ’s beauty, as all truth is Christ’s truth?

And there, in a corner, stoically yogic, sits the holy woman. I see others kneel reverently before her to gaze into her eyes before she marks their forehead with a black dot and a white line in ash. There is a holy presence emanating from her - a sense confirmed by a worshipper we meet as he leaves, who shares that this is one of the most powerful temples in the city. Is it not meet and right that, just as Catholics and Protestants bless one another without partaking of one another’s communion tables, so we who are contemplatives across the lines of faith and pantheon should nevertheless share in the fellowship of prayer?

I decide that it is not. Not beneath the presence of the images of other gods - what they would surely call infinite manifestations of the one God, surely, but nevertheless, images that are not the one who our Scriptures declare to be “the icon of the invisible God.” Blessings may happen in conversation, in dialogue, in admiration, in participation in spaces of common prayer and devotion tailored towards unity and cooperation. But not in a temple, under statues of Siddharta, Krishna, and Shiva the Destroyer. To do so, for me, would be to be unfaithful to my betrothal to Christ in my baptismal vows. The black dot represents marriage for Hindu women. My forehead is sealed with the cross of the Bridegroom, and I will wear no other sigil or ring.

I have always loved the line in Fiddler on the Roof in which Tevye muses on tradition and Torah and declares that "because of our traditions, every one of us knows who he is, and what God expects him to do." There is a deep struggle, sometimes, to value inclusivity so highly that in doing so, we take for granted (and so fail to wonder at) the beauty and mystery of the covenant into which we ourselves as Christians have been invited. I do not know what God has required of Hindus, or what God has been up to with them for the past several centuries before the Jews were even a twinkle in the eye of the Father. I do know what God has required of God’s covenant people - that we worship under no other god, that we kneel under no graven image, that we take up the cross, regardless of the consequences. Such a knowledge is not a judgement - bearing the cross of water and ash, we simply have no other choice than that we trust that grace is enough, that there is no blessing greater than that of the love of God in Christ Jesus, and none more sufficient.

I think it is a false generosity which calls such a view narrow, judgmental, or simplistic, a false liberalism which believes that for all to respect one another, all must become one another. I honor the existence, marvel at the beauty, and respect the mystery of the movement of God’s Spirit throughout time and across the world, not by being less of who I am called by God to be, but, in being faithful to the calling I have been given, affirming the uniqueness, particularity, and ultimate difference inherent in it. The Torah of God is not a weapon with which to judge, but a gift by which to walk, a life-giving limit that trains we who are circumcised and baptized in the ways of the abundant life by which God has called us to witness God’s good glory in creation to all nations. It is in this light that the light of God’s image in all humanity shines brightly, and by the flame of its love that love, wonder, admiration and blessing between us may be shared without violence, coercion or judgement. I know who I am. Tell me who you are. Now let us learn from one another.

I honor our respective uniqueness by affirming our distinctive particularities, and by being willing to say “no thank you” as well as “yes Lord.” I hold tightly to St. Paul’s declaration in Romans 2.14-15 that for the righteous Gentiles, the law is written on their hearts and they are a law unto themselves, as well as his declaration to Timothy that “God desires all to be saved.” I will not deign to speak for God in denying that God has ordained other itineraries for other pilgrims to arrive at the glorification of God’s Son. But by some mysterious grace of God’s eternal will, God has made me Christian, to live in the service of God’s Son alone, and to proclaim the Gospel of Jesus with my entire heart, mind, body and soul. It is not calling in which I have any say, nor would I change it for all the religious technology and wealth in the whole of all the worlds.

There is undoubtedly a power in the prayers from which I turn to journey home. I hope with all my heart that they are indeed pleasing to Jesus - and I pray that mine are as well.