Faith Leaps

I learned from one of the sisters at the Mother House in Calcutta that Pope Benedict has declared this the "Year of Faith," believing that the Church as a whole is facing a particular cultural crisis that will especially require the gift of faith. Calcutta, India. Land of horn honks and lingering curry smells. Three powerful religions--Hinduism, Islam, Sikhism--cohabitate uncomfortably, each trying to call out above the din in their own way. In Islam's case, this was literal: an imam chanted Qur'anic verses over a loudspeaker 5 times a day. There is no rest on the streets of Calcutta. Salespeople call for a perusal of their wares, interpreting "no, thanks" as an invitation to follow and talk more. Beggars call for the gift of a rupee or two, so certain in their profession that no other way seems sane for them. Entering Mother House means entering a sanctuary of silence, the only place in Calcutta where no one is clamoring for your attention. I had looked forward to a full week of working in this place, of restfully seeking to show love to the sick and dying. The first day worked out pretty much as I had expected: I felt very nervous walking into Prem Dan, unsure if I could face the new challenges, but God was there and provided me that restful peace I'd sought as I wrung out plaid laundry and carried trays of steaming curry. The next day, however, I discovered that the week would not progress as I'd expected it to. A burning pain in my throat and a heavy cloud in my sinuses signaled the beginning of a completely different week. One after another, team member after team member fell prey to the ravages of a mystery bacteria, "coming out at both ends," in the words of some. Somebody joked that the Hotel Maria had become a new Missionaries of Charity House. I don't think they were too far from the truth, as whoever was able did everything they could to serve their fellow sick: doing laundry, making Gatorade/rehydration salt runs, sharing cold meds, sharing company in the tiny cafe two steps away. I learned that week that faith requires a complete surrender of your circumstances to God. During that time, He held me close, like an infant, telling me bedtime stories. He emphasized over and over how prayer is as much of a good work as serving the sick. I learned that I didn't have to expect anything of myself, that He would work what He would if I only follow and let Him. So, when the last day rolled around and I could finally return to Prem Dan, I knew a new kind of peace. It didn't seem like the supernatural peace of the first day, in which the Holy Spirit had invaded to provide strength for that one day. This peace felt native to my being. I will never forget how one woman stared at me; I wasn't sure why she looked at me with an expression of such wonder, until she grabbed my hand and motioned, "God bless you." I realized that the Holy Spirit had begun to work in a new way, a way that would bring me closer to spiritual maturity. Which brings us to Ethiopia. Faith Part Two. One ten-hour bus ride involving thirty-seven people attempting to sleep on top of each other equals one very exhausted crew. When all of us crabby Americans pulled in at one am, however, a small army of Ethiopian medical students were waiting there to greet us, cheerily grabbing 40-pound bags from the weary girls (despite many futile protests) and trucking them up to our rooms. This moment described very well the energy we discovered in the Ethiopian church, and the fervor with which they sought to do what God desired. We joined forces with them to head off into the countryside with the Gospel. Nobody really knew what to expect, but our new friends continued to remind us, "We just preach the Gospel. God does the rest." My favorite story from these days is this one, which describes very well how this kind of faith worked out practically: We approached a small knot of people, and our new friends asked them in Amharic whether or not they'd be willing to hear about how God had worked in our lives. Initially, they said no, we don't need a new religion. But then my partner, Nick, pulled out his family photo album and began to show the children his pictures. I followed his lead, and soon the whole group had gathered around the both of us. Using the opportunity, Nick pulled out our Gospel-sharing tool, the Evangecube, to show pictures of the Gospel. Our friends translated as he told the story. They listened with interest for a while, then one said, "We've heard the name of Jesus. But we don't know Him personally in any way." This opened the way for me to build on Nick's foundation, using Hebrews 10:19-22 as my text. That Scripture God graciously provided that morning; I hadn't prepared to use it at all, yet every time it seemed applicable. I learned in Ethiopia that the kind of faith I'd seen in Calcutta, that abandonment of circumstances to God's control, spurred action. God offers Himself for the present trials, not the ones we fear for the future. And now, being back in the Western world, here in Europe, I feel like I can do anything. I don't feel afraid for what kinds of things will happen now that we're beginning our time of teaching in Hungary. The beauty, the sheer beauty of the place, fills my heart to the brim and reminds me of the things I learned last time I was in Europe and points me to my future. I hope that God will continue to mature me as I enter the next section of the curriculum: Faith Part Three? We'll see what He'll do. In the meantime... keep praying. <3 Your friendly neighborhood aethernaut, ~M~