Monsoon season is here!

After days of intense heat, the rains have finally arrived in Delhi to the relief of the city, including myself. The picture taken is complements of BBC News. Thanks BBC. 

Day 45 - The Donkey

*From a journal entry a few days ago ---

Today, as I was walking alongside a busy road in East Delhi, during the height of the sun's fury, a temperature well over one-hundred degrees, watching my surroundings closely as drops of sweat, growing ever more, hit the baked dirt below, I passed a donkey, forlorn and heartbreaking to see. He stood there against the brunt of the heat motionless and seemingly indifferent to anything and everything around him. And as much as I wanted to avert my eyes from him, I couldn't. 

The first thing I noticed about this sad creature was that his ears were completely missing. And I thought, either he was born this way or some cruel person must have had heartlessly cut them off and then abandoned him to his humiliation, for there seemed to be no indication of an owner around. Yet the more I took this donkey into account and his sad condition, the more I began to think the latter was a more plausible explanation, that in fact his ears had been cut off: because not only did he appear to be extremely malnourished and sickly, with most of his fur gone, exposing his decaying, leathery skin, but also his back and sides were striped with deep scars, due, most likely, to severe beatings. 

However, it wasn't really his physical condition that fully convinced me someone had cut off his ears. Instead, it was his lifeless expression and demeanor that told me this, an expression only acquired, I think, from years of heavy torture. His eyes cut me deep, eyes that had long ago stopped looking for a kind hand. He carried the face of a spirit completely crushed, as if he had been spurned and tortured into a lidless shame, for not once did I see him blink, even in the heat and with all the flies. His eyes were glued into a vacant and infinitely empty stare. And truthfully, I wouldn't be surprised if his eyelids too, along with his ears, had been cut off, forced to bear, in full, the humiliation of his condition: unwanted, cursed, a burden to society. 

His stillness invades me even now, an unnatural kind of stillness that presupposed that if he were even to shake the flies off his back some stick or whip might unflinchingly slash him again, or even worse, he might lose some other part of his body. And the idea of lying down and resting probably meant death, which if you were in that kind of condition you would most likely desire, for death and freedom would be synonymous.  But perhaps the idea of death was also beat out of him. Or I wonder to what extent animals carry the concept of death, that is, if he even knew he could die.

I walked passed this donkey full of sorrow and confusion. He was beyond any help to my estimation. Even if I were to offer him a bowl of water or a kind pat on the back, he would probably refuse and just stare at me as if I wasn't there. Or maybe rather he would interpret my kindness as more maliciousness, and in so doing be provoked into hysterics, kicking and biting and feverishly baying. 

It saddened me more than anything else to know he would die like this; he would die alone, without knowing the kindness some humans can have for animals, beaten into a submission that wouldn't allow him to accept kindness from someone else, beaten into a submission that wouldn't even allow him the dignity to use his animal instincts to fight back against cruelty. He had been degraded to less than animal. This was his place, his destiny of abject poverty, and there was nothing he could do to climb out of the filth; he had accepted and embraced his fate. He was an object of humiliation and, more than anything, he was ugly, and society hates the ugly; he was the green slime in the sewer water next to him. He was even unworthy of being killed. 

And sitting here, thinking now of this poor, pathetic donkey, I can only imagine him still standing there, from day to day and night to night. He will eventually die standing there. His flesh will rot and slip off his bones and fall to the ground. But his bones, stricken from the scorn of society, will, for awhile, remain the way he was before when he was alive, standing and intact, unwilling to budge, frozen in place by a curse long ago.    

Day 42 - Hanuman

A few days ago, during a scorchingly hot afternoon, I stood at the feet of a massive statue of Hinduism's monkey deity, Hanuman, friend and helper of Rama and god of strength. The statue, or idol rather, stood almost a hundred feet tall from head to toe and was painted a crimson red. He had the body of a man - chest bare and muscular -  but the head of an ape. The only clothing he was dressed in was the loin cloth that reached the middle of his stout thighs.  Also, on his head sat a large pyramid-shaped crown and in his left hand he held a magnificent mace. He held the weapon in a way that did not seem to impose threat, for Hanuman relaxed the crown of the mace on the ground near his giant, sandaled feet. His other hand was held out chest high, palm faced outward, expressing peace to his spectators. 

It was the largest statue I had ever found myself staring up at - a red giant frozen and captured from another world, foreboding yet borderline ridiculous to behold. For as intimidating as he appeared - given his size and the fact that if he were to come alive, the weapon he possessed could easily erase a house with one sheer blow - I could not help but think he would be kind and even gentle in his own way. His face carried the expression of cool friendship and timeless contentment, like the face that has experienced many years of peace after many years of war; a face that tells the heart,"The bad years are over. Let us forget them and now rest and be glad." Looking deeply into his face, I couldn't help but think Hanuman would let me climb his arm and find a seat on his broad shoulder. 

Sarah expressed vehemently to me, yet in a hushed tone, that she would like to topple this statue if she could, this statue that so many revered and prayed to in India and turned people away from the living God. I imagined the huge red thing coming crashing down, falling as if in slow-motion and hitting the ground with a resounding, earth-shaking, thud. The sound of splitting rocks would briefly fill the air and then silence would ensue as a god met its death and lay in pieces on the ground . I imagined this and tried to find sympathy in the sentiment, but in the deepest parts of my heart I could not. I did not wish to see the death of Hanuman. 

Hanuman is part of a story, a human story, or to be more precise, a human myth. Stories and myths are extensions of the human soul that when without God are searching for meaning in the dark; they are frantically reaching out to grab something to hold on to in a world veiled by the evil one. Hanuman is a crystallized expression of the power of the imagination and creativity of mankind, but a fallen imagination. What I mean is that Hanuman, in part, represents the depravity existing in the human heart; he is a leap across the chasm and in his fall and in his rebellion he became what he is. 

But I do not think this means Hanuman should be crushed.  I think he ought to be humbled and remade - that is, his story needs to be remade and then told as it should always have been, when mankind's imagination was not polluted and bent toward idolatry. Therefore, just as the hearts of men and women need a Savior, so do the stories of old and new, and their many characters - which are the children of men and women's imagination - need a Savior. In other words, the myth needs to be told the great Myth; if books are people then myths are people; and if the person can be saved so can the myth. The myth needs to repent and be changed according to the ultimate Myth of Christ - the myth humans have been waiting for since the fall but could not create on its own. 

Remake the myth of Hanuman. Remake the myth of Krishna. Remake the myth of Shiva. Over Hanuman's heart carve a cross and around his great mace engrave the words of the living Myth. Standing there in the orange heat of summer, I did not wish to see Hanuman fall, but I wished to see him bow underneath the cross of Christ where his story belongs. 

Day 38 - Halfway Point

I am over half way through my trip in India. Sometimes it's hard for me to admit that I am actually here, living in another country - and for over a month now. Some days I think this is all a trick, that I'm actually not in India but in some unknown part of America, as if this was all some kind of large simulation - or even worse, that I'm just dreaming, because I know when I get back to America, this will all feel like a dream, a really vivid dream. 

Everything always ends up feeling like a dream. And most everyone moves on without any problems, because you have to. 

I have four weeks left. I have met people. Good people. I must love them. Even though they are characters in this dream, I have to see them as real. I have to believe that I will see them again one day. I have to believe that God has invaded this dream and has given me these people for a reason. 

It's always been fascinating to me that during some dreams, if they are vivid enough, you are convinced you are awake, but then when  you actually do wake up, you then are most certain you are awake. I don't understand how we tell the difference sometimes. Maybe after I die and awake into the afterlife, it will feel like waking from a dream. And then at that time I will be certain more than ever that I am awake. 

This is silly. Sorry for the pointless post. I just don't know what to write. I'll try and make my next post more worth reading.

Day 23 - The Beard

Before I left for India, I made the resolution to not put a razor to my face; that I would set the beard loose, both literally and figuratively, (though I don't know what I mean by figuratively) to become the man I was naturally meant to be. Let me say, it's been a little over three weeks, and I have kept that promise thus far. Here is a picture of me the day before I left for India and another picture showing the progress I have made in three weeks and two days time. If I had to be honest, I'm ready to shave it all off. It's lookin' pretty thick down in the neck area. 

Day 21 - A Conversation

Here is a typical conversation about religion I have had with Hindu students this past week. I will name the student Pavon since that's a common Indian name I've come across so far. A portion of this typical conversation roughly goes as follows:

John: Would you consider yourself a religious person?

Pavon: I am Indian first, before anything else. But I think all religions say the same thing and are from the same God. The important thing is to be honest with your own personal convictions, follow them as best you can, and to not try to change what people think is right in their own hearts.

John: So you think all religions are from the same God? If all religions come from the same God, then there must be one God, correct?

Pavon: Yes. God is one.

John: But I thought Hinduism taught that there were millions of gods?

Pavon: It does, and there are millions of gods, but they all come from one God. The many gods are different expressions of the one God; and in Hinduism, followers are encouraged to choose which expressions of God they want to worship based on preference. It's like music: Music is one, but there are many expressions and definitions of music; but it's still one. And people choose which genres of music they want to listen to and like. It's all preference. 

John: That's very interesting. So then who is this one God? Do you know Him? Why don't you just worship this one God instead of all the gods?

Pavon: I know God through the many gods. I worship Him by worshiping his expressions. It's all the same. You, being a Christian, worship God in your own way, in the expression you prefer, through Jesus. I worship Shiva and Vishnu and Lakshmi. It's all the same. 

John: So then Jesus is just another god in your opinion, another expression of the one God?

Pavon: Yes, Jesus is a god.

John: Can you tell me who you think this one God is?

Pavon: No. I don't know this.