“The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.” – Edmund Burke (and I think Batman at some point?)
Going to India
About a year ago I didn’t know where I stood with my faith. I was going into my second semester of college and had just enrolled in a philosophy class at Rose State. It may not have been the wisest class for the weak of faith—such as myself—but I still found myself in that classroom every week for the entirety of the semester. I really enjoyed it. But it was definitely unwise. I found myself leaving the class a bit embittered towards God. The main source of this disillusionment stemmed from the problem of evil. It wasn’t that I doubted the existence of a god—with a lowercase g. I believed this just from looking at nature, space, and even the complexity of a human mind that is capable of doubt. But I questioned whether the omnipotent, omnibenevolent God of Christianity was real. It really felt like that God wouldn’t have created a world with the evils there are. So, I left the classroom in a place that bordered agnosticism. I was still involved in church, working as a youth leader, but most of my prayers consisted of crying out to God, rather than talking with Him in a personal relationship. As a result, my life, my mindset, was sub par.
During worship one Sunday, while people were praising our Creator, I found myself again crying out to Him. Still not entirely convinced that He even existed or cared. It was during a fairly half-hearted prayer that I was given somewhat of an answer—a tentative next step. It was an almost cocky, “what are you going to do about it?” He was giving me a sort of slap in the face saying I could mope around from my cushy home, or I could chase after Him. I’m not sure if what I heard next was genuinely the voice of God, or if it was the only way I could think to respond, but I got it in my mind to go to India for two weeks.
I knew my grandparents and my aunt Hannah worked in India. My grandparents live and work out of Hyderabad, doing ministry and seminars to help pastors, while my aunt works for Covenant Child Development Centers (CCDC). As a nonprofit in India, CCDC feeds and educates Christian kids from rural villages in India. Part of Hannah’s job meant going there once or twice a year. I talked to her about my interest in going and, after some planning and saving money, I found myself driving with her to Dallas to fly to India. It was in Dallas that I first heard about the World Race. We got breakfast with a girl who had come into contact with CCDC through the World Race and had since been partnering with Hannah in a lot of her work. We talked a bit about the Race, but I thought nothing of it.
After about 20 hours of flying, and an amazing 15 hour layover in Dubai, I found myself in a large airport in Hyderabad, the capital of the state of Telangana. India was an amazing experience. I could write pages about my time there; about the markets filled with hundreds of people, about the motorcycles that held entire families between a father at the front and a mother at the back, about the Borra Caves or the family owned restaurant that lay at the base of the caves, about riding on the back of a motorcycle in search of some very elusive cow milk for our cereal, about Raju, Baskhar, Suresh, Velma, or Uncle Jonathon. The experiences were amazing. My journal entries from that trip have kept those memories alive, vivid. But those were just adventures. They were beautiful experiences, but nothing to cause a change of heart, nothing to change my life, or answer any questions that I’d been wrestling with. Eventually, however, some answers did come; albeit not the answers I was asking for or expecting.
A Glass of Juice
There wasn’t any particular event that caused a change of heart. Rather there were a number things. Possibly the most impactful took place in a house church in a slum.
The church consisted of a single family. They had many children, all of which were daughters, and the house was limited to a single small room. On one wall there was a small stove, a collection of pots, and an old refrigerator. On the other side, lay a single bed. It was hard, and felt like sitting on a plywood board, but still provided more cushion than the stone and dirt floor that made up the few feet separating the walls. The mother lay a blanket over the bed and invited Hannah and me to sit on it, despite our objections, while the family squeezed onto the floor. With the addition of me and Hannah, the room was no long able to fit everyone, so the dad sat in the dirt outside, just beyond the door.
The pastor who had brought us there had come from a school of worship. There, he’d been taught about the gospel and learned to play worship music. When we’d all sat down, he began the service—although “service” doesn’t really seem to be the right word, as I’ve never experienced a service like that. He first led worship. The song was reminiscent of an old hymn, except that the words were in Telugu. The only instrument was the beat of our clapping hands. I’m not sure what was said, but it was the most authentic worship I’ve heard.
What followed was a simple, but effective sermon over the prayer of Jabez. The pastor taught in both Telugu and English, switching between the two languages so both we and the family could understand. “Bless me, oh God. Expand my territory,” he said. Like the worship that preceded it, I can’t help feeling that that house church sermon was the most authentic, closest to biblical sermon I’ve experienced.
After the sermon, the pastor translated for us a bit. We talked a little, then the mother got up and went to her refrigerator. She grabbed a near-empty bottle of juice and got several cups that had been hanging from the wall. It was one of the few things in their fridge, and the last of it was finished off as she filled glasses for me and Hannah. Juice means nothing to me. I can buy juice at any convenience store. But that juice was significant. It came from a refrigerator that was nearly empty, in a house smaller than my bedroom. It was was one of their treasures and they quite literally poured it out for two strangers. That’s something that I can’t quite put words to. I know it’s simple, and honestly the family didn’t think anything of it, but it really was impactful. And brought some conviction.
I’m reminded of Luke 21: 1-4, “Then Jesus looked up and saw the rich putting their gifts into the treasury, and He saw a poor widow put in two small copper coins. ‘Truly I tell you,’ He said, ‘this poor widow has put in more than all the others. For they all contributed out of their surplus, but she out of her poverty has put in all she had to live on.”
I’m reminded more so of Luke 18: 20-22 “You know the commandments: ‘Do not commit adultery, do not murder, do not steal, do not bear false witness, honor your father and mother.’ ‘All these have I kept from my youth,’ he said. On hearing this, Jesus told him, ‘You still lack one thing: Sell everything you own and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow Me.”
We’re asked to give in accordance to what we have. Not always in terms of money, not even in terms of something physical, but even in terms of spirit and energy, regarding my mind and time, I’ve found myself very far from giving all that I have to Jesus. Jesus has been calling me to make Him the one thing, the most important thing in my life. What I’ve seen in myself is an unintentional attitude of apathy and disregard for my neighbors next door, let alone around the world. It’s a bit ridiculous, dangerously close to hypocritical, to be outraged about the problem of evil, while thinking about it from my cushy, air-conditioned American home. I don’t feel guilt. It’s not my fault that suffering exists; me having a full stomach doesn’t cause someone else’s to be empty, but I do feel obligation. I’m in the position to do something of value. I don’t know what my place in everything is, or to what extent I can help, but there are a few things I do know. Evil exists. I believe in Jesus of Nazareth. And I feel God’s call to go; specifically, the call to go on the World Race. So, to not go would be the highest disrespect for my neighbors. To not go would be to break the greatest commandment, to “love the Lord your God with all you heart and with all your soul and with all your mind” and “to love your neighbor as you love yourself.” To not go would be an open and blatant disregard for the Creator of the universe.
I still don’t know why evil exists. I’m still seeking, but to an extent I’m coming to where I don’t really care. I’m so tired of getting tripped up over philosophies of this world, and petty theological issues. I’m ready to leave my net and follow. At a certain point you have to decide if you really believe in this Jesus of Nazareth. I do, and I’m okay with not having answers.
