Waking up the BLASTed way

Well, after something like the blasts, I cannot think of writing on any other subject. 7 blasts that shook Mumbai, injured mercilessly, destroyed agonizingly, traumatized tardily and woke up instantly. Yes. Woke Mumbai up instantly!

Instead of raving about voices like “Look at the pain it caused”, I am going to jabber about “Do you need a blast to wake you up?”

Picture this. The bomb blasts take place on the 11th of July. And in the next two days, 26 communities on “Fighting Terrorism” Sprang up on Orkut (the popular friends network). And surprisingly, before the 11th not even a single community existed that raised a voice against terrorism or at least none showed up on my search results. Strange eh?

People talk about why it happened? How bad it was. And then a couple of days later, the whole city is patting itself on its back and grinning “Mumbai is unaffected, we can get back on track in a couple of days. No bomb blasts can shake us.” Well, I say ”You were unaffected because you didn’t lose a brother, mother or a father in the blast. You were unaffected because you have developed insensitivity towards the blast, developed by the frequency with what terrorism strikes. You are unaffected because you have to meet your deadlines, and you cant afford to take a day off because of some blasts.”

People may talk, people may cry. But if the same “people” look deep inside, they will see tainted souls that are deficient of the spirit of God. Did the blasts really affect you. What did you do? What about the hundreds who die on the streets because of Hunger? What about the thousands who die because of crime? What about the children who die as children, because their parents didn’t have enough money to get them treated? Why do we ignore the blasts that are happening everyday in the lives of the handicapped and the disabled? How many people prayed for the terrorists who did this? Don’t their souls deserve salvation?

Well the blasts were Gods way of telling a sleeping generation to get up. This is what I believe. Because we are a generation in slumber. A generation in sin. What are we doing as Christians? Do we need God to wake us up the BLASTed way?

Nailed for me...

The church organ began churning out tunes of lamentation. Everybody sank into their seats to send up a small prayer (or at least they pretended to) before they started scurrying out to avoid the human traffic at the small door of our church. In a few minutes, the exit was cramped with people of different shapes and ages, all wanting to get out and go home. For most of them, they had finished their responsibility of attending church on a Good Friday, and all they wanted to do, was to get out of that place now. Some of the more religious souls stayed on to be a part of the Holy Communion. As I walked out of church, I could imagine the scampering that would follow, scampering to eat the bread and wine as soon as possible, and just get out of there. I wondered how many people actually meant what they were doing that day. It was a Good Friday, not too different from the others that had come and gone. But for me, this year it was different. The message had worked its wonder on me.

I trudged out on to the street, the noon sun glaring on to my face, the message from the pastor still fresh in my mind, when something suddenly made me look at the palms of my hands. Why was it scar-less? Why weren’t there painful holes in my palms? I felt the side of my stomach. I didn’t find any spear wounds there. I felt my back. The flesh of my back wasn’t torn. Still wondering, I ran my fingers through my hair. I didn’t feel thorns clinging on to my skull. The sun beat on my forehead, and I wiped off my sweat. My sweat was colourless. Why wasn’t it blood instead of water?

That’s when Isaiah 53:5 hit me like a brick on the back of my head.

“But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our infirmities, the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds are we healed.”
- Isaiah 53:5

I walked on, and before I knew, someone I disliked caught my sight. My heart was filled with abhorrence. Immediately I heard someone hammer on something. It sounded like a big nail being hammered into wood with a huge hammer, but on looking around I found nothing of that sort happening. I was stunned. Still in disbelief I walked towards the railway tracks, when a dirty beggar came up to me and grabbed my arms, dirtying my white shirt. The tragic expression on his face didn’t soften the anger that exploded in my veins. At that moment, out of nowhere, I heard whipping sounds accompanied by moans. This was crazy. My eager walk broke out into a desperate run. I was sweating and panting as I ran on the streets of my colony, I ran till I could run no more, I stopped under a tree and thought to myself...

“Whom am I running from? What am I running from? Am I running from the fact that Jesus was nailed on the cross for me. For every sin that I commit, I should be the one nailed through my hand. But in contrast, each sin of mine is like a blow to those huge nine-inch nails that almost crushed the tender bones of his hands as it inched deeper into the timber. Every blow must have sent raw agony down the spine of Jesus. Every lash must have ripped off a part of His determination to have the cup of sorrow.

Every thorn in that crown must have felt like a spear of torment embedded in his skull. Every second on that cross must have felt like a hundred years in hell. Every drop of spit that hit his face must have felt like boiling concentrated hydrochloric acid. Every centimeter he walked on the road to Golgotha must have felt like crawling on a 100- mile stretch of red-hot coals. And every time I sin, I rub his face into the burning coal. I hurt him exponentially more than he was hurt on the cross when i sin!!! Why am I so blind? Why…”

…. The church organ began churning out tunes of lamentation. I opened my sleepy eyes to find myself in church. What??? This was a dream??? The people around me got up and started scampering out of church. I just sat there, again in disbelief, realizing that I had missed the Good Friday message and I knew the late night movie I watched the previous day was the culprit. The church started emptying out. I just looked upwards and said, “That was the best dream I ever had.” I was somebody without a conscience when I slept in church, but the dream changed things. That day, I walked out of church determined to live for him, determined to make sure that the next time someone has to be nailed, it would be the guy with the tail. Three Cheers for Jesus!!!

Caribbean Blues

I clicked this on Hollywood Boulevard, Los Angeles. This man stood in solitude as he played the sax, one of the instruments that i really admire & I wish I knew. This is on snap that I love.

I vote

I decided to vote.

Because I want to have a say in who rules my hood.

Because I want to be a part of the decision making process.

Because I can go and caste a vote that I am not pleased with any of the candidates.

Because I can show them that I am not ignorant of what happens in my country.

Because I feel that taking a half day off to vote is worth exercising your right.

Because I am an optimist.

Because I believe that little drops make up the ocean.

Because the ink on my finger reminds me that I am a part if it.

I vote because I can.

Can you vote?

Outback outreach....!!!

One of my most soul shaking journeys...2 days in Khopoli, reaching out to tribal villagers with men of God. Unbeatable!

It started out with 8 of us (Bonny, Sheril, Edison, Ravi, Annette, Shimona, Serena & myself) friends deciding to participate in an outreach program to the tribal villages of Khopoli. The program was organised by our church. It was for the tough, adventurous and the brave kind of people. It wasnt a luxury camp that we were attending. This was something different.

We started off by staying at bonnys house. We had to catch the 8:15 am Khopoli Local from mulund. As usual we were late and we missed the train. Basically we had to prepare our own lunch, & that is the reason we got late.

On missing the train, we had to find an alternate mode of transport. We decided to Bike it out! I called our pastor to ask him if we could ride to khopoli, and I got a very prompt 'No!' from him. The next train to khopoli was scheduled 4 hours later. We pondered if we should take a train to Karjat and then change trains to khopoli. But looking at the crowd on the platform, we knew it was going to be standing journey. So we decided to take the ST Bus.

The next ST bus for Khopoli was at 10:00 am. We decided to wait it out with 'wada pavs' from Kunj Vihar. Beleive me, they never come as big as they come in Kunj Vihar. The best Wada Pav the city has to offer. Lost in our Indian style veg burgers, ...(you guessed it right), we missed the 10:00 am bus to khopoli. Patience was morphing into desperation. With options running out for us now, we boarded a bus to Panvel. We thought we could catch a connecting bus from Panvel to Khopoli, and jumped into a Panvel Bus.

The ST journey was decent, considering the fact I slept through most of it. On a few occasions, we were thrown a couple of feet into the air and woke up in our neighbours seat, but other than that it was a peaceful journey. Off at panvel we had to wait another 45 minutes before we got a connecting bus to khopoli. The driver in the bus was nuts. He had 'I cant be second' syndrome and also seemed to suffer from elephantitis. His heavy foot never seemed to get off the accelerator & his nutty brain kept telling him, 'you got to be first, dont let anyone overtake you'. The innocent victim - Me. I never could stand even looking at a merry-go-round, let alone riding one, and this fellow was rollercoasting me all the way to Khopoli. If my vomit would have started its upward journey in the Bus itself, I would make sure that the driver got a good taste of my 'reversed excretory process output'. But we just reached khopoli on time. I rushed out of the Bus, only to find Rev. Shalom waving at me. Semi-dazed and in a envioronment conducive to puking, I waved back weakly and managed to hold back my half digested wada pav from kunj vihar. When I got to my senses, I looked around. We were in Khopoli!

And this is where the humour in my write-up ends...

God had helped us overcome all the difficulties and arrive at khopoli... and I wondered... why?

Some of us were driven to a church in a large ambassador. The rest of us took a rickshaw. It was a small nice church where we put down our bags and joined the session. In this session, some people from the villiage gave their testimonies. We also had an orientation session where all of us were taught, how to behave while talking to the villagers.

After this all of us shared our lunch that we had brought along with us. It was a nice time of sharing we had. Once we were done, we were to set out on our trip to the village. The village was around 25 kms from the church, in the interiors. And our mode of transport was a truck. This was one of the most awsome journeys that I have had for a long time. A truck full of youngsters, chugging away to an interior village on an outreach ministry.

It was the 26th of january, and on that day, the police are strict about large processions moving about the place. The police wouldnt like to see a truck full of noisy youngsters and would have possibly stopped us and questioned us. The truck being an open air truck, would make it easier for the police to spot us. But we had a strategy. When the bus neared the check-point, someone from the back screamt out loud - 'Phatak!!' and all of use sat down and shut up. There was absolutely no place in the truck. People all crapmed up, but silent. We couldnt afford to make noise. It reminded me of how life would have been for those guys who lived during the 'War ages'. It reminded me of how the missionaries must have travelled.

The truck rolled to a groggy stop at a rustic little village. We jumped out of the truck one by one, slightly uncertain of what we were going to do in this rural setting. We were directed to a small house where we were given water. Then we were sent out in groups to visit members of the villiage. We visited believing homes of villagers.

We walked through the alleys of the village that consisted mainly of mud houses. We were taken to a house where a woman welcomed us with a warm smile. When we entered, I was asked to pray ... In Hindi! I had never done that before! And I realised how difficult it was to pray in another language. But God helped me with the prayer. He put words in my mouth. We were then offered a seat on a sheet spread over the ground made of dried dung. We sat down. And we started talking to the lady in the house.

We had to speak in marathi to the village woman. And this was a great challenge for me. Speaking in marathi!! No way! We were guided by bro. Nilesh on what to speak and where to take the conversation. My team members could speak marathi, and they were the ones who were talking to the lady. I was just a quite spectator, with storms brewing in my mind. The lady had simple faith. She was simple. No complexities. She did not worry about doctrines and debates, logic and knowledge. All she bothers about was her relationship with God. And that is what touched me most. For every question we asked, her answer was positive. It was like a mirror that I looked into that day. A mirror that showed me what I am and who I am. It was terrific.

She did not have riches nor did she have money. She did not have furniture in her house. Her furniture were the two goats tied inside her house. She did not have a cell phone or a Computer. But she had happiness and contentment. Though to the world she was poorer than me, I knew she was actually much richer than what I was. I realised that life is not about money. Life is not about material things. God will provide my needs and fulfill my desires. All I needed was to trust on him.

"Seek Ye first the Kingdom of God, and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you" Matthew 6:33

We walked out of the lady’s house after taking a picture with the lady, with stirred souls and repentant hearts. We then assembled in the village courtyard, where Sheldon shared his experiences with us. Truly touching experiences of how God changed his life. And how he lives as a soldier for Christ. God bless you Sheldon, for your zeal and your encouragement.

It was then time to evangelise on the street. We performed skits on the road for the villagers. We sang songs, prayed and rejoiced on the street. What an experience. And my dense beard got me the role of Jesus in the Skits. I wish I could be more like him in real life! It was a joy to work on the streets reaching out to people.

Once we were done with skits, we were back on the truck to the church where we were put up. In the evening, all of us helped in making dinner. The girl’s cleaned the rice while we cleaned the garlic. We had a good time of praise and worship too. And then we wrote down in pieces of paper all the things & sins in life that pulled us behind. These pieces of paper were burned in the bonfire that we had in the night. Again it was an awesome time of praise and worship that we had around the bonfire.

When it was time to sleep, we were again driven in truck to a house nearby where we could sleep. I think it was the house of the pastor of the church. The ride to the house late in the night in an open truck was terrific. Something I have never experienced before. At one point of time, the truck driver slammed on the brakes suddenly and all of us fell flat backwards, as we were all standing with our backs to the driver. All of us flat on each other. It was fun.

The next day we were up early and back in the church. The morning praise and worship session was totally awesome. It touched my heart and tore my pride and my flesh into bits. I felt one with God. I cried like a child when I visualized what a sinner I was in front of Jesus and how small I was. I cried because he sacrificed his life for me on the cross. I cried because I knew he loved me even though I was an insignificant and unworthy person.

Then the villagers from afar came and visited the church. It was a nice time of praise and worship with the villagers. Their loud drums and maharashtrian styled marathi songs really got us jumping. It was an environment of joy and happiness. The villagers danced and sang with joy. We were all so happy. In the last session, we all prayed for the villagers, laying our hands on them. It was a joyous experience. Youngsters praying for old men and little children. I prayed for an uncle after which I was assigned the job of capturing people praying on my camera. I guess my ministry was to show the world what happened that day.

In the end we sat together and had our lunch. I did not have high hopes on the quality of food at khopoli before I went there. But the food was awsome. It was such a nice time that we had out there. We returned home that afternoon, and straight headed to our local church with our bags. All eight of us testified in our churches and fellowships that evening. I really praise and thank God for those 2 days in my life.

In khopoli, a spark set off a fire. The fire will be passed on. It will consume the evil of many. It will spread. For this is the consuming fire of God...

THE LAND LIES OPEN BEFORE US, LET US GO AND CLAIM IT TOGETHER WITH JESUS!!!

My life is changing...

My life is changing for good. Jesus has changed me!