Mission Gear

[Brad Fox]

In the summer of 2009, I had the privilege of participating in a six-week Fulbright teaching seminar in India. The seminar made it possible for about 24 American teachers to learn about the Indian education system, and to interact with students, parents, administrators and teacher colleagues of that country. Among the cities we visited were New Delhi, Kolkata, Hyderabad, Chennai, Pune, Ahmedabad, and Agra. It was an unforgettable experience! For my part, I had always wanted to visit this colorful, complex, mysterious country ever since my grandparents had brought back photos and souvenirs from their trip in the 1950’s. Growing up as a child, I had never been very adventurous about exotic foods, customs or religions, but my Navy years had given me a thirst for out-of-the-ordinary experiences.

As we traveled about the country, we saw amazing sights and met even more incredible people. Begging lepers and lame children on the street; always the oppressive crowds. Strange smells, an incredible array of items for sale, antique buildings and vehicles, unusual clothing, and an endless sea of faces. Heat, dirt, grime, filth, waste was contrasted with ultramodern buildings, technology, deluxe hotels, ancient castles, temples, tombs, mosques, sumptuous banquets and so forth. India is truly a land of extreme contrasts. One could walk down the street in a shopping district and be surprised by a camel pulling a wagon among more modern conveyances.

Usually, as we arrived at each new city, we were given a full agenda of schools to visit, meetings to attend, and formal functions to enjoy. Our professional “plate” was full for several days, but time was also allotted for us in the late afternoon or evenings to sightsee or just relax and socialize. One of my teacher colleagues, Shawn, was quite a busy gal as she always was on the move throughout each city during our free time. While in Kolkata, she had wanted to volunteer at the Missionaries of Charity convent where Mother Teresa had begun her work on behalf of the dying poor in India. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to train and actually perform the volunteer work, so we had to pass up this meaningful experience. However, while we were in Ahmedabad, Shawn learned that volunteering at Mother Teresa’s shelter there was quite open without any training requirements. So Shawn, myself, and one other female teacher decided to give it a try and we made an appointment to volunteer for a couple of hours one afternoon. This is a picture of the entry courtyard of the shelter:

As I prepared to go, I realized that I didn’t have a lot of tools to work with. Sure, I had my Bible, but the people I was going to be working with didn’t speak English. At best, one of the nuns might be able to translate for me, but I wasn’t prepared to deliver a lesson, nor did I feel that I had any particular standing to speak to these “untouchable” street people who were cared for there. Having done mission work in Mexico and several African countries, I knew that all I needed to do was show up, and the Holy Spirit would take care of the rest. So I grabbed a cheap little Frisbee made of wire and cloth, and a small bottle of hand lotion.

 As we arrived at the Mission, one of the young English-speaking nuns came out to greet us and give us our assignments. Shawn and the other female teacher were to go upstairs and minister to the women there, and I was to minister to the 50+ men on the ground level. Fortunately for the ladies, they had nuns to translate for them, but I had no one but myself to communicate the love of Christ to these downtrodden men. For the most part, the clothing they wore was ragged and stained, yet clean. A few were attentive and somewhat curious about this western foreigner, but the majority were withdrawn and distracted; tough crowd!

I decided to employ a “group” activity by tossing the Frisbee to each man where they sat positioned around the courtyard. Although I didn’t have something for each man to do I thought that they might be drawn in to this friendly exercise of throwing the Frisbee back and forth. As I tossed the Frisbee to each man, the men next in line became increasingly enthused and energized about their impending turn. As I expected, few of them had ever seen a Frisbee, much less tossed one, so thrills escalated as I worked my way around the circle. Some men had damaged psyches which prevented them from playing, yet their seatmates gladly helped them return the disc, or took their turn for them. After 2 exciting times around the circle, I noticed one fellow who barely was able to control himself with the ecstasy of this new game. I beckoned him and pantomimed that I wanted him to continue what I had been doing. He nearly jumped at the opportunity to be the leader!

Now that I had the “entertainment” piece working, I got down to serious business with ministering to each individual man in the circle. I took my little bottle of lotion and knelt down in front of each man, applying a few drops of the “luxurious” liquid on their battered and worn-out hands. I massaged the lotion slowly and with great care, stealing glimpses occasionally at each man’s face. To a man, they were entranced at this street-side anointing. Still not hearing a word of English, I sensed that these men had rarely, if ever, experienced the caring, gentle touch of a loving stranger. They couldn’t put into words or emotions the feeling they had of being treated in such a special way. I also noticed that the men on either side of the recipient were also blessed by the process; one had just been anointed, the other was waiting his turn to be next. In my own imperfect missionary sense, I call this a “collateral blessing effect”, and I have seen it in Africa, India, Mexico and America. People genuinely seem to enjoy seeing others get treated with special care, even if it isn’t happening directly to them. It was pretty much a universal effect around the circle, even if a few mentally disabled men weren’t able to participate because of their fear or distraction.

Still, the Frisbee continued to fly as I worked with each man. Soon the men were called into dinner, and each one was given a metal tray to eat from as he sat on the floor. Male shelter stewards worked their way around the dorm room ladling rice and veggies and sauce carefully onto each tray. I noticed one man in the corner of the room who was draped with a food-stained cloth whereupon he commenced to lifting the food to his mouth in a rather hap-hazard fashion. One of the men who spoke a form of pigeon-English indicated that this man was mentally retarded. It made me think of my own disabled brother back home in Fallbrook, and what fate he might have experienced had he been born here. Another young man, I would guess to be about 20, sat reclined in his bed with a rather depressed look upon his face. He had apparently been involved in a rather nasty accident as his one leg was immobilized in a blood-stained cast. Although he didn’t respond to me, perhaps because of the language barrier, I noticed that there were a couple of other, older men who were able to help and get through to him.

As an American wealthy in so many aspects of life, I was deeply touched by the men who sought and found love and shelter here. But these were only about 50 out of a nation of 1.2 billion; certainly, there are many, many more who have no mission safety net and must fend for themselves in impossible situations.

As I write this essay in August of 2012, I am back in my comfortable home in California. Over the past month I have befriended a homeless man near my neighborhood living in his broken-down RV in squalid conditions. No water, no electricity, no bathroom. Beer cans, cartons, cigarette ashes, spider webs, spit, fecal material and used toilet paper jammed into every available space. Dealing with his alcoholism, chain smoking, unsanitary clothing and odors, and repetitive, self-destructive behaviors has been very challenging to say the least. Tomorrow we will go to the VA hospital in La Jolla once again as part of the process of getting him admitted to an alcohol rehab program. It’s been a long process; one that has vastly expanded my patience quotient to unheard of new levels.

I think of “Dave” as my starfish (remember the boy who threw starfish back into the sea one by one after a violent storm, saving their lives?) I can’t save the world, much less 50 men on the other side of the world. But I can do my part to alleviate suffering of the few that I come into contact with. All the mission work that I’ve done individually, with adults and with students over the past years has developed me into a missionary who believes in the grace and infinite resources of the Living God. I depend on them to get me through each encounter with the hopeless, the damaged, the forgotten ones whom God seeks to save. I am beyond thankful for the opportunity to develop this attribute of the Father in my own life.

Several famous sayings come to mind when I think of mission work.

Hubert Humphrey (among others) once said that a society is judged by the way it treats its most vulnerable citizens. For me, it seems that my own condition is improved much more than the homeless or impoverished people I work with. I feel very much defined by my acts of love toward hurting people. I feel that when I help people, I am not just talking about Jesus’ love, I am “being” that love for others.

Mother Teresa said the act of working with the poor and the forgotten is not a matter of condescension, it is rather a matter of ascending to the service of God. That kind of puts a new perspective on helping less fortunate people. She also said that being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, …is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat. She recognized each person she served as Jesus in disguise.

Mission work is a great opportunity to serve Him personally in a thankful, worshipful spirit; and you really don’t need much in the way of gear to serve!