Mind the Gap

I’ve spent time in places with great economic disparity. In Haiti, I’ve been approached by children with bloated bellies begging on the streets of Port-au-Prince, only moments after arriving on a flight with Haitians who had traveled to Miami to go shopping for the day. 

In South Africa, I stayed in a nice home in a gated neighborhood while only a half-mile away, people huddled in blankets on the open veld in the bitter cold.

In Indianapolis, I serve a church where you never know who will walk through the door -- a multimillionaire in business attire or a gentleman who sleeps in the park and uses the church shower to clean up for the day. 

But India rattled me again with its economic gap. In a season where most of the world is struggling economically, India’s economy increased nine-fold in the past year, mostly due to technology, call centers, and software development. While that boom has offered incredible technological advances, it hasn’t transformed Indian lives in the ways the world had hoped. The United Nations reports that more Indians now have cell phones than toilets.  There were 670 million cell phone connections in India at the end of the summer, but only 366 million Indians have access to a private toilet or latrine. 

While we did not spend time in the slums of Mumbai or Calcutta, we saw plenty of tenement  housing in Amdavad and rural poverty along the gut-churning mountain roads of Kerala. The ragged streets of major cities are piled high with trash and reek of a nauseous combination of raw sewage, rotting food, exhaust, and curry. These poor conditions permeate the Indian landscape because development and infrastructure are impeded by government corruption and internal security threats from a Maoist insurgency. 

In the midst of this struggle, we met faithful people striving to bridge the economic gap. The Swaminarayan Hindu women at the BAPS temple in Amdavad work diligently on empowerment issues and have donated time and money to rebuild areas of the country afflicted by natural disasters like earthquakes and flooding. In Kerala, the Anglican  archbishop heads a church where 30 percent of the members are former dalits (Untouchables).  Even though the caste system was allegedly overturned in the 1950s, the dalits still struggle to meet their basic needs.  The Anglican church reaches out to these precious children of God through education, job training, and employment assistance. 

If you’ve ever ridden the London Tube, you’ll notice a lovely British voice telling you to “mind the gap” as you step on the train.  That’s what I believe these Hindu women and Anglicans are inviting us to do -- to mind the gap between us, whether in India or our own neck of the woods. As we gather throughout the next few days to feast and give thanks, I hope we'll remember that gap and be inspired to a greater generosity, a deeper passion for justice, and a longing to see the world flushed with compassion -- one toilet at a time. 

Ms.

I come from strong women. Before I could hold up my head, my mom and her friend were dressing me in a “Ms.” onesie to mark me as an ardent feminist.  Their empowerment left indelible marks on my life. At church, I still sip tea from a mug that says, “God is not a boy’s name.” 

A recent trip to India reminded me how much I have taken these roots for granted. We spent time with two different sects of Swaminarayan Hinduism, where I felt the confines of female disempowerment in ways I’ve never experienced before. Women in the main temples are totally separate from men. They remain behind a rail and cannot perform darshan, gazing on the deities, with the men.  They cannot serve as leaders, speak in assemblies where men are present, or hold positions on committees. 

While these restrictions are present in many Christian groups as well, there is an added twist for the Swaminarayans: Women do not receive the same religious instruction as men. They are forbidden from approaching male religious leaders, who hold the knowledge and power, and are only allowed to receive the highest spiritual blessings as an afterthought. 

Women worship among themselves in the haveli, a separate part of the temple where nuns live. It was there we spent time with our hostess Moto Gadiwala, the retired female religious leader who received her position 40 years ago through an arranged marriage to the acharya, the male leader of this sect.  Through marriage, Gadiwala is also considered divine, and so her female followers constantly try to touch her, receive a blessing, kiss her feet, or sweep up the dust from the ground where she walks. 

While we were asked to keep the details of our time together confidential, it is common knowledge that Gadiwala lives in purdah, meaning that she cannot be seen by males outside of her home, a sprawling compound surrounded by a high wall topped with barbed wire. She cannot go shopping at the mall or strolling down the street. Her main outing is to the temple each day, where she travels in an SUV with tinted windows lined with a curtain. When she leaves the vehicle to perform darshan, she is covered by a huge Mary-Poppins style umbrella and a flowered sheet. The women push and shove their way through the crowd to try to get near her, to receive the blessing that flows from her touch. 

This is the only life Gadiwala has ever known, and she faces it with remarkable dignity and grace.  She offers impeccable hospitality and genuine warmth to her guests. Yet after a week of being around her, I would sense my chest tighten every time I walked in the home or the temple. I couldn’t breathe. I felt suffocated by the powerlessness of Gadiwala and these women. 

Their powerlessness is deeply ironic, especially when you consider that Swaminarayan himself was a 19th-century reformer who actually helped the status of women by forbidding widow suicide and female infanticide. Currently India has gone beyond the United States by swearing in their first female president in 2007.  The Indian parliament also has guaranteed seats for women. 

I’m not sure what to do with this irony, other than to live with it and to recognize the irony of gender gaps around me in my own community. But there remains a part of me that wishes I had enough money to buy a half-billion “Ms.” T-shirts. I'd send them all to India for the women to wear as tops under their saris. 

Vanity of vanities

The first time I laid mulch, I ended up in the hospital.  I was a grumbling 8-year-old assisting my mother with yard work. My mom threw down a handful of mulch with too much gusto, and some of it flew back in my eyes. We couldn't get out all of the splinters ourselves, so I wound up in the emergency room, tearful as the doctor flushed my eyes clean with saline. 


From that moment, I pronounced that laying mulch was the biggest waste of time known to humankind.  Still, I conform to the cultural expectation that my flower beds will look more beautiful with it.  Almost every year I find myself fighting heat and mosquitoes to weed and mulch the yard. This year, however, I had a new nemesis: My puppy, Obadiah. 


As I tried to lay mulch yesterday, he simply wasn't having it. To him, the landscape fabric was a toy chest. The mulch itself was a gold mine to dig for treasure. Our friends Claude and Holly stopped by, and they laughed at my efforts. They knew it would be in vain. Defiant, I pressed on. I crated Obadiah so I could finish the job. When I let him out, he actually respected the mulch until sunset. I bragged about it to Holly. But the moment it got dark, his witching hour came. He tore at the fabric and plowed through the mulch with his puppy exuberance. 


This morning when I awoke, I saw the path of destruction. "Vanity of vanities!" I cried with the author of Ecclesiastes. "All is vanity! What do people gain from all the toil at which they toil under the sun?" 


I'm not sure. But I do know this much: We keep toiling. We keep working in the dirt and muck of this world to make our corner of the planet just a little more beautiful. Every now and again, our effort is rewarded. Much of the time, it's in vain. But we press on, doing the best we can, even when our work is upturned more quickly than we can say, "Obadiah."

Survivors

We broke ground on a major deferred maintenance project at the church in early June. In order to replace the sewer lines, we had to dig up the beautiful courtyard. Not a tree or plant or bush or flower was left standing ... or so we thought. 


Yesterday as I was preparing for a funeral, I was studying the dirt. Suddenly I noticed not one, but two flowers, poking up from the demolition. They looked to be some type of lily, although I'm terrible at identifying flowers. (I'm sure someone will correct me if I'm wrong.) They were probably still buried in the ground when the project began. Somehow, they were able to bloom and grow in spite of the chaos that surrounded them. When every other plant was uprooted, they flowered despite the odds. They are survivors. 


I've been blessed by these types of surprises all summer long. In tragic places where I've expected to see nothing but an uprooted mess, I've witnessed something blooming. In tough situations where I've wondered if I've made the right decision, a shoot of grace has sprung up.  During exhausting weeks, I've been touched by laughter, friendship, and joy. 


My favorite expression in Hebrew is tohu va-bohu. (The French just shorten it to tohu-bohu.) It's the expression in Genesis 1 for "formless and empty," which was the condition of the earth before God said, "Let there be light." It's a time of confusion and commotion. It's a time of uncertainty. But it's also a time of potential, promise, and creation. 


Kind of like two flowers popping up in the dirt of the church. 

Welcoming Obadiah

There are many ways to grieve the loss of a pet. Some people choose to grieve until they’re ready for another one. I prefer to cry on the fur of a new puppy. 

I knew it was time when I woke up Sunday morning to an eerily quiet house with an Isaiah-sized vacuum. It was too much for my soul to bear. After experiencing the grace of worship, I broke down when I returned to an empty home. I had spotted a puppy on the Humane Society website with that certain look in his eyes. Hours later, he was in my arms. 

I’ve named him Obadiah after the minor prophet whose name means “servant or worshiper of the Lord.” He’s a four-month-old Labrador/Hound mix who weighs about 25 pounds, but he will quickly grow into his name. In the meantime, he’s all puppy. He runs with an awkward gate and trips over his long tail. He tumbles about the yard and chews on everything in sight and tries so hard to be a good boy, especially when I scold him for peeing in my house again. 

Last night I scooped up Obadiah on my lap because pretty soon he will be too big to fit. As I cuddled him, I started telling stories about his big brother Isaiah and the tears flowed freely. Obadiah nuzzled under my neck, burrowed his head under my chin, and started to lick the tears off my cheeks.  

I think I will take the risk of love again. 

Isaiah Thomas Schubert, 8 July 2005 - 19 June 2010

A piece of my heart shattered this morning when my beloved dog, Isaiah, dashed across Kessler Boulevard and was struck by a car. He died on the way to the animal hospital.

With a larger-than-life presence, Isaiah lit up my world with his joy and energy. He lived each moment with eagerness and openness. He enjoyed running on the towpath; romping with his cousins and friends; praying for a Greenie; getting loved on by church people; snuggling with his best bud, Claude; and trash-talking his “Mama” Holly. He would do anything for peanut butter, bread, rawhide bones, and carrots, never recognizing when he reached his limit. 

Isaiah was the life of any party and always strove to be the center of attention. Many times we had to remind him that it was not all about him, especially as he chased squirrels and peed on hostas. He spent many family gatherings and friends’ parties tethered to a leash because he could not control his excitement. 

That excitement was accompanied by an ornery gleam in his eye.  You’ve heard before about his antics, which included swallowing rat poison, chewing rugs, tearing screens, peeing on laundry, decimating eight leashes, ruining electrical cords, pouncing on doors, and receiving months of behavior therapy.  

For as much as Isaiah was hard-headed, he was loving, especially to young children and older adults. For as much as he frustrated me, he provided a listening ear, a comforting nudge, and a reassuring presence that I will treasure for the rest of my days. 

I’ve cried more today than I can remember in a long time. I’ve also been more thankful than ever that when God fashioned creation, God saw to it to put these crazy creatures called dogs in our lives to love us, to stretch us, to care for us, and sometimes even to break our hearts. 

Opening pitch

While the movies proclaim there’s no crying in baseball, there might be a few tears at Victory Field next Thursday night. The crowds will gather for a celebrity softball game to remember and celebrate a little girl whose life ended much too soon. 

Caroline Symmes was just 5 years old when she died last December from a Wilms’ Tumor. In her brief life, she captured the hearts of many, including those who cared for her at Riley Hospital for Children and the Indiana Children’s Wish Fund. Caroline was precious to me because she was the first baby I ever had the privilege of baptizing.

My heart has broken for those closest to Caroline as they’ve wandered the devastating chasm of grief.  Although I believe God will comfort all who mourn and give them a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit, those promises seem empty in the wake of a tragic loss like the death of a child. 

Yet I’ve seen ripples of grace spread from a tragedy like this one. Family and friends have created networks of support. Faith communities have connected in new ways. Funds are being raised to benefit organizations like the Indiana Children’s Wish Fund, which creates memories and builds hope for other families with children who are ill. 

And perhaps those same ripples of grace will flow from the baseball diamond next week, as God gives Cracker Jacks instead of ashes, the oil for a softball glove instead of mourning, the mantle of celebration instead of exhaustion, all from the opening pitch. 

The Caroline Symmes Memorial Softball Challenge begins at 5 p.m. next Thursday, June 3 at Victory Field in Indianapolis. Tickets are $5, available at Ticketmaster. All proceeds benefit the Indiana Children’s Wish Fund.