New Beginnings

I was recently asked to deliver a message for a conference at Asia Plateau. The subject was America, Obama and New Beginnings. It was part of a session entitled New Beginnings, which reflected the importance of a number of forward-looking events unfolding at the same time (Chinese New Year/Lunar New Year, New American President, Indian Republic Day, 1st Anniversary of Australian Sorry Day, etc.).

Hope is the reason behind a new beginning. Faith is the action. We view a horizon we want to reach, a destination worth the sacrifice, the world we want to see. With hope as the fuel and faith as the motion, we step boldly towards the vision.

I’ve been asked today to speak about America, Obama and new beginnings. At a time of great turmoil in the world, when economic crises and extremism and climate change and corruption sink the spirit, America finds itself a wounded power on the world stage. All of these issues have finally come to the door of my nation, which has for so long prided itself on its prosperity and virtue. Largely as a response to these difficult times and recent governance, the people elected Obama for the hope he represented. For the new beginning his words and his life demonstrate.

Like Buchman did many years ago, Obama rightly sees his world at the turning. He stated clearly in his address the path the nation must take despite a myriad of domestic and global obstacles: “Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America.”

It’s a new beginning and he opens it with hope. Real hope. Once, when he was asked if he really believed in all this talk about hope he quipped (and I’ll paraphrase): “I’m the son of a white mother and a black father, my middle name is Hussein and I’m running for the President of the United States. You better believe I’ve got hope.”

It’s a great line, but the miracle of an Obama presidency is that it is a hope realized. A vision met. A promise fulfilled.

Many of you will have been alive when black Americans would have had to use separate bathrooms, restaurants and drinking fountains from white Americans; When a black man’s vote would account for only three-fifths of a white man’s. When blacks were systematically held back in education, business, sport and almost all pursuits of life.

Martin Luther King, Jr., saw this inequality around him and held up a vision of hope for a nation and a world. That hope drove his actions as he followed the message of Jesus and the methods of Gandhiji and spoke truth to power in love. In the daunting face of hate, violence and ignorance, he cast his sights on a dream, that one day all people wouldn’t be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. He sacrificed. He offered his life to pursue truth. He did so willingly – fueled by hope for the vision and determined in his faith that it could realized.

Obama’s inauguration in many ways fulfills that dream. In a way, it’s a completion. It marks the end of a journey millions have taken towards equality. An African-American holds the highest office in the country – according to many, the most powerful person in the world.

At the same time, this completed chapter intersects with a changing world. A world at a new beginning. And the world can take on that new beginning, with a great hope for a great vision.

Hope for a world where cooperation would be the theme and courage and unselfishness the characters. A world where resources are sustained because we learn how to share and innovate together. A world where business works, not for the few, but for all parties, because we realize our futures are interdependent. A world where intolerance and violence are humbled at the mighty feet of love and justice.

At this new beginning, hope fuels that vision. In the footsteps of Martin Luther King and Gandhiji, Barack Obama’s story shows us that hope isn’t a fleeting concept of the idealists. In fact, it is the driving force of all new beginnings. When coupled with unshakeable actions of faith, all things are possible.

Recently for me, my hope was a restored relationship with a close relative – hope for a relationship full of trust and love. From a chapter of grievances, I could see a new beginning blossoming with possibility. It was towards that hope that I took a step of faith, admitting the bitterness I held in my heart and asking forgiveness. The response from that person was overwhelming – a real change arrived. The kind of change I want to see in the world.

Today is a new beginning. Now is a new beginning. And in each new moment we make a decision for ourselves and as a people – will we move towards our insecurities or towards our inner greatness? Will we move in fear or move in faith? Will we dwell in despair or run with hope towards vision of a better world, starting with ourselves?

Today it brings me great hope and encouragement to be with you as we steadily walk in faith towards that vision. Thank you.

Panchgani Sunset: Three Views

Thoughts for a New Year

A stretch of thoughts that came on New Year’s Day morning. Following a number of days down on vision, energy and my team.

2009: A Year for Trust and Joy

Make trust the core of everything.
With trust, everything is possible.
Without trust, everything is impossible.

Joy is the natural, final outcome of trust.

Truth is faithfulness
Faithfulness is an action
Action is everything
Everything is possible with trust

Use all methods available to make trust as strong as possible:
Steps to advance it
Plans to get it right
Hammers of and nails to build it
Words to invite it
Risks to demonstrate it
Care to maintain it
Faith to believe it
Forgiveness to redeem and restore it
Compassion to understand it
Courage to offer it
Love to sustain it
Kindness to ease the tension of it
Humor to make it light
Toughness and dedication to see it through

The Star Spangled Banner

When Dianne Feinstein asked the crowd to rise for the national anthem, I thought little of it, watching on a small screen ten-and-a-half hours away on a remote Indian hillside. Then, without reservation, everyone around me stood up.

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I no longer know how to express the power of articulating hope with humility and courage. Or the impact of recognizing the transformative nature of faith. Or the energy of casting a vision for a generous future coupled with a sense of reality. Or the influence of catalyzing the energy of inclusivity, trust and optimism.

It’s a world longing for these ancient treasures of the human spirit. One only need walk into the town of Panchgani to see a child beg at the cuff of a wealthy Mumbaikar. In that moment the world revealed – in all its possibility and need.

The paradigms of unchecked consumption, rampant consumerism and self-interested decision-making are ill-suited for the challenges of these days. My hope is that this new leadership can be one that empowers us to equip ourselves with the knowledge to wield the tools of the 21st century to tackle the immense concerns of a generation.

The new president speaks with the authoritative confidence of a man who is leading in a time of change; when new systems are already driving the way we communicate, work and process. There is no need to fight change. Instead, the time has come to embrace the undercurrent and harness the changing tides. This is a time to claim that as part of a new direction for a country and for a world – and with change on the move, it’s just a matter of nudging these systems in the right direction.

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As the “Star Spangled Banner” rang out through the tinny speakers, I surveyed the room. I wasn’t standing among Americans gushing in a moment of patriotism. My neighbors were from places as far flung as Ukraine, Kenya, Vietnam and Australia – Uganda and Kashmir, Nagaland and Malaysia – Sudan, Russia, Zambia, Fiji, Canada and the United Kingdom.

What resonated within each was hope, renewed. The possibility that the world could seek out and pursue freedom, hope and justice as lasting and guiding principles. That we could work together to solve the problems of climate change, economic crisis and extremism. That there could be more than Us and Them and more a spirit of We.

That maybe, just maybe, we could realize our dreams together.

Love on a Train to Bangalore

Chris: What do you think about love?
Kartik: What is there to think about?
Chris: What do you mean?
Kartik: One isn’t meant to think about love. Thinking is too much tied to logic and science. Love isn’t about thinking.
Chris: But doesn’t thinking have a place in love?
Kartik: Love doesn’t need reasons. Love isn’t supposed to make sense. In fact, the day that love starts making sense is the day that I no longer care for love.

Record-Breaking and Begging in the Lion’s Den

Last night I was invited (with my crew) to give a presentation about Action for Life at the local Lions Club in Coimbatore. The moment I sat down, I knew this would be an instant classic.

We were scheduled to start sharp at 7pm and be the top item on the evening’s bill. When the meeting got going at a very sub-continental 7:30, I could see the writing on the wall. Instead of the star attraction, we’d been bumped in favor of a more honored guest. Without notice, we slowly watched as we got pushed further and further down the agenda.

The reason for our slow and steady demise came in the form of a solitary guest, who calmly walked to the dais to sit in the seat of honor (which we no longer held). He was middle-aged, mustasched and spectacled. A generous South Indian paunch rolled from chest to over-belt and an easy presence rested on his face. After some basic greetings from the club president, we slowly began to get some answers about the mystery man.

Not kidding, it seemed our replacement guest of honor had recently set a Guinness World Record for doing the following things at the same time:

1) Writing with both left and right hand simultaneously
2) Writing text from five religious books
3) Writing those texts in five different languages
4) Writing for 24 hours continuously

I don’t think I’ve heard of a stranger feat worthy of note. But, then again, it’s been years since elementary school when I scoured my freshly-bought book-fair paperback version of the records. And here, now, in real life, not only had he been invited to the meeting to receive his honor, but so had the Guinness judges and various witnesses!

For a minute I was excited about all the hubbub. But oh how that would turn! And how fast! In an incredible turn of events, each person at the meeting (a total of 25 [and we accounted for 40% of that total]) was asked to give a speech to congratulate the new world record holder (no mention of the previous record). As this process moved forward, it degenerated into a general platform to say whatever you wanted. The group extended this opportunity to every other person in the room before the focus returned to us.

It wasn’t until 8:40 that we actually took to the stage. I assumed my duty of MC bravely, but limited my vision to a simple: “avoid disaster”. We had already given two multi-hour presentations during the day, traversed the city a couple times and were still looking for dinner. With the crowd looking uninterested (to be fair, they hadn’t looked interested once during the entire meeting) we abbreviated our bit, finished and started to leave.

This wouldn’t be so easy. As we walked towards the door, one of the leaders of the Lions told us that we had to stay and eat their food. Meanwhile our main fixer said we had to leave and go out to eat. This turned into a public disagreement in front of the small, but at least now interested crowd. It helped the theatre that our man, a barrel-chested middle-aged no-nonsense industrialist was up against a short, stout man in a bowtie, blazer and hat with wing flaps. With the blood boiling between them (and admittedly within me as this tragedy desperately needed a quick ending to stop the bleeding), my crew (remember, a full 40% of the meeting) literally stood frozen on the way to the door without any clear idea of who’s direction we should take. In what seemed an agonizingly long 15 seconds living as a bewildered Bernini sculpture, the argument finally ended. Baskar, our ever-cool leader sealed the deal with a classic Indian hand flip. We were liberated, turning down the food promised from the Lions and turning up for at our host’s dinner table.

In an almost surreal scene, I looked back at the 2nd floor balcony when we had reached the street. The administrative secretary and the treasurer had come out to make one last call for our return. Both men were speaking in Tamil, expressing pain on their faces and making the unmistakable motion of hand-to-mouth. It’s unmistakable because it’s the motion that Indian beggars make when they ask for food or money.

The moment grabbed me. So many times I’ve been asked for food from the hungry in India. Many times I’ve turned down the plea. Now I was being asked to eat the food. Along with my group, again, I rejected the open hand

There are many kinds of begging in this world. We walked away. They went inside.

The Beauty of Ooty (the laziest and worst title in my blog's short history)

In the last of the evening light, I pass through the rolling hills of the Nilgiri district of Tami Nadu. Tea estates cover the hillsides. The dense, dark, rich leaves of the low-lying plants contrasting with the string-thin trees marking the patches. A gentle sunset fades in the back as the mountain road switchbacks push my stomach into battle. My well-picked seat helps save the day as the comfort of the semi-sleeper and open window balance my equilibrium enough to get me back to Coimbatore.

It’s a night bus and a good time to write and listen to music. After some waffling, I passed on Explosions in the Sky’s “How Strange Innocence” for Radiohead’s “Kid A”.
I can’t help myself. I’ve been on a massive Radiohead trip these days.

My trip south is closing down. It’s been amazing. From crazy faith adventures in Pondicherry to leading my first college course, it’s been a time for strange experiences, bug episodes, new relationships and wild travels.

This weekend I spent in Ooty, and old hill station built up by the British for retreat in the days of empire. Coming form the hot plains of Coimbatore, the cold air smarted as we climbed the mountain. Dropping from mid 80’s days to below freezing evenings. Packed for the Southern tropics, I thank God it was only an overnight. Our quick visit reminded me of a few critical learnings about India that will instruct me well for the rest of my life.

Hospitality is the greatest gift of all. When it can be given, it should be done so generously in physical, spiritual and personal terms. We arrived here on Saturday morning to the warm smile of Mr. Chandren. I’m still not sure how he is exactly connected to my crew, but he showed up dutifully in front of the Tata Motors storefront at Charring Cross with his two lieutenants in a well-worn white jeep (that we later learned needed a rolling start every morning [a la “Little Miss Sunshine”]). Without a moment hesitation, we were ferried up to our guest house at the top of a hill looking over the town. We dropped our bags and were off on a tour of Ooty by the number 2 man from the district’s horticultural department.

Yes, the number two man in a town known for its forests, gardens and fresh air took us on for 24 hours without even knowing who we were or what we were all about. He got us in gratis at the world’s largest rose garden, the 150-year old botanical garden, Doddabetta (the highest point in South India) and even at the town lake. His patience and duty unwavering throughout, we developed a nice relationship with him as he welcomed the strange family that my team has become in these past 6 weeks of traveling.

We all felt a sad goodbye when we left on the bus this morning. He had been a ready guide and friendly companion. Laughing with us at our group dynamics, bargaining for scarves and fleeces, picking up the odd ear of roasted corn off the street and handling our endless questions with informative authority. A true gem of India. We call this kind of man a champion. The one who makes your life incredibly better by the simple act of service. I honestly believe that a good dose of hospitality can change a person’s life. That may not have happened in Ooty, but there’s no question that we all had a blast because of his step forward in that spirit.

Homemade things are always best. At the top of the Botanical Garden (way at the top beyond the last tier where no one goes) there is a small village called Thodamund. It’s home to a few remaining “tribals” who still inhabit the area. (Tribals is a term given to those Indians that live deep in the rural country and have very basic infrastructure in terms of water, plumbing, etc. It’s still a term I’m trying to understand as it seems unrelated to a sense of “tribe” as I typically relate to indigenous people.) We arrived to see a few boys preparing the ancient temple for evening prayers. A couple of the older gentlemen spoke with us about the village that looked over the cascading hills of the Western Ghats in some kind of timeless landscape. A shame that its now losing literal and figurative ground to the more rampant consumerism of modern India

Speaking with the men, we noticed their spectacular shawls. Hand-threaded needlework on a vast canvas that covered the upper-half of a grown man’s body. One man proudly announced that it took his wife six months to make it. Covetous, I asked if he had any available. The large throw seemed off limits, but he said he would look for some other items. He returned with an exquisite scarf and a wall hanging. They will arrive on two of your doorsteps someday.

Walking out of the garden with my handmade loot, I walked past a store with a sign for homemade chocolates. Feeling the timing right for a culinary celebration to accompany my feeling of the epic garden, I purchased. Real chocolate in India overwhelmed me and my friends. We forgot the dropping temperatures for a moment and welcomed the cocoa intoxication.

When with a group, pay for an hour of fun, even if it seems over priced or a bit ridiculous. Showing up at Ooty Lake, a nice, but clearly man-made pocket of water in the mountains left me wondering. Tourist trapped to the max, the attached amusement park didn’t do much to add serenity to the natural surroundings. But we fought through the carnival and cotton candy to the boat dock, where we quickly split into two groups of three and boarded row boats that looked like they were built during the Mughal Empire and last restored at Independence.

Regardless, I felt a gasp of excitement in the thin, cool sunlight as I took the decrepit oars with a sense of pride belonging to the grandson of two boatsmen. Wielding the wood I took us halfway out before we all noticed that the other crew were struggling behind an ever-changing captaincy. We let float and watched as the sun and water collected at the treeline. The deer came down to eat the vegetation by the shore; the rock of our boat resonating with the sublime afternoon’s melody.

Our friends eventually found their sea legs and joined us in the afternoon radiance. I never thought an hour in a rowboat would do us all so much good. We beamed as we left to go grab our lunch banana leaf lunches topped off with sweet paan.

I think this short overnight in Ooty will change the rest of our trip. We haven’t looked this relaxed since we left. A real affirmation of good lessons put into action.

A Saviour, a Miracle and a Little Science Fiction: Christmas in India (part two)

To make the most out of having Christmas away from home (and especially in India) its critical to follow the most important rule of holiday travel: Don’t expect that it will be remotely like anything you know of your family holiday tradition. Don’t even presume to compare. The golden rules in place, you may never experience a more creative and unique celebration in your life.

This can be my only explanation for waking up at 7:00am and fogging around for a cup of coffee in the empty Pondicherry streets on Christmas morning after falling asleep around 2:30am the night before. With a dose of caffeine inside, I warmly welcomed the navy blue ambassador that drove up to the front of the Raj Lodge (why they didn’t spell it Raj Laj will only bum me out for ever). I loaded in with my crew and drove off to Auroville.

Auroville is an intentional community just outside the city. It’s based of the teachings of Sri Aurobindo (from my brief research a weighty and thoughtful Indian freedom fighter turned yogi from the early 20th century). The vision for the community is a place where human unity can be experienced; a new vision for living together with spiritual values as the premise. The community purchased about 20 square kilometers in the 60’s and have developed a global village that today consists of over 2000 people from some 40 countries. Passing by the bungalows, I tried to shoo away the rumors I’d heard of it being a refuge for criminals on the lam. I believe that everything deserves a fair shot from the beginning.

Our highly mechanized entry (including pre-registration through a contact days before and a secure checklist) led us to a viewing room for the official Auroville video. It glossed all the good stuff, human unity, responsibility and freedom, utopia stuff. It skipped all the grime of community, but I couldn’t blame them for that, hoping I might get it later on in the tour. From there we got in some electric people transport (which my friend related to the jeeps in Jurassic Park [fairly I might add]) to the center of the premises: Matrimandir.

The massive golden orb raised out of the manicured garden like Epcot Center in Orlando. I dropped off my bag, camera and phone at the coat check and listened to a kind Frenchman explain to us all about Matrimandir. It’s here that it all started to get a little more interesting for me. At Aurobindo’s passing, a woman (who later became known as The Mother) got hold of the band of devotees and took the ideas forward for the next 25 years. She held onto some of the teacher’s principles, but also took a hectic turn by introducing a good dose of her “visions” into the philosophy of the place. She dreamt up the massive golden orb (some 7 to 8 stories high) and its entire inside design, which included long indoor waterfalls, tricked out blue and red lighting, circling staircases and a meditation room centered around a huge crystal ball. My friend said as we walked into the orb “This all just went a little Star Trek on us.” I agreed, It looked like we had just jumped onto the set of TRON. When I heard that one of the six main reasons for creating Auroville was to hasten the arrival of a more highly refined species to earth, I decided to cut my losses and try to focus on what positives could be taken from the place, even if the philosophy seemed to go crack.

Redemption came in the form of the most beautiful piece of landscaping I’ve ever encountered. An epic Banyan tree, carefully manicured to create a most spectacular grove. As a Banyan tree grows, it rains down rootlike vines from its branches which grow into the ground and serve as new sources for nutrients. Typically, this process takes over and the tree grows in a spectacularly untamed jungle of tree. But in this case, the gardeners had pruned these bundled vines, keeping only one each at various points on the tree. These once-thin vines had now grown into the size of tree trunks and supported the extremely long branches of the tree that now stretched horizontally from the main tree trunk up to 50 or 60 feet. With careful attention, this tree could continue to grow in such a manor for hundreds if not thousands of more years. Ah! A Christmas Tree for the Ages. Sweet redemption and definitely a signal to bounce.

Leaving the compound, I laughed to myself. Is this where I really spent my Christmas morning? I thought about the hundred times my family used to think about going to watch the re-enactment of Washington crossing the Delaware on Christmas and always turning it down, placing priorities on food, family and chilling with our new gifts. Ha! I never imagined my first big Christmas Day outing could be this!

But the redemption of Christmas continued with a quick stop at the beach to dip in the Bay of Bengal. Watching the fishermen finish their lunch and take their outboard motor long boats straight into the rolling tide.

Exhausted from the strange morning, we met the rest of our crew (Auroville could only accommodate a small number of us at a time) for lunch and splashed together, meeting up from very different mornings. A classic restaurant search upped the tension, followed by some so-so food and the need to plan for a presentation we would give later that day. A couple of verbal outbursts jolted the group and a classic Christmas drama started to boil.

But at the height of the dis-ease, we received a small Christmas miracle. The crew from the East (Chinese, Taiwanese, Vietnamese and Malaysian), not used to celebrating Christmas, provided the desperately needed Christmas spirit. In a flurry of activity following the meal, they played Santa Claus to our restless crew and transformed the rest of the day.

Impeccable timing. The whole day turned on the moment. We laughed and traded gifts with the joy of children. In total, I received three gifts this year, each one as lovely as the next and providing me with big smiles.

A Bookmark. Which hysterically reminded me of the last time someone gave me a bookmark as a gift. At the age of 6, I received a bookmark from my parents to mark the pages of my bible. A year later, my Mom recorded something like this in a family notebook: “This year, Chris (now a thoughtful boy of 7) decided to give out Christmas presents. He gave Andrew a drawing, Lindsay a marble and a bookmark to me and Dad. On the note attached to the wrapping paper, Chris wrote the following: ‘To Mom and Dad. Love: Chris. I thought you could use this more than me’. When we opened the package, we found a bookmark with the inscription: ‘To Chris, Love Mom and Dad’.”

A Polo Shirt (which would actually come a day after Christmas, but not a moment too soon for my hurting laundry situation). This of course delivered the most classic of all Christmas subtexts: The old “I think your clothes make you look like a hobo and I’m buying you something in the hopes it will help you clean up your act” gift. Good to have a surrogate Indian Auntie around for Christmas

A Pair of Black Athletic Socks. Which reminded everyone of the time I soaked my only pair of socks at Yercaud, a cold and wet hill station near Salem. In a desperate (and what I thought at the time was a rather clever) move, I lit the prayer candle in my room (was staying at a convent) and draped my socks over the edge and above the candle so as to use the generated heat to dry the socks. Smart enough, until I turned up from my journal some 10 minutes later to a smell of burning. I looked back at my socks, which seemed to be fine. But upon closer inspection, I realized that the socks were a synthetic blend and the materials were, in fact, melting! Actually, they had melted to a point of crust and when I tried to scrape away the hardened surface, I accidentally tore a huge gaping hole in the toe. Socks finished and worse, feet still cold!

With the sprit renewed, we took a siesta and gathered again to sing Christmas carols – it has been a real pleasure to teach the tunes to those unfamiliar with the traditional songs. We brushed up “Silent Night”, “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!”, and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” (which coincidentally is a very common musical theme in India for giving the alert that a truck is in reverse) and took our massive cheer to a convent on the other side of town. By this point I had completely lost my mind, drunk on the eggnog of what can only be described as the fully international Christmas Spirit.

We delivered a presentation to about 100 high school girls who loved the whole event. The Sisters as well. It was tough to claw myself away from their over-eager attention when we finished, but I managed to escape and take a phone call with the family who had just sat down next to their Christmas morning.

When we returned to the seaside, another Christmas feast ensued at “The Bamboo Hut”. A big dinner of chipatis, rice, fish curry, mutton biriyani, mutter masala and palak paneer. I fine way to close out a spectacular day of culture and celebration.

I feel asleep listening to Sufjan Stevens sing “Joy to the World”. My newest favorite Christmas Carol.

Joy to the world
The Lord has come
Let earth receive her king
Let every heart prepare him room
And heaven and nature sing

Chaos at Communion: Christmas in India (part one)

I received an email from a friend on Christmas Eve. He said that this would be a Christmas that I would never forget.

I knew the moment I read the words that he was right. Already the epic journey to Pondicherry had made this a famous holiday for me. But even then, I couldn’t imagine the unique events would actually comprise the day.

It all started on the night of the 23rd when my team of nine sat around some chicken korma and paneer butter masala and swapped stories on Christmas traditions back home. Of the nine, five are Christians and the other listened happily as we described visions of cold (USA, England) and hot (Solomon Islands, Australia) Christmas days.

As we went round, various ideas emerged for how we could celebrate. We settled on attending a midnight mass and having two meals together – one on Christmas Eve night and the other for Christmas lunch.

Following a loungy day of taking in the sights of the city, patting the local temple elephant, taking down a South India thali and visiting the Sri Auribindo ashram we dressed up sharp (or as sharp as you can look after traveling on the road for five weeks) and went to a “multi-cuisine” restaurant for dinner. Food flooded the table as we canceled the budget for the day and let everyone indulge in the food they’ve been missing most. My chicken sizzler alerted all denizens of my choice when it arrived. The strange combination of Indian, Italian, English and “no particular ethnicity” cuisines brought a thousand smiles to our faces. With the air-con blasting to break the heat, we laughed in the holiday, topping it off with a proper cappuccino. After being in chai country for 4 months, that is what I call a Christmas present.

Scooting out I took the chance to grab an unnecessary ice cream and savored each bite of the coffee-chocochips combo as I strolled with my friend to the cathedral for midnight mass. By now it was on 10:30 and we showed up at the gorgeous Portuguese colonial style church. Painted a Mediterranean pink with twin apses, the courtyard outside could have been southern Europe. The inside, well, that was unmistakably Indian -- complete with a garlanded Mary and an epic nativity scene with blinking lights.

Int what I would later describe as one of the better Christmas Eve ceremonies I’ve attended, the Fathers opted for a three language service. I found this a bold choice as most people find church too long in the first place. To triple the length due to language, well, it seemed a move of either an untested and wily rookie or the touch of seasoned and gifted veteran. It would prove to be the latter. Playing to a packed house, the choir belted out songs for the majority of the service bringing loads of Christmas joy to our ears. The music came in three languages and, unsurprisingly, they all sounded about the same. And while a few slowly slid down their pews and faded into their sugarplum dreams, most of us cranked through the service with a growing Christmas spirit.

The standout Indian moment of the service came at communion. With four stations and about 1,000 people, I through we would follow the typical route of up the middle and down the sides. Well, if that wasn’t a Western concept of order in a church service then I don’t know what is.

When the priest made the call for communion, something only slightly short of chaos broke out. I don’t know of a competition for getting to the front of the communion line, but from the looks of it, I thought there might be. Immediately, several people came straight up the middle from the back, jumping the line in front of those sitting further up. Then it became clear we would not go row by row, but rather whenever you felt like it. We might call this go-hen-you-are-led-by-the-Spirit style. Just as I thought I might understand this more democratic (and maybe even more spiritual) process of communion, things changed again. I was sitting in the main section on the left side, but the man next to me quickly jumped over into the side aisle and walked up it to receive the sacrament. When I finally got up into the processional, I found myself squashed into a subcontinental queue** that welcomed in new people all the time at all points. As we proceeded to the cup, those who had finished started walking straight back down the center aisle, so now we had two lines going up, one each side of the aisle, with the recent recipients streaming down the middle, doing their best impersonation of a Brian Westbrook running between the tackles on Christmas Day.

By the time I received the bread, most of the congregation was somewhere in the midst of this mass movement. Something now resembling an beehive or ant colony. I struggled to get back to my seat, stepping on a couple of toes (which requires immediate apologies with lots of hand motions) and catching one man with a shoulder (which requires no apologies [stepping on the toes in India is a big no-no, but giving someone a stiff shoulder by accident is no problem]) and beginning to laugh at the whole scenario. I tried to pull it in when I got back to my seat, wanting to be reverent in the moment of Christ’s birth. But as I bowed my head, closed my eyes and prayed, my Vietnamese friend next to me nudged my arm. “Brother. Brother! Don’t fall asleep. It’s not over yet!” I wanted to be angry that she disturbed my prayer, but then I had to laugh as I could only imagine what this experience must have been like for her – her first time to a Catholic mass.

At 1:40 the music faded, we passed the peace and headed back home. First we walked the block to the sea and strolled the promenade, wishing the many gathered there a merry Christmas. One fellow asked me where I was from and when he heard I was from America, he gave me a big hug. Ah, the Christmas Spirit.

**In a conversation a week later, I had this conversation about the lunch line at a recent event I attended.

Prabhakar: Hungry for lunch?
Chris: Yeah, but it may be a while before we eat. It seems like more people are getting ahead of us.
P: Yeah, well, this is India.
C: Yeah. India has a bit of a queue problem. Don’t you think?
P: (laughing) Ha! India doesn’t have a queue problem. It just doesn’t have any queues. You have to believe in queues in order to have a queue before you can say it has a problem!