Jesus Loves YOU!
India is a country with 13 official languages, a topography that ranges from the Himalaya to the tropical climate of the south to the deserts of Rajasthan. It is a country whose history has faced invasions from the Muslims, encounters with Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, the Dutch, Portuguese, French and English, to name but a few of the more recognized outsiders. It is also a country of diverse religious traditions. Birthplace of Hinduism, Jainism and Buddhism, India has also been a home for Muslims, Christians, and even the small Jewish settlement that arrived in 72 AD near Cochin.
In the south, there are proportionately more Christians than in the remainder of the country. Thiruvalla, one city in Kerala, has a Christian majority. It was there that I had the fortune to stay with a kind family whose Christian faith was extremely strong. My host’s father is a priest in the Syrian Christian Church and his brother is currently studying for the priesthood as well. When I arrived I was struck by the emphasis on Christian slogans and iconography that colours the city. The taxi we drove in on our way to my host family’s home had “Jesus Loves YOU!” written on the dashboard, with a smaller scrawl that said, “Jesus loves Thiruvalla” underneath it. Images of Jesus were in almost every storefront, and churches graced every corner. They had strange names, like Mar Thoma, which means Saint Thomas in Malayam, since it is believe that it was Thomas who brought Christianity to India in the early years of the last millennium.
As we drove up to my host’s house, the house screamed “Jesus!” from every direction. With a large cross on the front of the house as well as more signs with biblical quotations and the Hebrew word “Shalom” on the door. The inside proved to be even more incredible. A bookcase whose entire top half was dedicated to Christian slogans and images had more signs that said, “Remember your next life – Believe in Jesus!” and “Jesus Saves!” and pictures of the Christian saviour with his light brown hair and beard.
A picture of the Last Supper hung above the dining room china cupboard, a picture of Jesus adorned the wall above the sink where we would wash our hands before dinner. The upstairs was a convertible prayer hall with another alter and more images.
All of this imagery made me intensely curious as to the nature of my host’s father, the priest. We drove out to see his church, and as we pulled into the driveway, he exited from his vicar’s house and grinned an enormous grin. The man had the biggest black and white striped Santa beard I had ever laid eyes on, and eyes that sparkled as he grabbed me to kiss me on both cheeks and offer me cashews. Dressed in a white robe, traditional for Syrian Christian priests, he walked over to his car (dashboard: Hallelujah!, back dashboard: Jesus loves YOU!) and got in to drive back with us to the house.
Before dinner the family gathered for prayers and as they sat, chanting in Malayalam from the New Testament, I was struck by the complete contrast between the fair images of Jesus and the dark south Indian man who sat in front of me chanting jovially. Pausing in the middle of prayers to ask if I read my New Testament every day, I explained that I was Jewish, and that we read the Torah. Unsatisfied, he told me that I should read the New Testament and believe in Jesus, and that I should wear a cross. He handed me my very own New Testament, which I tried to accept gracefully. As prayers finished and we began dinner, my host mother continually spooned food onto my plate as my mind wandered into the world of Christian conversion.
The next day I had a train to catch and had to leave early in the morning. I ate a wonderful breakfast while my host’s father answered the phone with “Praise the Lord!” and continued his conversations in Malayalam as I ate my puttu. Before I left I handed him, the head of the family, a Canadian flag pin I had brought for my hosts. After asking me if I felt like his home was my home, and I answered in the affirmative, he reminded me that the Jews killed Christ and that I should believe in Jesus. I said thank you, but no, I am very happy being Jewish, and got into the car to go to the train station. I heard the phone ring and a jocund, “Praise the Lord!” as I drove off.
On the train I looked at the New Testament my host’s father had given me. It was entitled “Winning Encounters” and was testimonials of believers in Christ who were sports stars. In between Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, were glossy sections on “Think about Faith!” a story about faith and football, and “Think about Cement!” a story about Jesus and a tennis star. Despite some uncomfortable moments in my host family home, my time spent with the hospitable Christians was definitely a winning encounter. And I get to keep the book!
