Action-Man, 3 July, Agra, India

India. I think of Kipling and Orwell and Malcolm Mugridge. I think of Britain, dazzled with this crown jewel of the empire. I think of their long grasp of India and of Gandhi’s non-violence. People are everywhere in this country of 1.1 billion people. India has more people than North and South America combined.

Through the window, I smell that familiar West African rot. It’s not strong from here, but sort of sickly sweet, of garbage and soil and fried foods. I see a congregation of cows in the median, happy to be holy and protected by law. I see piles of droppings in the street from horses and cows. I see a man kneeling to the cows and talking to them. Indians drive on the left side of the road and everywhere there are men on bikes and motorcycles. At one stop, I saw bears and monkeys with muzzles and ropes and staves. Women in kurtes and pajamas and scarves sit sideways on the backs of motorcycles behind their husbands. It’s romantic to watch.

Oxen pull heavy loads and so do men. I see old Lorries with decorated rumps and red gas tanks. There is a lot of old machinery. At stop-lights, cars and rickshaws and crowded three-wheelers with green chassis and yellow canvas bonnets line up incongruously. The motorcycles and bikes fill the gaps. Scrawny dogs nose through garbage. Earlier, a young girl holding a younger girl with leprosy asked us for money.

But at the moment, I suspect our taxi driver. Last night was a sleepless night on the airplane. And today in the midst of our naps and grogginess, he exacted 300 rupees in “tax.” It makes it especially difficult that we don’t speak Hindi. Oh for black hair and dark skin! Then taxis wouldn’t be such a hassle. Oh to be Indian! Then I could drink their water and eat their food at diners and not get sick.

Sam

Action-Man, 2 July, Bahrain

My khaki pants are clean and it is the second day of July. Two days ago, I washed them for the first time in over two weeks. Micah Hilliard’s mom did a load of laundry for us in Switzerland. They have been in constant use since then. On my pants was chocolate ice-cream from Venice, spaghetti sauce from Rome, rust, black marks from some train seat, and sticky, crusted spots from the salt of the Dead Sea. The salt of the Aegean Sea was milder and made my pants feel freshly ironed and starched. But there is nothing like a real wash.

In our guest house in Amman, Drew and I not only had our own room and beds, but a bathroom with a shower and washing machine, a kitchen, a dining room, and a long, lighted sitting room. I only saw two other people in the guest house while we were there. Yesterday morning, I hopped out of bed and opened the door and there was a woman. She was cleaning. I was shirtless, which is totally gauche here in the Middle East—a strange shirtless man in the presence of a woman. Also, a young Lebanese guy had a bedroom on the other side of the house. We caught sight of him in his boxer shorts a couple of mornings. One morning, I found him in the sitting room recording his own singing voice.

This morning, he told us that there was a church service at 10:30 at the Baptist Church in second circle. So Drew and I walked to second circle, and after walking in some lost circles, we found the church. We took our seats in the balcony, and behold, there stood the Lebanese house guest behind the pulpit. He was leading worship. He had a clean white shirt on, his hands up, and his face forward with a big smile. He seemed to know all the words to all the songs.

But now our plane is coming into Bahrain. I must finish up, before the captain turns off the “fasten seat-belt” sign. I am looking at the digital map, which shows our position, and I am curious about the scattered kingdoms of the gulf—UAE, Bahrain and Kuwait. What are they doing with all their money? Ahead and to the left is a row of three Muslim men in white gowns and white head coverings. Three men with dark skin and black mustaches and white gowns bring to mind Tintin and the Land of Black Gold. Ahead of them is a Muslim girl in burke and scarf, who, I think, is thirsting for elegance. On our way into the plane, she stopped at an advertisement with a pretty model in it. She looked on longingly and touched the smooth cheek of the model.

Sam

Color-Man, 2 July, Amman, Jordan

A distressed Muslim mother sits across from me here at the Amman airport. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes weary. An infant rests on her lap, and two other youngsters crowd around her knees. One of them wails inconsolably. The mother wears the traditional burke. I see other women too at the gate in the same garb. Ten or so of them are traveling solo. Where are their husbands?

Islam is oppressive. It asks for everything—body, mind, and soul—and gives very little back. It does not offer freedom, or equality, or justice, or mercy. It suppresses women. It brainwashes children. It satisfies none.

Some people say that Christianity brainwashes people in the same way. The prayer-emitting mosques crowning each street corner are much akin to the Medieval churches of old, as I think of it. I think of Tetzel and his indulgences. Both religions have offered—at one time or another—salvation through works and acts of penance. Both have deceived nations, waged wars, and killed thousands. So what is the difference? Why do I believe in Christ? Why not Mohammed? Or even better, why not forsake all religions and their deceptive ways?

Because there is a difference. It lies not in the actions of a religion’s followers—radical or otherwise. The difference is at the core. What did Jesus teach? What did Mohammed teach? If we look to the true heart, there are no similarities. C.S. Lewis tells us that we can’t look at Christ as a mere moral teacher. What Jesus said was radically different than anything that had been said before. He said that he was the Son of God, and that to have life we need to eat his flesh and drink his blood. Either he was a liar and a lunatic, or he was who he said he was. And if we believe he was God, we can also believe in his teachings. But not before. And at the core of those teachings is justice and moral law, but also freedom, mercy, joy, forgiveness, reconciliation. There’s no place for those things in Islam, or any other religion in the world. I pick the religion for sinners and mess-ups, who need—more than prayer wheels or Mecca—grace.

Drew

Color-Man, 1 July, Amman, Jordan

I’m watching three guys lead a youth worship service in a Baptist church here in Amman. One is on trumpet, one on the keys, and one on guitar. They are talented, but listless. I have the feeling that they are interesting fellows, but none of their faces communicate joy. The songs are all in minor keys. It’s not that they are joyless. The smiles return to the youths’ faces when they chatter amongst themselves. But there’s a worldwide apathy among my peers in worship. It’s the same at my own high school chapels. No one wants to sing those praise songs, or at least it doesn’t appear that way. When young people lead the service, we focus on maintaining a level of comfort and security. In the process we forget joy. It’s not a judgment on these kids. We all just need to learn to worship with as much joy as we play, if not more. New City in Chattanooga remains my standard for joyful worship.

Sam and I have talked about the power of optimism. Especially on this trip, it’s been crucial to remain positive. As Christians, we should have an honest and sobered perspective of the world. But we must live with uplifted spirits in the midst of it. Indeed, we have the most to be joyful about. That should translate into our lives and worship. After all, “A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.”

Drew