A Global Community

I sat quietly at the back of one of the classrooms listening to Brian McLaren, I found myself getting agitated.

The more I listened, the more agitated I became. The room was comfortable enough. The lighting was fine. The temperature was comfortable. If not the environment, what?

Brian McLaren, author and speaker and prominent figure in the “emergent church” movement, was speaking at Knox College’s Renew continuing education event last November. He spoke from his book Generous Orthodoxy where he asserts for a post – liberal, post – conservative, post – Protestant convergence that fosters the pursuit of truth, the unity of the church and the gracious character of the gospel.

I listened keenly as McLaren described the landscape and traditions of faith, and the vision of an orthodoxy that aims for Jesus as the centre of the Christian faith, driven by love and defined by missional intent. A “generous orthodoxy” that brings to the forefront a way of life that draws us closer to Christ and to each other. I love that.

McLaren defined this “generous orthodoxy” as the practice of humility, charity, courage and diligence extended not only to fellow Christians but also to those of non – Christian religions, “drawing us to look at the ‘other’ not in terms of ‘us/them’ but rather ‘we.'”

And that was when I got ruffled.

It’s not that I disagree with McLaren’s assertion that we need to take seriously what Jesus said about the poor, or that we should stop being content as members of the Christian religion and aspire to start living the way of Jesus. I agree, I agree. So why was I having such a difficult time referring to the people in my midst, my family and friends and the people I cherish outside of the Christian limits as “the other?” Could it be because I was once the other? Maybe I still am.

Though I was born in Canada, I was born and raised in a Sikh home. Sikhism is a monotheistic religion rooted in India. I understood growing up that there was a powerful God and that gurus, or teachers, pointed us to God’s truth.

In my high school years, questions about God and, more specifically, my personal relationship with God rose to the forefront. I was a member of the choir in our high school and a number of the students attended church. They had a different religion from mine, but we shared the same morals and values. It was comfortable. And it wasn’t long before I was invited to youth group and church services. “Why not?” I thought to myself. Likewise, my mother had no major initial concerns.

I loved attending church with my friends. United, Anglican, Presbyterian and Pentecostal—whoever would take me, I would go. I loved the hymns we sang about Jesus: Jesus the friend to sinners, Jesus the Shepherd, Jesus the Saviour of the world. I even enjoyed the sermons, even when my friends said, “that was a boring one.”

Going to church satisfied a hunger I didn’t know I had. I attended faithfully and even helped my friends teach Sunday school classes. Ironically, it was I who did the greatest learning. Jesus was such an amazing teacher, so much like the 10 gurus that represented the faith of my birth. Pictures of Jesus in the Sunday school books with his long blonde hair, fair skin and blue eyes reinforced for me that Jesus was a beautiful non – Indian guru for white people.

At home, my Sikh life continued. Each morning, my mother would go into Babaji’s room—the room where the Guru Granth Sahib lived; the Sikh holy book was on a small table dressed with beautiful silks and brocades. I would sit on the floor while my mother conducted the morning ritual of opening the book. She would read a passage of the poetic verses, and conclude by saying the Japji, the morning prayer. Every morning began this way and every evening, before sundown, this was repeated when the holy book was closed.

For most of my childhood, the two worlds with their different languages, different images and different histories coexisted brilliantly until at some point, in my late teens, I began to question it all. I began to ask the difficult questions regarding faith and God, of my mother, the pastors at the churches I attended, and of my poor friends, who now seriously questioned bringing me to their churches in the first place. I readily fought those who claimed Jesus to be the only way and I was offended that an exuberant young Christian had called me “a sinner.” But God saw fit to place individuals in my life who displayed the traits of McLaren’s generous orthodoxy.

In my last year of high school I went with my friends to a Christian youth retreat. I had asked all the questions and I was given answers that satisfied to a point, but left much unresolved. On the last day of the retreat, a time of powerful messages, deep prayer, a sense of community and passionate singing to God, it suddenly became clear both intellectually and spiritually. While singing a song, the title and tune I have long since forgotten, I understood the story of redemption that runs through the pages of the Bible and for the first time accepted that Jesus died for me. It was a powerful revelation. Jesus died for me because he loved me so much. My sins had been forgiven and through the blood, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, I was now a new creation. I had, in that moment met Jesus and accepted Jesus as my Saviour.

So, I was “the other” that McLaren refers to. The word “other” is defined as different or distinct from one already mentioned or known about. From my perspective, there seems to be an implied negative connotation in this context. Growing up, I was taught that there was no “other,” we were all somehow connected, the same. Every person was to be valued. The legacy of my devout Sikh grandmother was to teach me that we are to treat all people, regardless of religion, colour or socio – economic status, with grace.

During my regular childhood visits to India, I would go daily with my mother and grandmother to the Sikh gudwara. We would travel by rickshaw, battling the hoards of people and the beasts that lay claim to the road, to a small unimpressive building. When we arrived at our destination we walked along the dark, dusty path to the doorway, where we took off our shoes before entering. The place we entered seemed almost incompatible to its dreary exterior. Inside it was bright and clean and smelled of incense and yummy, spicy foods. Some worshippers had already found their spots on the white sheets that swathed the carpet – bare floors. The Guru Granth Sahib sat prominently in the room, upon a pillowed pedestal under an ornate canopy.

With our heads covered, and our hands positioned palms together and fingers stretching skyward, we would follow my grandmother as she walked reverently up to the holy book. She would stop before the ornate canopy, whisper a prayer and then bow before the word of God. Discretely, she would take the money that she held between her praying hands and place it in the box on the floor. My mom and I would do the same and then follow my grandmother to where she sat, cross – legged on the floor with the other worshippers. The women sat on one side and the men on the other. I would sit for only a moment until I caught a glimpse of the other children present.

I remember, as a child, running around with my little friends and never once do I recall being told to sit still or be quiet, as the taller people prayed and sang their songs of praise. It was somehow understood by the children—we just knew when we needed to be quiet and when it was okay to play.

Eventually I would get tired of running around during the long service of prayer and I would find my way to my mother and sit on the floor by her side. Soon the rhythmical tones from the reader of the Guru Granth Sahib would make me sleepy and I would place my head on my mother’s lap and rest, until someone came around with parshad. This sweet is served to all and signifies God’s grace and human equality. There was something comforting about this place, a place I shared with the people I loved, a place where God was present, a place where children were fully welcomed.

After worship, people from the congregation and from off the street, Sikhs and Hindus alike, would gather outside, sitting in the dusty alley in rows to receive lungar. This free meal was offered to all.

I loved it when it was our turn to serve. I would follow my grandmother outside the doors of the temple to find the earlier unpopulated alleyway now packed with people sitting on the ground on either side of the pathway. I would watch my grandmother tie back her beautiful silk scarf so it would not drag on the ground, and then begin the task of serving. She along with others, including myself would serve to the masses a full meal of roti, two kinds of subji, and hot tea. I would walk behind her as she bent down to serve each one individually; my beautifully dressed grandmother serving the unkempt and poor, who sat side by side with those of many means. This was a place where status and caste did not matter. There was no “us” or “them;” there was no other. I watched her as she attended each one, looking them in the eyes and smiling a wonderfully compassionate smile. Each person mattered. After we served, we sat on the ground in the alleyway where we, too, ate our meal.

Who is the other? Is there another? Or is there only “we?”

I understand inefficiency of language and how the meaning of words can change over time. McLaren may refer to the other with no additional meaning intended. For me, however, the term “other” still connotes “us” and “them.” Is there another word? Is there another term that might soften the notion of assumed North American Christian superiority? I don’t know. What I do know is that had it not been for the grace demonstrated by my Sikh grandmother, I may not have appreciated the difference.

I also know that had it not been for the love and generous orthodoxy of a few key and amazing people whom God placed on my path, my life would be very different. I was born into an Indian home, into the Sikh religion. I am “the other,” but I am a follower of Jesus and for that I am very grateful!