A Lonely Little Church

Far down a jaw-rattling road in the broken Northern Indian state of Bihar, a lonely little church struggles to survive.

Forty-three years ago this April, a church was planted in a remote town in Northern India with proceeds from the estate of Rev. John W. Moore and his wife Daisy Eury-Moore. It was a project entrusted to Myers Park Methodist Church to carry out his wishes to "start a church in the mission field."

Steve James, Roy Dunaway and Charlie Rivens made a pilgrimage to this little church on Sunday to worship with them. to encourage them and to tell them that they were still remembered by the church that had fostered their beginnings. The courage of the sisters and brothers in this isolated compound staggers the imagination of those of us who worship at our ease.

Dark red bricks baked from the mud of the nearby Ganges river valley were skillfully built into fortress-thick walls for the modest sanctuary. Strong iron gratings frame the windows. The roof structure was formed from poured cement as if the builders knew that this church building didn't need to withstand rain and wind so much as it needed to be impervious to a firebomb and strong enough to hold off an angry mob.

The church was not easy to find. In these days of instant internet access anywhere on earth, ubiquitous cell phone access and Google Earth, no one in India could provide assurance that the church still existed after all these years. The Board of Missions of the Methodist Church no longer maintains contacts with the church. The many denominations whose efforts had built hundreds of churches in North India finally merged into the Church of North India in the early 1970's. The Methodist Conferences that never merged into the church said over and over again in e-mails and telephone contacts, "We don't have churches in that area." But the case was compelling that this little church was not gone, it was just forgotten and neglected in a world that ignored its struggle to survive.

When we arrived in Allahlabad, having been warned not to try to reach the church from Patna, Rev. Rajesh Joseph, the kind Secretary of the local Diocese of the Church of North India, welcomed us into his home and office. I had called him at home weeks ago, interrupting his son's birthday party with my strange request that he help me find this church. "It is not in our Diocese, I can assure you," he told me. "But I'll help you find it. And if you can't find it, I can help you find a hundred other little churches that can use your help."

Enlisting the aid of a gentle Christian guru, Dr. Mishrah, Rev. Joseph sent us on a journey to Bikramganj that took us to the church of a prayer-singing pastor in Mughalsarai, which must be the biggest truck-stop and train-station in all of India. On the way, we had dinner with a charismatic literacy-activist where lengthy prayers were shared in English, Hindi, and unknown tongues, drove along highways past overturned trucks, busses and tractor-taxis, past motor-cyclists with AK-47's strapped over their shoulders, over truck-swallowing pot-holes and scary-looking bridges. But at the end of the journey, we found the church we had been looking for.

As we drove up, the caretaker, Rama Nandmassi, was just finishing sweeping the dirt yard in preparation for the morning worship. The caretaker had been a member of the church since the beginning and now was the steward of the church as well as the preacher-of-the-day. The pastor, Rev. L.R. Thimothy was away for a conference in Lucknow, ten hours away by car.

Vishnu Bhagwan was there with his wife and their ten-year old son. They had converted to Christianity from the Hindu religion and had been burned out of their home by their neighbors for converting. So they lived in the attached sleeping quarters on the church property.

The excitement that our visit generated was captivating. It was so moving to these people that the church in North Carolina, USA still remembered them. Our congregation had been little more than a phrase on the cornerstone at the entrance to their building, but now there were real people who had come from across the ocean to see how they were doing. They created an impromptu welcoming ceremony, with Mrs. Bhagwhan and her son hastily assembling garlands in the back room of the church while Mr. Nandmassi prepared the sanctuary for the morning worship.

The brief worship service that morning included passionate songs of praise to God in Hindi, a lovely gospel message from Mr. Nandmassi, and an offering of peace and love that stirred the soul.

"We have wanted to contact our American sponsors for a long time, but never knew how to reach them," said the caretaker. "We hope to be able to stay in touch now, and not lose contact with one another again."

For a couple of dozen Christians, eighty miles from other Christians, in a state in India known mainly for its violence and banditry, whose lives are daily threatened with beatings and burnings because of their faith, knowing that God loves them enough to send someone from the US not only to start a church for them forty years ago, but to remember them after all these years is a priceless encouragement. Myers Park United Methodist Church can do little to transform their daily lives. But remembering them in prayer and writing to them in encouragement are tangible reminders for them that God has not forgotten their little church. And that makes their lives a lot less lonely.

Comments

[Suzanne Putnam]

What a lovely story. I think this is true ministry. These people have almost nothing, and I am sure they must have thought few cared. But they still loved God and worshipped him. What an encouragement to their heart it must have been to know that others so far away care about them!