The burden of the
mighty
Just read a small little clip a
while ago here is how it goes-
One Sunday morning an old cowboy
entered a church just before services were to begin. Although the old man and
his clothes were spotlessly clean, he wore jeans, a denim shirt and boots that
were very worn and ragged. In his hand he carried a worn out old hat and an
equally worn out Bible. The church he entered was in a very upscale and
exclusive part of the city. It was the largest and most beautiful church the
old cowboy had ever seen. The people of the congregation were all dressed with
expensive clothes and accessories.
As the cowboy took a seat, the
others moved away from him. No one greeted, spoke to or welcomed him. They were
all appalled at his appearance and did not attempt to hide it. As the old
cowboy was leaving the church, the preacher approached him and asked the cowboy
to do him a favor: “Before you come back in here again, have a talk with God
and ask him what he thinks would be appropriate attire for worship.”
The old cowboy assured the
preacher he would. But the next Sunday, he showed back up for the services
wearing the same ragged jeans, shirt, boots and hat. Once again he was
completely shunned and ignored. The preacher approached the man and said, “I
thought I asked you to speak to God before you came back to our church.”
“I did,” replied the old cowboy. “If
you spoke to God, what did he tell you that the proper attire should be for
worshiping in here?” asked the preacher.
“Well, sir, God told me that He
didn’t have a clue what I should wear. He said He’d never been in here before.”
This reminded me of the man who
walked with his dead wife on his shoulder all the way to his village because
there was no hearse van in the hospital or the available van was on some other
duty, or probably he was carrying about him the worn out hat and bible like the
cowboy. Alongside was his young daughter who was weeping silently and walking with
the father. The look on their faces told a story of everyday life captivated and
stilled in the moment for the camera. The man had an expressionless face that
barely let forth any emotions.
The girl cried beside him not because they had
to carry her mother home like a heavy log slung on the shoulder, but because of
the uncertainty facing her on the morrow. Her only channel of communication has
extinguished and there lay in front of her a highly uncertain future. The very
poverty that prevented them from getting assistance, their non existence that
fueled the thought process of the hospital authorities were very much holding
onto the skyline. Life was the same for the poor rudderless, nonexistent people
in that part of the world. They were like the cowboy who walked in worn and
weary out of years of toil and facing a highly dysfunctional society.
Even while we shout inclusiveness,
even while we ‘Make in India’, even while we promise millions of jobs for our
youth, even while we upgrade the skills of our young ones through the skill India
campaign, the ordinary cherished dreams of the poor linger in the air like the
morning smoke of a home fire that mingles into the air at short notice. Nobody
would remember the path it took, the twirl of its body as it rose into the air.
Its existence would be but only for a moment and before anyone notices, it is
lost. Such is the existence of poor people, like that villager with his wife
straddled on his shoulder.
The issue faced by the poor
villager was very much akin to what the pastor and his ilk had adapted to, having
cocooned themselves into a corner not willing to recognize the disadvantaged,
feeling shamed at worshiping with the downtrodden. How many times have we
scorned the lowly, the people who walk in with the scent of their toil
dismembering the fragrance of our holiness, our understanding? Aren’t we
ashamed of standing in line with such less lucky brethren, Oh, how we screw up
our nose at the first scent of the lowly?
Aren’t we reverberating the ways
of the pastor and are we not behaving like the congregation that does not see and
feel the unevenness of life? Next time you see the cowboy with his
expressionless face, next time you see the lonesome girl lost in the present,
next time you feel the aura of a sophisticated existence, stop a while and draw
in the air around you, to feel the numberless toiling bodies that live a life
of non existence.
Allow them to sit next to you, to
inhale the fragrance of your mightiness. Ask if you may share in their emotions
a while, ask if you may partake in the toil, ask if you may help shoulder the
weight of their misfortune, failing which we would be nothing more than the
weight the villager was carrying, nothing more than the self flattering
contours of the church which even the almighty chose to give a miss.
Robin Varghese
26th August 26, 2016
