By chhotebhai
Kanpur, August 24, 2019: Four years ago, my classmates celebrated the golden jubilee of our passing out of school (Senior Cambridge) in 1965. One classmate recalled an incident where I acted as his wife in the school concert – replete with lipstick, rouge and the mandatory coconut shells up front!
I had long forgotten the incident, so it rekindled old memories, and possible resentment. If there is one thing a young boy in boarding school hates, it is to be dressed up as a girl.
I don’t know if this sub-conscious feeling is what influences my attitude towards school concerts and church celebrations. Both are as artificial and divorced from reality as those fake coconut shells. So, I tend to avoid them unless absolutely necessary.
Unfortunately, even our rich liturgical celebrations have assumed an aura of artificiality. They so resemble the convent concert; replete with gaudy costumes/vestments and artificial accents.
I was recently invited to the episcopal consecration of an old friend. I have already written about the person himself. Now I will turn my attention to the “celebration.” What I am now expressing is in no way limited to this particular celebration, nor does it seek to belittle the hard work that many put into it.
This celebration was no different from several other such “triumphant entries” into Jerusalem (minus the humble ass). We forget that it was a false prelude. The truth emerged later that week in the betrayal, denial and abandonment.
Three little anecdotes will help express what I am driving at. The first was told to me several years ago by Father Dhiranand Bhatt, rector, St Joseph’s Seminary, Allahabad. About two centuries ago Anglican missionaries had won over many Bengali Brahmins. They now heard that the Anglican bishop was coming, and panicked. How many more would the powerful bishop convert?
He arrived in a gilded horse drawn carriage, resplendent in his purple robes. The Bengalis ran home rubbing their hands in glee. No self-respecting Bengali would see God in a gold and purple liveried person. Post Independence, the “holy Catholic Church” has taken over from where the Anglicans left off, crimson red replacing the purple.
The second anecdote is actually a joke that I recently read. An advertising guru organized a blitz for a health drink in the Gulf region. There were three frames, from left to right. The first depicted a weakling, the second the tonic, and the third a strong man.
But this clear message flopped abysmally, for the elementary reason that in the Gulf region people read from right to left. So in the eyes of the beholder the tonic actually weakened the man! A case of misplaced ardour.
The third anecdote was by Bishop Patrick D’Souza of Varanasi. A fervent priest from Mangalore brought some coconut saplings from his “native place” and planted them in his mission territory of Varanasi. He hoped to reap a rich harvest. To the contrary, the saplings withered and died in the sweltering dry heat of the Gangetic plains.
What do these three anecdotes teach us – that the road to hell (or failure) is paved with good intentions. It is not enough to have good intentions, like the good Word, the precious seed. One must also know soil and weather conditions – the surrounding circumstances, and the social milieu. Here is where our “missionaries” have failed miserably. They are out of sync with local culture and aspirations.
In India people see a man of God like a Sadhu. The underlying logic is that if he is detached from the world then he must be attached to God. Vatican II talked of a pilgrim church (LG 8), but we persist with the palm swaying triumphalistic church. It doesn’t gel or attract. Rather, it repels. Our liturgy begins to resemble the artificiality of the convent concert. It is so like the mismatched gilded carriage, the tonic ad and the coconut sapling.
The Catholic liturgy is actually very rich and meaningful. Shorn of its western plumage and triumphalistic overtones it can attract large numbers to the church. Hindus seek God through the Bhakti Marg (devotion), Gyan Marg (Knowledge or enlightenment) and Karm Marg (fulfilling one’s duty). Our liturgy is a wonderful expression of the Bhakti Marg, if only …
Two images from the recent episcopal consecration will illustrate my point. No offence is meant to the dramatis personae. First notice the wooden cross looking so incongruous in the resplendence of the altar, the celebrants and their vestments. It reminded me of that “old rugged cross” on a wind-swept hill, with a reverberating cry “Father forgive them they know not what they do” (Lk 23:34).
The other image is of the bishop-elect prostrate before the cardinal and other consecrating bishops. Notice those polished black shoes. All the others on the stage are also well shod.
This is in direct contrast to God’s darshan to Moses on Mount Horeb. He tells Moses to remove his footwear because he is standing on holy ground (cf Ex 3:5).
In our village churches people remove their footwear before entering, and squat on the ground. But when they become “civilized” they walk in well heeled. Most celebrants of the liturgy do the same. Non-Christians find this irreverent.
Then again, almost all Asian religions like Hinduism, Islam, Judaism, Sikhism and Zoroastrianism expect the faithful to enter the place of worship with their heads covered (not just for women). We do the opposite, following the western culture of removing one’s hat. I have seen some overzealous clergy and laity even making people remove their headgear, including the Sikh turban. If this is not cultural insensitivity, what is?
I will take two more examples from the consecration that I attended. The dancers that preceded the celebrants were adivasi women dressed in their traditional red and white saris. The lady ushers were wearing cream and gold saris (I couldn’t help noticing the women).
So was this an apt case of inculturation? No. Because the dancers’ dress was typical of Chhotanagpur; not the state where this event was taking place. In like manner the gold saris were typical of Kerala state. I could not but think of the coconut saplings withering away in Varanasi.
Finally, the eggs. Yes, eggs, boiled ones; because we got them for breakfast and dinner. The offertory procession had two thalis of eggs. Perfectly in order had this been in Chhotanagpur or Kerala, but not here; more so since it was the month of Sawan, when most pious Hindus abstain from non-vegetarian food.
I feel that the boiled eggs, the red and white or gold saris, the polished black shoes, and the shining vestments around the wooden cross were all well intentioned. But what was their witness value in the “missionary land” where this event occurred? This is precisely my point made earlier, that the road to failure is paved with good intentions.
This critique is not meant to belittle any of those who worked really hard for this episcopal consecration. It is only intended to make us reflect seriously on our witness value, and what impact our celebrations have on others.
The sooner we jettison the excess baggage of western culture and the artificiality of convent style concerts, the more credible and Christ-like will be our witness.