The God of Poor People

Colombo, 2 days before the Tsunami disaster, 2004: I visited a humble church not far away from the little hotel where my butt and bags were parked. (Berjaya Hotel Colombo, Mount Lavinia, if I recall.)

It was Christmas eve and I was surrounded by a sea of worshippers, the hot night air clinging to my skin like Gladwrap™

Chairs spilt like plastic tombstones out of the tiny chapel, whose fairy lights blinded us to the peeling, mildewed walls of the church. But surprisingly, all were filled with many more people lined the walls like vertical panels of dark wood. Petite little ladies in simple dresses held on to their babies or otherwise their little ones’ hands, while men in well-worn shirts shuffled their feet as they waited for the service to start. (Only the children seem to be adorned in pretty clothes, as if the best things the families could afford were rightly reserved for them.)

My in-laws along with my fiancé, his brother, his brother's girlfriend and I had arrived early. So there we were inside the weather-beaten church. Crammed into the little benches passing off as pews and reading the song sheets in Ceylonese text.

The pastor conducted the service in Ceylonese, too. (What else would be more suitable in this part of the world?) But as Catholicism is a universal language, we somehow recognised the different parts of the Mass on cue and managed to worship the Lord appropriately.

Admittedly, I expected the service to be somewhat raucous and enthusiastic. What we experienced was a solemn event. No ripples of giggles as the angelic children sang in their untrained voices. No clapping when the hymns were delivered. No ambient sounds of chattering and chuckles in between liturgies. Not because the worshippers were bored and uninspired but because they were respectful of the substance of the event.

In fact, when it was time to pay homage to the Nativity of Jesus at the conclusion of the service, the mood changed dramatically like the tide.

As the pastor carried the Baby Jesus doll out of the church to the makeshift stable nearby, the crowd surged like a school of fish in hungry pursuit, their hands puncturing the darkness in frantic efforts to touch the doll. (A furtive glance I threw at this juncture found my in-laws standing by the exit; they had cleverly evaded the stampede.) My fiancé and I were caught in the current. But we realised we were entangled in something much deeper when hundreds of bodies closed in on the doll as it was laid down in the manger and prayers were uttered as fingers made contact with plastic - something dense and rich in emotion. I couldn’t find the word to describe it at the time but later it returned to me – Faith.

In a country filled with strife like Sri Lanka, there are few ways to explain the smiles that come easy to their people. They smile because the trappings of a sophisticated lifestyle don’t trap them. They smile because they are not burdened with office politics. They smile because their minds have not been twisted by cynicism.

Their whole being is free to embrace a higher and purer level of happiness, the kind that comes directly from God and flows out of their every pore.

So when I visited the Westminster Cathedral in London during our honeymoon, I was surprised to find myself in a different ambience altogether. The church herself was a magnificent architectural paean to the Almighty with its sky-high ceilings, intricate century-old markings, paintings and well-adorned interiors. But the contents that really mattered – the lay faithful – were stiff and staid and few in numbers.

I took this picture above to capture the spirit of a place so generous with light yet so heavy with yearning for warmth. And every time I look at it, remember lighting a candle with my husband and reading the little note below the metal tiers. It said: “Lighting a candle is a prayer too. It expresses hope and love for those you light it for.” (Something to that effect.)