Alexa, What About My Neighbour?

Are We Upgrading Our Things but 

Downgrading Our Priorities?

മലയാളത്തിൽ വായിക്കാൻ

Read in Malayalam

Philipose Vaidyar

When was the last time you bought something you did not really need? When was the last time you wanted to help someone but postponed it, thinking you would do so when you had a little more money?

Could these two things be connected?

We live in a world that constantly tells us to buy more, upgrade more and make life easier. Advertisements appear on our phones, shopping apps remind us of what we might be missing, and social media shows us what others own. Even when we are not looking for anything, we somehow discover something we would like to have.

There is nothing wrong with buying what we need or enjoying the benefits of technology. The question is whether our wants are growing faster than our willingness to share what we have.

From the Bicycle to Alexa

I remember a time when owning a bicycle was an aspiration for many. A scooter or motorbike came next. A refrigerator, mixer grinder or typewriter could make us feel that we had moved up in life. Later came computers, washing machines, vacuum cleaners, microwave ovens and a growing collection of gadgets for our homes, offices and farms.

The changes have been remarkable. We have moved from pressing mechanical buttons to touching screens, and now we can simply ask a voice assistant to switch on a light. We have moved from the finger to the fingertip, and from the fingertip to the voice.

Each new invention promises to save time and effort. Food can arrive at our doorstep with a few taps. Machines can do many of the jobs that once occupied hours of our day. We can even manage several household devices without getting up from our seats.

All this should leave us with more time for the things that matter. Yet I wonder whether we are actually becoming more available to people.

We can order food without leaving home, but do we find time to visit a neighbour who is unwell? We can speak to friends across the world, but do we know what is happening in the home next door? We have access to a global village through our screens, yet sometimes remain strangers to those who live within walking distance.

Perhaps the problem is not the technology. It is what we choose to do with the time and money it saves us.

Earn More, Want More

Most of us want to earn more. Some of that desire comes from genuine responsibilities: educating children, caring for parents, meeting medical expenses, and preparing for the future. We may also want to help relatives, support a ministry, or contribute to someone else's needs. These are good reasons to work hard.

The difficulty begins when every increase in income brings a corresponding increase in expenses. A working phone must soon be replaced by a better one. A vehicle that takes us where we need to go begins to feel inadequate beside a newer model. An appliance that does its job perfectly well is exchanged for one with more features.

Before long, we may find ourselves working harder, not to become more generous, but to maintain the lifestyle we have gradually come to expect.

What happened to the extra money we hoped would enable us to help others?

This is not an argument against owning a good phone, buying a vehicle or making our homes comfortable. Circumstances differ, and what is a luxury for one person may be a necessity for another. The point is to recognise the difference between what we need, what we can afford and what we merely desire.

More Room for Things, Less Room for People

Look around our homes. We find ways to make room for new purchases. We rearrange cupboards, add shelves, buy storage units or make plans for a bigger house. When a new device arrives, we usually find a place for it.

Do we make the same effort to accommodate people?

There may be an elderly person who needs a visit, a family struggling with school fees, a neighbour who needs help, or a relative going through a difficult season. We may feel for them sincerely, but our money is already committed, and our schedules are full.

Of course, we cannot meet every need. None of us has unlimited resources, and we should not feel guilty about every purchase or every need we cannot meet. Still, it is worth asking whether our choices leave any room for someone beyond our own household.

We have become quite good at finding space for things. Have we been equally careful to make space for people?

I Am Asking Myself These Questions Too

I am not writing this as someone who has escaped the temptation. I, too, have wanted things: a laptop, a scooter, a camera, and other items that seemed useful or desirable at different stages of life. I know the pleasure of finally owning something one has wanted for a long time.

There is nothing inherently wrong with such aspirations. A laptop can help us work, a scooter can make travel easier, and a camera can help us preserve memories or tell a story. The same item can be a necessity for one person and an unnecessary upgrade for another.

What matters is the question we ask before making the purchase.

Will this genuinely improve my life or work? Is what I already own no longer adequate? Can I afford it without neglecting my responsibilities? Is there a more important need that I have been putting off?

I may not always arrive at the right answer. You may not either. Yet asking these questions can help us recognise when a reasonable desire is turning into a habit of always wanting the next thing.

Perhaps contentment is not about refusing to own anything new. Sometimes it is simply being satisfied with what works, even when something better is available.

What Are We Making Room For?

Technology will continue to advance. New models will appear, old devices will become outdated, and things that once seemed extraordinary will soon become ordinary. We cannot stop that progress, nor do we need to.

What we can examine is our response to it. Every purchase involves more than money. It also reflects our priorities and, over time, shapes the kind of life we live.

Perhaps the real measure of progress is not only how much more comfortable our lives have become, but whether we have become more generous, more attentive, and more available to others.

The next time I feel the urge to upgrade something, I want to pause and ask myself one more question: Am I making my life better only for myself, or am I also making it better for someone else?

Jesus once challenged a rich young man with words that are difficult to fit into a culture of endless accumulation:

“Sell what you have and give to the poor … and come, follow me.” — Matthew 19:21

Jesus was speaking to a particular man in a particular situation. His words are not a blanket command that every purchase is wrong. Yet they leave us with an uncomfortable question about the things we hold on to and the people we may be overlooking.

We have spent years learning how to make room for more things in our homes. 

Perhaps it is time to ask whether we are making enough room for people in our lives.

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Can We Catch the Wind?

February 25, 2022 marks the 36th anniversary of the first EDSA People Power Revolution. 

Courtesy: CODE-NGO 

What happens when a ruler loses 

the loyalty of his own people

and the soldiers can no longer be counted on to protect him?

Read in Malayalam

In February 1986, the Philippines witnessed an extraordinary turn of events. Hundreds of thousands of ordinary citizens filled the streets. Key military leaders withdrew their support from President Ferdinand Marcos. Within days, a man who had ruled for two decades was leaving his palace by helicopter, eventually flying into exile in Hawaii.

No invading army had captured his capital. The story of how it happened is worth reading—and praying over. Here is a true story from history, with a reminder for us as we intercede for the nations today. 

Read on..

When fear began to lose its grip

It was the Philippines, and the year was 1986.

For more than two decades, Ferdinand Marcos had dominated Philippine politics. Elected president in 1965 and re-elected in 1969, he declared martial law in September 1972, citing national security and the need to restore order.

In practice, political opposition was suppressed, newspapers and broadcasters were shut down or controlled, critics were arrested, and serious human rights abuses followed.

The palace continued to speak of stability. Outside its walls, many citizens experienced something very different.

People learned to be careful about what they said. Journalists learned what they could not print. Political opponents learned the cost of challenging the government. Institutions that were supposed to protect citizens increasingly appeared to be protecting those in power instead.

Yet fear has a limit. So does the patience of a people.

In August 1983, opposition leader Benigno “Ninoy” Aquino Jr. was assassinated at Manila International Airport shortly after returning from exile. His death shocked the country. Public anger grew, and the opposition movement gained renewed momentum.

His funeral drew enormous crowds. People who had previously kept their distance from politics began to recognise that silence would not necessarily protect them. The streets became places where grief turned into public courage.

Marcos continued in office, but the foundations beneath his authority were weakening.

The election that changed everything

In February 1986, Marcos called a snap presidential election, hoping to strengthen his claim to popular legitimacy. His principal challenger was Corazon “Cory” Aquino, the widow of Ninoy Aquino.

The election was marred by widespread allegations of fraud and irregularities. The official count declared Marcos the winner, while an independent citizens' vote-monitoring organisation reported a different outcome. Opposition supporters rejected the official result, and the political crisis deepened.

Then came the moment when the loyalty of the machinery of power was tested.

On 22 February, Defense Minister Juan Ponce Enrile and Lieutenant General Fidel V. Ramos, a senior military leader, withdrew their support from Marcos. They took refuge at military camps in Manila, fearing the consequences of their break with the president.

Their position was precarious. They had armed personnel, but they could not be certain how much of the military would stand with them. If the government ordered an assault, the consequences could be disastrous.

Cardinal Jaime Sin, the influential Catholic archbishop of Manila, appealed over Radio Veritas for people to go to the camps and support the breakaway military leaders.

And the people came.

When the streets became a shield

Thousands gathered along Epifanio de los Santos Avenue, better known as EDSA. Soon, the crowds numbered in the hundreds of thousands. Priests, nuns, students, workers, families, and ordinary citizens stood together in the streets.

They brought food and water. They prayed. They sang. They linked arms. Some placed themselves between armed forces and the people inside the camps.

The soldiers had been trained to obey commands. But the people standing before them were not an anonymous enemy. They were their neighbours, relatives, fellow citizens, and countrymen.

Some soldiers fraternized with the crowds. Civilians offered flowers and food to military personnel. Images of religious sisters praying before armed troops and ordinary citizens appealing to soldiers captured the extraordinary character of the uprising.

Not every soldier defected, and the military did not move as one united body. Some units remained loyal to Marcos. Others joined the breakaway forces, while still others did not carry out the actions expected of them.

The situation remained dangerous. There were confrontations, and people faced the possibility of violence. Yet the government could no longer rely on unquestioned obedience from the armed forces.

The movement that had begun as a political crisis became a historic demonstration of people power.

The crowds were not merely asking for a different president. They were challenging the assumption that the machinery of the state existed to serve the person who controlled it.

February 25, 2021 marks the 36th year of the EDSA Revolution.

Source: Central Philippine University

The palace grows smaller

As the demonstrations continued from 22 to 25 February, Marcos's hold on power deteriorated. International pressure mounted, and the United States, a longstanding ally of his government, became involved in efforts to secure a peaceful resolution.

On 25 February, Corazon Aquino was inaugurated as president. Marcos also held a ceremony claiming the presidency that day. But his authority was collapsing.

The man who had commanded the country's institutions was about to leave the palace he had occupied for years.

He would not depart in a presidential motorcade or at the head of a military procession. His final journey out of the country would depend on American military aircraft.

The night Marcos fled

On the evening of 25 February 1986, arrangements were made to evacuate Marcos and his family. The United States became directly involved in securing their departure.

American military helicopters arrived in Manila that evening. Reports place their arrival at the palace area at around 8:30 p.m., with the evacuation taking place shortly afterwards. The helicopters carried Marcos, his wife Imelda, their children and grandchildren, and members of his entourage.

They flew north to Clark Air Base, an American military installation near Angeles City, approximately 80 kilometres from Manila. They arrived later that evening and spent the night at the base.

The departure was not an ordinary transfer of a head of state. It was the hurried evacuation of a president whose political authority had collapsed.

The next stage took Marcos beyond the Philippines.

On 26 February, US Air Force aircraft transported Marcos, his family, and members of his entourage from Clark to Andersen Air Force Base in Guam. From there, they continued across the Pacific to Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii.

Marcos arrived in Hawaii on 26 February 1986, beginning his life in exile. He would never return to power in the Philippines.

Consider the contrast.

For years, Marcos had exercised authority through the country's political institutions and military establishment. Yet, when his rule collapsed, he depended on a foreign military to take him and his family out of the country.

Meanwhile, the crowds remained in Manila. They had not captured the palace through a military assault. Their sustained presence, together with the withdrawal of crucial military support, had helped make Marcos's continued rule untenable.

The palace had not physically disappeared. Its occupant had lost the authority to remain there.

The president had fled. The people had reclaimed their voice.

What history leaves us to consider

The Philippines did not become a perfect democracy overnight. The country continued to face political dynasties, corruption, inequality, and struggles over human rights. The departure of one ruler did not automatically resolve every injustice.

Yet February 1986 remains a powerful reminder that political authority has limits.

A government may control the police, the military, the media, and the institutions of administration. It may use the language of law and order to justify suppressing dissent. It may even convince itself that criticism of its leadership is an attack on the nation.

But a nation is not its president. The law is not the ruler. Public institutions are not the private property of those temporarily entrusted with them.

The most consequential moment comes when those entrusted with protecting the public must decide whether they will serve a political personality or fulfil their duty to the people and the constitutional order.

The soldiers at EDSA did not all make the same choice. Some remained loyal to Marcos. Others withdrew their support. Still others stood aside or responded to the changing situation. History was shaped by that breakdown in unquestioned obedience, together with the courage and persistence of millions of civilians.

The lesson is not that every protest must end at a presidential palace, or that every government can be brought down in the same way. It is that no government can indefinitely assume that the instruments of power will always compensate for the loss of public trust.

A ruler may command the gates, but cannot permanently command the conscience of a nation.

Sometimes, the beginning of an ending is not the moment when the crowds grow larger.

It is the moment when those ordered to stand against the people begin to remember that they, too, are the people.

Source: CCP Encyclopedia of Philippine Art -Cultural Center of the ... / Two Nuns of Edsa 

From history to intercession

This account is not a prediction that events in one nation will be repeated in another. Nor does it suggest that every political crisis has the same causes or demands the same response.

It does, however, give us reasons to pray for nations: for leaders who exercise power responsibly, for citizens who have the courage to stand for truth, for public institutions that serve the people, and for those who face injustice, fear, or oppression.

We can pray that leaders will listen before anger turns into crisis, that those in authority will recognise the limits of their power, and that moments of political change will not descend into bloodshed and revenge.

We can pray for nations where people are afraid to speak, where institutions have been weakened, and where the vulnerable have little protection. We can pray for wisdom, courage, justice, restraint, and peace.

History reminds us that the future of a nation does not rest in the hands of one person alone. It is also shaped by the choices of its citizens, its institutions, and those who must decide whether to obey an order or follow their conscience.

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I have written hundreds of stories over the years, but I have never asked you to forward them to your friends. This time, I am asking you to do so.

Please read this account, intercede for the nations, and forward this post (use the link you received) to your friends. Let us encourage more people to join in prayer for nations, their leaders, and the people who long for justice and peace.

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The Breaking Point

 

The Day the Servant Hit Back

The manager raised his hand to strike the servant boy again. But this time, the boy did not lower his head. He looked straight into the manager’s eyes.

“What are you staring at?” the manager shouted.

The boy remained silent.

The next moment, the manager was on the floor, stunned by a blow he had never expected.

How had the timid servant, who had endured years of humiliation, suddenly found the courage to fight back?

The boy had grown up in poverty. His relatives could barely support themselves. Having dropped out of school, he was labelled unintelligent and incapable of achieving anything. He eventually found work as a servant in the house of a wealthy businessman.

The master travelled frequently, leaving the household under the control of a shrewd, hard-hearted manager. The manager soon discovered that the boy was an easy target. He piled extra work on him, blamed him for every mistake and scolded him even when he did things right.

Sometimes, the scolding ended in blows.

The boy would stand with his head bowed, tears rolling down his cheeks. He endured everything because he feared losing his livelihood. The master paid his relatives a small monthly amount, but the manager exploited the boy’s helplessness without restraint.

Years passed. The boy grew older, but the abuse continued.

Then came that day.

The manager shouted, threatened and struck him as usual. Something in the boy finally snapped. He punched the manager, who stumbled and fell. The boy pushed him down and struck him repeatedly before standing up, breathing heavily, his eyes fixed on the man who had tormented him for years.

The manager struggled to his feet, unable to believe what had happened. Enraged, he called the police.

When the officers arrived, they listened to the accounts and examined the circumstances, including the bundles of money in the house. To the manager’s surprise, they took him away rather than the servant.

The man who had always felt powerful when dealing with someone weaker had suddenly discovered his own vulnerability.

The Lesson

The drum gets the beatings, and the drummer gets paid. Those at the bottom often carry the burden while those above them enjoy the benefits.

Never mistake silence for weakness or patience for an unlimited capacity to endure injustice. This does not justify violence, but it reminds us that prolonged oppression can have consequences nobody expects.

Do not wait until someone breaks down or strikes back before recognising their humanity.

Look at how you treat the people who make your daily life easier. The security guard who manages your gate, the auto driver who takes you through congested roads, the delivery person who brings your package to your doorstep, the domestic worker who keeps your home running, or the junior colleague who does much of the work behind your success. They are people with feelings, struggles and families of their own.

Offer a smile. Say thank you. If an auto fare or delivery deserves a little extra and you can afford it, be generous. Appreciate your team members and invest time in helping them grow. Correct them privately, never humiliate them publicly, and pay them fairly when you have the means.

These are not grand gestures. They are small expressions of compassion that preserve another person's dignity. You may never know how much a kind word or a little consideration means to someone who spends the day being ignored or taken for granted.

If you are a manager, remember that you are a steward, not an owner, of the people entrusted to your care. Their poverty, limited education or dependence on you is never an excuse to exploit them.

Treat others as you would want them to treat you. — Matthew 7:12

You will not become poorer by showing kindness. You may make someone else's day, and discover that you have made your own better, too.

The Bible reminds us:

“Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.” — Romans 12:16

 

Unframing the Past

Have We Framed People on the Wall?

മലയാളത്തിൽ വായിക്കാൻ

“Oh, you have grown up so fast! Look how tall you have become!”

We often say this when we meet someone’s children after many years. We remember the little boy who was running around the house or the little girl who was barely tall enough to reach the table. Now, suddenly, they are grown-ups. We can hardly believe our eyes.

“Children grow up so fast!” we exclaim.

Strangely, other people’s children seem to grow faster than our own. We see our children every day, watching them move from one stage to another. Their growth seems natural and gradual. With other children, we carry an old picture in our minds. When we meet them again, the difference surprises us.

Perhaps this is how we see more than just children.

We take a mental picture of people on a particular day and frame it on the wall of our minds. We label them according to what we know about them: their abilities, weaknesses, appearance, performance, position, and limitations. Then we preserve that picture for years, sometimes for a lifetime.

The trouble begins when the person changes, but our picture does not.

Of course, we have no such difficulty with our own children. We want them to grow, achieve, become successful, and even go further in life than we ever did. When our children become accomplished professionals, travel to distant countries, gain recognition, or reach positions we could only dream of, we are overjoyed. We proudly tell others about their achievements.

Some parents, however, seem to find an opportunity to talk about their children in almost every conversation.

“My son is working in this country. His wife is in another country. Their children are studying there. He has achieved this, and she has accomplished that.”

Before long, an ordinary conversation becomes a presentation of the family’s achievements. The listener may not have asked, but the story continues.

Perhaps it comes from a parent's natural pride and love. Sometimes, however, it may also be an attempt to affirm one's own worth through the achievements of one's children. When we are not sufficiently secure in our own identity, we may feel the need to keep reminding others of who we are through the success of our families.

There is nothing wrong with celebrating our children. The question is whether we can celebrate them without making every conversation about them. Even good news, repeated at every opportunity, can become tiring to those who have come to share a conversation, not attend a family achievement report.

There is another side to this habit of framing people in our minds.

A teacher remembers a student who was once an ordinary boy in the classroom. Perhaps he was not particularly brilliant, rarely answered questions, or struggled with his studies. Twenty years later, that student becomes a successful entrepreneur, a respected professional, or an influential leader.

You would expect the teacher to feel proud. Many teachers do. But some may respond with surprise mixed with reluctance.

“He was never that talented when he was my student. I don't know how he has become so successful!”

Think about it. The student has had twenty years to learn, experiment, fail, improve, and discover his abilities. But the teacher's mental picture has not moved an inch.

We know a person's past so well that we mistakenly believe we know their limits.

This happens among former colleagues, friends, relatives, and people who once worked with us. We may have known someone thirty years ago, and we continue to judge that person by the same old standards. When they develop new skills, move into a different field, or achieve something beyond our expectations, we struggle to update our opinion.

Sometimes, when someone performs better than us or moves to another organization in pursuit of new opportunities, we rush to find their flaws. When viewed through the psychological framework of the Johari Window, all four dimensions of our mindset become clear:

·         Open Area: The other person’s growth, performance, and success are visible realities known to everyone.

·         Blind Spot: As we rush to point out their faults, our underlying envy and feelings of inadequacy leak out. While clearly visible to those around us, this remains an area we fail to see in ourselves.

·         Hidden Area: To conceal our inner fear of failure and inadequacy from others, we put on a mask of criticism.

·         Unknown Area: As long as we stay consumed by envy over others' achievements, our own latent potential and undiscovered talents remain hidden and unexplored.

True personal growth happens when we recognize these four dimensions, actively work to shrink our Blind Spot, and expand our Open Area..

Perhaps they are learning, growing, and exploring opportunities that we have never considered. We may not know enough about their circumstances to make a fair judgment, but our old picture is already ready with its labels.

When people no longer fit the image we have of them, we sometimes try to reduce the person rather than enlarge the picture.

Not every change is progress, of course. People can make mistakes, and fair criticism has its place. But there is a difference between exercising discernment and refusing to recognise that another person has grown.

People are not photographs. They are living stories. They learn, fail, recover, discover their abilities, and sometimes become people we never imagined they could be.

Let us, therefore, be more generous in the way we see others. Let us allow people to grow in our minds just as they are growing in real life. We do not have to exaggerate their achievements or approve of everything they do. We simply need to recognise that our knowledge of them may be incomplete and our old impressions may no longer be accurate.

The next time we meet someone after many years, perhaps we should look at them with fresh eyes.

And before we criticise someone, let us ask ourselves a simple question: Have we invested even thirty minutes or an hour in that person's life recently? Have we taken the trouble to understand their circumstances, listen to their story, or discover what they have been through? If we have not, perhaps we should be a little slower to judge.

We may have known them once. That does not mean we know them fully today.

Seeing Beyond the Surface

This habit of preserving static mental pictures stands in sharp contrast to how God sees us. Scripture reminds us: "Do not judge by appearances, but judge with right judgment" (John 7:24). Human nature naturally focuses on the outward surface—past mistakes, old roles, and physical limitations—but "the Lord looks at the heart" (1 Samuel 16:7).

When we hold people to outdated frames, we view them strictly "according to the flesh" (2 Corinthians 5:16). True discernment requires seeing beyond these external surfaces. As we are renewed into the image of God, we begin to reflect His vision: looking past labels, recognizing inner potential, and allowing others the grace to grow into who God is calling them to be.

Let us stop framing people in the past and give them room to grow in our minds.

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CAN THE PLACE WE CHOOSE BECOME OUR EXILE?

Philipose Vaidyar

We usually think of exile as being taken away from our land and captivity as being forced to live under someone else’s power. But what if we choose the place ourselves?

What if the place we chose, the life we dreamed of, slowly becomes our captivity?

What if the place you longed for, worked hard to reach, and once considered your dream gradually becomes the place from which you cannot easily escape?

Can a place we choose become an exile?

The Bible gives us some uncomfortable pictures of this.

Egypt was not always a prison

When Jacob and his family went to Egypt, they were not prisoners. There was famine in the land, Joseph was there, and food was available. A place had been prepared for them.

They settled there and multiplied.

Then something changed.

A new king came to power who did not know Joseph. The people who had once been welcomed became slaves.

The land that had provided food became the land that held them captive.

What began as refuge became bondage.

God eventually brought them out. He had not rescued them simply to make them homeless. He had a place for them—a land of promise where they could live under His rule.

Yet Egypt continued to live in their imagination.

Whenever the wilderness became difficult, some wanted to go back. They remembered Egypt's food but forgot its slavery.

They were out of Egypt, but Egypt was still inside them.

Then came Babylon

Generations later, Babylon brought another kind of exile.

Nebuchadnezzar conquered Jerusalem and carried many of Judah's leading people away to Babylon. This time there was no choice.

But when further trouble came, some of the people again looked toward Egypt for security. Jeremiah warned them not to go.

The temptation was familiar:

When the present becomes difficult, we look for another place to save us.

What about us?

We may not be carried away by soldiers.

We may not be sold as slaves.

We may not even have been forced to leave home.

We may have chosen our destination.

A young professional gets an opportunity overseas. A family moves to a prosperous city. Someone dreams of better schools, a higher salary, a better house and a more comfortable life.

There is nothing wrong with any of these things.

But another question needs to be asked:

Did I choose this place—or has this place begun to choose my life for me?

That is where modern exile can begin.

The captivity we choose

Many young professionals long to go overseas. Again, there is nothing inherently wrong with that.

The problem begins when escape becomes the goal rather than calling.

First comes the salary.

Then the apartment.

Then the car.

Then the latest phone.

Then the upgraded appliances.

Then another holiday.

We work to earn. We earn to buy. We buy to make life easier. Then we work more to maintain the life we have created.

Without noticing it, we can become servants of the lifestyle we thought would make us free.

The chains are no longer visible.

There is Wi-Fi. There is air conditioning. There may be a good car in the garage and a beautiful view from the apartment.

But comfort is not the same as freedom.

What did we leave behind?

The cost may be harder to see.

Family.

Parents.

Children.

Community.

Church.

Responsibility.

Some become so occupied with making life comfortable that they stop asking what their life is actually for.

A consumer culture can quietly reduce life to earning, upgrading and consuming.

Birds leave the nest when they can fly. That is natural.

But human beings are not simply born, raised, employed and released into the world to consume.

We belong to families and communities. We have responsibilities beyond ourselves.

And as Christians, we have a calling beyond consumption.

Where is our promised land?

So perhaps the question is not:

“Should I stay in India or go abroad?”

That is too simple.

The better question is:

“Where does God want me to live, serve and become the person He wants me to be?”

For one person, that may be Kerala.

For another, Delhi.

For another, Dubai, London, Melbourne or Toronto.

For someone else, it may be a remote village that nobody considers prosperous.

The issue is not geography.

The issue is what prosperity does to our hearts.

Egypt was not simply a bad place. Babylon was not simply a good or bad destination.

The deeper issue was whether God's people would trust God or allow circumstances, security and prosperity to determine their direction.

The real exile

Perhaps some of us are physically living in the place we once dreamed about, yet spiritually we are somewhere else.

Some are abroad but longing to return.

Some are in India but constantly dreaming of escape.

Some have everything they once wanted but have lost their sense of purpose.

Some are in the right place but are still looking backward.

The promised land is not simply a geographical location.

It is not Kerala.

It is not America.

It is not Europe.

It is not the Gulf.

The safest place is not necessarily the richest place.

Perhaps the better question is:

“Where can I live the life God has given me most faithfully?”

That may mean staying.

It may mean leaving.

It may mean returning.

It may mean going somewhere we never imagined.

The important thing is to know why we are going and whom we are serving.

We may choose our country.

We may choose our city.

We may choose our house.

We may choose our lifestyle.

But we should be careful.

Sometimes the place we chose can become the place that chooses us.

And sometimes the greatest captivity has no chains at all.

It simply looks like the life we always wanted.

 

MUST A CALLING HAVE THE SAME ADDRESS FOR LIFE?

Why We Sometimes Confuse 

the Organization with the Mission?

Philipose Vaidyar

മലയാളത്തിൽ വായിക്കാൻ

Santhosh is an orthopedic surgeon. He studied at two universities and began his career in a Catholic mission hospital. After several years, he moved to another mission hospital in a remote location, then to a medical college, and later to a Protestant mission hospital, where he continues to practice.

Would anyone say that Santhosh is not committed to Christian service because he changed institutions?

Probably not.

Doctors change hospitals. Teachers change schools. Engineers change companies. Professionals move for many reasons—career opportunities, family needs, children's education, aging parents, geography, or simply because their skills can be better used somewhere else.

So why does the conversation sometimes change when the person works for a Christian organization?

DID HE LEAVE THE MINISTRY—OR ONLY THE ORGANIZATION?

In some Christian organizations, when someone leaves, we hear a familiar statement:

“Mr. X has left the ministry.”

In Malayalam, someone might casually say, “Sam ministry vittu poyi.”

But did he really leave the ministry?

Or did he leave that particular organization?

Those are not necessarily the same thing.

Perhaps we need to ask a more fundamental question:

Are we called to an organization, or are we called to serve God?

A mission organization may be doing valuable work for God's Kingdom, but it is still a human institution—started by an individual, a group, a denomination, or even a family. It can be faithful and fruitful, but it can also have weaknesses, changing priorities and imperfect leadership.

So why should joining one organization mean permanently belonging to it?

WHEN COMMITMENT BECOMES PERMANENT ATTACHMENT

There is sometimes an unspoken expectation that once someone joins a Christian organization, he should stay until retirement—or even until death.

His commitment is measured by how long he remains.

If he leaves, people wonder:

“Was he really committed?”

“Did he lose his vision?”

“Was he called in the first place?”

And eventually comes the label:

“He is a rolling stone.”

But is permanence the same as faithfulness?

If someone serves faithfully for fifteen years and then moves because of family circumstances, has his calling suddenly disappeared?

And if someone stays for thirty years but becomes merely comfortable and unproductive, is that automatically greater faithfulness?

Perhaps length of service and faithfulness are not the same thing.

A GIFT SHOULD NOT BECOME A CHAIN

Suppose someone gives you ₹500 without your asking. You receive it gratefully. Does that mean you now owe that person your loyalty for the rest of your life?

Of course not.

The gift was given freely.

The same principle should apply to Christian giving and support. If an organization provides a salary, allowance, training, scholarship, or other assistance for the Lord's work, the recipient should be accountable for using it faithfully and doing the work entrusted to him.

But he does not become permanently indebted to the organization.

“If you give for the Lord's work, give it to the Lord.”

Give freely. Expect honesty, diligence and commitment in return. But do not turn generosity into an invisible chain.

The person receiving your support also has a calling, a family, children, parents, gifts and responsibilities.

Let that person continue his or her journey of faith, just as you continue yours.

PEOPLE ARE NOT POSTERS ON A WALL

This is where we should be especially careful in judging people who leave.

We hear only the announcement:

“Mr. X has left.”

But do we know the story?

Did we spend an hour listening to him?

Did we ask about his children, spouse or aging parents?

Did we understand his geographical or professional situation?

Did we know whether his gifts were being fully used?

Did we pray with him before judging him?

If we have not taken the time to understand someone, why should we be so quick to explain his motives?

Sometimes we treat people like posters on a wall—fixed in the place where we first saw them.

But people are not posters.

They grow. They learn. They mature. Their circumstances change. Their gifts develop.

The person who joined your organization ten years ago may not be the same person today.

Why should we insist that he remain inside the frame in which we first knew him?

WHAT ABOUT PASTORS?

Pastors are a somewhat different case. Their relationship with a church involves spiritual responsibility and a particular calling to a congregation or denomination. Yet even pastors may move when they are called elsewhere, transferred, or when circumstances change.

So even there, perhaps the better question is not simply, “How long did he stay?”

It is:

“Was he faithful to what God entrusted to him while he was there?”

ARE WE PROTECTING THE MISSION—OR THE INSTITUTION?

Christian organizations are instruments of God's mission. They are not God's Kingdom itself.

If a doctor leaves one Christian hospital and joins another, has Christian medicine lost a servant—or has the Kingdom gained another place where that servant can work?

If a teacher moves from one Christian school to another, has the calling disappeared?

If a Christian professional moves to another organization because of family, geography or a better opportunity to use his gifts, why must that be interpreted as spiritual failure?

Perhaps we sometimes confuse our organization with God's mission.

Of course, people should not leave irresponsibly. Commitment matters. Responsibilities should be honored. People who depend on us should not be abandoned for every attractive opportunity.

But neither should an organization demand lifelong emotional and institutional ownership of someone simply because that person once joined it.

And leaders may need to learn to release people without resentment.

Someone's departure may hurt. It may create genuine difficulties. But disappointment does not give us the right to judge the person's calling.

Perhaps another organization needs his skills.

Perhaps another place suits his family.

Perhaps another season of ministry has opened.

Let him press on in faith in his trail, just as you press on in yours.

A BETTER MEASURE OF FAITHFULNESS

Perhaps we should ask fewer questions about how long someone stayed and more about how faithfully he served while he was there.

Did he give his best?

Did he fulfill his responsibilities?

Did he serve people with integrity?

Did he develop others?

Did he leave responsibly?

And did he continue serving after he left?

These questions may tell us more about commitment than the number of years on a résumé.

Santhosh's career illustrates the point. The hospital changed. The location changed. The institution changed. Even the denominational setting changed.

But the work of healing continued.

Perhaps Christian service can be like that.

The place may change. The calling may remain.

So before calling someone a “rolling stone,” perhaps we should pause.

Maybe he has not abandoned the road.

Maybe he has simply been called to walk a different stretch of it.

And perhaps our task is not to hold people in our organization forever, but to thank God for the years they served with us, bless them as they move on, and pray that wherever they go, they will continue to serve the same Lord.

The Kingdom of God is bigger than any one organization.

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