By Amy Butler
Somebody at breakfast warned me about the Batu Caves, huge caves home to a Hindu holy place. The darkness there is too heavy, the feelings of oppression and fear too great: you won’t like it there, she told me.
But there wasn’t a chance I would skip the caves; I’m in Malaysia, for goodness sake. When else do I get to climb 272 steep steps alongside hoards of pilgrims who travel from far away to come receive a blessing at the altars deep in the caves?
So I went; I climbed the steps along with everyone else. As I climbed, I noticed that some of those walking alongside me had no business making such a steep climb; they were elderly or weak, slow but determined in their ascent. When I reached the top, I joined the others around one of the altars, where the Hindu priest said prayers, collected money, listening to people who wanted to talk. I guess some aspects of ministry are the same wherever you go.
On the floor in front of the altar where I stood was a baby. She was sick, it was clear, and her family — parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters — had carried her up the steep steps to the altar at the top of the Batu Caves so she could receive a blessing. The priest had obviously been praying for her. Her entire head was covered with chalk-marks indicating prayers.
There were other Western tourists there, along with many others who obviously had come out of religious devotion, on a quest for some sort of healing. They didn’t look as desperate as the family of the little chalk-covered baby, but if you watched closely you could see hopeful expressions, bowed heads and leaking tears as the priest intoned prayers, looks of satisfaction as devotees heard their names chanted in front of the golden elephant at the front. I guess some aspects of religions are the same wherever you go.
I noticed all of these faith experiences happening around me as the line moved slowly up toward the priest. When I got to the front, he asked my name, touched my forehead with red chalk, and made some motions with his hands over the lit flame on his tray. He tied a string around my wrist explaining it was for good luck, and then touched my forehead again with white chalk.
After my turn, I put my shoes back on and headed back down the steep stairs, forehead marked with chalk, just like all the other pilgrims.
Did I get what I came for — a cultural experience? Sure. Did the pilgrims there get what they came for — healing, hope? I don’t know.
Many people at the Batu Caves that day had tremendous faith that compelled them to hike up the steps, to bring their baby, to persist until the priest said their names out loud. While I was there for the photo op, this was no laughing matter for many of them. Their devotion was clear to see.
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Walking back down the steep stairs I thought about religion — any kind of practice of religion — and how we humans can spend so much time, devote so much hope and desperation, trying our best to do whatever we can to try to make God happy. Wherever you go in the world, as a matter of fact, you can find devotees practicing a faith of desperation, trying as hard as they can to find just the thing that will appease a punitive God. That’s religion.
But I think — hope, really — that faith is something altogether different. Faith is an encounter with God not fueled by that urgent sense of desperation. It’s less hoping beyond hope that you guessed right, and instead knowing in your core that whatever God has in mind will do just fine.
I saw a lot of desperation at the Batu Caves yesterday. I saw a lot of faith, too. The experience made me wonder how much of my interaction with God can be called desperate, or how willing I am to rest in the firm conviction that God is here and God loves me and knows the deepest parts of my heart that long for healing.
My friend at breakfast was right: there was quite a bit of fear and oppression in the Batu Caves. I suppose there always is whenever and wherever people are grasping at straws, trying whatever they possibly can to try to appease an angry God. But I have to say that I saw considerable faith up there in the caves, too. The God of presence and faithfulness was there, and I have to believe that those who encountered that God yesterday certainly left with the assurance of healing and hope.
I myself left with a chalk-smeared forehead and the conviction that I really don’t want to be religious as much as faithful. Because I know that the God I follow is not a God of desperation and despair, but instead a God of presence and faithfulness.
Can I make my pilgrimages and intone my prayers with that conviction, too? If I can manage that, then maybe I will become a less-religious person of faith.