She Has A Name

Today as my wife was returning from her work at a children’s ministry, the rickshaw she was riding in came within inches of running over a little girl who was no more than 3 years old. This dirt-covered girl was on the side of the highway, where trucks lumber along and cars zip by, with no mother in sight. She was squatting down to relieve herself, oblivious to the dangerous public setting.

Such sights are common in India, despite the breakneck economic growth and tech companies sprouting up like dandelions after a summer rain. The world sees Bollywood films and successful emigrants across the globe. But here in Mumbai, the media and financial capital of India, we also see crushing poverty first-hand. Not just occasionally, or in just a few disadvantaged neighborhoods, but everywhere and every day.

Heart-broken for this utterly neglected little girl, my wife immediately began looking into adoption procedures in India. Not that we could necessarily scoop her up off the highway, but perhaps there was at least something two affluent young Americans could do when surrounded by such need. Surely a country with so many orphanages and so many starving children would be eager for anyone to help provide for them. The results were not encouraging.

Those adopting a child from India can expect to pay at least $12,000 in fees—not including travel expenses and the like. (After all, someone has to line the pockets of government officials). Also, both the husband and wife must be over 30 years old. And finally, foreigners can only adopt a child if no Indians can first be found to adopt. (As if high-caste Hindus would really take a poor child into their home).

One cannot escape the conclusion that the Indian government does not want these children adopted. It would apparently prefer that they die here, perhaps by being run over by a truck.

Prime Minister Manmohan Singh recently referred to the campaign of terror against Christians in Odisha as a “national shame.” His words were well chosen, although he also chose to wait until most of these people had been driven into refugee camps before taking any action to stop it. Given that several more villages have been burned and three more Christians have been killed, that action seems insufficient. But there is another national shame – the shame of a nation that treats one-third of its children as if they are expendable.

In Jesus’ parable of the rich man and Lazarus (Luke 16:19-31), I have always wondered why the beggar is given a name. In no other parable do any of the characters have names – the stories are meant to be illustrations and to relate to anyone. But seeing poverty up close, you realize that the poor – particularly in India – have had their dignity stripped away. They are not seen as valuable. They are not even seen. If one takes the Vedas (the Hindu scriptures) seriously, that little girl beside the road was of less value than a stray dog.

The rich man in Jesus’ parable would have been a prominent figure in his community. He was important. Everybody knew his name. But to Jesus, he has no name. He’s just another guy with money, and without a heart. It is the beggar, the one whom everyone ignores, whom everyone sees but no one cares to know, who is given a name. He has an identity. He is an individual. He is someone. He is Lazarus.

My wife and I will probably never know that girl’s name. Most people here would not even want to know her name. But God does. And long after the names of Bollywood stars, New Delhi politicians, and titans of industry are forgotten by the public, her name will stand.

She is not a worthless Dalit. She is someone. She is a child of God.