Finding joy in the collisions of worlds
My years as a “missionary” were fascinating, filled with sorrow, challenge, and, at times, unexpected laughter. If you’ve read my writings, you know they often involve sad stories and moral dilemmas. Yet there were also moments when I couldn’t help but laugh at myself… or at the way my co‑workers and I interacted with the “heathen” people we encountered.
In those early years, I saw most of the world as lost sinners. Any religion honoring human‑like figures struck me as idol worship. Catholics, Buddhists, Hindus, even Baptists (though not for their immersion baptism, but because they considered my Reformed friends and me heathens for believing differently). I judged people by their religion rather than their character.
Over time, my perceptions shifted. I began to accept others regardless of their religious background, seeing them not as heathens or bad people but simply as strangers who needed to be understood. Sadly, not all of my friends and co‑workers made that same journey. This is the story of one of those times when two worlds collided.
The Wat Opot Hospice was built on donated land behind a Buddhist temple in rural Cambodia. During its years as an HIV and AIDS hospice, it drew volunteers from around the world. Some stayed only a few days; others stayed longer and became major contributors to the program, which also cared for vulnerable orphans and HIV‑positive children.
One of those volunteers was an older woman, a Registered Nurse from the States. She left her career to help run and finance the programs at Wat Opot. Service to Jesus was her banner, and she sought to convert the dying by simply speaking His name. Her fundraising through newsletters brought vital support, and she gave generously of her time and resources.
She also had a personal project: rewarding children who had perfect Sunday attendance at the local Christian church. She would line them up and hand each a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap. “A gift from Jesus,” she explained as she passed the items along.
I usually avoided this exclusive ritual. But one evening, while working at my desk, I watched her hand out the gifts. The chosen children accepted them with thanks to Jesus. The others, those who didn’t attend church, kept their distance. Then I noticed three grubby young boys from the temple, watching with envy.
“I bet Jesus would give those boys some soap too,” I said, half‑sarcastically.
She paused, then motioned for the boys to join the line. As she handed each a gift, she instructed: “Tell the monks this is a gift from Jesus.” The boys ran back to the temple, clutching their treasures.
The next morning, they returned, their shaven heads gleaming in the sun.
“What happened to your hair, guys?” I asked.
“The monk told us to tell you this is a gift from the Buddha,” they replied, not quite sure whether to laugh or cry.
That moment reminded me how easily sacred gifts can be claimed by different names. Soap, shampoo, or salvation… perhaps what matters most is not who gives, but that the gift is shared.