Touching the Untouchables

A few months later, Fr. Joachim from a nearby village came to Jhabua for supplies and a much-needed rest. His village had recently endured an outbreak of cholera. Jerry wanted to help and asked if he might fill in for Fr. Joachim during his absence. The request was approved so Jerry started his six-mile trail deeper into the jungle. Atop his Harley 125, clad in rubber tooth to nail because of the monsoons, he endured rain, ruts, and darkness. Jerry prayed for endurance, wisdom, health, and courage. He did not want to disappoint himself, Fr. Joachim, or God.

A muddy, sore, and tired Jerry arrived at his new jungle station and was greeted with, “Welcome Father!” The warmth of the greeting lasted but a few seconds. Jerry was then given the dire report of the village. The death toll was high and all but three families had fled in panic. One more case of cholera remained, and a fourth family had been moved to a temporary hut to give the few remaining villagers a chance to survive.

Jerry now faced his first sick call as an international missionary. He asked, “Can I do this?” He prayed, “Dear God, help me.” So, Jerry hiked deeper into the thick jungle to find the isolated, sick family. The first sight of the temporary hut brought tears to his eyes. It stood three feet high at the eaves and measured ten foot by ten foot. Inside Jerry found the family; ten goats packed like herring in a bucket; two couches; a nursing baby; an open fire smoldering under wet, green twigs; a few dirty empty vessels; swarms of flies; soggy ground; and decaying leaves on the roof. The heat was suffocating. Jerry from Haubstadt felt alone and thought, “How do I help them?” A quick answer followed, “Ah yes, the Holy Sacrifice.”

While Father administered the Last Rites, a goat shoved him from behind while another chewed at his book from the front. Imagine the mess of heat, smoke, stench, vermin, and racket. Add the spasmodic attacks of diarrhea and vomiting. Pagans would not think of visiting this family. Not even the doctor would come.

September, 1950 The four months Jerry had signed on for in Jhabua soon became a permanent assignment. It was official. Jerry forged fourteen miles further into the jungle where he would provide pastoral care for the district of Bhagor-Panchkui (Five Wells). He found himself traveling a lot and stayed alternately at his four assigned outposts of Unai, Panchkui, Bhagor and Jhabua. Unai was the farthest outpost. The solitary spot would be ideal for leading an eremitical life; it is altogether devoid of any comfort.

At first glance the new environment appeared quiet and peaceful. Jerry settled in once again. That first night in Panchkui Jerry knelt and prayed for guidance as he brought Christ to the poor in his new home.

Once again, trying to fit in, Jerry never refused an invitation to any local social gathering. He knew if he rejected the social norm around him, in turn the village would reject the religious message he hoped to share. With each visit the Hindi words would fly so thick and fast he grasped about half of what was being said. His first social tea experience was a bit shocking when the tea was poured into a saucer and not a cup. All in the household began slurping loudly. It sounded like tuning a radio on a stormy night.

An early family visit resulted in Jerry sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. After forty-five minutes passed in this position, his legs went numb. At one and a half hours, Jerry struggled to arise and say his proper good-bye. The US seminary school at Techny had not prepared him at all for the challenges of having tea with his current village neighbors. So much to learn!

Time in India had certainly expanded Jerry’s horizons. He found the life of a new missionary interesting and focused on a daily goal to look, learn, and listen.

The first missionary trek to make a village visit in Bhagor involved packing a breviary and a daily “K” ration. The first miles upon his Harley 125, Jerry savored as truly romantic. “I am a real missionary now,” he mused. But as the going got rougher the romance quickly wore off and instead became plain hard work.

The monsoon was on. Steep hills were climbed. Tall grass was trampled. Jerry waded swollen mountain streams, ploughed through mud, and jolted over countless rocks and stones. When cycling became too rough and jarring, Jerry carried his bike. Sweat and climb, climb and sweat, became the rhythm.

While the sun pelted him, steam rolled up the ravine as from a Turkish bath. Down the steep hillside the trail often disappeared with only a hint of a path made by the feet of the Bhils, bears, and buffaloes.