1972 CE

An American missionary from a well-established institutional church—very corporate in its setup, just with ministries instead of departments—arrives in an Indian village for the first time.

He sees a “kirtan” (translation: praise and worship). Drums beating, people dancing and rejoicing in the Spirit of God, their voices rising together in joyous praise. Very foreign sounds.

The young missionary has left the US for the very first time. In his school, they did not teach much about the “third world”. He learnt enough to know that Russians and Communists are enemies, and the “third world” needs to be saved. On account of his upbringing, he only speaks one language—American. So he is quite unfamiliar with the idea that different words and sounds can reference the same object. That, whether you wore “shoes” or “joote” (translation: shoes), your feet would be covered.

Naturally, he is utterly horrified witnessing this “kirtan”. Where is the somber reverence? Who are they worshipping?

Somewhere in his fragmented memory, there are images of Black Gospel choirs singing joyfully, but they are wearing robes and the instruments they use are more familiar to him, and his intellect is fragmented enough for him to not see the similarities.

Concerned for the salvation of these barbarians, he finds himself an Indian translator.

Indian translators are trained to be utterly obsequious to folks who pay in Dollars, Pounds, Euros or Dinars. Challenging their ideas in service of truthfulness matters less, you see, than feeding their own families.

An Indian family takes great pride in fat kids.

“Aha, look! We are no longer poor!”, they exclaim collectively once the last kid’s BMI crosses a certain “healthy” threshold. If we are all fat together, there is no shame in gluttony, you see. “Health” is a “modern”, “western” concept and we are busy reclaiming our pre-colonial heritage! Jai Bharat!

So the translator pulls out one of the celebrating villagers and brings him to the concerned American missionary.

American: Have you heard of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?
Translator (in Hindi): Tumne Jesus Christ ka naam suna hai?
(Have you heard of Jesus Christ?)
Villager: Nahi. (No.)

Whether the translator knows this consciously or not is unclear to the narrator, but over time, his trade has evolved to elevate the American and subtly diminish the locals. Inflated egos loosen American purses, is the lived wisdom of his trade.

Translator: No sir, these villagers are ignorant. They know nothing.
American: Ask them who they’re singing to.
Translator: Tum kiske gaane gaa rahe ho? (Whose songs are you singing?)
Villager: Hum Parmeshwar aur unke ekmatra putra, Masi Yishu ke gaane gaa rahe hain, sahib.
(We are singing songs to the Most High and His one and only Son, the Messiah Jesus, Sir.)
Translator: Sir, they are singing to Parmeshwar and His son, Yishu Masi.
American (aghast): Oh no, no! We must save these ignorant barbarians!

The large institutional American church approves funding for a big building with fancy window panes, good-quality robes, and proper American musical instruments.

The American’s dream of becoming a Bishop has finally come true. He hopes to rise further in the ranks of the corporate church but knows he would have to procure a transfer to a White country to pull that off. In White countries, there is a lot of competition while the “third world” is up for grabs, so it’s quite the tradeoff. Plus, there are opportunities here to do secret favors to the corporate churches back home that can curry him some favor. The American is very prudent when it comes to planning his career.

The church establishes itself in this far-off Indian village and bans drums, dancing and collective singing. Only the choir boys can sing. It “donates” money to villagers to get them baptized and starts training them to play the organ—the instrument first; and then the organs of the Priests shipped overseas to take them away from the prying eyes of Western media, which absolutely loves a church scandal. You see, it gives the journalists permission to continue living sinful lifestyles.

“Oh, if the church can sin, so can we!”, they exclaim as they expand their polycule.

2032 CE

The American missionary is in his eighties now.

He has throat cancer. He doesn’t know that cancers are caused by long-term demon oppression.

On his deathbed, as he somberly mutters well-rehearsed prayers, he’s quite disconnected from the truth that the Lord is the source of Life and has offered victory over Death (including cancer) to anyone who would earnestly ask in the name of his Son, the Christ Jesus. No matter what language you ask in. And that singing and rejoicing with an open heart (and throat) helps one connect to the Lord. Much like the heathens were doing when he arrived there.

The sight had horrified the demons inside him. Demons are better connected to spiritual truths than humans, on account of inhabiting the spirit realm. They knew their days would have been numbered had the American joined that ecstatic singing for Parmeshwar.

The American looks back at his life and congratulates himself for a life well-lived: for successfully establishing the corporate church in this region of India and civilizing the heathens—turning them away from Parmeshwar (the Most High) and His putra (Son), Masih Yishu (the Messiah, Jesus) toward the Most High God and His Son, Jesus Christ.

As he breathes his last and descends toward the inferno—for allowing the abuse of young boys to persist and for severing an entire people from their joyful, heartfelt devotion to God—his Hindi vocabulary remains limited to “acha” (okay), “thik hai” (okay), and “kitna?” (how much?).

Phrases he would sprinkle at cultured dinner tables among other refined elites, where everyone knew precisely what size fork is meant for what dish. The refined elites would laugh in a civilized manner whenever he’d do that.

Fond memories he cherishes before the (unexpected) fires of Hell.

The Indian translator’s family is all obese now. His son now works in a multinational company, gets paid time off, is married with two kids, and secretly flirts with AI chatbots who send him AI-generated topless selfies every time he types “boobs.” It’s unclear, as of publishing time, whether he knows they are AI-generated, but his wife has never flirted with him or complimented him, so it softens his heart when the bot comes up with sweet new nicknames for him.

All the young boys who were abused continue the tradition—faithfully reciting somber prayers in the morning and abusing their own sons and grandsons in the evening.

And so concludes, a Corporate Christian Success Story.