The 'Roundabout' Church: Cinnamon Gardens Baptist Church celebrates 200 years

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“Enlarge the place of your tent,

And let them stretch out the curtains of your dwellings; 

Do not spare; 

Lengthen your cords, 

And strengthen your stakes…”

Rev. S. J. de S. Weerasinghe quoted from Isaiah 54:2 and 3 at the end of the 1988 historical record of the Cinnamon Gardens Baptist Church.

“The challenge of community outreach, the impulsion of our cultural heritage and the vision of an ecumenical perspective. As I see it, these are the directions in which our immediate future should be deeply involved, with firm resolve and purposeful action” were the final words he penned in to the document.

The Cinnamon Gardens Baptist Church turns 200 years old this month. It stands at the busiest intersection in Colombo, one that has been transformed dramatically over the years. And at the turning of the century, it is a reflection of this metamorphosis, expanding and growing into a truly “local” church.

The ‘Elite’ Church

Rev. James Chater, Sri Lanka’s first Baptist missionary, arrived on the island with his wife, Anne, and four children, in 1812. His 1813 sermon “in a warehouse somewhere in the Pettah,” marked the beginning of the Baptist Church in Sri Lanka.

Original membership, according the church history, was “made up entirely of Europeans and Burghers”. Many of its early pastors were simply Baptist missionaries with plans to move inland once they had a working knowledge of the people and language of Sri Lanka. So the church rarely had the same pastor for longer than a few years at a time.

Despite this situation the congregation was strengthened in its convictions and grew in number and commitment, starting prayer meetings and bible studies and even subscribing to build “a proper place of worship”.

It took a quarter of a century for that place to materialize, but in 1875, a plot of land was bought in Cinnamon Gardens for Rs. 4,181. A foundation stone was laid on April 4, 1876 and the church of Rev. F. D. Waldock’s design was built by 1877 at the expense of Rs. 22,126.

A Sinhala church that met separately in the Pettah warehouse in the 1870s was also invited to move its meetings to the Cinnamon Gardens premises. But the English church continued to be a colonial endeavor until 1874, when Mr. P. D. De Silva, the first Sinhala name to appear on the church records, was elected deacon.

In 1874 the congregation also became independent of the Baptist Missionary Society. So in 1875, the then Open Communion Baptist Church became the Cinnamon Gardens Baptist Church, celebrating both the independence and the physical move.

Becoming the ‘Roundabout’ Church

When they first bought the property, the Cinnamon Gardens locality was highly residential, described in the church history as a “leafy solitude”. But the bustle of the Pettah quickly followed the congregation to the intersection at the Lipton circus.

During the Second World War, the church neighborhood was a hub of activity. The presence of foreign armed forces gave the church plenty of opportunity to “exercise Christian hospitality”. And in return, as the record goes:

“These young forces personnel flooded our church, took the [youth movement] by storm and almost ran it, swelled our choir and occupied our pulpit.”

So much so that once the forces left, the church fell into a “lull”. But this “lull” brought other good news.

The 1898 history records an “attempt to unite the Sinhala/Tamil and English congregations,” in order to get away from the elitist label it had gained over the years. Although this attempt didn’t bear immediate fruit, there was gradual change. Half a century later, it was obvious that the membership had become “less exclusive than it was once, and … a much truer cross section of the educated population of Ceylon”.

The metamorphosis boomed in the late 1950s. Rev. Sutton Smith revived evangelism with open-air programs and creative presentations of the gospel even in rural areas and prisons. He also strengthened inclusiveness by turning the separate Sinhala/Tamil and English churches into one church with two congregations in 1961. In 1963, he concluded the 150^th anniversary history with strong words:

“The fact is that we are faced today with a daunting task, and we are not sufficient for it … May God make us a people of prayer, a dedicated people, willing to be used, people strong enough in the Spirit to take the opportunity that lies outside our Church doors."

Nihal Perera, one of the oldest and most senior members of the current congregation remembers Sutton Smith’s time, and sees the transformation the church has gone through, since:

“This church is primarily for the Sinhala and Tamil speaking roundabout community … In my youth, all the members came from far away. Now, the members and leaders in the Tamil/Sinhala congregation originally came from the nearby tenements.”

A significant event in this transformation took place in the 1980s when the Sunday school doors were opened to all children in the neighborhood.

“It was supposed to be the bourgeois Colombo 07 area” Perera says, “and we were also tagged as a Colombo 07 church. But from that time we tried hard to break through that and say we are for the people in the area.”

As Perera remembers it, the church “tried to be indigenous. We introduced Sinhala singing and songwriting, used the magul bere and the thabla, and had our plays in Sinhala and Tamil. When all these people were calling us a Colombo 7 church, we were having avurudu celebrations!”

The ‘Purpose-Driven’ Church

On February 20, 1988, the Cinnamon Gardens Baptist Church took another solid step towards becoming a truly local body. Rev. Kingsley Perera was ordained and became the first national pastor of the church.

Rev. Perera was Assistant Commissioner at the Department of Probation and Child Care Services until 1987 and his interest in social work continued to influence his pastoral work. Through his initiative, in 1992 the church opened the Dev Piya Sevana, where they housed many of their already well-established outreach programs including a cafeteria and counseling services. This further helped the church to reach out, as Sutton-Smith envisioned, outside its doors.

But the most recent and tangible change came about in the lead up to the Easter of 2007. Under the guidance of current pastor Rev. Gary Dean, the church body took on the ‘Forty Days of Purpose’ study by Rick Warren.

“I don’t know how folks knew about it,” Rev. Dean muses. But the impact was tangible. “It was a powerful time.”

Nearly 80 percent of the congregation was involved in a study group during the period. This led to greater involvement of the membership in all areas of church activity, and a radical restructuring of its organization and constitution.

Rev. Kingsley Perera, now in his retirement, looks at the current congregation and is encouraged.

“There has been tremendous growth in the church, both physically and spiritually,” he says.

And as far as one may see and hear, the congregation at the Colombo 7 roundabout has grown as Rev. Weerasinghe envisioned, steadily, over two centuries, into a truly purpose driven church.

Pearl Stephen: A Global Legacy

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It was impossible for the woman to keep this beautiful 8-month-old boy. The girl-child was her original burden, and their father, for all his “love,” wasn't going to provide for illegitimate children. He had another family to take care of. She was helpless.

Then someone told her she should go to Kandy town and find the wife of a certain pastor. They told her she would help.

The woman was sitting with her child in the Kandy City Mission lobby when the pastor’s daughter walked in. The 16-year-old girl couldn't think of a single thing more delightful than a baby at home, so she connived and cajoled and finally convinced her mother to take the baby in.

So began the story of Pearl Stephen's legacy.

Pearl Stephen was a remarkable woman, an award-winning social worker and activist. She was best known as the founder-director of the Women’s Development Center which has strengthened thousands of underprivileged women and children all across Sri Lanka. Yet her greatness lay not in what she did, but who she was.

The night Pearl gave in to her daughter Shanthi’s pleas, the baby refused to take a bottle. The child’s screams of hunger echoed through the house, punctuated by the scoldings of Pearls’ husband and Shanthi’s father, Rev. George Stephen.

“We didn’t know what to do,” Shanthi, now Thilakaratne, half-laughs, half-cries. “So we did the only thing we could think of. We prayed.”

Eventually, the baby became an inseparable part of the family. More and more destitute women began to show up looking for the Madam who would somehow help, and Pearl just kept taking them in.

“We used to joke that it was like living at the Fort Railway Station,” her older son, Frank Stephen, reminisces. “Sometimes at breakfast I didn’t know who I was eating with. And sometimes I was even angry about it.”

People from all walks of life were in and out of their home. But when the number of children living in the manse got out of control, Pearl finally set up a home in Balana, Kadugannawa.

But she didn’t stop there.

Pearl started asking why these children from the streets were showing up at her doorstep, and the answer was the women. Unwanted pregnancies, abusive lovers, financial dilemmas and all other domestic problems take their toll on the women of the house. Without the support or know-how to deal with these situations, many are forced to abandon their children.

In the aftermath of the violence of 1983, Pearl decided to take her passion to a new level. A table and a few chairs in the church garage, and the Women’s Development Center was a registered Non-Government Organization by 1986.

Pearl, her friend and co-social-worker Annie Kurian and three others were the original staff. They travelled to rural areas, gathering volunteers and helped in small ways to uplift the women they met. By the time the rioting began again in the late 80’s, the WDC was well resourced. It was able to distribute provisions to stricken families and supplies to over 1,000 schoolchildren in many districts, through their volunteer groups.

Since then, the WDC has grown into a 150-strong force of determined, lively women with forums in ten districts from Vavuniya to Nuwara-Eliya and Ampara. They currently network, equip and mobilize over 15,000 women to effect transformation towards gender equality at grassroots level through advocacy, prevention, intervention and rehabilitation. Their Community Based Rehabilitation program works with over 600 children and youth with disabilities in Kandy and Matale, operating nine centers through a 43-member staff. The WDC HIV/AIDS Prevention program introduces alternative income generation opportunities to commercial sex workers and education to vulnerable groups and government departments such as police officers. They also provide Family/Psychological and Legal Counseling free of charge.

The Crisis Intervention Center in Haragama does the heart-work of the WDC, providing shelter to destitute women and young girls who have been sexually abused. Pearl’s vision was to meet ignored needs.

Looking back, her son Frank sees 1993 as a point-of-no-return in his mother’s career. A group of women from Batticaloa that arrived in Kandy for training at the WDC were taken into custody by the police, along with some staff.  Pearl was suspected of aiding the LTTE.

“That was when she knew she really had to keep doing this,” Frank says.

Among the staff that was taken away was Pearl’s driver, Felix Wijerathne. It was only his first week of work at the WDC when he was almost accused of transporting terrorists into Kandy.

Since being released, Felix aka “Wijey” has been cross-country countless times with Pearl and has story upon story to tell of their adventures together. Some of these stories are funny, some bizarre, some even scary. But what stands out of them is the relationship Pearl built with her employees.

Once, Wijey, the only Sinhala person in the vehicle, was asked to stay behind at an LTTE check point in Mullativu, while the others went ahead to Kilinochchi.

“Madam didn’t want to leave me there alone, so she stayed behind with me and asked the others to go ahead,” Wijey says, admiringly. “There was never a madam-driver distance in our relationship, sometimes we ate out of the same plate.”

Pearl moved across social barriers as readily as she moved across the country when she thought there was a need she could fulfill. She had a good grasp of English, Malayalam, Sinhala and Tamil and this equipped her to reach out to any and all.

“She never said no,” Shanthi smiles. “If a pregnant girl showed up at the Crisis Intervention Center and I turned her away for lack of space, I would get scolded. If there are no beds, she'd say, let her sleep on the ground, or tell one of the other girls to give up their bed. For her, it was not about the WDC, it was about the girls.”

To countless of these women that have been through the WDC, she was a mother, friend and mentor. What set Pearl apart from others who play these roles in society, was the fact that she listened, in every sense of the word, to those she led.

“She never turned anyone away from her office without letting them speak,” Shanthi says.

And she listened.

Pearl heard a cry rise in her city that most did not. The cry of the down-trodden woman. And she chose to answer it with every breath.

Most trees, as Pearl's brother, Rev. Reggie Ebenezer shared at her funeral service, are hardest at the heartwood. But palms, on the contrary, are hardest at the bark and softest at the center.

This was Pearl.

She came across as curt and businesslike on the surface, but inside, she ached for the marginalized, the unsung heroes on whose shoulders the powerful ride.

As her husband George Stephen sees it, there was one such unsung hero in Pearl’s childhood whose story spurred her on. Her mother, Mary Ebenezer, was a humble Malayalam woman who served her husband, an exacting man, day in and day out. This was Pearl’s reality of gender relations until she was married to Rev. George Stephen.

George Stephen is a humble man. He saw the relationship of his wife’s parents and decided one morning, that his relationship with his wife would be completely different.

“She was like his slave,” he says, thoughtfully. “I decided I would reverse that.”

The love and mutual respect they had was what inspired Pearl to share the possibility with other women. Her children know that Pearl could not have impacted the lives of half the people she helped, if not for her husband.

“A lot of the time, women are pressured to stay at home and look after domestic affairs,” Shanthi muses, “but Dadda always supported her and it was because of him that she went so far.”

“For my mother, women could go anywhere,” Frank says, “but the difference was, she wasn’t a feminist. She was firmly grounded in the family.”

Pearl’s oldest grandson, Sean Stephen, knew his grandmother was a woman passionate about her work. But it was not until after her death that he began to understand the breadth of her reach, and the force of the impact she made. Until then, he knew her great cooking, the dumplings she made on his birthday, and her calm demeanor.

“She had a bubbly laugh,” he smiles, “and her whole body shook with it.”

Sean remembers that “Pearl Mummy” always took the time to do little things that made her many biological, legal and self-declared grandkids feel special. Her children remember her beef curry, the lime pickle and stewed mangoes. They remember how she cooked, how she sewed, how she was their everything. Her husband George remembers what a wonderful companion and strong helper she was.

But Pearl Stephen’s legacy was not built just for these. Pearl’s legacy was built for every woman that packed the Presbyterian Church at her funeral service. For every woman who stepped up, boldly out of their comfort zones, to bear her coffin.

Pearl Stephen’s legacy was built for every woman with a crushed heart and a broken body, whose 8-month-old child has no place to call home.

A Dying Race of Gentlemen: Colombo Center for Special Education

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As we hop off the vehicle and walk into the school, twenty-four year old Ajmeer runs up to the door, and pointing to the van mumbles something I can’t quite understand. He has such a broad smile and dance in his eyes that I can’t help but smile back and ask again what he said. And still I can’t understand what he says.

Ajmeen is the newest member of the “boys” at the Colombo Centre for Special Education (CCSE). He has been diagnosed with meningitis, is hyperactive and suffers from seizures from a very young age, but none of that prevents him from being outgoing and friendly, keeping up a running commentary as we tour his school. CCSE is dedicated to providing a safe and positive environment for men with autism, Down’s Syndrome, cerebral palsy and other mental conditions that affect learning. “Most of them are very sheltered in their homes” explains CEO Charika Muttiah, “and this is one place their parents and caretakers are sure they will be loved and not abused”.

Charika’s designation is fancy, but the work she does is far from that. “I have a very small staff here and I tax them to the maximum” she tells me even as she sits down on a piano-stool to look through a sheaf of papers and put her signature on them. They have hit the bottom of their funds. “We are not secure by any means” is the confession Charika makes to me. CCSE is running on the interest off a few investments they’ve made, she explains, and that is stretched thin every month. Most of the parents and legal guardians of the students pay a fee of “whatever they can”, but the CCSE’s main source of funding is private donations, and these are no more all that forthcoming.

Each year, CCSE engages in a number of fundraisers, the highlight of which is the annual sale of work. Through these events they acquire funds to cover their costs and make a little profit, but according to Charika, nothing substantial that can keep the centre running smoothly. “We are such a small group” she tells me almost regretfully, “even to engage in something like a walk is difficult”. It is not that they lack the spirit, but the practical tools to put ideas to action. Many of the CCSE’s students are already a burden to their families, their siblings, their legal guardians who care for them, and the CCSE is their only source of hope and relief. But the organization itself is now approaching not-so-solid ground.

“Security” is a word that keeps returning ominously to our conversation, and I am struck by the irony of how secure the students seem in this place. Some talk and laugh as they are taught basic math, others silently concentrate on their sewing or craft work. There is an air of peace and contentment that pervades the schoolroom. It is unbelievably calming and refreshing.

The school is in fact an airy house at 80/7 on Layards Road, the main hall and verandah of which have been equipped for teaching math, sewing, art, carpentry, woodwork and other simple skills. The hype these days at CCSE is the Art room. One suspects that this is most often the case, but these days more than ever because ‘Expressions 2012’, an exhibition of art and craft by the students at the centre is kicking off at the Lionel Wendt Art Gallery on June 21. The exhibits are set to be revealed at 9:00am by Chief Guest Mrs. Sunethra Bandaranaike at the gallery, which will be open to public until 6:30pm. There are paintings upon paintings in the art room, some done with oil paints, others with acrylic, still more in chalk and pastel, and even a few in mixed media. But the best thing about these paintings is the obvious strength of genuine character that speaks through their forms and colours.

the art room. pic by M. A. Pushpa Kumara.

This is no surprise considering the artists themselves are a lively and interesting bunch. The 28 “boys” as the gentlemen of the institution are called, are between the ages of twenty and sixty-five, and though the CCSE website (www.colombocse.org) reports fifty percent of them lack an understanding of basic instructions, it is impossible not to admire their focus and patience. And even as they are intent on their work, it is impossible not to enjoy their company as they ask simple questions and delight in the most mundane answers. But for many, the true gift of spending time with them is that of pure love and complete forgiveness. “It is amazing” says art teacher Anusha, who has been working at CCSE for roughly a decade now, “you hurt them, they walk the other way and come back the next minute to kiss and hug you”. Her face exudes a brilliance of calm, and the other teachers I meet, Jean, Sister Agatha, Aunty Irene, are all radiant. The love is tangible.

It seems that the beneficiary-benefactor roles are reversed and that it is the teachers and staff that gain from the presence of the students in their lives. Even a brief visit of just over an hour has left me feeling simply content for the rest of the day. Make time for the exhibition on June 21, have a look at the paintings and tonnes of other nifty craft-work and most importantly, meet the artists. Do this not for their sake, but for your own.

Please check out the CCSE website and don’t hesitate to contact them; any form of volunteerism would be welcome, am sure!

Moses

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His voice is deep and firm, tinged with melancholy and almost at odds with his coarse features and stocky frame. The way his eyes take us in as we step across the threshold, I imagine he must have been a force to reckon with, before he was crippled. Recall Moses Thangarasa.

Close to midnight on 27 March, 2010 the 33-year-old three-wheeler driver found himself hit and then dragged along the railway lines near Meewathura by a night-train. The accident left him with two vertebrae fractured and both legs amputated quite high above the knee. After months of treatment at the Peradeniya Teaching Hospital and therapy at the Center for Handicapped in Kundasale, Moses was finally sent home. But he is hardly comforted.

Moses currently lives in his father’s sister’s small house with her children and grandchildren on a steep incline in Irugalbodiya, off the Mahakande Road. He has crutches and prostheses acquired through the goodwill of his friends and well-wishers, but finds it difficult to use them due to his spine-injury. His existence is confined to the bed beside the living-room window, and the outhouse when his cousin Susantha is home to carry him to the yard. Otherwise he is forced to use a bedpan that his aunt Chandra cleans after him. “She can't even go anywhere” he regrets, “not even to a relatives’ in an emergency. It’s impossible, because of me.”

This is what he hates the most. Moses’ father died when he was only 16, so after O/L at Wimaladharma College in Penideniya, he began working. He was employed as a gardener at the Royal Botanical Gardens in Peradeniya for some time, then at a garment factory and later as a security guard. “There’s no one thing, miss” he tells me with an open smile, “I’ve worked many jobs”. Finally his father’s younger brother Jayantha bought a three-wheeler and leased it to Moses to run on hire. From the age of twenty-plus, this has been Moses’ steady source of income. Having got used to earning close to 25,000 rupees a month and being able to spend on and support others, to now depend on charity for support is incredibly frustrating.

“If I'd always depended on other people it wouldn't have been this difficult” he continues. Far from wallowing in self-pity though, Moses is industriously looking for ways in which he might overcome his handicap and start working again. He would be happy to engage in any work that can be done without the use of his legs, but admits he is most comfortable hiring his taxi, so is looking for ways to acquire a modified three-wheeler so he may return to the stand.

Susantha, who is Chandra’s son, is also a three-wheeler driver. “We all suffer because Moses is not at the stand anymore” he says. The other drivers at the Galaha Junction, where Moses used to park his vehicle, apparently still discuss that drivers from other parts of Peradeniya wouldn’t come with “chandi part” and occupy their lot if Moses was around; “he is not afraid of such people”.

It is probably the fact that Moses was always there to support and defend his friends that made them all come together, pool their resources and help concrete the small gravel road that leads up to Susantha’s house. “Some gave cement, some gave sand, many came and helped with the work” Moses says quietly, humbled.

The quietness and humility must be new. When he speaks there is that inevitable tone of the patient suffering in Moses’ maimed body, but his eyes light up once in a while with a fierceness and boldness that must have been the source of strength to his friends.

“He never had to borrow money from anyone before” Susantha says as he drives us back down the hill to the main road. Now, Moses is completely dependent on Susantha and Chandra for his survival. Susantha himself earns very little with his taxi, and this income is spread thinly between his mother, three siblings and their families as well as Moses. His younger brother is a bus conductor who though hardly employed, brings home about 2,000 rupees on a good day. Susantha himself is at work from 5am to 9pm. “I have no time left even to spend with my baby” he says, speaking of the whiny little 2-year-old girl that was ogling at us as we chatted with Moses, and wailed to be held by the father as he left with us.

“What to do?” he continues, unable to despise the crippled man for the heavy burden. Susantha is firmly convinced that he must provide for Moses because they are his only family left. Moses’ mother, who is employed in keeping house at a university lecturer’s residence, visits sporadically, but “she doesn’t care much, she never has”, he says. He believes she has been psychologically unstable since her husband’s death over fifteen years ago. Moses thus recognizes and appreciates Susantha’s generosity and only yearns to show his gratitude with some return. But the task is nearly impossible with his limited resources and reduced capabilities. His voice dropped and he looked down to merely mumble as I left that this is what he needs me for, to find him some help.

If anyone has advice or is able to help, he would appreciate a call on 777 182 259 or financial assistance could be made available to the People’s Bank S/A 0572-0014-000-9766.

More than two years of complete dependency on others has probably left Moses an altered man. He must have the kind of hindsight many of us are not blessed (or cursed) to acquire. “I have learnt a lot after this accident, miss” he told me, while his tone said they were not all pleasant lessons. If nothing else, he has learnt humility, which is a difficult lesson for anyone to learn, let alone a strong and hefty man in his early thirties. He simply pleads for help.