Some experiences in life don’t just leave a mark—they transform you. Srikakulam, India, did that to me. On March 7, 2025, I was welcomed to the 26th Catholic Mega Bible Convention by His Eminence Cardinal Poola and His Excellency Bishop Rayarala Vijay Kumar. I arrived expecting to witness a gathering of faith, but what I actually experienced was something much deeper—something profound that touched me in a way I never saw coming.
More than 40,000 people made their way to this diocese—not for entertainment, not for status, not because they had to, but because they wanted to. Something inside them told them to be there. They came from more than 40 parishes, from different circumstances, yet all of them arrived with a singular purpose: to connect with something greater than themselves.
I’ve been in rooms full of powerful people before. I’ve seen crowds gathered around billionaires, dignitaries, world leaders. But I have never in my life seen the kind of reverence that I saw in Srikakulam. The way these people honored their priests, their bishops, their archbishop, their cardinal—it was something else. Not obligation. Not performance. But something pure. Something sacred.
They weren’t just eager to learn and listen; they were craving every word.
And that’s when it hit me: I have never longed for faith like that. I have never needed it in the way these people did. Maybe I’ve been comfortable for too long. Maybe I’ve taken too much for granted.
Lessons in Faith from Those Who Have the Least
Thousands of people—men, women, children—arrived with little more than the clothes on their backs. Many had nothing, yet they carried everything that mattered: belief. Hope. A trust so absolute it humbled me.
I remember standing on the dirt road, watching as families set up tents, prepared to spend four full days completely devoted to something bigger than themselves. No distractions. No comfort. No complaints.
And I had to ask myself: when was the last time I set aside everything to just be present.
The people of Srikakulam reminded me that faith isn’t supposed to be convenient. It isn’t meant to be something you squeeze in between meetings, something you pull out only when you need something. It’s supposed to be lived.
The Kind of Leadership That Changes You
I spent time with Bishop Rayarala Vijay Kumar, a man I will never forget.
I watched as hundreds of people tried to kiss his hand and bow down at his feet out of respect. Each time, he gently pulled away and offered instead a smile, a kind word, and a human connection.
That moment spoke volumes about who he was.
It wasn’t about status for him. It wasn’t about power. He wasn’t a man who sat above others—he walked with them. A true shepherd, a true leader, a man who understood that humility is the strongest force in the world.
Then there was Cardinal Poola, who told me something that shook me to my core.
He spoke of the tribal people, those who had next to nothing, yet gave generously—not out of wealth, but out of sacrifice.
“Their poverty did not hinder their generosity,” he told me.
And I felt it deep in my chest.
I thought of how often I’ve given from a place of comfort, from a place of extra—never from a place of sacrifice. Never from a place where giving truly cost me something.
It made me question myself in ways I wasn’t ready for.
The Humbling Power of Simplicity
This trip wasn’t just about witnessing faith; it was about living it in ways I never had before.
For the first time in my adult life, I showered using a bucket, carefully mixing hot and cold water to get the temperature right. It was a small thing, yet it made me stop and think.
How many times have I let water run and go to waste without a second thought?
Then there was the heat—no air conditioning, just the raw, unfiltered weight of it. But here’s the thing: nobody there seemed to mind. They just lived. They carried on with joy, with gratitude.
And then came my nightly adventures.
One evening, I walked into my room only to find a frog staring right at me. Now, I don’t know who was more startled—me or the frog—but what I do know is that it took me a solid ten minutes and about a gallon of sweat to escort it out. I’d like to think I handled it with grace, but in reality, there was some hopping involved on both sides.
If that wasn’t enough, there was the mosquito—but not just any mosquito. This one sounded like a full-on drone hovering next to my ear. I tried everything. I hid under the blanket for as long as I could, praying it would get bored and leave. But the second I came up for air, there it was—waiting for me.
It was like a scene straight out of a Hollywood film—or maybe Bollywood—when, for the briefest moment that somehow felt way too long, we locked eyes, and it knew it had me.
Fear gripping me and its next move inevitable, that vampire of the sky had the upper hand. I jumped out of bed, ran into the bathroom, turned on the light, and waited.
It turned the corner and saw I was trapped—or so my memory recalls. Then, with the speed of a cheetah, it launched toward me. Instinct took over. I ducked, bolted past it, and slammed the door shut behind me. It was trapped.
Victory? Maybe. But I knew better.
This was just a battle. The war would continue in the morning.
A Place That Will Never Leave Me
Srikakulam was not just another place I visited. It was a place that stripped away my assumptions, humbled me in ways I never expected, and reshaped the way I see faith, community, and even myself.
It showed me that true wealth isn’t measured by what you own, but by the kindness you extend to those with less, and the generosity you give when nothing is expected in return.
But more than that, Srikakulam gave me something in return—people I will never forget. Men like Tambi, whose quiet strength and kindness left a lasting impression on me. Father Jaipal, who carried wisdom in his every word and a warmth that made you feel instantly at home. And then there was Father Jonnes, or as I affectionately called him, Father Hotspot—the man who, despite the most unexpected circumstances, managed to provide me with the best internet connection I had the entire trip.
I was also fortunate to be joined by Paul Flynn and Maxcene Crowe, whom I had invited to experience this incredible journey with me. Hearing them share their stories on stage was deeply touching.
As if Srikakulam hadn’t already given us enough, it also gifted us with some unexpected moments of adventure. I had my battles—with the frog, the mosquito, and a dramatic escape into the bathroom—but Maxcene faced her own version of survival training. A frog decided her room was a perfect home, forcing her into an unplanned eviction process. But that was just the beginning. Later, a bat swooped around her door while we watched her stand her ground, refusing to budge. The bat did its best to intimidate her, flapping around like it had a personal vendetta, but in the end, she won.
I came to India expecting to speak at an event—to listen to other speakers, to observe, to take it all in.
But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just an event.
It reached me, changed me, left something behind in me that I can’t quite explain.
I don’t know if the people of Srikakulam will remember me, but I know this much: I will never forget them.