So here I am on a flight from JFK to Zurich, trying to duck out of talking to this man, Amit. Regardless, he pursued dialogue with a fierce enthusiasm I’ve only seen before on QVC. Luckily for both of us, after small talk about our destinations, occupations, and interests we approached subjects of consequence.

My flight happened like this: I was seated in the middle section in economy. The window I might have seen through from across the aisle was blocked by a large Swiss man. My traveling buddy was seated five rows in front of me. Determined to reach contentment I put in headphones. As I was about to sink into music, a twenty-something Indian man sat in my row and spoke to me. My introverted plans ruined, I answered politely, looking for a way to end the conversation as soon as possible. I was not prepared for the depth and importance of the conversation I'd have with this stranger.

It all started with cow pee.

Let me explain: when the flight attendant walked past our row, Amit requested a vegetarian meal. I slyly put in my headphones to signal an end to our airplane small talk. He then turned to my fully-headphoned self (do.you.not.understand.social.cues) and explained to me that as a practicing Taoist he does not eat flesh or roots. He went on to say that in his culture, animals such as the cow are regarded very highly and that the cow is considered the divine mother of us all. He said that during famine some Indian families feed their cows with what little food they have. The families then in turn are sustained by the cow’s milk. They would die of hunger before eating the cow’s food or the cow itself. Amit said that some Taoists even take drops of cow pee on their hands every morning and rub it from the forehead to the back of the neck as a kind of blessing.

At that point I quietly stowed my headphones away in my backpack. His account of the famine shocked me. I was challenged to find my own tangible equivalent to the Taoist’s cow. I am a Christian and consider myself a spiritual person, but became frustrated when I could think of nothing I experienced with that same sense of sacredness. I would not give my last bits of famine food to anyone besides my family and surely not to a cow whose meat would sustain with more certainty than milk. The one comparable example that came to mind was the way some Jews refuse to say or write the word “God” out of fear and reverence. I silently noted to adopt this practice if possible. “I want the devotion of a Taoist and the fear of a Jew," I thought to myself. If I am honest, most days the name of Jesus does not make me tremble. That is a serious problem.

I listened with interest as Amit finished his thought on urine consecrations and blushed. “I know it must seem silly to you," he said, "but cows are very sacred to us." I ignored his red cheeks and responded, saying religions often seem strange to those who don't practice them.

“Is it not odd to you that Christianity should adopt the image of their Savior’s execution weapon as their defining, sacred symbol?” I asked. He agreed that it was quite odd. Perhaps even more odd than the cow pee.

I ask Amit what he knew of Jesus. He knew that Jesus was a teacher among the Jews and Gentiles of Israel. That he lived and then died on a cross. Amit didn’t like using the term "sacrifice," but instead said that Jesus denied himself ( or the "I") and promoted unity ( the "We"). He also said Jesus had reached self-realization before his death and therefore transcended the pain of the cross. Amit seemed to think Jesus was divine, but had reached divinity through self-realization (an act that any man, in theory, can achieve). “What is self-realization?” I inquired.

Amit used the illustration of yoga to explain further. “It's the joining of body and soul," he explained, "When we balance ourselves in this way we become indifferent to both pain and pleasure. This is self-realization.” He went on to say that Taoists constantly strive to be above emotion and human reactionary tendencies. A perfect Taoist goes throughout life unaffected, completely unperturbed in any situation. “When a Taoist reaches Nirvana," Amit concluded, “they become like the wind - unfeeling, unseeing. The sole purpose is existence. This is how all things desire to be - free from the cycle of life, the cycle of pain and pleasure.”

At this point I was speechless. It was time for me to contribute to the discussion and I felt unsure which way to lead. Should I argue? He brought up plenty of points I didn’t agree with. Should I inquire more about Taoist practices? Should I say, “Cool beans, man,” and leave it at that? That seemed trite.

One thing that really bothered me about his answer was the Taoists’s pursuit of Nirvana. As a Christian who has experienced depression, I have struggled a lot with identifying the differences between apathy and peace. I have made it a personal quest to throw off my apathetic tendencies and care - care about people, care about God, care about myself. I want to feel; I need to feel in order to follow Jesus. How can I love people if I have no compassion? How can I grieve with those who mourn if I am not willing or able to cry? This for me has been an issue of spiritual consequence. Feeling is being alive, not the absence of feeling. So Amit saying that he strove to be like the wind, to exist without emotion or response, stirred something in me that felt like anger. I felt lied to. I always thought the purpose of yoga and Nirvana was to achieve peace, not apathy. Perhaps it depends on who you ask. But I have tried many times to compare apathy and peace and have come up with a rough hypothesis: Apathy is the absence of feeling while peace is the absence of fear. Furthermore, apathy occurs in the presence of fear while peace occurs in the presence of God. One cannot be both peaceful and apathetic.

I have had a lot of time to reflect about my conversation with Amit, and I think if I could go back, I’d ask him about his view of peace, but - alas - in the moment my brain went a totally different direction. After his description I took the opportunity to explain the Christian view of Jesus - a being fully human and fully God who came from Heaven to teach and then offered himself as a sacrifice as atonement for human sin. “Jesus was then raised to life and ascended to heaven. He is the bridge that allows us to approach the Father. We are made clean by him and have relationships with Him because of the cleansing blood of Christ," I concluded. Something about telling this story I knew so well felt funny as I explained my faith to a Taoist. The more I thought about it the more I realized how futile the Saviors’ death must seem to someone who has no concept of sin. I began to wish I’d asked Amit more about his religion before jumping into Christianity.

The concept of sin is vital to the Christian faith. There must be sin nature. There must be something to be saved from. Without sin we have only an undulating existence fraught with pain and pleasure. From Amit’s worldview, apathy would seem a viable, honorable method of escape. Becoming like the wind is even appealing to me in a world without peace, a world without hope.

I sat down on a plane to Zurich in anticipation of a comfortable, picturesque flight, and was denied both. However, I was blessed by participating in a conversation with someone very different from me. My interaction with Amit has caused me to think and rethink my faith, the Gospel, and my relationship to apathy, peace, and cow pee.

Our conversation did not end with Amit breaking down in tears and committing his life to Christ, but I know that we connected on a meaningful level and challenged one another intellectually and spiritually. For me that has amounted to re-asking myself: What are we saved from? Who are we saved by? What are we saved for?

I pray that Amit will ask the same questions.

Amit and I were thrown together on a Swiss plane. I doubt I'll ever see him again. But if I ever do, I will tell him how much it meant to me that he told me about his sacred cow.

This article first appeared on laurabethwrit.es