Ramadan, part eight (Thank you, Alanis)

So, it's Friday again, and this week I slipped away for the Dhuhur prayer at the Ahmadiyya mosque that is walking distance to my office. Dhuhur is the midday prayer, held around 1:15, and I got there early, so I walked around the block listening to my iPod before going inside.

I can't say I've been doing such a good job at the prayer portion of Ramadan. I've often substituted yoga, of course, but only for the Fajr -- not for any of the other of the five prayers. I started washing at prayer time, based on my friend's suggestion, but I have not followed through every single time. Even at the prayer-times when I have washed, I do not have a specific focus other than my own body, in combination with the random thoughts that are in my head.

Having read through various versions of appropriate prayers for the five times of day, I haven't found any that inspired me so much as to memorize them. I do not know the phonetics of any Arabic prayers, and the English translations I have read seem -- to my mind -- to be repeating very similar praises to Allah ("glory to my nourisher," "praise to the most affectionate," "you deserve all veneration," etc.) again and again.

If I'm not wrong, most of the prayers can be boiled down to: 1) thanks and praise to Allah (with some nods to Mohammed and Abraham) , and 2) a request for guidance along the right path. The positive thoughts about guidance I understand, or can translate into something that I understand; the praise of Allah seems far too vague. If I have not felt a personal relationship with a god-figure since I was a teenager, then who is Allah to me?

Today, as I walked toward the mosque, I dialed my iPod toward a playlist of songs that seemed appropriate for walking toward worship. The first that played was a version of "Amazing Grace" by Tori Amos, followed by "World Falls" by the Indigo Girls, followed by "Thank You" by Alanis Morissette. It was this third song that caught my attention. The chorus of this song goes like this:

Thank you, India.
Thank you, terror.
Thank you, disillusionment.
Thank you, frailty.
Thank you, consequence.
Thank you, thank you, silence.

All right, I thought. I have a list of five abstractions and one geographical location, and for today, they will be my substitute mental focal points for "Allah."

I rounded the corner to the mosque while winding my iPod cord around itself, and fell into step behind three women in traditional Muslim dress -- full headscarves and flowing dresses. One of them pushed a baby in a stroller. They walked slower than me, but took up the entire sidewalk, so I slowed down, rather than rush pass them. A few paces before what I knew to be the steps up to the mosque, they turned abruptly and walked up a much narrower set of cracked and broken steps, one of them lifting the baby stroller up onto the top. They were walking toward a back entrance to the same house where I would enter by the front. I continued down the main sidewalk, and then I -- an atheist and a homosexual and no kind of Muslim at all, but a man nonetheless -- walked up the main steps and in through the front door.

Whereas last week when I came for Asr prayers there were only four of us, this week the front rooms of the house were already nearly full. Prayer mats sat rolled out on the floor of the foyer, a room toward the back of the foyer that had been dark on my previous visit was full of men, and there was red tape on the floor of the front room (the one I'd been in before) delineating the rows where the men should stand to pray.

I removed my shoes by the door and took a place on one of the red lines in the front room.

The prayers began shortly, and I was surprised to discover that nobody was leading them. Each man went at his own pace. Since I am unskilled at performing salat, I followed the movements of the man in front of me. Stand up, "Thank you, India." Hands on knees, "Thank you, terror." Forehead to ground, "Thank you, disillusionment." Sit back on heels, "Thank you, frailty." Stand up again, "Thank you, consequence." And so on.

Partway through, I thought of discarding India from the list and focusing on the abstractions, since I have never been to India, and can't really relate. And yet, I had to smile at the coincidence that occurred to me: Ahmadiyya Muslims are a splinter group. Their movement originated in Punjab, India, at the end of the 19th century. Not all mainstream Muslims consider Ahmadis true Muslims because of their beliefs about what happened to Jesus (he survived the cross and traveled to India), the existence of prophets beyond Mohammed, and other differences. So, yes, I thought, I will thank India for this afternoon's worship experience.

After the prayers were over, a man (not Zaki -- this man was older, with a gray beard and Hamid-Karzai-style hat) stood to deliver a short sermon. (Most men did wear prayer hats, by the way. Many wore pillbox-shaped hats, which I find attractive and fashionable, though I do not know their correct name. Others wore smaller, flatter hats resembling kippot, but larger. One man wore a large scarf, and some of the younger men wore baseball caps, do-rags, or went bare-headed. One very old man, who had been offered a chair, but elected to move slowly through the prayer poses, was also bare-headed.)

The sermon was bland and simple and fairly sweet. I could have easily translated it into "Christian" by substituting a few key words in the speaker's text ("Sunday" for "Friday," "God" for "Allah," etc.), and by eliminating the references to Mohammed, peace be upon him (as well as to the "Messiah of our age," a reference to the founder of the Ahmadi movement).

The speaker encouraged us all to change our lives for the better during Ramadan and to make the change stick. We were encouraged to pray and to give alms to the poor. We were reminded that the focus on Allah in the mosque should extend throughout the week, and that we should be good representatives of our faith at all times, not just on Fridays. "Love for all, hatred for none," should be our guiding principle, the speaker said. The end of the sermon was followed by a prayer request for someone's elderly aunt, who had recently arrived from Pakistan to receive medical care for a grave illness. It was all so reminiscent of a church service in my youth that I felt moved by what for a moment felt like a universality of religious practice.

After this, we prayed again in Muslim style (back to specificity of religious practice), only this time the prayers were led in unison by the gray-bearded speaker who stepped into the foyer and spoke into a clip-on microphone connected to speakers in the other two rooms.

When the service was over, we each greeted those around us, and the gray-bearded leader singled me out as a visitor, stepping over to greet me and invite me to the mosque's Saturday and Sunday iftars. I have iftar plans in the suburbs again on Sunday, and social plans with non-observers on Saturday, though I am tempted to break them to attend the Ahmadiyya iftar.

The gray-bearded leader's welcome felt very sincere, and after I stepped out onto the porch, and sat on the railing to tie my shoes, each of the men who walked out of the mosque past me paused to introduce himself and thank me for coming.

As I walked back down the steps, I put my iPod buds into my ears, and dialed around for one of Alanis Morissette's other songs: "You Learn" from her first album. I'm not a fan of hers, per se, but she has some songs that I like, and her lyrical structure for some songs seems to mimic a style of repetitive prayer. "Thank You" is one of those songs, "You Learn" is one of those songs, and "Excuses," from her fourth album, is one of those songs as well.

It occurred to me that if I were compiling my own modern-day holy book that I might collect these three particular songs together under one heading -- Prayers from the Book of Alanis. Is Alanis Morissette inspired by God? Who am I to say that she is not?

Ramadan/Equinox (Mabon)

Timing my meals to sun-up and sundown these past few weeks, I had been especially mindful that we were heading toward the Fall Equinox, as both suhoor in the morning and iftar in the evening have been creeping toward 7 o'clock.

I understand that Equinox goes by the name Mabon for many Wiccans who celebrate eight sabbats (or solar holidays) per year, but I did not manage to find a Wiccan celebration in my area. I will, however, put some energy into finding one for Samhain, the sabbat holiday that falls on Halloween/All Souls' Day, in between the Fall Equinox and the Winter Solstice.

Even without a Wiccan or other religious connection, I have been interested for some time in celebrating the turning of the seasons. My interest began with the Winter Solstice, which I have celebrated for the past six years by hosting a brunch at my house.

At first, it just seemed a pleasant way to strip away the in-your-face cultural trappings of Christmas (and respect the religious traditions of my non-Christian friends) while opening my home for a gathering around the "holidays." I have tended to prepare a large bowl of eggnog, and occasionally to hang mistletoe, but otherwise to avoid seasonal references at the Solstice brunch. It's nice simply to celebrate the lengthening of the light in a secular way before boarding a plane to go back home and celebrate Christmas with my family.

Once I had started with the Solstice brunch, I had always thought I should stretch the tradition throughout the year, and this past spring I discovered a very good reason to do so. At the Spring Equinox, it turned out we were facing a truly amazing religious pile-up, so I convinced one of my housemates that a pan-religious springfest would be in order.

Six months ago, Friday, March 21, 2008 represented the convergence of six different religious occurrences. It was: a full moon, the Equinox (Ostara for Wiccans), the Jewish holiday of Purim, the Hindu festival of Holi, the Zoroastrian New Year (Norouz), and Good Friday. I was observing Lent at the time by not drinking, so I decided to break my Lent with the Equinox party – specifically with the Purim part of that party, since Purim actually requires celebrants to drink.

I was out of town during the Summer Solstice this year, but my housemates were on board when I suggested an Equinox/Ramadan occasion in our house this fall to continue marking the seasons with a display of hospitality and conviviality.

Guests were invited to arrive at sundown for iftar, and invited to stay as late as they liked to celebrate Equinox.

We prepared and served a mix of mostly traditional Middle Eastern food (tabouli, dolmas, falafel, baba ganouj, and so on), and I purchased some organic dates from the market, because I had read that dates are a traditional break-the-fast food for Ramadan.

Because I find the Equinox parties to be a good excuse for some sort of festive dress or change in appearance, I found myself thinking of what to wear as the sun was going down. At the Spring party, I had strung together a couple dozen tiny roses on a thread and tied it around my neck as a festive spring garland. For the Fall party, I selected an orange shirt from my closet to represent the changing colors of the leaves, and I wore it with jeans. I was lacing my sneakers when I was inspired by a memory of the cherry red toenail polish I saw one of my housemates wearing a day or two earlier.

I wandered down the hall to check what other colors my housemate might have, hoping I could match my toes to my bright orange shirt. She handed over a couple of colors that she thought might blend well together to become orange, and in fact they did. I ditched the sneakers for flip flops, and my toes were a shiny orange by the time our first guests arrived.

We had a gathering of eight for iftar, with most guests arriving much later; none of the other early guests had fasted. An Iranian friend (who is not Muslim, and who is more interested in pagan spirituality) arrived late for the iftar, having chosen to fast for one day in honor of the party. Mohammed arrived even later in the evening, having broken his fast at an iftar in the suburbs.

By midnight the apartment was full, and dancing had broken out in the living room. Mohammed had brought a bottle of fine scotch, which was shared amongst many guests who had already imbibed two bowls my housemate's rum punch -- as well as the various varieties of wine and beer on offer.

We closed up shop around 4:30 in the morning, less than an hour before devout Muslims would be showing up at the mosque for Fajr. One housemate had gone to bed hours before, and after cleaning up the house a bit with my other awake housemate, I stumbled intoxicated to my bedroom and slept until noon.

The next day was the first time I'd missed my early meal since Ramadan began, and the first time I'd missed my Fajr yoga session since I started it a few weeks ago. Though I had resolved to myself to wash at each prayer time on Saturday, after accepting the challenge from my friend, the former Muslim wife, I realized that I had missed both Maghrib and Isha on Saturday, as well as the Sunday Fajr.

I got out of bed at midday and did some more cleaning, feeling a slight hangover, and wishing I had remembered to eat a fortifying helping of leftover party food while I was putting it away in the wee hours. I wouldn't be eating again until iftar (at which point I planned to meet up with a group of progressive Muslims I met through Facebook).

An hour later I went into my bathroom to wash for Dhuhur. I soaped up my face and hands while standing before my sink and mirror, focusing on making myself come back to life after somewhat overdoing it the night before.

Then I stepped into my shower to wash my feet and surprised myself when I looked down and remembered my orange-painted toes. There are Muslim men the world over performing this exact same ritual today, I thought to myself. Are there any others who are chipping colored paint off their nails as they wash?

Ramadan, part five (a gay man in a mosque?!)

I am more familiar with the Unitarian church near my house than I am with probably any other house of worship in town. I have attended Sunday services maybe 10 times over my seven years here, I have shown up for plays and concerts there, and I have staffed a table with a friend who once participated in a responsible gift fair held at the church. A few friends of mine used to attend somewhat regularly, though they have all since moved away from DC -- to Portland, Oregon; to Chapel Hill; and to Sudan.

I remember going to the Unitarian Church on a Sunday afternoon four and a half years ago, after hosting a party with my housemates in my shared apartment the night before.

It was a Sunday in February, and the party had been meant to celebrate Mardi Gras, though it was a few days too early. (It was the third year I had hosted a Mardi Gras party, and the second year I had observed Lent.) One of my housemates at the time was a beautiful Jewish boy, with whom I had unwittingly fallen in love, though his identity as a heterosexual made such a love impossible. He and I were cleaning the house the day after the party, but we put down our brooms and sponges and walked over to the church at mid-day to watch two of my friends perform in a production of the musical "Free to Be You and Me."

My housemate looked adorable walking to church with me in his long-sleeved yellow T-shirt under blue-jean overalls, sandals with socks on his feet. The auditorium was full of families with young children when we arrived. I looked for other friends in the crowd, but, seeing none, my housemate and I took two seats by ourselves toward the back, leaving empty seats toward the front for the children. The row in front of us was completely empty, though shortly a man with two sons came and sat directly in front of us.

They settled in, and the man, perhaps identifying us as visitors, turned around to flash us a big smile and say hello. He extended his right hand in greeting, and I noticed his wedding ring on his left. He identified himself as Alex, and he and I started a conversation that meandered toward the divulging of our religious backgrounds. I confessed to being a refugee from evangelical Fundamentalist Christianity who does not worship, but who has a continued interest in religion. Alex told me that he grew up Presbyterian, but found the Unitarians more welcoming. When my housemate identified himself as a secular Jew, Alex's smile grew even wider.

"My partner's Jewish too," he told us, enthusiastically. "I think you'll find this church is a very embracing environment for mixed couples. He can be Jewish, and I can be Christian, and we can teach our kids about both our traditions. It's nice."

Alex's partner didn't arrive until after the play had started, but Alex introduced us all to each other after it was over, and it was clear he viewed me and my housemate as a sweet young couple -- which felt so charming and so sad all at the same time. Neither my housemate nor I provided a correction.

It's true that the Unitarian church is very embracing of gay men and lesbians. In fact, this particular Unitarian church is led by a gay senior pastor and a lesbian associate pastor. And on a separate visit to the church for morning worship, I once, by chance, encountered a sermon by the associate pastor that focused on nothing but the need for churches to bring gay men and lesbians (and couples and families) into the fold. It was terribly moving for me to hear such a viewpoint articulated from a pulpit -- a viewpoint so very different from that of the church in which I grew up. And yet... that sermon bothered me that day, and bothers me still.

I felt a bit pandered to and singled out at the same time. I didn't feel like I was sitting in a sanctuary with a unified group of Unitarians, but rather in a group separated into straight and gay, with the gay people being counseled how to get over their childhoods, and the straight people being informed about the special needs of gay people. I don't feel like I have demographically based special needs. I have my own personal version of universal human needs -- just like everybody else -- and I hadn't come to church for special gay counseling that morning. I feel kind of the same way about discovering that the Quakers offer a "special welcome" for gays and lesbians, though in the future I do intend to visit that version of the Quaker meeting.

In the meantime, I need to get myself to a mosque before Ramadan is over. Today is Friday, the day of the week that my workplace offers a flexible schedule, so I came in to the office early this morning, and then left a while later to walk to an Ahmadiyya Muslim mosque for the second prayer of the day, the Dhuhur. I had not been to this particular mosque before, and when I got there I discovered it is basically a large house on a very nice street, three stories tall with a small porch. There was a plaque on the front of the house with the words "There is no god but Allah, and Muhammed is his prophet," along with the name of the mosque.

The windows of the house all had their blinds drawn, and it seemed dark, but I walked up onto the porch and tried the door anyway, only to find it locked. Perhaps I got the prayer time wrong. I had the phone number for the mosque in my pocket, so I dialed it on my cellphone and got voicemail. I left a message asking if the mosque is holding prayers during Ramadan, and asking if visitors are allowed. I asked for someone to call me back and let me know before Asr, the afternoon prayer, and then I walked back to my office.

I have only informed a few friends that I am working on this blog, and I don't intend to share this with everyone. However, yesterday, I got some feedback from one friend of mine whose opinion I respect. My friend is Jewish (though not observant, I do not believe), and she has been married, at various points in her life, to Muslim men. My friend got the vapors about the idea of me, as an atheist gay man, going to mosques, which is something that does not trouble me at all -- I have been to a mosque once before -- and she also asked me if I am washing ritually at the five prayer times. I have not been ritually washing, and in fact I never followed through with my intention to add the prayers sequentially to my day (though I've kept up with the Fajr/yoga).

So, today, denied the opportunity to add Dhuhur within a community at the mosque, I returned to my office and ritually washed my face, hands, and feet in the shower room my office provides for bike commuters. If I don't get a phonecall back inviting me to Asr at the Ahmadiyya mosque, I'll do the washing again this afternoon. I won't be sharing iftar or Maghrib (the evening prayer) with anyone today, but tomorrow my current housemates and I will be hosting a combination Equinox/Ramadan party beginning at sundown, and on Sunday I have plans to travel to the suburbs and share iftar with a local Muslim group that self-describes as progressive -- the first time during Ramadan that I'll be breaking the fast with an actual community of observant Muslims.