My friend, whom I'll call Jim, was raised Catholic. He just got engaged over the summer to his girlfriend (I’ll call her Suzi), who is Jewish. Jim and I have talked about religion a lot. I don't have anybody in my circle of friends who, as an adult, is as much a disaffected Protestant as me, but Jim probably qualifies as an equally disaffected Christian -- though my upbringing taught me that as a Catholic Jim should not be considered a "real" Christian.
Jim never attends Mass anymore, I don't think, but sometimes goes with Suzi to Shabbat services with the same young and progressive crowd as my colleague who read the poem about women's voices as vowels a few weeks ago.
Suzi invited me to her pre-fast dinner for Yom Kippur this year, starting at 4:30 on Wednesday, but I was too busy to get away from my office at that time of day, and had to miss it. I brought a full dinner to work with me that day instead, and ate it quickly at my desk at about 5:30, before rushing to make Kol Nidre services by 6PM.
The Shabbat group that Suzi and my colleague attend does not put together its own High Holidays services, though many of them join with a larger, older, progressive Jewish group in town called Fabrangen.
I have an older acquaintance who is quite active with Fabrangen, and through a tangled web of connections, I've ended up at Fabrangen's Kol Nidre for the past four years in a row. Like the Shabbat group, Fabrangen does not own a building or employ a rabbi. For High Holiday services, the group appropriates the space of a willing local church, and this year had found a space called The United Church, luckily only eight easily walkable blocks from my office.
The United Church is so named because it was formed (in the 1970s) when two different Protestant denominations, who worshipped two blocks apart from each other in downtown DC, decided to merge their services. A United Church of Christ merged with a Methodist Church, and one new "United" Church was born in the building that housed the Church of Christ.
When the Church of Christ was built, in 1833, it originally was known as the German Evangelical Concordia Congregation, and it served as something of a community center for a good portion of the city's German/Christian population at that time. The combined church still advertises German language services every first and third Sunday of the month, and the first thing I noticed as I approached the church was the tall stained glass window above the entrance, which bore a cross draped in a white sash marked with an elaborate phrase of German calligraphy.
Men and women in kippot and prayer shawls mounted the steps beneath this window, and I fell in line behind them. Inside, as usual, the Christian symbols had all been draped with Jewish art -- painted or embroidered stars of David, or Hebrew messages, or depictions of the Book of Life. I was just barely on time for the service, but I did not see any of my friends or colleagues, so I took a seat by myself in the center toward the back.
The service did not start on time, and worshippers continued to stream in, to the point that I started to feel self-conscious about being a bareheaded single Gentile with a fairly good seat, while whole families were peering around for a space to sit together. I still did not see anybody I knew there, so I rose and went upstairs by myself to the fairly empty balcony.
By the time services had started, I had relocated myself twice more to an ever-worse seat, ending up in the back row of the side balcony by an open stained glass window, which turned out to be a really interesting (and surprisingly comfortable) location for the services. For one thing, worshippers continued arriving even after services had started, such that there were people sitting in the aisles and on staircases, and spilling out into the upper and lower lobbies. This meant that the church grew stiflingly hot rather quickly, increasing the value of the refreshing breeze wafting through the open window.
Secondly, my back-balcony vantage point meant that I could not see the stage at all. I know that the cantor who led most of the service was a woman, but I have no idea what she looked like, or who else might have shared the stage with her. Her disembodied instructions on when to sit or stand, or which page to locate in the prayer book, floated up to the balcony like the voice of God. (God sings in a confidant soprano!)
Two and a half hours later, the soprano God announced that we had arrived at the conclusion of the Kol Nidre service "unconscionably early," and invited everyone back for the full day tomorrow before dismissing us. It took some time for all of the worshippers to file out of the church, which gave me the opportunity to spot Jim and Suzi and a colleague of mine I'll call Rachel in the crowd below. I gestured that I'd wait outside.
On the sidewalk, we chatted about Jim and Suzi's pre-fast meal, and everyone's plans for the next day, and Rachel asked me what part of the Kol Nidre service I liked the most. I answered with some comments about the al-chet portion of the service, a recitation of 44 types of sins, for which the congregation repents and asks forgiveness.
On a previous year, I had been quite moved by a modern adaptation of the al-chet prayer written by a Febrangener, which, as I recalled it, barely mentioned God at all, and really resonated with me as capturing the meaning of the al-chet and translating into a language easily understood by a 21st century… uh, humanist? Atheist? Gentile? (Me.)
The creative, modern al-chet also seemed like a convincing motivator for right action, couched in the sensible language of moderation, rather than the fiery language of condemnation or the moaning language of remorse. (Sample couplet: "For the sin of taking ourselves too seriously, and for the sin of not taking ourselves seriously enough." Sample couplet #2: "For the sin of demanding the power to change others, and for the sin of neglecting the power to change ourselves." If I were compiling a holy book, this prayer -- written a few years ago, I believe -- would be in it for sure.)
Glancing forward in the prayer book during Kol Nidre, I had felt disappointed by this year's al-chet that I saw coming up. Its recitation of sins seemed old-fashioned to me, and not so relevant, and a little ridiculous. It called for repentance for sins that are meaningless to me, like desecrating God's holy name, or for sins that I'm pretty sure I haven't committed, like bribery or extortion or "casting off the yoke of Heaven" (whatever that means).
However, when we got to the al-chet, the cantor did not go by the book. We sang a few Hebrew verses of the prayer, and then the cantor opened it up to the worshippers to raise their hands and volunteer a sin. With each suggested phrase, the cantor would sing it back, and then the congregation would follow it with a short section of the Hebrew prayer. After each three or five sins, we would return to the book, and sing a full couplet, and then take more suggestions from the group.
"The cantor took the personal and made it liturgical and I found that very powerful," I told Rachel. "Sin is a weird concept to me, and I have a hard time coming up with what I think my sins are, but when I hear someone else throw out 'the sin of pettiness' or 'the sin of holding onto anger,' I know I'm implicated too, and there's something really close and human and supportive about everybody admitting frailty together and making a vow to do better."
Congregants offered up the sins of "not caring for our planet" (I thought of how I don't dry my clothes on a line), of "not caring for the poor" (I can't say I'm a champ in that arena either), and two people offered variations on "holding onto anger with parents" (I guess this one's pretty universal).
Rachel asked me if I was planning to return for the full day of Yom Kippur services the next morning. I had planned to take the day off from work as one of two annual "personal holidays" we are allowed, but I told Rachel that traditionally I only attend Kol Nidre, and spend the next day in personal contemplation. Rachel encouraged me to change my plans this year.
"You don't even have to follow along through the whole thing, if you don't want to," she told me. "I bring my own readings sometimes and will sort of hop in and out of the service as I feel moved. You could bring something else, if you want."
"Well, I didn't manage to finish all of my Ramadan reading last month," I told her. "I could bring my Koran, or some of the other books on Islam that I'm reading, like No God But God, or The Muslim Jesus."
Rachel treated it as a joke, but I had been serious.
Her instant reply was that bringing Muslim books probably wouldn't be a good idea, and then there was a split second where I think it wasn't clear to either of us whether my suggestion was utterly out of the question or whether a progressive Jewish congregation with no rabbi meeting in a Christian church might happily endorse an ex-Christian reading Koran in the pews on Yom Kippur.
"Well, think about it," said Rachel. "You could at least come back for Ne'ila at the very end. It should be starting around 5:45."
"Yeah, come back for Ne'ila," Suzi chimed in, breaking off a side conversation with another congregant, and looking as enthusiastic and serious and emotional as I have ever seen her. "It's at the end of the day, and the sun’s going down, and you're so empty from the fast that it's easier to be ... filled."
"I'll think about it," I said, as our sidewalk group disbanded, and I walked back to my office to retrieve my bicycle.
Showing posts with label sin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sin. Show all posts
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Rosh Hashanah/Eid al Fitr/Navaratri
Seeing the emergence of a new moon signals the end of Ramadan, but for me, at the appropriate time, the moon remained hidden by the remains of a just-ended storm.
I stood on the sidewalk outside my apartment building and scanned for lucky breaks in the clouds, but, finding none, decided that I would break my Ramadan fast the next day anyway. All the Muslims I had met during the holiday were planning for Eid al Fitr on Wednesday, October 1. Plus, two other religious groups for whom the beginning of the lunar month triggered a holiday -- Jews and Hindus -- were already celebrating by September 30, while the moon was covered. Most of my Jewish colleagues had taken the day off from work for Rosh Hashanah, and I'd heard on NPR in the afternoon about a deadly temple stampede in India where the eight-day Navaratri celebrations had begun.
We had entered the following lunar months:
Shawwal, the tenth month of the Muslim calendar
Ashwin, the sixth month of the Hindu calendar
Tishrei, the first month of the Jewish calendar
So, happy New Year. Shana tova. And happy birthday too, to the human race, since the first day of Tishrei is the day on which YHWH created Adam.
Anyway, I had thought I might convince Mohammed to celebrate Eid with me (on Wednesday), but he was too busy. I myself was too busy on Tuesday to find a temple service celebrating Rosh Hashanah, because I had non-celebrant friends scheduled for a different occasion at my own house. Still, I served fresh apples and good honey to them, in recognition of the Jewish New Year, and looked for other ways I might mark the occasion by myself.
Through reading about Rosh Hashanah, I had discovered the Jewish custom of tashlikh, a form of repentance and symbolic casting off of sins at the new year. It derives from a verse in the book of Micah that states: "You will cast all their sins into the depths of the sea."
The idea is that you proceed on the afternoon of Rosh Hashanah to pray by a naturally flowing body of water, and cast your sins therein. Some observers also cast in stones or bread to symbolize the sins. I had missed the afternoon, of course, and had missed Rosh Hashanah altogether for those who hold that it is a one-day holiday. But, there is Jewish disagreement on this point, so for those who celebrate Rosh Hashanah as a two-day holiday, it was still on. I had some stale pita leftover from the Equinamadan party, so I decided to rise early on Eid (or, Rosh Hashanah, day two) and cast my pita into a flowing stream.
Luckily, I live right next to one.
I rose before the sunrise again the next day, and performed my yoga-Fajr before dressing for work, bundling the pita into my backpack, and walking downhill from my apartment into the huge urban park that stretches from the DC-Maryland border all the way to the Potomac River.
I have worked in downtown Washington, DC for nearly six years, and had always intended to rise early and experience a leisurely stroll to work through the park. I will now have to credit Rosh Hashanah with finally making that happen for the first time.
In the center of the park, Rock Creek flows south. I had envisioned standing on the first creek bridge I would come to, and casting my pita from there, but when I got to the bridge I felt exposed, and I wanted to be closer to the water.
So, I walked into the park, in the direction of downtown, following the footpath until a clearing opened up between the path and the creek. Then, I walked over to find a creek bank lined with smooth stones, and I pulled the bread out of my backpack.
Joggers and bicyclists and other walkers continued passing on the path, and for a moment I wished I had just planned to cast stones, which would perhaps look like a more normal activity than using the bread. I started quickly ripping the bread into pieces and flinging it into the creek, before I realized I wasn't really paying attention to what I was doing. Also, I wasn't praying. No focus, no attention, no mindfulness to the ritual: What's the point of this, I thought.
I realized I hadn't looked up any particular Jewish prayers to have in mind, and I felt like a jerk.
So, I slowed down, and peeled pieces of the bread less frantically into the water. I held a stack of four rounds. I would break four pieces off at a time, and then drop them singly into the shallows at my feet.
I had tried to plan ahead and think about what "sins" from the past year I might place on the bread, but as I dropped the final piece into the river I realized hadn't been thinking about sin at all. The floating pieces remained uncharged and meaningless in my imagination and just sat there, bobbing, soggy.
I realized that the focus of my attention had been divided between the creek itself (listening to the water flow) and an awareness of the people on the path (wondering if they were curious about the figure by the creek ripping up the unknown breadlike substance).
Why hadn't I just chosen to throw stones!
I turned my focus to the right, where the water burbled over rocks producing a soothing sound, and I watched the sunlight trickle through the leaves overhead. The experience didn't feel religious in any way at all, though it felt like a good excuse to be out in the park in the early morning.
When I looked back to the left, the pieces of bread, which had been floating together directly in front of me when I had last seen them, were spread out in a long line down the creek, and they were all moving away from me. Some were hung up on rocks nearby and were making slower progress; others were far enough away to be on the verge of disappearing from view.
What if I had succeeded in charging the bread with my sins, I wondered. How would I feel right now?
Or…
What if those breads were to represent other things: insults I can't let go of, failures over which I might obsess, patterns of bitterness that might be unhelpful to retain.
Is bitterness a sin?
What if watching this bread float away on the water represents what it feels like to let those things go, with minimal effort, and with barely any mindfulness. Just tear them into pieces and drop them in front of you and look away and listen to the water. And when you wait a few minutes and look again, they're leaving -- not under their own power, but just through the passage of time, they flow away.
I felt suddenly emotional, and very happy I had not chosen stones.
(I walked the rest of the way to work through the park, stopping in a coffeshop by my office to purchase a coffee and a bagel -- in broad daylight! -- as my own private Eid.)
I stood on the sidewalk outside my apartment building and scanned for lucky breaks in the clouds, but, finding none, decided that I would break my Ramadan fast the next day anyway. All the Muslims I had met during the holiday were planning for Eid al Fitr on Wednesday, October 1. Plus, two other religious groups for whom the beginning of the lunar month triggered a holiday -- Jews and Hindus -- were already celebrating by September 30, while the moon was covered. Most of my Jewish colleagues had taken the day off from work for Rosh Hashanah, and I'd heard on NPR in the afternoon about a deadly temple stampede in India where the eight-day Navaratri celebrations had begun.
We had entered the following lunar months:
Shawwal, the tenth month of the Muslim calendar
Ashwin, the sixth month of the Hindu calendar
Tishrei, the first month of the Jewish calendar
So, happy New Year. Shana tova. And happy birthday too, to the human race, since the first day of Tishrei is the day on which YHWH created Adam.
Anyway, I had thought I might convince Mohammed to celebrate Eid with me (on Wednesday), but he was too busy. I myself was too busy on Tuesday to find a temple service celebrating Rosh Hashanah, because I had non-celebrant friends scheduled for a different occasion at my own house. Still, I served fresh apples and good honey to them, in recognition of the Jewish New Year, and looked for other ways I might mark the occasion by myself.
Through reading about Rosh Hashanah, I had discovered the Jewish custom of tashlikh, a form of repentance and symbolic casting off of sins at the new year. It derives from a verse in the book of Micah that states: "You will cast all their sins into the depths of the sea."
The idea is that you proceed on the afternoon of Rosh Hashanah to pray by a naturally flowing body of water, and cast your sins therein. Some observers also cast in stones or bread to symbolize the sins. I had missed the afternoon, of course, and had missed Rosh Hashanah altogether for those who hold that it is a one-day holiday. But, there is Jewish disagreement on this point, so for those who celebrate Rosh Hashanah as a two-day holiday, it was still on. I had some stale pita leftover from the Equinamadan party, so I decided to rise early on Eid (or, Rosh Hashanah, day two) and cast my pita into a flowing stream.
Luckily, I live right next to one.
I rose before the sunrise again the next day, and performed my yoga-Fajr before dressing for work, bundling the pita into my backpack, and walking downhill from my apartment into the huge urban park that stretches from the DC-Maryland border all the way to the Potomac River.
I have worked in downtown Washington, DC for nearly six years, and had always intended to rise early and experience a leisurely stroll to work through the park. I will now have to credit Rosh Hashanah with finally making that happen for the first time.
In the center of the park, Rock Creek flows south. I had envisioned standing on the first creek bridge I would come to, and casting my pita from there, but when I got to the bridge I felt exposed, and I wanted to be closer to the water.
So, I walked into the park, in the direction of downtown, following the footpath until a clearing opened up between the path and the creek. Then, I walked over to find a creek bank lined with smooth stones, and I pulled the bread out of my backpack.
Joggers and bicyclists and other walkers continued passing on the path, and for a moment I wished I had just planned to cast stones, which would perhaps look like a more normal activity than using the bread. I started quickly ripping the bread into pieces and flinging it into the creek, before I realized I wasn't really paying attention to what I was doing. Also, I wasn't praying. No focus, no attention, no mindfulness to the ritual: What's the point of this, I thought.
I realized I hadn't looked up any particular Jewish prayers to have in mind, and I felt like a jerk.
So, I slowed down, and peeled pieces of the bread less frantically into the water. I held a stack of four rounds. I would break four pieces off at a time, and then drop them singly into the shallows at my feet.
I had tried to plan ahead and think about what "sins" from the past year I might place on the bread, but as I dropped the final piece into the river I realized hadn't been thinking about sin at all. The floating pieces remained uncharged and meaningless in my imagination and just sat there, bobbing, soggy.
I realized that the focus of my attention had been divided between the creek itself (listening to the water flow) and an awareness of the people on the path (wondering if they were curious about the figure by the creek ripping up the unknown breadlike substance).
Why hadn't I just chosen to throw stones!
I turned my focus to the right, where the water burbled over rocks producing a soothing sound, and I watched the sunlight trickle through the leaves overhead. The experience didn't feel religious in any way at all, though it felt like a good excuse to be out in the park in the early morning.
When I looked back to the left, the pieces of bread, which had been floating together directly in front of me when I had last seen them, were spread out in a long line down the creek, and they were all moving away from me. Some were hung up on rocks nearby and were making slower progress; others were far enough away to be on the verge of disappearing from view.
What if I had succeeded in charging the bread with my sins, I wondered. How would I feel right now?
Or…
What if those breads were to represent other things: insults I can't let go of, failures over which I might obsess, patterns of bitterness that might be unhelpful to retain.
Is bitterness a sin?
What if watching this bread float away on the water represents what it feels like to let those things go, with minimal effort, and with barely any mindfulness. Just tear them into pieces and drop them in front of you and look away and listen to the water. And when you wait a few minutes and look again, they're leaving -- not under their own power, but just through the passage of time, they flow away.
I felt suddenly emotional, and very happy I had not chosen stones.
(I walked the rest of the way to work through the park, stopping in a coffeshop by my office to purchase a coffee and a bagel -- in broad daylight! -- as my own private Eid.)
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Ramadan, part two (prayer and meditation)
I do not pray.
I had not taken this into account when deciding to observe Ramadan this year. I'm nearly a week into the month, and I have continued to put off adding the five daily prayers of Islam into my practice.
So, on Saturday, I set out to learn what kind of prayer should be said in the following morning. I decided I would start slowly, and on Sunday I would say only the salat al-Fajr, as accompaniment to my morning meal. Then, I thought, I might add one prayer per day until complete.
I did of course assume that any prayer I might find would be addressed to God.
While this conflicts with my atheism, long association with my religious family has taught me to translate prayers into a language that makes more sense to me, which is what I assumed I would do with the Fajr. I speculated that as a morning prayer, it might likely take the form of thanking God for the day, which I would translate into generalized gratitude for the start of the morning. Or it might ask God for strength and courage to go out into the world, which I would translate into a rumination on the strength and courage I might find within.
However, what I found while looking for sample Fajr prayers is that the subject of the Fajr prayer is largely God himself. Allahu akbar, and so on. "Glory be to You, O Allah!" "Yours is the praise and blessed is Your name." "I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed Satan." Etc. Etc.
I do feel somewhat like I am being untrue to the spirit of my intention to explore the world's religions when I reject elements that don't ring true with my worldview, but that's exactly what I did.
I came across a drawing of a man saying his Fajr on a prayer rug and noticed that his pose looked very similar the “child's pose” in yoga. Because yoga is as disciplined a practice as prayer, I felt I had found a compromise, and that yoga would be a suitable substitute. I told myself that if I were to find, while doing yoga, some sort of desire to "pray" or "meditate," then I would, but I would not force myself.
So, on Sunday, I rose early, consumed the early meal, and did fifteen minutes of yogic stretching while listening to "Speaking of Faith" on NPR.
The guest was Dr. Esther Sternberg, a scientist of Jewish heritage who studies the connection between stress and disease, as well as the opposite of that -- the connection between belief and healing.
When the host asked Dr. Sternberg, "What do you mean by belief?," my ears perked up. “Good question,“ I thought. “Belief in what, Dr. Sternberg?"
But Sternberg punted and rambled and did not answer the question.
I finished my yoga without praying or meditating, and dressed for Quaker meeting.
I was to meet my friend, an old housemate of mine, in the garden next to the Friends meetinghouse, about a 25 minute walk from my apartment. I arrived early, so I could read a sura from the Koran while I waited.
When my old housemate arrived, she showed me around the building, and explained that there are three services held there: the early, smaller, silent meeting that we would be attending; a larger meeting that is also largely silent but punctuated by "spoken messages;" and a "special welcome" meeting for gays and lesbians, which my friend had never been to.
She showed me into a small room called "the parlor" where the small, silent meeting would take place.
The room was furnished with antiques, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. Two windows showed tall hedges outside and did not let in light. A mantelpiece was topped with a small ticking clock. An older woman in a sweatsuit and sneakers sat on a crimson chair with wooden arms. An older gentleman in a suit with a T-shirt and shiny, polished black shoes sat at one end of a narrow sofa. I said hello to them, and felt very loud when I did. They nodded their greetings back.
My friend took one end of another narrow sofa, and I sat in a matching crimson armchair. It was 8:59. Another older woman entered and sat next to me just before 9AM, and five more Friends trickled in during the first five minutes of Meeting, bringing our number to a gender-balanced ten. The last to arrive was an old man with restless legs who shook the books on the shelves when he trotted his knees up and down.
Other than the fidgety old man and occasional crossing and uncrossing of legs by others, there was no movement. The sounds were of the ticking clock and the birds outside.
What is everybody thinking about, I wondered.
Are they ... praying? Meditating?
I find it difficult to clear my mind of thoughts, and so my mind ranged widely across topics, most of which were no doubt improper for the Friends' meeting: my schedule for the week, my schedule for the day, the physical appearances of the others in the room, speculations on the others’ thoughts, speculations on the schedule for their days, questions for Dr. Esther Sternberg, yoga, sex, Ramadan, food, imagined conversations with friends and family, imagined instructions to myself to still my mind, reflections upon the furnishings and mood of the room.
In the church I belonged to growing up, time for silent meditation was brief and targeted. It occurred immediately following the taking of communion, and lasted for the length of one hymn on the organ. At Meeting, I let my mind recall the feeling of taking communion as a child, and how surprised I had been, around age ten, when my Sunday School teacher informed me it is a sin not to think about Jesus and his sacrifice during the organ music after consuming the wafer and the grape juice.
I had been baptized at age nine, and not all of my peers were baptized yet (meaning they could not take communion, and therefore did not have to worry about this sin), and I remember taking note that I had a potential sin in front of me that they did not. I remember being a child whose mind would wander after communion, only to be yanked back to Jesus as soon as I realized it, along with a quick and fervent prayer for forgiveness from Him of my wandering-mind sin.
Is there any particulary topic toward which I should yank my mind right now, I wondered to myself in Quaker meeting.
At around the forty-five-minute mark, a happy random thought about my sister and my childhood caused me to break out in a smile, which I instantly wiped away, feeling excessively emotional. I'd perceived no other signs of feeling in the room. Ten minutes later or so, some sad thoughts about lovelessness and betrayal caused two fat tears to well up and then to fall, one from each eye. Sitting silent in the peacefulness of the Friends' parlor, I felt like maybe a manic-depressive for such outbursts of emotion.
Moments later, my friend called the meeting to a close. At 10AM sharp, she spoke: "Good morning, Friends," and we all rose to shake hands with one another, me with two wet spots on my shirt that appeared to go unnoticed. My friend made a few small announcements, and we were dismissed.
I wanted to talk to her about what Quaker meeting means to her, but she had a brunch to go to right away, and besides I am fasting, so I hope to attend one (or probably both) of the other meetings, and corner my friend (who was reared without religion at all) about her choice to throw in with the Quakers.
I had not taken this into account when deciding to observe Ramadan this year. I'm nearly a week into the month, and I have continued to put off adding the five daily prayers of Islam into my practice.
So, on Saturday, I set out to learn what kind of prayer should be said in the following morning. I decided I would start slowly, and on Sunday I would say only the salat al-Fajr, as accompaniment to my morning meal. Then, I thought, I might add one prayer per day until complete.
I did of course assume that any prayer I might find would be addressed to God.
While this conflicts with my atheism, long association with my religious family has taught me to translate prayers into a language that makes more sense to me, which is what I assumed I would do with the Fajr. I speculated that as a morning prayer, it might likely take the form of thanking God for the day, which I would translate into generalized gratitude for the start of the morning. Or it might ask God for strength and courage to go out into the world, which I would translate into a rumination on the strength and courage I might find within.
However, what I found while looking for sample Fajr prayers is that the subject of the Fajr prayer is largely God himself. Allahu akbar, and so on. "Glory be to You, O Allah!" "Yours is the praise and blessed is Your name." "I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed Satan." Etc. Etc.
I do feel somewhat like I am being untrue to the spirit of my intention to explore the world's religions when I reject elements that don't ring true with my worldview, but that's exactly what I did.
I came across a drawing of a man saying his Fajr on a prayer rug and noticed that his pose looked very similar the “child's pose” in yoga. Because yoga is as disciplined a practice as prayer, I felt I had found a compromise, and that yoga would be a suitable substitute. I told myself that if I were to find, while doing yoga, some sort of desire to "pray" or "meditate," then I would, but I would not force myself.
So, on Sunday, I rose early, consumed the early meal, and did fifteen minutes of yogic stretching while listening to "Speaking of Faith" on NPR.
The guest was Dr. Esther Sternberg, a scientist of Jewish heritage who studies the connection between stress and disease, as well as the opposite of that -- the connection between belief and healing.
When the host asked Dr. Sternberg, "What do you mean by belief?," my ears perked up. “Good question,“ I thought. “Belief in what, Dr. Sternberg?"
But Sternberg punted and rambled and did not answer the question.
I finished my yoga without praying or meditating, and dressed for Quaker meeting.
I was to meet my friend, an old housemate of mine, in the garden next to the Friends meetinghouse, about a 25 minute walk from my apartment. I arrived early, so I could read a sura from the Koran while I waited.
When my old housemate arrived, she showed me around the building, and explained that there are three services held there: the early, smaller, silent meeting that we would be attending; a larger meeting that is also largely silent but punctuated by "spoken messages;" and a "special welcome" meeting for gays and lesbians, which my friend had never been to.
She showed me into a small room called "the parlor" where the small, silent meeting would take place.
The room was furnished with antiques, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. Two windows showed tall hedges outside and did not let in light. A mantelpiece was topped with a small ticking clock. An older woman in a sweatsuit and sneakers sat on a crimson chair with wooden arms. An older gentleman in a suit with a T-shirt and shiny, polished black shoes sat at one end of a narrow sofa. I said hello to them, and felt very loud when I did. They nodded their greetings back.
My friend took one end of another narrow sofa, and I sat in a matching crimson armchair. It was 8:59. Another older woman entered and sat next to me just before 9AM, and five more Friends trickled in during the first five minutes of Meeting, bringing our number to a gender-balanced ten. The last to arrive was an old man with restless legs who shook the books on the shelves when he trotted his knees up and down.
Other than the fidgety old man and occasional crossing and uncrossing of legs by others, there was no movement. The sounds were of the ticking clock and the birds outside.
What is everybody thinking about, I wondered.
Are they ... praying? Meditating?
I find it difficult to clear my mind of thoughts, and so my mind ranged widely across topics, most of which were no doubt improper for the Friends' meeting: my schedule for the week, my schedule for the day, the physical appearances of the others in the room, speculations on the others’ thoughts, speculations on the schedule for their days, questions for Dr. Esther Sternberg, yoga, sex, Ramadan, food, imagined conversations with friends and family, imagined instructions to myself to still my mind, reflections upon the furnishings and mood of the room.
In the church I belonged to growing up, time for silent meditation was brief and targeted. It occurred immediately following the taking of communion, and lasted for the length of one hymn on the organ. At Meeting, I let my mind recall the feeling of taking communion as a child, and how surprised I had been, around age ten, when my Sunday School teacher informed me it is a sin not to think about Jesus and his sacrifice during the organ music after consuming the wafer and the grape juice.
I had been baptized at age nine, and not all of my peers were baptized yet (meaning they could not take communion, and therefore did not have to worry about this sin), and I remember taking note that I had a potential sin in front of me that they did not. I remember being a child whose mind would wander after communion, only to be yanked back to Jesus as soon as I realized it, along with a quick and fervent prayer for forgiveness from Him of my wandering-mind sin.
Is there any particulary topic toward which I should yank my mind right now, I wondered to myself in Quaker meeting.
At around the forty-five-minute mark, a happy random thought about my sister and my childhood caused me to break out in a smile, which I instantly wiped away, feeling excessively emotional. I'd perceived no other signs of feeling in the room. Ten minutes later or so, some sad thoughts about lovelessness and betrayal caused two fat tears to well up and then to fall, one from each eye. Sitting silent in the peacefulness of the Friends' parlor, I felt like maybe a manic-depressive for such outbursts of emotion.
Moments later, my friend called the meeting to a close. At 10AM sharp, she spoke: "Good morning, Friends," and we all rose to shake hands with one another, me with two wet spots on my shirt that appeared to go unnoticed. My friend made a few small announcements, and we were dismissed.
I wanted to talk to her about what Quaker meeting means to her, but she had a brunch to go to right away, and besides I am fasting, so I hope to attend one (or probably both) of the other meetings, and corner my friend (who was reared without religion at all) about her choice to throw in with the Quakers.
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