Epiphany: "Manifestation, Journey, Discovery"

The Church of the Epiphany, an Episcopal congregation located two blocks east of the White House, seemed like a good choice for celebrating the Christian holiday of Epiphany, the first explicitly Christian holiday I've blogged here, given the recent conspicuous absence of Christmas.

I visited the gym and the farmers' market in the morning before 11AM services, and planned a movie screening for afterward at a nearby cinema.

Epiphany celebrates the visit of the Magi from the East to worship the infant Jesus, after following his star -- the primary instance I can think of that allows a celestial body to hold sway in Christianity.

The church bells were playing Christmas carols ("Joy to the World," "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear"as I approached on foot, noticing a sign by the door that requested appropriate attire and no sleeping on the pews. An apparently homeless man stood on the front steps, and several more homeless men sat amongst the congregants inside, managing to stand out in an already apparently racially and economically diverse bunch.

I sat on a red, velvetty, padded pew, and failed to cross myself or make any sort of bowing or curtsying motion before sitting down. I always forget which branches of Christianity make such a display customary.

The cavernous space of the sanctuary included a deep, recessed area behind the altar that seemed almost caged. A metal latticework that remained decorated with the wreaths and greenery of Christmas divided the worship space from a recessed area wherein the organist and trumpeter took up residence, and which served as one of two areas for the choir to sing. Over the arch of the cage was a slogan painted in foot-high letters: Blessing and Honor, Glory and Power Be the Lord's Forever.

The side walls bore stained-glass windows, and brown support beams crossed the stained white dome of a ceiling, which was peeling paint and openly crumbling in places.

I saw two people, a man and a woman, scurry down the aisle past me, laughing, each clutching an ornate two-foot-high golden statue of a human figure, their white robes fluttering as they passed.

Soon enough, the service began, with congregants rising to sing "We Three Kings," as a processional entered the sanctuary from the rear, leading the choir throughout the space as we all together sang all five verses of the hymn. Near the front of the processional marched the white-robed man and woman, holding their statues aloft. A third white-robed figure held a third golden man high, along with other marchers who bore banners and candles, and one woman holding a golden book above her head.

The marching of a sacred text around the space (up the center aisle, down the right side, up the center, down the left side, and up the center again) reminded me of the Torah's circumambulation of the congregants in the synagogues I have visited, and I felt myself wishing for a tallis so I could touch its tassels to the Bible being toted around.

It wasn't the only moment that recalled a Jewish service to me. At one point the pastor performed a solo a cappella chant in stitled English that sounded for all the world like a Hebrew blessing to my ears. At communion time, we sang about Jesus as our Passover, in addition to the many times Jesus was invoked (as he always seems to be around Christmas time) as the King of Israel. There was even a public prayer interlude, the most moving moment of the service, which recalled the communal al-chet last fall during Yom Kippur. At the Church of the Epiphany, congregants were allowed and encouraged to lift up public, spoken prayers, signaling that they were finished with the words "Lord, in your mercy," to be followed by the congregants chanting: "Hear our prayer."

For my sister who's battling colon cancer, Lord in your mercy. Hear our prayer.
For president-elect Barack Obama, and the incoming administration, Lord in your mercy. Hear our prayer.
For our men and women in uniform, Lord in your mercy. Hear our prayer.
For the victims of torture worldwide and for all those involved, Lord in your mercy. Hear our prayer.
For the Israelis and the Palestinians, Lord in your mercy. Hear our prayer.

This last one seemed especially poignant. The first song of the morning had included the lyric: "They will call you, The City of the Lord, The Zion of the Holy One of Israel/Violence will no more be heard in your land, ruin or destruction within your borders."

The message of the pastor, however, was not so poignant. It seemed unfortunately similar to a budget meeting at the non-profit organization where I work. The Church of the Epiphany was apparently down 170K in contributions as of September, but finished the year a little better (but still behind), around 70K down.

The pastor pointed out that the building needs restoration and the church's programs need funding. He asked everyone to pray about the situation and to fast during the week ahead for guidance about what to do ("We Episcopalians aren't so good with the fasting, but I think that's what we're called to do."). The sermon was literally all about money this week, and the hard times non-profit organizations like churches find themselves in.

For what it's worth, the sermon was effective. I rarely toss in money when I'm visiting a new church, but I tossed in two shiny golden dollars that were in my pocket -- not a lot of money, but I was reminded of the widow woman in the New Testament whose two coins were praised by Jesus as a great gift. I did not, however, choose to participate in Communion, which at this church involved stepping into a side-room for the laying on of hands and anointing with oil following the wafer and the wine.

We finished the service singing "The First Noel," and then we were dismissed with an exhortation: "Let us go forth into the world, rejoicing in the power of the Spirit."

The pastor stood by the door on my way out, and invited me to the Epiphany feast, though I told him I could not stay. I was running late to catch the matinee of Milk.

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.