What some people say they love about their religion is that they can go into any place of worship that takes the same name, anywhere in the world, and have the same religious experience.
What I love about religion is that wherever I am, I can have a completely different experience - whether I am returning to a favorite local church, visiting an Islamic center, or coordinating a meditation group. It is never the same.
Take this week, for example. Although I have been to All Saints Anglican churches before, I have NEVER been to this All Saints Cathedral, nor to a worship like this. THIS All Saints in Amarat neighborhood of Khartoum is a relocation of the community after its first building was taken over by certain authorities who shall not be named. Through its gates was a considerable cement structure, recognizably a church, even in this land of surprising architecture. Through the front doors the pastor greeted us enthusiastically. This was his seventh service for the day: two in English, one in Arabic, other Sudanese languages interspersed. He glistened slightly from this exertion.
We took our book of prayer, songbook and Bible to our seats (near the back) and looked around. Aside from the children, I was the shortest person there. If not for the other 6 or so expats, I could have been the whitest. I was quite likely the only woman wearing pants, the only woman in neutral-colored clothing, and the only woman sitting right next to her husband. I swear I was the only woman sweating so much (no, the 6pm worship on this 120 degree day was NOT air conditioned - nor were the other 6 services, though . . .) but I didn't have the opportunity to really investigate.
We turned to the Service of Evening Prayer. The synthesizer started: steel band sounds, static, and electric organ all at once. The choir (two soulful young women with shrill high voices) started us in our first hymn. We sang about how pure and white was Jesus. At this time, even more than ever before, I was struck by how ironic, ethnocentric, and inaccurate such descriptions of Christ are.
The sermon, based on that esoteric passage from Ezekiel about dry bones, was preached (Amen), was preached (Hallelujah), by a man with a powerful voice from Nigeria. He went on and on about how dry bones can be (yes they can, Hallelujah), can be re-enlivened by the Holy Spirit (Amen), with the power of the word. Although we were a bit put off by our preacher's implication that all those not practicing Christianity in this country were dry, dry, dry bones, we were also able to see the larger message. Even those who have lost everything, which means something in this town some 600 miles from Darfur, can be restored with hope. Hope is a powerful, powerful thing.
We sang again. The hair on the back of my neck standing up as the choir starts in with their polyphonic harmony. There is a breeze . . .When it is time to pray, we are all asked to raise our hands. Not just to make a little steeple with our fingers pointed up in front of our chests, no. We were to raise our hands up in the air and pray! We prayed for our leaders, for other world leaders, for people in the community, for people across the country. We prayed long and strong with our hands in the air.
And nobody minded that we had been there two hours in the stifling heat with no Sure antiperspirant in sight . . .
2 comments:
Wow. Sounds incredible. I love your attention to detail. I feel like I'm there, sweating next to you :o). Hopefully it will continue to be a moving experience, inshallah.
I loved reading this post (and all of your posts, of course) but especially this one because of your opening phrases. I know that I am one of those you are referring to. Your insights and experience really made me reflect on what worshipping means to me, what spiritual experiences I do have on a weekly basis, on a daily basis.
I just listened to a podcast of This American Life --the guiding theme was "The 10 Commandments". They did a little story for each commandment. My favorite story was about keeping the sabbath day holy. It was just a montage of American worship services. It was neat to hear all the different tones of prayer and holiness.
Your reflections led me to reflect on my own Sabbath Day experiences. Do I really have the same spiritual experience each Sunday? No, but the frame is the same, I guess. A ritual -- the routineness of the frame allows the spiritual experience to come more freely for me, because I'm not so busy worrying about the differences of the frame, and certain things that are unknown and uncomfortable about scrambling for a new frame while trying to focus on God, too.
But the opposite is surely true, too. My frame only allows certain experiences in, so I miss a lot of aspects of God and his holiness.
On another note, a professor of mine just encouraged me to rework paper I wrote at CC about James, aesthetic experience, and spiritual experience. She wants me to submit it to a James Conference this coming fall at Yale Divinity School. I hope I can discipline myself to work on it along with preparing for my Qualifying Exams this summer! Miss you! I want to figure out this Skype thing so I can call. I just noticed that you are on line as we speak!
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