The Seven Pillars of Faith, Part 3

Previously on Ma’s Journals: Play selected scenes from Parts 1 and 2, including a Catholic Church, a Yogi from heaven, feral children at Sunday School, and Wandering Jews. Now pan to Part 3, beginning with “Bahai at the Beach.” To be perfectly honest, I’d never heard of the Bahai Faith until a co-worker announced he’d finally managed to extract his mother from Iran and bring her to the United States where she’d be free from persecution. Then a Tai Chi classmate poured out his reasons for converting and gave me an introductory book. What I read seemed too good to be true. It wasn’t until a best friend converted that I got the chance to see what being Bahai meant. I’m not going to proselytize with details. You can Google it. Let’s just say that any place where Bahai gather to read and pray is a temple, and that includes the little house near a beach along our Central California coastline, the place where four schoolmates now in their forties met for a long weekend of catching up and generally not going anywhere except a quick outing because one of the squad wanted to attend a Sunday service. This happened not long after a tragedy in which ten women were executed for the sin of secretly teaching Bahai in the privacy of their homes. The youngest was seventeen years old. Heavy sorrow was much on the minds of the people gathered on that Sunday morning. Many prayers were said for the martyrs, but no blame was placed on the government that decreed their deaths. Only prayers of peace and healing were given for the world and all therein. I’ve had many years since that tragedy to watch what my Bahai friends do, say, and promote. I’ve waited for the loopholes, the human frailty, the double standards, but I haven’t found any. In truth they’ve set a standard I haven’t attained. (I still wouldn’t mind executing the executioners.) But they give me hope. And that is my fifth Pillar, which I found in Bahai, at the beach. Number six piled on the surprises. Slip your imagination away from the slushing ocean waves and quiet prayers for peace to the Inland Empire of heat and arid air. The setting is a non-denominational church of some denomination or other. I asked the ushers if it was Congregational but they didn’t know what I was talking about so I gave up on definitions. What passed for the Sanctuary was an auditorium, complete with raised stage and three giant video screens in case you couldn’t see the stage. What passed for the Baptismal Font was an inflatable rubber swimming pool. As far as the hymnals went, we basically were treated to a religious-themed rock concert backed by a 5-piece amplified band and two lead singers. Lacking hymnal books, which would have been useless because the worshipers were on their feet with their hands raised in the air, the verses were displayed on the giant screens, highlighted against images of sunbeams and white clouds. Now that sounds unappreciative, doesn’t it? I’m sorry. It was such a culture shock that I had to have lengthy texts with loved ones who happen to be Music Ministers for non-denominational churches. They assured me this is the modern approach to worship. It certainly gets you off your chair and shouting Hallelujah. Then the Minister walked onstage to give the day’s sermon. He definitely fit into the youthful approach of the church. I think the term for his garb is “Hipster.” Plaid cotton shirt, skinny jeans turned up to show the socks topping his ankle boots. A bit of a beard. Tattoos on the inside of his arms, rolled-up shirt sleeves. Wired for sound with a mic at the side of his mouth, a receiver in his ear, and a gizmo at his back waist. A man of his times. He started slowly enough, being somewhat gentle with the congregants about how to raise their children, until he began to build up a head of steam. Pacing back and forth across the stage, he raised his hands, sometimes pointing skyward, sometimes pounding a fist into an open palm. As I watched, he morphed before my eyes. His garb was replaced in my vision by a long robe, one that Moses might have worn. His leather belt turned into a rope cord, and his beard grew down to his chest. I think a staff miraculously appeared in one hand. No longer were we an assembly of flower children swaying our arms and singing praises in Hippy euphoria. Suddenly we were the flock who’d made the mistake of admiring a golden idol shaped like a bull. Seriously, people. I’d read about it; seen images of it in movies; but this was the first time I witnessed firsthand the Fear of God flow over the masses. Keeping it from getting too uncomfortable were heavenly images floating above Moses’s head on the big screen. The whole thing took three hours. Okay, maybe two because we had to vacate for the next service starting in thirty minutes. But it seemed longer. That’s because of the roller coaster ride. First baptisms and videos of why baptisms. Then a musical that almost convinced me noise can be as effective as silence in terms of divine connection. This followed by a trip back to the Holy Land and a mighty scolding by the Master of Reprimands. What an eye opener! Now I understood why some churches need 10,000-seat auditoriums for their services. I get the appeal. There’s so much going on it chases away your preoccupation with why you’re mad at your spouse/parents/neighbors/strangers. You walk away determined to maintain your determination to be a better person for longer than it takes you to walk to your car, which takes a long time because the parking lot is the size of a football field. I get why you’d want to go back on Wednesday nights for Bible study. Congregational or Non-Denominational. Doesn’t matter. It’s still Pillar number six. Number seven is brand new and still ongoing. I had a desire to attend a Hindu fire ritual and ended up instead at a Sikh Gurudwara. Don’t ask. Before I went, I called ahead to make sure I knew the rules and wouldn’t accidentally offend anyone by my ignorance of the rites and protocols. The answer I got was “Just come. We’ll feed you.” The first visit was a bit awkward. My scarf kept falling over my face; I didn’t know how to kneel and touch my head to the ground because we were taught to never bow our heads; and once I sat down on the floor I couldn’t get up without falling over. But no one commented. It was clear I was a newbie. I couldn’t understand a single word spoken or sung. The music was awesome. The second visit was easier. I’d read more about the shalts and shalt nots. I’d practiced getting off the floor without assistance at home. I wore a better scarf. Things were looking up. The latest visit was awesome. I’d paid more attention to how the Sikh’s approached the holy book when I watched Punjabi movies on Netflix so I felt pretty smug…no…confident as I leaned down to touch the carpet and touch my heart, walk up reverentially, toss a few dollars into the donation box, sit on my shins, place my hands palm up on the floor and touch my head to the ground, butt up, in meek submission. I even managed to regain my footing without crashing into the altar. But I didn’t sit on the floor for the service. There was a bank of cushioned couches for old people. I sat there. After a period of time, someone turned on the overhead screen so people who didn’t understand Gurmukhi could read along in Punjabi. Or Urdu. I couldn’t say. But the chanting was soothing, the room filled with devotional energy, and the music was awesome. Best of all, this time I got to help serve at the Langur, the meal that’s served after every Sikh temple service. The man on the phone was right. Just come and they’ll feed you. In India I think they use tin plates that have to be washed by the thousands. Here, in Southern California, they use styrofoam plates, partitioned in sections so the daal doesn’t slop over onto the gobi curry. Men, volunteers, make endless rounds offering more water, more tea, more of whatever you want. I stood behind the cafeteria style line, shoveling rice onto plates, sometimes more, sometimes less. The customers didn’t need English; there are universal facial expressions for “Yes, please.” and “Not on your life.” I was proud of myself. I fit right in, that is until one of the men from the service upstairs set a bowl of leftover Parshad beside me. When you go to a Sikh Temple, you’ll notice someone either sitting beside a pot of something they hand you along with a paper napkin, or someone will come around handing you a napkin and another will follow with a bowl of something they scoop up and place in your cupped hands. Don’t be afraid. Take it. Take as much as they will give you. Then later ask for more. Karah Parshad is a blessing. Ceremonially. Also from a culinary perspective. It’s basically flour, butter, and sugar. Ok, a certain kind of flour, ghee, and sugar. Doesn’t matter. It’s a gift from the angels. It’s better than chocolate pudding. It’s the nectar of the Gods. That’s exactly what I said to the young, tall, very handsome turbaned man who set the bowl of leftover Parshad next to me in the Langur line. I smiled up at him and said, “It’s the nectar of the Gods.” He gave me a blank stare. He didn’t speak English. I turned to my Indian son, the young man who agreed to let me call him son and who was the reason I was able to walk into a Gurudwara in the first place. I asked him to interpret. He gave me an odd look and said something in Hindi. The tall man looked at me the way you look at a crazy old lady and walked away. “What did you say to him?” I asked. “What you said, it’s the nectar of the Gods.” “Then why did you both have such odd expressions on your faces?” “That’s sort of what Parshad means.” “So basically I just told him this is Parshad.” “Yes.” Okay, so maybe I don’t have the whole routine down pat yet, but I plan to go again. And the whole experience most definitely counts as my seventh Pillar of Faith. Also, I’m looking for someone Muslim to take me to a Mosque. But first I need a little training.