June Eighth

Yesterday we traveled to Wembley to experience the worship of idols. It seems that no one understands the awfulness of that place, the horror I feel at watching men prostrate themselves before monsters. “Why would people worship elephants?” Meredith asks. Both she and Matt felt like they were walking through a museum on the history of Hinduism. Certainly it has this austere atmosphere. There is no talking allowed. The silence perverts the affect of what this place is.

A young woman, not so far removed from myself, stands at the back of the sanctuary. She is bright – in orange and yellow kameez – a sharp but brilliant contrast to her long dark hair and milk white skin. Her daughter, blonde curls and giggles, mimics the men in the hall. Bends her knees, works her way to the floor, tummy and face to the ground. Her mother encourages her beatitude, praising her for giving the gods “the worship they deserve”. I cannot decide whether I am disgusted or heartbroken.

This was the place my soul broke open. This was the door that God used to fling wide open the world of South Asia. I sat on the marble stairs and wept, wondering how I could not spend my years serving these peoples. I lost my heart that day. I never assumed that once it was gone, I would continue to feel the pain. Once, aeons ago, a friend told me that I would love the millions. “Beautiful harvester”. I presumed that giving your heart away would mean that it was gone. I was wrong.

I took the students to the Gudwara in Southall and the second largest mosque in the city. I wish there were words for the fullness in my heart for the people here. We entered the temple separately and made our way up to the worship area. I do not have the same feelings there as I find in the Mandir, yet there is still an emptiness that reverberates through the hall. They read the words of the guru, singsong in their language, only echoed by each soul. The sounds pound off the walls, beating in my ears… praise to a god who cannot hear them.

Here, when the music starts, the people begin to leave. This is a strange contrast to the set up I’m used to. Each individual leaves alone. There are no family groups aside from the father with his daughter to our left. They come together. They leave alone. I do not understand the separation. Grandmothers wander through the crowd, bowls in their hands, passing out blessings. Their gift is food. A doughy mass of sweetness and cardamom, leaving scented oil on your hands, glue on your tongue, and sorrow in your heart. They give their namaste with smiles on their faces. They have no idea. They look for peace but find it eludes them, and they make up for the lack in their human community.


Later.
In the afternoon, we moved to the center of Regent’s Park. The walls in the tube station are lined with cameos of Sherlock Holmes. People do understand that he was a fictional character, right?! The Mosque is one of the largest in this area. It is predominantly attended by Arabs, North Africans, and well, tourists. It is centrally located for the sake of the seeker. It is open to the public under the proviso that women cover their heads, everyone have long sleeves and trousers, and that there be a certain amount of respect and reverence in the decorum. Fortunately, we have been carrying dupattas with us. It was amusing to watch the shock on the Somali guards’ face when we all reached for them – as if covering, for us, was a daily occurrence.

The men worship on the ground floor. An elaborate, but empty room where shoes are left at the door and the imam chants prayers toward Mecca. The woman move through a series of corridors to the balcony. The whole area is covered with woodwork. A lattice framing so that no one may glimpse inside. Some would call it protection. We entered during the afternoon prayers … moving along the wall at the back of the room. There was a line of women, ranging in age from seven to seventy, sitting on their knees in front of the paneling. In unison, they bowed, heads to the floor. Bow, rise up. Bow, rise up. Smaller children cling to their mothers but are unanswered in their cries. The prayers must be finished. As if God would be angered at them for attending to the needs of their children. After several minutes, a young woman comes from the rear to comfort the little girl. She is not allowed to pray today. She is unclean.

I do not understand this. I do not understand a god who blesses a woman with the ability to bear children, but curses her during this part of the cycle. I do not understand the jealousy of a being that requires a mother to ignore her screaming child in order to finish the routine of worship. For that is all it is. A routine.

Prayers are concluded and the women begin to leave. No one looks in our direction. One girl, not more than nineteen, sat bathed in baby blue. You could see she was extraordinarily beautiful. She remained, rocking back and forth, stretching her arms to the sky, beseeching Allah in her silent movements. She was so obviously in need of special answers. She was broken – you could hear it in all she did not say. Was she seeking a husband? Was she childless, unable to bear sons? Where was her search leading her?

I couldn’t bear to watch her any longer. I simply wanted to put my arms around her and pray on her behalf. I had to plead to the only God who will ever truly hear her.

As we left, we were stopped by another sister who wondered if we had questions. Do we have questions?! I asked her about her background. Whether she had grown up Muslim or had converted. Her father was Arab, her mother French. She began to wear her burkah three years previously, but that is apparently only the beginning of the process of discovering Islam. I asked many questions about hijab, respect for and between women, the types of prayers and rituals that go on at the mosque…

The thing is, I could not get past the whole idea of covering as the beginning of salvation. When I asked Jesus into my life, I experienced freedom form sin and an eternal security. My life is then a process of getting to develop my relationship with Him. According to this woman, the beginning of salvation is hijab. The process starts, for her, when she enters the burkah. Live in a sea of black. Cover everything. Do not show yourself. You are not worthy to be seen, lest you cause another to stumble into sin. The progression of choice. I receive freedom. She lives in bondage.

Paul used to be a Christian.
We went downstairs to meet the boys and were invited into the main room. This is a rarity not offered to Muslim women. I find it odd that we would be allowed to enter a room where men worship Allah. I wonder if, in reality, it is only men that truly worship Allah. The guys were sitting crossed-legged on the floor speaking together of faith. David and Paul were deeply engaged in conversation while Matt sat and prayed. One of the older men introduced us and asked if Paul would mind our joining them. As we spoke, I wondered about his history. He never really smiles. Well, I must clarify. He certainly shows his teeth. There was no emotion in his facial expressions. He was content to explain to us his belief but had no heart. I never experience death like I do in this place.

We talked of sin, and the price for its forgiveness. We spoke of the penalty as well as the assurance of heaven. He talked around our questions, never really answering us, and contradicting himself whenever he did. He claimed that the unforgivable sin was to believe that there was anything to worship other than Allah. To believe he has a consort is to believe as an infidel. It is idol worship. In this way, we are put in a place where we can no longer exonerate ourselves. He says he converted from Christianity, yet that means that he once believed that god had a second. He used to believe Jesus was God. If this is truly an unforgivable sin, why even try to follow Islam? He’s already doomed.

I don’t believe in a God who would condemn seekers for eternity. I cannot fathom a Being that would call people to perfection and then give them no hope for eternity. Why would you love someone you could never BE with? His emptiness broke my heart. His words were deep and shallow. He was given to us to convince us, but all he ever did was turn us away. If there had been any shred of emotion or truth in his words, he might have been influential; but there was none, and we left his presence deeply moved by sorrow for his soul.

I stand in hell, holding eternity in my hands… but no one is interested.