I found God seven times in two months.
I found him (or her, or it) in the usual places: a church, a synagogue, a mosque. But I also found him in some unexpected places: a coffee shop, a ramshackle abandoned house, my filthy car.
These were the pit stops on the spiritual odyssey I embarked upon with Demetrius, a talented poet and my dear SPM colleague, in early March. Demetrius had pitched the idea of visiting and writing about Valley churches and I, being the church-crashing religious studies minor that I am, invited myself to tag along. Demetrius graciously expanded his idea to include me as a fellow writer and, rather than writing about the churches themselves, we decided to visit a host of places of worship and document our personal experiences and reactions to them. It would be a jam-packed spiritual quest, with us getting just a taste of each faith – religious tapas, if you will.
I’ve always wanted to do something like this, an organized attempt to explore my spiritual options (beyond books), but I’ve never had an equally curious and engaged companion. Shockingly, most collegians don’t want to meet up and try a new church (or an equivalent) every week. Demetrius and I are kindred spirits in this aspect and, while we come from different backgrounds, our spiritual journeys have many parallels. We were both given firm religious foundations when we were children, followed by bursts of teenage religious fervor and then disillusionment and detachment from the faiths we had poured ourselves into. What most connects us is our current state of openness and searching – we feel a divine presence, a mystical connection to everything around us, yet we don’t know which path (if any) is right for us.
It was in this state of spiritual hunger that we began our journey – seven spiritual snacks to tempt us into religious commitment.
1) Trinity Episcopal Cathedral (Anglican – Protestantism)
My first impression when I walk in is that this place feels quite British. The chapel’s long, rectangular shape, stately wood furnishings and jewel-toned stained-glass windows remind me of the Anglican churches I toured in England. Demetrius, who was raised as an Episcopalian, dabs his fingers in holy water as we enter. He confirms my Brit impression by explaining that the Episcopal Church falls under the umbrella of the Anglican (Church of England) church. This little tidbit makes the rest of the experience make much more sense.
The service itself is like a string of pearls – elegant, classic and understated. Hymns and psalms are sung by a symphonic choir, operatic soloists and the congregation. Prayers are recited in unison or in call-and-response form:
Celebrant: The Lord be with you.
People: And also with you.
Celebrant: Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.
People: It is right to give him thanks and praise.
The sermon is reverential yet accessible, a combo that sums up the entire experience. It feels like a relaxed Catholic Mass. There are similar rituals, similar ensembles for the clergy and choir, similar atmosphere in the sanctuary, and yet it’s not so stuffy that I feel self-conscious. I blow my nose without feeling like I’ve committed a grave offense.
Demetrius participates in the Holy Communion ritual, but I remain in our pew. I have received communion many times before in the Protestant churches I grew up in, but now it feels wrong to participate in any ritual that all of my heart, soul and mind are not in. Instead, I observe and scribble notes like an anthropologist. It’s oddly freeing, just being able to watch and not feeling obligated to participate.
It does force me to reflect and examine my feelings about faith, though. All the beautiful words the reverend says and the choir sing wash over me and I feel like I’m drowning in the concepts, ideas, interpretations and ideologies they represent. It’s a noisy, heavy jumble banging around in my brain and making my heart hurt.
I finally allow a long-dormant (though painfully obvious and even cliché) realization to surface in my consciousness – maybe I talk to people about religion and interview them about religion and write about religion and obsess about religion so that I can avoid dealing with it in my own life. Like the growing stacks of beloved unread magazines surrounding my bed, it’s something that I always procrastinate for another time, when I’m less busy, less stressed, less distracted. This project is forcing me to pencil religion in, and I’m glad.
2) Church for the Nations (Evangelical Protestantism)
The beefy fellow a few rows in front of me is squeezing his camouflage-cargo-shorts-clad bum in a pulsating rhythm to the worship music booming from the spot-lit stage. First the left cheek, then quickly the right, then repeat, repeat, repeat. It looks like his derriere has declared independence from the rest of his body and is doing the wave or getting down with its bad self to some disco.
This visual sums up my experience at this evangelical mega-church – funny and novel, with the pervasive feeling of, “Is this really happening?”
The aforementioned spot-lit stage is also home to a bevy of singers (at one point I count nine, who take turns soloing and swaying), two drum sets, a keyboardist, a guitarist and a fog machine. The fog swirls up, past the enormous screen where the singers are projected like Super Bowl halftime performers and past the huge cranes the camera crew operates to dissolve on the high ceiling.
As a whole, the huge congregation (there must be at least 200 people here) is young and clad in club wear. My sundress and flats feel demure in comparison to the dominatrix heels and Lycra miniskirts I see shimmying to the strains of “Let it rain, let it rain / Open the floodgates of heaven / Let it rain.”
We get into the action and sway a bit, raising our hands every now and then with the congregants who surround us. It’s fun, but I’m entirely too self-conscious to really let loose and shout “Amen!” and “Praise the lord!” with my palms lifted up to the heavens. I guess I’m a bit of a religious expression prude.
The pastor is a fiery, charismatic lion of a man with white hair, faded and studded jeans and a leather jacket. His sermon feels like a motivational lecture and his parishioners are feeling it. Their exuberance is contagious, but I don’t feel personally connected.
This is certainly an unforgettable experience, but it just makes me want to watch Coming to America.
3) Church of Scientology of Arizona (Scientology)
Who hasn’t wondered what goes on at a Scientology center? Everyone has an idea of what they think Scientology is, and whether you got your information from South Park or from rabid celebrity gossip consumption, you’ve heard allegations of bizarre beliefs and behavior ranging from e-meters to aliens.
It’s a rare chilly, drizzly morning in downtown Phoenix and I shiver from the cold and nerves as Demetrius and I enter the building. We’re greeted by a Scientology staffer who leads us to twin leather armchairs and pops in a DVD that explains the background and basics of Scientology – L. Ron Hubbard’s life, his books, Dianetics, auditing, thetans, time tracks, the ARC (affinity, reality, communication) triangle … the list goes on and on, with a dizzying array of new vocabulary words to make sense of.
A lot of what the people in the video say makes sense and I agree with much of it – that humans are basically good, that we are responsible for the world around us and that love is the greatest secret of the universe. Where they lose me are the details, lingo and the packaging. They could definitely benefit from a terminology makeover (auditing is essentially counseling, but the fact that it’s called auditing makes it sound creepy, intrusive, like a spiritual Big Brother) and a packaging rebrand – the Hubbard books and Dianetics packages that are shelved in seemingly every room in the building have an apocalyptic, “Left Behind” books quality to them that portends doom rather than spiritual salvation. It also seems a lot more psychology and lifestyle-focused than spiritually nurturing, which turns me off.
After the DVD we are whisked upstairs for the Sunday service. Attendance is sparse – it’s just me, Demetrius, a new visitor, two attendees, a staffer and the minister, all assembled around a gigantic bust of L. Ron Hubbard (or LRH, as he’s known in these parts) that has little craters indenting its metalic surface, creating a texture that looks pebbly or hail-damaged. It’s more than a little distracting and I fight the urge to stare at it throughout the minister’s brief teaching and the question-and-answer session he improvises for our benefit.
We’re given a DVD, some pamphlets and a personality test that we can take and return to the center for analysis. Later, when my friends and family pepper me with questions about my experience, I tell them that it was certainly strange and more like a museum or a gift shop than any church I’ve ever been to, but that it’s not as cultish as people assume.
Then again, I only got a little peek.
4) Cult of the Yellow Sign (cult parody)
Demetrius and I are sitting outside Jobot trying to come up with a safe word.
We’re about to be picked up, blindfolded and taken to a secret location by Kevin, a member (though he denies this) of the Cult of the Yellow Sign, a mysterious group centered around a symbol mentioned in “The King in Yellow,” a collection of horror stories by Robert Chambers that was published in 1885. It was later incorporated into the work of H.P. Lovecraft and other writers and spawned real-life cults inspired by the literary ones built around the characters Cthulhu and Hastur.
The local branch of the cult seems to be a performance-art/parody cult – they make public appearances, hand out brochures and sermonize about ancient gods reappearing at the end of the world (cult members will enjoy less humiliating deaths and get taken first, they say).
It all seems like twisted, intellectual, provocative fun, but for a girl who grew up fearing cults (as a child, I actually devised escape plans should I ever find myself in the clutches of people intent on mind-control – insert your own joke about my religious quest here) it is actually quite terrifying. My sister’s fretfulness and hyperbolic warnings about how I could be the next Laci Peterson do little to assuage my trepidation.
Thus, the discussion about a safe word to yell should we need an emergency exit from the cult meeting. Demetrius’ friend Richie is waiting with us and we decide our safe word will be “Iwo Jima,” in honor of his band.
Kevin appears and the knot in my stomach tightens. He walks us a few blocks away until we come to a stop in front of a dilapidated old squat, the cult’s temporary safe house. He then veils us with black t-shirts that smell like man sweat and grabs our hands to lead us into the house.
They separate us (commence first freak-out) and take me into their pitch-black lair first. I’m guided by a series of hands gripping my shoulders tightly and steering me around rooms in circles to disorient me. Each hand-off is prefaced by Gestapo-like bangs on doors and eerie Halloween music and sound effects bellowing over a muffled, crackly sound system. Finally, I take a few frightened steps up into a dark, cavernous room and am helped to a seat. I hear Demetrius come in and sit and then we are finally permitted to remove our blindfolds.
Our chairs are separated by an altar cloaked in black fabric and topped with a skull and a silver chain. Two more chairs and their occupants and an altar with candles sit opposite us and we’re flanked on either side by three people sitting in chairs facing us. Everyone is dressed in black robes, hoods and masks of some sort. A spotlight shines on us but the rest of the room is dark and shadowy. I catch a glimpse of the area behind us out of my periphery and am startled by the fact that there seem to be many more hooded figures watching us. The interview begins.
At first I’m shaky and reluctant to talk, so Demetrius drives the interview. The head of the cult and his right-hand man (identified by numbers rather than names) talk about the cult’s legend, mission, credos, scope and supporters. The exchange quickly turns into a legitimately funny performance by the two men, who toss off sensational and macabre bons mots like, “We have potlucks and orgies once a month … the orgies are a real morale booster,” and “We’re totally pro-drugs. We’re very, very liberal. Not only are we pro-choice, we’re pro-abortion.”
My laughter eases my nerves and I no longer feel like my life is in danger. I relax and talk a bit more. The culties can sense my reticence and try, in their way, to calm me and encourage my questions. It’s nice to know someone cares, even if that someone is wearing a spiked mask and talking about “large-scale assisted suicide by a deity."
My favorite part of our discussion is their top 10 list of people they want to join the cult:
- Sheriff Joe Arpaio – “He has a tank!”
- Dick Cheney – “Evil is second-nature to him.”
- Michelle Obama – “If she wears a hood, it’ll be in Vogue.”
- Donald Trump – “He’s already partially inhuman anyway.”
- Mariah Carey – “Angel of doom.”
- Jay Leno and Celine Dion (they lost track of their count and gave us a bonus number 6)
- J.K. Rowling
- Billy Blanks
- Oprah Winfrey
- Jenna Jameson
Not only that, but how many people can say they’ve been abducted and released by a cult?
5) Tempe Masjid (Islam)
I’ve never done an interview barefoot before, but if the cult experience has taught me anything, it’s that the cliché is true: there’s a first time for everything. Demetrius and I slip our shoes off to show respect and pad up the carpeted stairs after Saiaf and his students Nada and Huda, our guides at the Islamic cultural center and mosque near ASU Main.
We form a cross-legged circle on the mosque floor and start chatting about Islam. I have a special compassion for Islam – I feel like it has been so battered in the public sphere in the past 10 years because people lump an entire religion in with extremists who committed terrorism. It’s untrue, unfair and un-American and I think that more people should educate themselves on the real Islam, beyond the sensationalist headlines and ignorant political sound bites.
Saiaf and Nada demystify Muslim beliefs about prophets (besides Muhammad, Jesus is their foremost), the veil, major and minor sins (major: murder, adultery, lying, drinking alcohol, eating pork; minor: something that distracts you from God), family, what is forgivable, how to read the Quran (cover to cover is fine, though don’t expect a linear narrative), revelation and teaching stories.
Our conversation is frequently interrupted by a construction worker drilling something in the ceiling – the mosque is undergoing repairs – and by the midday call to prayer, or adhan, which is recited with melodic intensity by the muezzin. Nada and Huda leave and Saiaf rises to join the swelling lines of men assembled to pray under the white dome and the network of crystal chandeliers accented by sea-blue tiles on the walls and pillars. I don’t see any women praying, but I’m not asked to leave.
The muezzin sings the prayers and the men – from toddlers to elders – fall to the floor, prostrate themselves, rise up and then do it all again, over and over. Even the little ones know what to do, and their tiny devotions are adorably touching. The movement of the bodies in harmony to the prayers looks like a choreographed dance and is simply mesmerizing. I’ve never experienced physical worship like that, but it’s something I’d like to try – if I can get over my awkwardness.
6) Beth Joseph Congregation of Greater Phoenix (Judaism)
My accidental eye contact with the men at the synagogue has moved beyond awkward to potentially inappropriate – at least that’s how it feels. If there were any other women here, I could compare my behavior and adjust for full propriety. But, alas, there isn’t – I’m the only female in the building and I’m segregated from the men in an elevated area to their left. When I look straight ahead, I see them dipping and swaying while praying and chanting in Hebrew.
We’re in an Orthodox synagogue, so I dressed very modestly and expected to be separated from the now-yarmulke-clad Demetrius and the other menfolk. However, in everything that I have learned about Orthodox Judaism in my numerous Judaic studies classes, I thought that the mechitza (a physical partition between the sexes found in Orthodox and some Conservative temples) would be a screen or a more opaque divider and that the women’s section would be behind the men’s. I feel conspicuous and isolated, two feelings I have never associated with synagogue visits.
I usually visit Reform temples, which are more modern and liberal (on the strictness scale, it goes orthodox, conservative, reform). The sexes are integrated and visitors are singled out and welcomed publicly by the congregation. Old ladies hold my hand and help me find the right page in the Torah. We schmooze over coffee and cake after the service and bid each other “Good Shabbos.” I usually feel right at home with the Jews, which makes my current discomfort more pronounced and unsettling.
Still, I find the Hebrew chanting very soothing and peaceful. I only understand a handful of words, but luckily they’re ones that get a lot of play – baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu (blessed are you, Lord, our God), melech (king) and ha’olam (universe).
This isn’t making me kvell, but now I really want to revisit my Reform favorites.
7) Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Phoenix (Unitarian Universalism)
This is the most unorthodox Easter service I’ve ever attended. Instead of a long sermon focusing entirely on Jesus’ resurrection (pretty much the main idea of Easter), Demetrius and I are listening to drums and maracas and Swahili singing as the choir men dance from the back of the chapel, bumping and sashaying through the aisles, to join the choir women in the front of the chapel.
We listen to a children’s story about being kind to your enemies, an announcement about signing up to participate in Phoenix Pride Day to support marriage equality, a poem by e.e. cummings, a quote from Martin Luther King Jr., a quote from a Hasidic Jew and a teaching about Jesus’ wisdom and truth: to love everybody and respond to fear with love.
These elements are rarely in the same conversation, let alone in the same church – certainly no church that I’ve ever been to has urged its congregants to march in solidarity with their LGBT brothers and sisters. This spirit of love – true, unconditional, non-judgmental love – and compassion fills this New Age-y church to the brim. This is a faith that truly practices what it preaches. That kind of spiritual honesty and lack of hypocrisy is rare, and I am very drawn to it.
Unitarian Universalists have an official list of what they believe, but to me it seems like it all boils down to love, respect, kindness and equality for all – not a shabby foundation to build a worldview on. It is a little hippy-dippy at times, and I don’t know that I could commit to being a member, but it’s worth exploring a bit more.
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Demetrius and I now have seven spiritual adventures under our belts. I can’t speak for him, but I know that I found God everywhere that we went – not solely in any one doctrine or song or saying that we encountered, but in the people, the communities, the spirit, the humor and the love. That beautiful divine spark in all of the people we met, interviewed, sang with, prayed with and opened ourselves up to is the connection we all have with each other. Having a partner in this journey was invaluable – some of the most clarifying and enlightening moments for me happened when Demetrius and I were walking, driving or having coffee post-services.
I’m not ready to commit to a path yet. For each place we visited and person we met, there are a thousand more we should experience, but I’m happy that I’ve finally made time in my life for my spiritual quest. Still, to quote the venerable Irish sage Paul Hewson, “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.”
Contact the reporter at llemoine@asu.edu
