12/8/09
I went to a session today led by a multifaith organization at a university. It was an interesting window to gaze through. It was started by a white Tibetan Buddhist and a Sikh working together, but it quickly brought in a lot more folks, all of whom were incredibly articulate and dedicated. They talked about where they were coming from, which was the most astonishing part – a small-sect Muslim from Pakistan whose father was being tried for the death penalty for a friend of his converting to his sect. The father had had friends over to watch a TV channel that showed programming related to that sect, and apparently with the ensuing discussions, the gentleman decided to join up. The father very regretfully moved his immediate family to Australia, leaving his beloved family. That young man was now amazed to see different faiths working together, and he was really dedicated to permaculture. There were many other compelling stories. I was impressed with their desire to spread it around, and how they were grappling with some serious issues: they were torn about starting a soup kitchen, because on the one hand, it can support the status quo, and on the other, it can be a helpful stepping stool.

12/8/09
I was sitting in a session yesterday, and I was mesmerized by how fancy the Powerpoint presentation was; all these custom graphics, even bullet points. All this in one huge room of probably about 20, with chairs set up perfectly, such that red chairs made diagonal lines throughout the room. Then three volunteers were disagreeing on how best to run the lights.

A self-identified Hindu Christian on the panel expressed his appreciation for the fact that people were willing to come from all over the world to do the work here (a sentiment that I’ve heard expressed in probably every session). The American rabbi, in summarizing and reorienting the conversation, made a passing comment about “all of us schlepping over here,” and the woman two seats to my right scoffed a few times before commenting scornfully, “We didn’t all have to travel far.” Then, a bit louder, “America’s not the center of the universe, you know!” We were at the back, so the speaker couldn’t hear her, but people a few rows up likely could have.

Clearly, her emotions were not directed simply to the rabbi. The comment initially struck me as being insensitive to the individuals from Europe, India, and Asia, and perhaps those outside of Melbourne. Seems like it had been boiling for some time; I don’t know if there’s a larger Australian resentment (seems like there might be; I saw maps posted at one table with a “corrected map” of the globe in which Australia is depicted at the top right rather than the bottom right), or if it was more at the conference itself (pretty likely: apparently most of the scholars here are Americans).

Rev. suggested that she was also pissed off at the way the rabbi was leading the panel: he was often brought the panelists back on track with a dry sense of humor. I liked him a lot, even if I was a bit intimidated by his incredible intelligence and communication skills. But I could see how such a person could get on one’s nerves.

The first session I went to was about the Sarvodaya Shramasena movement, and it was actually presented by A.T. Ariyaratne himself. Though literally hundreds of thousands of people attend his meditation retreats in Sri Lanka, there were only about 25 people in the session. He’s doing some incredible work, and he had a number of movies to talk about it. I was left with a lot of questions, however. He made it sound very simple in the beginning, but as he went on, a complex portrait of government interaction came into being, and the complex system of village organization became apparent, with the organization owning farms, property, and the like. It sounds like a lot more than the simple grassroots movement that he put it forth to be, and I’d like to know how he went about deciding what to do.

The idealized movies about their successes put me off. One opened up with children running through a field, with idyllic music playing. “In the beginning, there was peace… Everyone got along” or some such. “Then… the war began.”

Was it really perfect before? Perhaps it was a lot more harmonious, I don’t know. But I nevertheless am doubtful when folks make claims about how things were perfect at one time; it seems like it could set a dangerous precedent which could shift to a fundamentalism once things get worse. Conditions change; there’s not a “past” we can get back to. And so I’m also doubtful about people working together on some service projects and then concluding that peace has been won. The video talked about how Tamils, Hindus, Buddhists, and Muslims all came together to cooperate on projects, and what a wonderful effect this had for mutual respect. I don’t know that just working together could truly smooth things out; I think they could easily overestimate their success. Building a road together doesn’t mean that the resentments have cleared.

And yet, I think it does create a sense of shared identity, it promotes humility and listening. It sounds like they weren’t just building roads; the kids played sports together, and men and women work on the same projects. Perhaps when people come together like that, it really can smooth tensions.

Looking back, this is a similar problem I have with the conference as a whole. Yes, people are coming from all over the world “to do the work.” But it’s often superficial, in the way that religion is for a lot of people. It can be lip service, and leave underlying tensions unaddressed. Is it the case that flying a bunch of people to Australia will really make things any better with regard to water and food supply? No. It might open up some networking, but I think that among religious, there’s often a willingness to look like one is acting compassionate, because that is mandated in the tenets, but that does not reach the depths of the heart’s commitment. People do it because they are supposed to do it, and as a result, if no one is holding them accountable, the job will not be done in the way it needs to be.

12/7/09
Some really cool programs. "Blogistan," a panel of three Muslim bloggers talking about how media = power, and this grants immense power to those who have access to the media. They talk about their success, for example, with the Ft. Hood shootings: these bloggers immediately got out information about the situation, and referred the journalists to whom they should speak.

This morning, I went to a program that had A.T. Ariyaratne speaking. He's hugely famous in Sri Lanka for his grassroots movement, with literally hundreds of thousands of people attending his meditation events (though his main thing isn't meditation). His group has gotten Tamils, Muslims, Buddhists, and Hindus all working together to help the villages, and has done a lot to improve living there. But only about 25 people came.

By contrast, the panel on apostasy and homosexuality was packed; had to be a couple hundred people in the room. And it was a great talk. Really incredible people.

I caught a classical music concert that was spectacular. I can't remember her name at the time, Manjiri or something like that, and then there was a flautist, too, who played separately. Really nice.

And my thoughts about religion and spirituality and stuff, there's been a lot of challenging things to consider. And the professors are amazing. Rev. and Christian got into a big debate about racism and the future today. Rev. was saying that he is not hopeful about there being the change that needs to happen in America in his lifetime; so many people say they are well-meaning, but they're just treating the symptoms, and missing the profound racism and fear of black people that continues today. The condition of blacks' lives are getting worse.

Christian is hopeful: he feels like Bonner will be able to effect the change that needs to happen. Rev. doesn't think so, but he is grateful for the little help they're providing.

Mr. Ariyaratne was asked about his criticism of the government. He said the government hadn't been able to do anything to him in his 51 years of work, because "a government is a temporary collection of clever people." They come and go, and they try to win their politics, but they can't do anything to his organization "because we have the higher morality." It was a beautiful thing to hear, even if I am somewhat skeptical of it. (Can EVERYONE in the organization really always be so selfless?) But it's touching that they could be so dedicated to doing what is right, and not getting lost in what is expedient.

12/7/09
It was a long flight, but I enjoyed it. It’s amazing how different travel is when you’re not in a lot of pain. I got a wretched headache at one point on the flight from Philly to San Francisco, but outside of that, it really wasn’t bad. I used to have so much back pain and head pain and stomach pain, but it’s really improved this year.

Melbourne is a beautiful city; we walked only a bit through it, and I already fell in love. It feels like spring here right now; yesterday it was 70 degrees and sunny, and everyone is walking around in their summer clothes, musicians are playing on the promenade by the river, so much is going on. It’s just alive, and that’s such a shock compared to spending time in Collegeville. I can’t believe how nice it is just to see people, and to see them relaxing is especially nice. Back home, everyone is so embroiled in their work or what have you, they’re just cut off. It’s nice to slow down.

It was about a twenty or thirty minute walk from our hotel to the exhibition center. Walking there, we saw bhikkunis headed in the same direction as us, and we saw folks in selwar kameez and kurta pajama, and Sikh men and Muslim men, and it was just very refreshing. I’m not quite sure why. Perhaps my longing for India?

A gentleman was outside doing some kind of ritual with beautiful smelling incense, next to what looked like a big dead dragon. There was a gentleman in a hazmat suit standing with a sign that said, “A dead planet will have no jobs.”

Walking in, there were tons of booths, talking about so much. Christian things, Zoroastrian things, New Age things, Indigenous things, Pagan, UU… The Sikhs, and the Scientologists had really fancy set-ups with huge screens playing things, and the Sikhs had a map of the world covered in sparkling LED lights.

Despite not having slept in a very long time, I felt really good in that area. It had a very calm, warm vibe, which I’m surprised I felt, since I don’t ordinarily pick up on such things. Perhaps my jet lag was contributing somehow. Nonetheless, I felt freaked out somewhat. I was worried that people would approach me and try to convert me, and there were a number of New Age and Japanese things that I found very disturbing.

I was worried about the Scientologists with regard to this, but I was also very curious to see how they presented themselves, so headed over. They had a declaration of their beliefs about rights (the right to free expression, the right of the soul over the right of the man [still dunno what that means, maybe I can ask], and a lot of other ones that sounded good), things about Thetans and dimensions and definitions of Scientology (the study of knowing). Emotional grades and stuff, too. Really fancy displays, really huge. There was a woman sitting with two kids in front of what I guess was an e-reader, and I felt very averse to this, the way she was acting with these kids. I don’t know that she was doing a reading or anything, but it seemed very business-like. I didn’t get to look at everything for too long, because a tall gentleman in a suit approached me. I’ve forgotten his name, it was something like Robert Adams, and after I said I was a Religious Studies major from Philly, he talked a lot about how he was a former Pittsburgh Steeler, he had studied religion, he was now the Vice President of Scientology International. He talked for a bit too long about the beauty of studying cultures, studying meaning, and so forth, and how things were going great for Scientologists in 165 countries. He seemed like a nice guy, but I was exceedingly distrustful. I kept finding my mind probing his face to find some sign of profound tension, some sign that he was untrustworthy, some way to legitimate my prejudice, I suppose. But he just looked ordinary, no more tension than anyone else, and no less, either. I didn’t feel threatened at all by what he said, even as I kept preparing for him to say something where my guard would have to go up.

As I was talking to him, I realized how defensive I was being, and I felt a little bad about that. I was being very prejudiced. I find something viscerally frightening about the idea of a cult, even though I realize that the idea of a cult often goes far beyond the reality. I think that the main thing that I fear about Scientology, New Age movements, and these Japanese things is that their world views seem so deeply incongruent with what I experience, and in particular, they have an optimism about their tradition that I feel I cannot trust. In Oboler’s Sociology of Religion class, we read an article by a guy who was asking people to reconsider the stigmatization of cults, and the only real criticism he expressed was exactly what freaks me out about them: that they profess to so happy, so content, and they invite you to join them in it, but they don’t look happy. It looks forced. I’ve seen it a lot, among people from all backgrounds, not just in what folks call cults. There is something else in their face that tells you that the weight of the world is still there, that they’re not so liberated as they seem.

I guess there’s something about that kind of emotional denial that I find distrustful. I think that there’s an assumption that what a person’s subtle body language is telling you is what is more true than what their voice is telling you, and though I don’t have any particular reason to know that to be the case, I genuinely feel like that’s true. If they can make their lips into a smile and say they are happy, but their eyes and demeanor still seem tense, I feel like they are not so joyfully free as they make themselves out to be.

And so I find myself fearing such people, because I find that kind of emotional disparity very disturbing. I’d like to shout at them, “But you don’t look happy!” I feel that way towards people in a lot of religious groups, and even exercise programs and dietary regimens.

I have to say, though, that there’s something complicating it. These people are able to do some beautiful things because of their optimism. They support some endeavors that are really admirable, and that disturbs me, too. Part of me does not want to see such emotional denial yielding such good worldly results. Is it really better, then, to live in accord with one’s deeper feelings, but to be paralyzed by them?

I think so, and for a number of reasons, but I have to get going. I think I will spend some more time around these folks who I find off-putting. It seems like a good thing to study.

Pain and Religion

This Rein guy is deep.

I think it's easy to see how the whole mysterium tremendum et fascinans could be similar to the experience of pain for its inability to be communicated, but I think Rein's point about how very isolating pain is goes much further. Pain can mean a lot of things, and it can provoke a lot of reactions. It is so close to us that we have no idea how to communicate it. It is too immediate, too deep, and too powerful for us to speak about it. It's certainly the case that we don't have a lot of language to discuss it, and I think part of that is our usual attitude about it: it doesn't matter what it is, just get rid of it. It doesn't need to be studied, it just needs to be removed. When pain is chronic, it begins to become profoundly confusing: Is this real? Where is this coming from? Why is it here? Is it all in my head? What makes it come and go? Such questions would never arise in the absence of pain, but once pain becomes constant, the mind can't help but return to the pain. What's more, the pain can take so many forms. There are times when it might feel the same, and yet feel totally different.

I don't know about everybody, but I think that religion and religious experience can operate in similar ways for people. It's so close, it can often be unobservable; it's so real, yet it's so ambiguous and questionable. It operates on its own schedule; the religious moments in our lives come in a flash, and in the most unexpected places. It's impossible to adequately study, it's hard to tell what is religion and what isn't.

Obviously, the Catholic approach that Orsi observed was a little different. The approach to pain that he portrays is even more ambiguous: it's simultaneously embraced and disdained. I wondered a lot about the embracing of it. The welcoming of pain that he described seemed ignorant to me. It struck me as something that was done because that was the right way to regard pain, and it could only be done because the individuals hadn't truly appreciated the full power of pain. Which was why a lot of anger spilled over into criticism of the afflicted. “I’m living with pain and not making a fuss. Jesus did and a bajillion saints did it. Why can’t you?” In this language, the same statement that is supposed to regard pain with awe and humility is in fact fighting it. If someone has truly appreciated pain, they understand it in all of its forms, whether it takes the form of despair, complaining, or impatience. I think that’s why pain could be so educational, so spiritually advancing; but one needs to face it in a self-surrendering way. No room for ego when every moment is agony.

Nathan asked what cultural approaches there can be to pain (the labels I use are ideals, not representational):
- The medical one, which sees pain in purely bodily terms. Nerves are stimulated, the brain is informed. It’s best to rectify the problem in the body, but if that can’t be done, it’s better to quiet the brain.
- The masculine one, for lack of better label: Push it away, men take their pain and ignore it. All the heroes in the movies will be in total pain, but they still stand up and shoot the bad guy in the face.
- The victimized one: Your pain entitles you to special treatment. Nice things should be done to you so that you can feel better. Your responsibilities are put aside, your only goal is to come out of the pain.
- The Vipassana one: Pain is inevitable, but suffering is a mental imputation. Observe the pain, observe the mind, observe the self, see how they are interrelated, and stop turning pain into suffering.
- The Catholic one: Your pain is a gift from God to bring you closer to Him, a chance to come out of sin.

There are more, but I have to go!

I posted this to the wrong blog before.

From Nov. 4th:

I like A New Religious America. The historical info is helpful, and the wide variety of examples is really valuable. Eck's a good writer, as well.

I remember talking to an old and dear friend of mine about the influence of religion in government. He strongly felt that there needn't be a separation between religion and state. If the religion is being properly embodied, there should be no conflict. People would do what is in the best interest of everyone, and be guided by a strong sense of morality.

Eck's examples of tolerance in early America based on Christian values reflects this, I think. They weren't acting in a secular manner: they were being good Christians by limiting the exclusive power of religion. It's an interesting claim, and one that seems correct to me.

I'm uncertain about where I stand in regard to how involved religion should be with the state. I do deeply wish that politicians were dedicated to an egoless, other-concerned, moral service; I think it'd transform our society for the better. But religion doesn't always seem to mean that. Indeed, religion seldom seems to mean that. There's a lot of ego in reducing the ego.

I'm not done the reading for the Hindu chapter yet, but I was contemplating Eck's claim that Hinduism is inherently pluralistic. Sounds right given what I learned in World Religions, but it seems clear to me that the Authentic Practice / and Understanding of a Particular Religion doesn't always match up with what the people themselves embody. I think of the BJP, for example. Definitely exclusivist, and growing in power. I guess you could question if they are proper stewards of Hinduism, but, eh, I don't feel like getting into that debate. I'm exhausted.

I was sitting in Sociology of Religion today, and Chris was giving his presentation on women converting to conservative traditions, such as Orthodox Judaism, conservative Protestantism, and (some forms of) Islam. A lot of it struck me as similar to what I was researching: monasticism in the US. The key word in these conversions, he said, was "disenchantment," particularly with modernity. That's the key word in monasticism, too.

And I was thinking about how it's a pretty key word in my life, too. These women turn away from perceived depravity (Chris often highlighted a dissatisfaction with modern approaches to female sexuality) and embrace something that they see as authentic, true, and whole. Given what I've learned about religions, I have a hard time taking those kinds of claims at face value. But I remember a quote Nathan once referred to us from Reverend Rice, something along the lines of "Something doesn't have to have happened in order to be true." It seems to me that it's a shift of priority of values. Us folks in the academic establishment hold having an accurate picture of what has happened in the world to be of more worth than what inspires us to act in the world and make decisions. And it should do that; we need people to incessantly probe and find what is true, even to the extent that nothing can be found to be true. We need to incessantly test and doubt in order to bring to light what is inaccurate and false, even if that means totally undermining our foundations.

But I think that there's a fundamental problem with it, as well. If one only denies, and never avers, never says, “Well, I don’t know, but let’s give this a shot,” then that, itself, is a profound injustice. To sit on a peak and criticize everything below without contributing anything substantive is, in many ways, equivalent to doing nothing at all. It steps outside (as if one could) and presumes that other people will do the work that needs to be done. Honestly, what is the worth of having an accurate picture of the world in one’s head if nothing ever becomes of it? What’s it matter if someone knows the deepest, most profound truth, if it does not in some way help others? What is the worth of pieces of paper when rape, murder, starvation, addiction endure? I don’t know if I’m making much sense, my stomach is really bothering me right now.

So, sitting in class, I was thinking about my own faith. I was attracted to Buddhism, like many other Americans (as I’ve learned due to my allegiances to the academic establishment!), because it affirms certain principles while not presuming to hold the undeniable truth. “Don’t cause harm, don’t take what’s not given, don’t commit sexual misconduct, don’t drink or do drugs, don’t be deceptive. These things are not evil in their deepest reality, but they harm others and they harm you, so avoid them like the plague, unless they can do some good.” Looking at this, even before getting to the other important aspects of Buddhism, I could question it deeply: How do I decide which precepts to follow? How do I avoid “shopping for religion?” Isn’t it a modern principle that divorces the breaking of precepts from their karmic implications? (That’s not directed so much at myself as at other folks; I do believe in the [conventional] reality of karma.) Isn’t it such a Tibetan approach to Buddhism that I’m taking?

And what’s the point of all of that questioning? Will it really get me anywhere? Perhaps, but perhaps not. What a maddening idea it is that I will die someday. What if I do not have the opportunity to perfectly settle everything before I start practice? Surely, you can’t. Moreover, practice, itself, is supposed to show what is true; you can’t have the ideas correct before you start.

And so I do meditate, and I do other practices, and yet I still doubt myself. I hear about middle-class white kids perverting profound Buddhist teachings in order to justify their social justice efforts, I hear about folks finding in Buddhism a safe place to express their desire for ceremonial ritual, I hear people say that monastics are people who are disenchanted with their lives, with the implication that all they need is a little more serotonin in their lives. And I wonder, is that me, too? Are they seeing me more accurately than I see myself?

They could very well be right. They could be portraying an accurate picture of things. But they might also be missing things. And, more importantly, I just think they’re full of bullshit. People can criticize and find all of what’s wrong, but what if they are missing the beauty, as well? Yes, a lot of Buddhists shy away from the teachings about the nonexistence of the self, but what if they’re finding other things in it? Gracious, I have no idea what to even think. I mean, I, myself, have found myself mentally criticizing other Buddhists for an incomplete portrait of it. And, as I write this, and feel very tired and ill, I wonder if, when I come back to this tomorrow, I will think, “Wow, I was just pissed off, and reifying my sense of self around selflessness.” And of course, even to identify with that is a total contradiction, because it is that self which in the first place is finding the problems.

I am critical of a lot of religious practices, but there is something about many of the more conservative branches that I profoundly respect: they move forward in the face of doubt. They act and do what they understand to be right. That’s something beautiful and worthwhile, even if I think a lot of them could take a lesson from the more liberal ones regarding self-reflection. The answer’s somewhere in the middle, I suppose.

The idea of Moralistic Therapeutic Deism is a compelling one. The authors are right to put it on a level with Civil Religion, and their chart on p. 169, while confusing, is a useful way to understand the levels of belief that are operating in the minds of teenagers. It’s very helpful to have a diagram like that, though I’m sure it’s difficult to construct, but I indeed feel like it’s accurate that there are causal factors like that working in our minds.

What a sentence: “Christianity is either degenerating into a pathetic version of itself or, more significantly, Christianity is actively being colonized and displaced by a quite different religious faith” (171). I’m glad they include their feelings about the matter, and I feel like it has interesting implications. The authors do seem to have their own feelings about what they’re reporting, and I think it informs their conclusions. One could say that it’s not particularly strong, and that they’re still essentially doing work in the social sciences, but upon reading that sentence, I felt a lurch in how I was reading the book. No longer was the book a lens through which I could see some objective realities. It suddenly became another subject for me to study. What are the authors hoping to gain from this work? How are their intentions affecting what they are seeing? What are the authors’ invisible religious beliefs? I guess, living in this postmodern world, I should never have presumed that the lens could escape consideration, and I certainly did detect plenty of their biases, but that sentence just threw my full attention onto the authors, rather than the subjects. Of course, their presentation is still quite objective, and will yield a lot of helpful information.

I feel like I need a lengthy post in here, but between illness and responsibilities, my brain juices haven't been flowing too well.

I'm not sure how I feel about Eck's book. I feel like she does an incredible service by presenting as much of the minority religious life of America as she does. People need to see and hear what life is like for those people, what is going on for them, and so forth. Her book is quite good at inspiring a much-needed empathy and sense of shared American identity amidst our differences. I'm not just saying these things as a way of making myself sound equanimous before I criticize her; I legitimately feel that she has done a true service by creating that informed tome, and I think it's something that a lot of people should read.

I think that everybody's right about what she chooses to focus on, though. There is a lot she could provide to fill out the portrait of what is going on in the lives of these individuals. Knowing the history of these groups and who has written what on the walls of their house of worship is imperative, but it would be neat to see the book from more angles. By failing to take on much of the criticism of the traditions (I did not read the chapter on Muslims, and I assume she took on those kinds of arguments there to some degree), she leaves half her argument untouched. Yes, they may be baseless or related more to economically-informed resentment or whatever, but issues should be put out there. Why is it that Koreans flourished in an area where blacks continued to live in poverty? She briefly mentioned the scandals in Tassajara, but what about the damaging cults that have often arisen around Hindu gurus? If Islam has nothing to do with terrorism, why do terrorists keep phrasing it in Islamic terminology? I don't think these questions are terribly difficult to answer, and I think they could even strengthen Eck's thesis to some degree. By focusing just on the destruction of houses of worship, she turns the immigrants into martyrs, which will definitely endear them to the reader, but it also idealizes them. In the end, that is not something positive, because it takes just one little incident to make someone say, “Oh! Everything Eck said about them was a lie! They’re not immaculate, after all!”

I started reading Soul Searching, and I’m reading the part on the statistics now. It was funny to see them outright say, “Harvard’s Diana Eck asserts that the United States is the most religiously diverse nation in the world. That simply is not true” (32). I wonder if their criteria for what it means to be a “religiously diverse nation” is different than Eck’s. Eck doesn’t give a lot of statistics, but she presents a picture of an incredibly diverse nation that tolerates and welcomes a great deal of traditions, allowing themselves to express themselves. Yes, numerically, we’re a Christian nation, but not by law, which I think she provides some good evidence for. Compared to what it means to be a Muslim nation, or a Buddhist nation, or even a nominally secular nation that still favors a particular tradition, we are not a Christian nation. Smith and Denton’s footnote just references the book itself, and doesn’t give any page numbers or commentary, so they might just be debating her title and subtitle.

I’m really wondering what Soul Searching will be like. The authors have a weird approach, and I’m not quite sure why. The chapter about the Baptist girls was an unsettling combination of seeing the interviewees as individuals and seeing them as abstractions, though I think it’s an acceptable approach. The whole “I could see she was not blessed with features reflecting cultural standards of physical beauty” rubbed me the wrong way. I dunno.

I think I just have an issue with sociology. Taking Sociology of Religion now, it doesn’t strike me as a science. It’s all so unverifiable, and it makes labels into something so much more than they possibly can be. I’m sure I’m giving it a hard time, and that if I were to look at its methods, I’d see more validity, but I just don’t like what wide brushes it paints. The first paragraph Smith and Denton have in the chapter on statistics acknowledges that they are cutting out a lot of the diversity and such, but I guess I just wonder what’s the point of doing it if you acknowledge that it’s an abstraction, and not a reality. I dunno what my point is.

This is closer to my issue: look at Appendix B, Survey Methodology. 3290 English and Spanish speaking teenagers by random-digit-dial. I don’t know how it is, but they say that this method “ensures equal representation of listed, unlisted, and not-yet-listed household telephone numbers.” Calling unlisted folks might help bring in some of the minority population, but I wonder how many minorities lack phones, and how many parents don’t speak English or Spanish. Probably not a huge number, but it would skew things from the start. I was wondering if Christians might be more willing to talk about their religious views than non-Christians, which could skew things, but it sounds like they pursued people who refused, and I think the monetary incentive would probably help, as well. I skimmed the chapter, and didn’t see any comments about how many non-English speakers were called, and thus couldn’t participate.

Having skimmed that appendix (writing that, “skimmed that appendix,” I imagine someone skipping rocks in a lake, but instead of a rock, it’s a human appendix [do I have ADD?]), I’m somewhat comforted by the exacting measures they took to do this survey. I still remain skeptical, though. I guess I am pushing for certainty of veracity, and that’s not something one can get in statistics or sociology. It’s intended to give a general portrait, and it does that rather well.

I’ll be very curious to see them substantiate their claims about how deeply religious children are happier and leave fulfilling lives. The thought that came to mind for me was, “Well, so what if they’re happy? Are they responsible world citizens? Are they going to be unethical when it comes to environment and such?” I'm such a grouchy old man.

I hope the kids had a fun time at the temple today. I wish I could’ve gone. I made a CD of different Indian music for the occasion. I look forward to hearing about how it went.

One of the things we talked about in Sociology of Religion the other day was how in Santería and Scientology, money is charged for advancement. People didn’t like that. I brought up how in some religions, frugality is valued and the ideal practitioner lives a life of poverty, fulfilled by spiritual needs. Christianity in most of its forms is like this. However, in Santería, poverty is seen as evidence of a spiritual weakness, and the book said that the poverty-stricken practitioners generally request health, love, and wealth from the orishas. So, of course, they would reciprocate their newfound wealth to the religious institution, particularly since they value sacrifice so deeply. Given the transmission of the tradition, which occurs on such a personal level, and not on an institutional one, of course they need to spend a lot of money to maintain their tradition.

In Protestant America, we like our churches bland, so we can focus on God. But some other traditions like to honor the divine by reserving their very best for it. I often thought of this as I visited Jain and Hindu temples in India. The people might have a terrible house themselves, but they express their communal gratitude by creating ostentatious displays for the divine. In an economy, money means power, ability, choice. To give your money to a certain institution is to place more importance on it. So why not display the great value of the religion by adornment?

We talked about how Lynn Westmoreland wanted people to follow the Ten Commandments, even if they weren't explicitly sure about what they consisted of. What they stand for is (probably) more important to him, the relationship that they open up with God is something he (probably) sees as imperative, as opposed to the specific words.

I feel like I can't understand where he is coming from. I think it would be helpful to stand back and look at this (etically, I suppose!), but I find it hard to do that, probably because I have so many prejudices on the matter from the start. Would I be accurate in representing it this way?: They believe that there is a transcendent universal controller who responds to your honoring of him by making good things happen to you, protecting you and your families? I guess that makes sense, but it still doesn't on some level.

My concern, I guess, is how to express that I would like him to honor my beliefs, as well. Would he be able to? Could he understand where I'm coming from, more than I can understand where he is?

I really have no idea about the melting pot thing. And I feel like it is adequately ambiguous for anyone and everyone to be correct. I think, even before looking at how culture changes, at how acclimation happens, even how identities are formed, one has to acknowledge something about self and culture. Namely, that though we all have lots of ideas about how a culture is formed, what is most important about a culture, what aspects of an identity people will reject, and which they will retain, we really can't tell with certainty any of it. We can't witness it, we can't say what is happening because of "human nature," and what is happening because of precedent, and what is because of genetics, and what is happening because of blah blah blah blah blah... Hell, maybe we can. But I can't tell what the hell I'm made up of. What is my Irishness? What is the Catholicism to which I was never exposed, but that snuck through my parents? What is the Polish grandfather I never met? And if you haven't taken into account these, surely you can still infer things about me, but what have you gotten?

One can quite legitimately point out that, yes, I may be an individual, and unpredictable in that way, but many of other things are quite predictable, namely as a result of my social life. But still, we can look back and say, "Yup, that's the aspect that was going to be expressed," and be all certain and clever about it, but I'm not convinced we have a whole lot of stuff looking at the future. Aren't those rare people who predict the popular things of any given age heralded as psychics? Are there scholars who do the same thing? I need to get educated, I guess.

Obviously, it's not essential, for one can make some helpful generalizations. But I think it's important to remember, if one is seeking to use language and concepts in order to adequately describe reality, presumably in hopes of according our inward mental picture with the "reality out there," that we will be wrong in many of the cases, and that we haven't really done anything particularly substantive. Maybe.

Tiferet Bet Israel. Ready, go.

The synagogue was big. Walking in, it at first reminded me of a hotel. Short rugs, clean walls, pretty but demure sculpture on the walls. Wide halls. We headed right over to the . . . what would you call it? Chapel? The place where folks gather for services. Everybody was dressed super-duper nice. I was the only fellow not wearing a jacket; even the wee'uns had jackets. I wondered what would happen if someone came who was dressed informally. I have not the slightest clue. A lot of middle-aged and older men and women were wearing prayer shawls (tallits?). Some of the kippahs and tallits folks were wearing were very beautiful and creative.

All men had to wear kippahs, so Nathan and I grabbed some from the boxes they had and put 'em on. It felt comforting somehow. Some women had kippahs on, and others had lace-looking things in the shape of a kippah in their hair, others had fedoras, and others had nothing. The room was big, and there was a lot to look at. Behind the two podiums at the front center, there was a room with shiny things in it obscured by a veil (the ark, I guess), and a wall made of sandstone blocks that was made to look somewhat old. There were big throne-y looking chairs around the walls. That area was elevated. The room had theater-style chairs for people to sit in, and then some movable chairs set up behind them. Without the menorahs, sandstone wall, and Stars of David, it could have just been a conference room.

I don't know what to say about the services themselves. As we were walking in, a big lady (a rabbi?) was singing with accompaniments by a younger, littler lady (the cantor). Each had her own podium at the front. The cantor mostly seemed to be leading the service. She read a lot in Hebrew, as did two bat mitzvahs. There was a lot of singing, and the congregation joined in frequently. There was a lot of sitting and standing; I wondered how the cantor knew when to stand and when to sit.

Initially, I mostly focused on reading the English translations of the passages that people were reciting. Then I realized that for me to be placing my focus there was to be missing quite a lot of data, and was probably the problem for a lot of early comparative religion scholars. You want to just look at the words, and you miss people's experiences. Nonetheless, it seemed significant that a lot of it just seemed to emphasize again and again that God was the only God for the Jews, and that things would turn out right so long as one didn't lose sight of that. So much about protection and shared identity under God. I wondered about that: Why is it being stressed so deeply? Is it just to distinguish them from other groups? Is it to bring one to a deeper consciousness of what it means to be dedicated to the one God? How does hammering the same point again and again do that? I imagine that sitting for hours and hours and hours hearing the same thing over and over again, one does, indeed, have to give up the voice in one's own head which might want to be doing something else. Pretty good practice in accepting God's will instead of one's own. Perhaps there's more subtlety than I was picking up at the time.

Church/synagogue-attendance strikes me as a fairly ascetic activity. I was thinking of Nathan's back as we sat down and stood up a lot, and my own bodily discomfort. Similarly to how on a meditation retreat when we make the firm resolve not to change posture, and to relax into the pain, you stay in the same seat for the whole time. Though I guess we did stand up. Maybe the standing's just to give your ass a break. Nonetheless, there's something very self-denying about sitting around for a three-hour service. It must be very powerful for the 70- and 80-year-olds: they must be in agony at that age.

I really loved the singing. It was really beautiful. I wish I could have sung along. It feels very good to sing. Hebrew is a gorgeous language, too.

The two gentlemen sitting in front of us talked almost the whole time. I found that interesting. I wondered what they were talking about, but I was usually paying attention to other things.

I'll write more later.

I had a thought about Molly's post about how she found some sympathy for the Precious Moments figurines by comparing them to the idealized saint cards. We look at the Precious moments figurines and look down up on the type of Christianity that they seem to promote, but might they not just be kitsch? Might they not be recognized not as emblematic of a particular type of Christianity, but instead as something that is meant to be an oversimplification of it, a mistruth about it, but something that nevertheless fulfills some kind of purpose? We're sitting here looking at the Precious Moments dolls and using it to condemn a particular type of Christianity, but would those Christians necessarily say that this type of Christianity represents them?

I'm just asking. I have no doubt that they do represent this kind of Christianity to some people. But probably not everybody.

Marshall had a deep aversion to Precious Moments dolls, and not just to their creepiness. He rejected them for their religious message: that for an artifact to legitimately be religious, it must have as its prime feature the sacred message. These things, he felt, were an affront to that. Their prime attractions were cuteness, sentimentality, and family values; it was packaging religion in another guise, which he felt cheapened the meaning of Christianity. I would imagine that he would feel that Christianity doesn't need anything to jazz it up, doesn't need "packaging;" it stands for its own virtues, and to have some kind of mediating factor in the message is to in fact totally delegitimize it.

I liked that Nathan emphasized that we don't need to fall into relativism, and ignore our reactions, but that we should instead just be keenly aware of them, and what's going on with them. I agree with Marshall's points, though perhaps not with the same intensity and to the same extent. I still see some worth to them, though.

I was just finishing up the article for class today, the one about the religious vacation sites in the Ozarks. The article comes with the bias that I assume most of us in the class would come to the article with: the sense that the coexistence of capitalist enterprise and authentic religious feeling are incompatible, that the spiritual aspect is depreciated by the presence of the desire for wealth.

Perhaps in a nation that has fought so strongly against capitalism, this would be lessened. But more importantly, I was just struck by the idea that if it's the case that religious folks in these areas aren't getting really drunk and doing inappropriate things, if they're not addicted to crystal meth, if they aren't having their lives destroyed by early pregnancy, if they're able to get firmly established enough to even give back to their communities and manifest some real compassion, if they're promoting a more harmonious society for those who subscribe to their beliefs, if it gives them genuine succor, why nitpick this little point? I can, of course, think of plenty of good reasons to continue to critique (their society might not be as rosy as it seems), but I think it's very easy to overlook the genuine virtues that this kind of faith has. We don't have to say it's perfect, we don't have to agree that this is the best way to live (I certainly don't), but I think it's too easy to sit in our ivory towers and say, "OMG UR DUMB L00K @ HOW UR MISSING WUT RELIGOIN IS ALL ABOUT, " and throw out the baby with the bathwater. Academics should have an encompassing view, not a pessimistic one, but the pessimistic comes out far too easily even in scholarly writing.

Why would the creation myth about the Ozarks be hackneyed and forced (with the sweetheart running away and tossing all kinds of geological features in the way of the Old Devil, and the Bible being the final protection against him), when if it were Chinese it'd be a heart-warming story tying a people to their land? Why is it that when we substitute the Dao De Jing and Mount Wu, it suddenly becomes OK to tell this story? Folks might say, "Well, that wasn't a modern culture, they don't need baby stories to justify it, and they didn't take the land from anybody..." I dunno if that argument holds up, though.

I guess what it comes down to is that I recognize that I have a bias against that kind of faith, and I don't really want to anymore. I'm sure that life in Missouri presents some wretched problems to have to deal with, and perhaps this lifestyle offers a genuinely better alternative, and has plenty of virtues that I cannot even manifest, myself.

From Michelle's blog:

That is another thing that makes me think…How and why people remember certain things and why nobody normally picks the same thing to remember. What determines what I remember verses what somebody else will remember…my guess is that we remember things that are more close to our lives and our hearts rather than something that has nothing to do with us, but then again I guess it’s something I can’t really have a definite answer for.

I think this is something that postmodernism has really picked up on, and I think also why we are inclined to favor the emic perspective over the etic. What if our focus is not as evenhanded as we think? What if we're emphasizing what we want to see, over what someone else might? But more significantly, what if we simply don't have the capacity to experience what they've experienced? I would imagine that 50 years of reflecting on the inner light would be a different experience than doing it once. What if the absence of adornment are not mere economic simplicity, but an austerity to testify to the richness that can be known within?

I found Molly's idea of "waiting" interesting. I'd not heard that term, but I wouldn't be surprised if it's often used to describe the immanent spiritual approaches. Allowing the spirit to come to you, rather than your actions actively bringing it to you. But the word has the connotation of "not finding" in ordinary speech, which I would assume wouldn't apply in these circumstances, though it might.

Having these blogs is really cool. It gives you a chance to see how incredibly smart people are, even if they may not speak up in class.

Didn't See Any Oatmeal Anywhere

Tall windows let in a lot of light, from above and from the walls. The balcony made me think there could be quite a lot of people in there. Everything was old wood, which gave it the feel of a prior time, a time closer to the inception of the US and Pennsylvania, much more colonial. It felt very original. I would find it easy to imagine folks meeting to discuss some affairs related to the formation of the states, and the idealism associated with it. The creaking of the floor let you know whenever anyone was shifting or moving, and it seemed like the room would often awaken with creaking as many people began to shift around together. The planks of the benches were covered in carved initials, and I’m not sure if people carved them during the services (doubtful; that would be pretty audible, I think) or if they came with the carvings (more likely, particularly since the one in front of me had “W.H.” all over it, and “W.H. Jenkins,” which was probably some sawmill company?). But they looked old and worn. There were firm but comfortable pillows on the benches, so one wouldn’t be too uncomfortable during the service. That everyone looks at each other, rather than at some altar, gives the service an anthrocentric feel. Or maybe not. Perhaps more accurately, it makes you turn inward, since no one’s looking at other folks. (Though I did see a wave here and there when a few folks entered.)

The wood gave it a sacred kind of feel. It’s clear that you’re outside of the prefabricated world, and entering into somewhere special. The handmade effort adds something, I think: you’re able to have these spiritual benefits thanks to the work of a man’s hand. Perhaps that’s going too far.

What can I say about the services? It wasn’t meant to be too ascetic; the pillows offered support, and we could shift if we needed to. (I will say, though, that I couldn’t imagine why Nathan would opt to sit through this with nothing to distract him from the pain.) Learning afterwards that one was expected to have some sort of inward practice made sense. I saw an awful lot of Buddhist hand mudras, but it was clear some folks were just thinking. There were clenched fists propping up heads, and hands folded meekly in laps. I’d be curious to ask the congregation what their particular practices were. And I’d like to know how one knows a statement that comes from the inner light and what doesn’t. It’s an interesting kind of performance, since folks are expected to meditate on particular issues. I should have asked if folks ever disrespect it and start having a slow argument or something. I wonder how long a person often attends the congregation before they start standing up and saying something. And what would happen if someone just kept standing up and talking? Would they throw them out? Talk to them in some way?

The congregation was almost entirely older (fifties and above) and Anglo. I didn’t count, but I had the sense that the gender ratio was not too unbalanced, though there seemed to be more women. There were a lot of couples sitting together.

Folks dressed nicely, but not too fancily. I didn’t really notice crosses hanging around necks, or even too many ties, for that matter.

The person “leading” the service was a woman, and the fact that she can do that seems to fit with what I know of Quakerism.

When folks got up to speak, it was like they were giving little speeches. The tone was formal, but not flowery or poetic. There wasn’t a lot of God language – it mostly centered around politics and general values. I would be curious to ask someone how they know speech that is inspired by the inner light as opposed to just something that pops into their head.

No hymns, no prescribed group movements, except perhaps saying “good morning” at the end of the service. You’re sitting there together with everyone, listening to them move and creak, but it’s mostly individualistic. There’s work to be done, and it’s up to you to do it. Other folks are there with you for it, and to provide advice along the way, but they can’t do for you what you need to do.

Having the children come in during the last fifteen minutes or so seemed significant. Only having gone once, I don’t know what the best way to interpret it would be, and I’m sure that any interpretation anyway would miss the wide variety of possibilities. Perhaps the children come in to share in the spiritual light that has been recovered by the adults. Perhaps it reminds the parents why they do what they do. Perhaps it serves as a good way to move from the inward to the outward. Perhaps the folks watching the kids couldn’t think of anything else to have the children do. Oh, functionalism, how could I live without you?

I found myself wondering how the service fit into the Quaker’s life. Is it a time to reflect, to center, and then go out into the world? Is it a purification process? Is this kind of awareness and prayer held at all elsewhere in one’s life? Is one “done” after the service? How is this related to social welfare and such?

A lot of folks talked on their blogs about the rote repetition of "under God" yielding a meaninglessness. It's something I find interesting. I can think of a number of instances in religions when repetition of a phrase or text is meant to impart some kind of different meaning; I think of Sufis reciting the name of God, or Catholics reciting particular prescribed prayers, and what have you.

When I was training to be a Won Buddhist minister, I began memorizing their particular scripture. I was deeply amazed about what I would learn after writing the passage again and again and again; new insight, new thoughts would come up after spending half an hour with the same couple hundred words. Even the Heart Sutra, which doesn't seem to make an ounce of sense, after quite a lot of repetition, began to yield all kinds of different insights.

I think, though, a lot of it comes down to how the repetition is occurring. Are you putting your mind towards the object of repetition, or drifting off into some mindless state? Is it something that you unconsciously recite, or is the full attention paid to this particular thing? Wouldn't it be a different story if we were to really mean it when we said the pledge of allegiance, as I'm sure it does for some people? I would assume that for some people, it really is a pledge of allegiance; they really do give their mind, heart, and body to their country. And I would assume that has some benefits and sacrifices. What if we read the Declaration of Independence every morning right when we woke up? What insights would we find there? How would it change our daily lives? I guess these are questions that come from my own spiritual practice, but I think it's worth noting that repetition doesn't have to be rote; it can actually strengthen an individual in faith and in insight.

Michelle posted on how she felt a lot of folks' interest in religion was more ceremonial, and less substantial. It becomes something you do out of necessity, rather than a heartfelt commitment or belief.

When I was reading Bellah's article, I was amazed by some of the things he was putting forth. I don't know that I'd agree with all of the tenets of the American civil religion as he saw it, but I was quite amazed to see how easy it was for me to endorse a lot of the things that are implicit in the tradition.

And it makes me wonder: why can certain people tap into it to move people, and why can others not? What makes a "prophet" like Lincoln or M.L. King, Jr.? One might say that it's due to circumstances, and I won't totally disagree with that, but we have our fair share of causes that we need people to get behind. Is all that is required a charismatic leader? I doubt it. But it's something I wonder about, particularly given the evils that still pervade our world and country now.

Emic and Etic in John Fire Lame Deer's Autobiography

I've still been sorting out the balance of emic and etic in my head. Something that's been on my mind is how familiar something that is totally unfamiliar can be; even something that seems profoundly emic to a particular individual might still be comprehensible on some level to other folks. The glaring danger, of course, is that the observing party is simply injecting their own ideas into that emic explanation, which is surprisingly easy despite unfamiliar concepts and language. Indeed, it is because of that unfamiliar language that it happens so easily: one can just gloss over the differences as one attempts to understand, and impose one's own frame of beliefs on the experience in question.

I've been thinking of it in terms of John Fire / Lame Deer's autobiography. There were a number of things which seemed so resonant with me. The vision quest, the rejection of a drug in pursuit of spiritual experience, even the breeding out of the magic of livestock; I feel deeply personal responses to what he says about these things, and yet, how can I be certain that I've really understood what he has said in his paragraph or two? I've never had a vision quest, I've never taken any recreational or hallucinogenic drugs, I don't really believe there is magic in animals, and yet, at the same time, I am inclined to say that I know what he is talking about, and indeed, that I feel quite resonant with him. His tirade against cleanliness and safety made my heart sing, and yet I still shower every day.

But perhaps I'm making more out of this than I need to, or taking the definitions of emic and etic too strongly. I'm really not sure. How can you know what another person is really experiencing? Etic language helps, yes, but what about those chords of resonance that come up even amidst the unfamiliar? Oh, questions, questions, questions...

I really like Bellah's article; the focus is different than I thought it would be. But I feel like it's a powerful premise, particularly when it brings in the theological aspects behind democracy, slavery and the legacy of Lincoln, and how the values can easily be skewed. I'm sure a lot of folks would say, "It's not a religion, though; it's just a cultural movement" or something like that, but the term "religion" is growing emptier and emptier in my mind. I feel like I need some kind of vacation for it...

I think some of his points are a stretch, but perhaps that's a result of the times and places more than anything. For instance, his treatment of Memorial Day was much more involved than I've ever heard of it, but he was writing shortly after WWII and in the midst of Vietnam; the warrior cult would be accordingly much stronger. (And though I guess I've chosen a charged term for it, I don't mean disrespect by calling it a "warrior cult.") And I'm sure there are plenty of places in America that still do pursue it with that fervor.

The aspect about the spreading of the American civil religion by means of the UN was pretty mind-blowing. We really do want to spread it, and it's true that we believe it would make the world a better place. Fascinating!

I feel like Rein's point about how the emic effectively tells us nothing was easy to misconstrue. It doesn't tell us nothing about her experience, or about what it means to see God, or whatever: it tells us nothing about religion. And I think the "us" in there is important, too. "I can see this color called mincius. You can't? Oh well."

I don't feel like Ali's example is necessarily the best example of how the emic doesn't quite work. One that I always get stuck on is with born-again Christianity, what it means to be saved. "I'm saved!" "What's that mean?" "It means Jesus died for my sins." "What's that like?" "It's salvation!" "[[Would tear out hair if he had any]]" By keeping it totally within the experience, no comparative work can be done.

And so I'm totally behind the point Rein was making, and it's bizarre to me, because it seems so intuitively true, and yet we have bajillions of examples of where people are not doing that. And furthermore, I would not be terribly surprised if I were to try and do some work that fails to be balanced between emic and etic; it's probably a lot easier to say, "Nope, you're leaning too far to the etic side" than to actually write something that's totally balanced.

But that's OK. I might step on some toes, I might miss some things, all that jazz, but I'll still try to engage. I can't stand the whole "you've got your truth and that's totally unintelligible to me" business.

Place!

The men’s bathroom in the basement of Myrin strikes me as having both a spiritual and religious significance. The spiritual is that when I walk down there, I suddenly feel deeply aware. There is a bizarre silence that makes me strongly attentive and conscientious of what’s going on outside and inside of me. It’s not a settled awareness; it feels mildly discombobulating. Nevertheless, there is something peaceful within the discomfort.

It has religious significance because of the stall closest to the window. Written on the wall are a few notes about marijuana use and sexual encounters, but there is a surprising amount of material that is related to religious matters. They’re often written with clusters of comments around them. I’ll try to explain.

One seemed to begin with the statement “Love everyone,” which may or may not have some kind of religious or spiritual connotation. Pointing to it is a comment that would be difficult to describe, and so I’ll write what I’ve deduced it to mean. It would seem that someone drew an arrow pointing to “Love everyone” that says “Except the Faggots.” But someone then crossed out the “Except” and the “Faggots” and instead wrote “Even the Assholes.” I have to say, I find it touching that no one has yet scribbled this out.

Another note written on the wall is “For God so loved the world that he gave his only son,” obviously alluding to John 3:16.

On the stall door is written a note with (seemingly) three authors. The first: :GOD IS AWESOME,” followed by “for causing genocide & war.” Within the last few months (I’ve long been fascinated by this stall, and have kept up to date when new notes arise), a new comment joined these two: “no.. For being the reason for the rise of civilization...”

Next to this triad of comments is written this stark comment: “POOPING > ARGUING ABOUT RELIGION,” where the “greater than” symbol can presumably be taken to mean “better than.”

I’ve always found it so fascinating that so much religious content could be found written on the walls. Why so much emphasis? I wonder how many different people were involved in writing the different notes.

Object!

When I graduated to performing 108 prostrations as part of my purification practice, my mentor kyomunim gave me a rosary with 108 beads. It is made of cedar, and it used to have a strong, soothing smell, but it has largely faded. From time to time when I’m doing prostrations, I’ll smell it strongly again. One of the beads is white and made of plastic, and it has a circle on one side (a representation of the enlightened mind) and a picture of the founder of Won Buddhism on the other. The picture there has always creeped me out; it seems cultish to me. Nonetheless, holding this particular rosary is calming and even inspiring, and I’m often reminded of the bodhisattva vows. I feel reinforced in my dedication to practice.

Memory!

When I was at the Mahabodhi Temple, everyone around kept commenting on the intense spiritual vibrations they were encountering, or how soothing it was, or how awe-inspiring it was. I didn’t feel a darn thing. I felt neutral, and even indignant, or frustrated, if anything. It didn’t seem the slightest bit special to me. It was another place. Yes, there were many myths about how a trip to the Mahabodhi is an impetus for enlightenment, and things like that. But the fact of the matter was that suffering was still a reality for me. What’d it matter if that guy saw through all suffering? Yeah, he’s given priceless advice to myself and others, but he gave me a prescription and told me to go fill it myself, and he didn’t tell me where I could find the ingredients or anything like that. I’ll thank him if it works. So, being there reinforced my vow to practice, to realize for myself and for the benefit of others something genuine. I’d been practicing for years, and, while I had certainly had something to show for it, agony persisted, delusion persisted, craving persisted. So it ended up being a pretty powerful experience, seeing how spiritually devoid it was.

A girl in one of my classes mentioned how her epileptic seizures induced the most thoroughly religious moments of her life, a stunning sense of spiritual intimacy and reality.

I think a lot of people have had the experience of having a sudden experience of intense wholeness, reality, and depth, with no seeming reason behind it. It may seem to have been triggered by some object, sensory experience, thought, or whatever, but the effect might seem quite disproportionate to the cause.

Is this religious experience? This summer, I read The Year of Living Biblically, in which an atheist strictly abides by the prescriptions of the Bible. He's mostly doing it as a stunt to write his book, but he mentions that he's also hopeful that it would induce that feeling of profound ease, wholeness, and alertness.

Would those experiences be called spiritual? Maybe by some. It's weird that that would get tied up with sacred. And the sacred is so vast a topic; it can apply to so much, and be both favorable and unfavorable. It can be the deepest experience imaginable; it can be as trivial as putting a dish in a separate dishwasher.

It's a weird little word. On the one hand, it seems like it would be helpful to have a larger vocabulary to categorize all these different things. But then you miss so much, and perhaps you lose the ground for relating them? I dunno...

Protestant DNA

We talked in class today about how the characters in “This Blessed House” finding Christian things hidden around their house was like how one realizes all of these religious leftovers from one’s culture and upbringing. Nathan had mentioned how it was significant that they were Hindus in a Christian nation, without a past here, uncertain as to their identity.

It wasn’t until I started seriously considering other religious systems that I started realizing how very Protestant I was. My family isn’t Protestant; both parents were Catholic growing up, and came to strongly reject their faith before I was ever thought of. Yet so many of my assumptions about morality, reality, truth, and so forth were informed by Protestant doctrine: I thought Theravada must be the true Buddhism, since it was purportedly the original Buddha’s words; I was interested in a personal practice, unadulterated by tradition or what have you; I thought ritual was a meaningless and potentially dangerous exercise. Of course, I was deeply attracted to the practice element of Buddhism, which might go against the Protestant ethic, but even there some shadow of born-again-ism: I wanted the practice to transform me, to make me into something I wasn’t; to give me what I lacked.

What I seek from Buddhism has changed somewhat, but they were nonetheless valuable reflections. I have all of these strongly-held beliefs the source of which escaped me. It’s humbling, and at the time seemed even a little paralyzing. Why do I believe what I believe? Why is what is right right to me? Is it by the merit of the content, or because of what is near me?

And I realized something else: I had been turning to Buddhism to give me what I lacked; I was sincerely interested in the Buddhist tradition, yes, but I was equally attracted to its non-Westernness. When I saw that I was looking for the Westernness in the non-Western, it seemed a little less real. But I think it led me to look in a new way, and with a bit more of an open mind. Of course, I didn’t realize a lot of my beliefs were Protestant until I’d learned about Christianity, and in the process I gained a genuine respect for that tradition.

I'll finish this later. I hope I remember.

"I don't think you get there unless you start telling the stories and the stories start sounding normal. ... The more you tell certain stories, the more possible and plausible they become, and the more you can accomplish them." (Or something like that.)

It's an interesting idea, one that seems pretty real. She said that shows like Will & Grace got people to see homosexuality as much more normal, much more OK; black and female presidents on TV perhaps eased us into accepting Obama.

I find it very compelling. I'm always wondering how to institute shift in society, and you know, these little culture boxes called television really do seem to have an astonishing power. It's no wonder that these shows that take on these big questions are so popular; television and film really are the things people talk about (in my social circles, anyway). They're the springboard to talk (and even begin thinking) about ethics, truth, virtue, and aesthetics.

The idea of watching TV as a ritual act was startling, but is undoubtedly true. It really does bring people together in a way that nothing else seems to in the kids at my school. Somebody puts on the DVD of True Blood, and suddenly there's a rush to that room. There's so much shared identity, so much emotion when you realize someone else loves the same TV show as you, or the same movie. I hadn't thought about this, but it's a neat insight.

The professor said that a lot of people were asking the question, "How do we re-enchant things?" She said that capitalism and industrialism (protestantism?) has largely sucked the mystery and the meaning out of life. When I think of my brother and my best friends' mother starting to talk about some particular movie or scene, man, their faces light up, and they're there. They bring a richness and a color to life that can't be found in the monotony of daily life; sounds like religion...!

I'm glad Nathan opened up the class the way he did, saying that he wants us to encounter the unfamiliarity, the discomfort. When we were talking about how we thought Li's religion served him, I felt like we were so deeply missing it. Talking about reality, meaning, symbolism, and so forth, it missed something. It really missed the raw emotion in Li's writing. It's unadulterated, it doesn't have the tinge of self-reflection or anything like that; it comes before all of that stuff. To even say "raw emotion" misses it: it's more raw than emotion. I dunno, reflecting on it this way feels like I'm missing it, still. Maybe I could just smash a window with a chair; that would probably capture it more effectively.

It invokes symbolism, but it isn't about the symbolism. (Or at least that's how it struck me.) The symbols are there, but they're not there for you to pick apart and cognize: they're just part of the raw experience. I think Bud had a lot of insight in that regard.

And you can't study that. The act of thinking, the act of rationalizing, arises far after -- and opposes -- the rawness. To reflect on it is to miss it, and so I think that's why we're gonna be going to these religious centers. What is real, what has meaning, what is felt can be alluded to by word and symbol and concept, but it cannot be captured by it. Granted, I don't know how much reality and meaning and such we'll find in these places we visit, but maybe some people find it there each Friday or Saturday or Sunday.

I've been reading a book called With God in Russia, and it's an autobiography of a Catholic priest who went to Russia to minister to believers, and he ends up in prisons and GULAGs and on the cusp of life far more times than is reasonable. He was there from like 1939 until 1963, when he was traded for some Soviet spies. It just so happens he's buried about an hour away from here. I'd really like to go visit his grave. I don't know why I want to; I wouldn't know what to do once I get there. But I still really want to go, to pay my respects, and to I guess participate in that reality, or something. I'm not expecting anything special; there are pictures on the internet of his gravestone, and it's not noteworthy, nor is it noteworthy for it being ignored; it's got flags or something around it. But I want to be there for it.

When I was reading "This Blessed House," I saw it as some kind of allegory about modern religion. It seemed like it was about what modern religion was, what it should be, and stuff like that. It seems like Twinkle relishes the tradition, even though it's alien and not her own, which could be said for how I think a modern person could easily feel about her religion. She nonetheless celebrates it and embraces it and makes it her own. Sanjeev, however, just sees the kookiness of it, and wants his house to conform with his values. When Twinkle gets upset about losing religion, Sanjeev suddenly encounters this force, this emotion, this "strangely at peace" vulnerability and sadness that totally disarms him. His first encounter with the divine, perhaps? It leads him to compromise, and put the contentious statue "in a recess at the side of the house, so that it wasn't obvious to passersby, but was still clearly visible to all who came" (150), in other words, nicely compartmentalized. There were a lot of things like that, I felt.

I found this article about the "Dotbusters."

In July of 1987, a month before Mody's death, a local newspaper called attention to the rising number of harassment incidents. In response, it received a letter, signed "Jersey City Dot Busters:"

"I'm writing about your article during July about the abuse of Indian People. Well I'm here to state the other side. I hate them, if you had to live near them you would also. We are an organization called dot busters. We have been around for 2 years. We will go to any extreme to get Indians to move out of Jersey City. If I'm walking down the street and I see a Hindu and the setting is right, I will hit him or her. We plan some of our most extreme attacks such as breaking windows, breaking car windows, and crashing family parties. We use the phone books and look up the name Patel. Have you seen how many of them there are? Do you even live in Jersey City? Do you walk down Central avenue and experience what its like to be near them: we have and we just don't want it anymore. You said that they will have to start protecting themselves because the police cannot always be there. They will never do anything. They are a week race Physically and mentally. We are going to continue our way. We will never be stopped."

I have to say, it's really not something I understand. I guess I find what Eck's comment helpful when she says these are targeted more because they're the only overtly visible public image of these different communities. But nonetheless, I just can't understand the depth of the anger and the hatred. I've felt some powerful anger in my life, but (as far as I can remember) never towards a particular person that I've wanted to harm. I think I need to understand it, though, because they're human. I'll have to interact with these people; I may even feel what they feel at some point in my life. Just as Eck says we have to go beyond tolerance and relativism in studying religion, I think we also need to understand intolerance and hatred.

No Shoes in the Dharma Hall

An example of religious difference that I've often encountered is at the Buddhist temple I often attend. One of the rituals for the English-speaking congregation is that one removes one's shoes before entering the dharma hall, the place where services are held. It often happens that newcomers and children do not take their shoes off before entering the dharma hall. I've observed an interesting phenomenon when this breach occurs: on numerous occasions, a child will eagerly run up to the altar to play with the big bell or the various ritual implements sitting on the altar. When he or she is wearing shoes, the mother or father, as well as those American members who have been attending services for a while, all run after the child to prevent him or her from getting to the altar. Native Korean members and ministers typically do not make any attempt to impede the child. I find it interesting that the ones for whom the tradition is most natural do not attempt to prevent the child's "infraction" upon the focal point of the temple.

There does seem to be less of a rush to stop the child if she isn't wearing shoes. I think it is especially interesting to note that during the Korean congregation's services, all of the members (children included) typically stand in the altar area with their shoes on: their shoes are touching the gorgeous wood paneling that the children's shoes are forbidden from standing upon.

There are innumerable social and religious rituals mixing in here, and I don't know that I could break them all down. What fundamentally seems to be happening is that the American members see the altar as a sacred space that will be somehow violated by a child's footwear and behavior. It is not a place for shoes and play. The Koreans and ministers do not seem to think that the presence of footwear is a violation. I am uncertain if they believe the altar to be more sacred than the rest of the dharma hall, but I would imagine they do to some degree.