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!