I scramble into the temple thirty minutes late. The thunderous roll of drums and the peppery aroma of incense greet me first. It reminds me of the foyer at my childhood baptist church: laminated floors buried under rows of folding chairs; white walls tacked with bulletins and flyers advertising church events. A tiny old man is seated at a large folding table adjacent to the door. I assume he will greet me. “Hi,” I say. He looks at me, his stoic eyes suddenly bouncing to life when they meet mine, yet he remains silent. I scan the table for a visitor sign in sheet or a printed program. But there is nothing. Only the sounds and scents and the old man’s gazing eyes. I take a seat.
The stage looks like a posh decor store gleaming with light fixtures made of gold and copper, ribbons of lustrous metals cascading from them like wind chimes. A little further upstage, I notice a small statue of the Buddha. He sits on top of a cushioned stool. It almost seems like you’re not supposed to notice him; he’s so far in the background like a last minute addition to the opulence.
Further downstage, two monks sit in meditative postures. One has his back toward the audience as he tends a medium sized fire positioned in front of a large gong. I can’t tell exactly how they are maintaining a fire on stage, and I lean in. The other monk is seated stage right. He gently strikes a small bell with a mallet while he and the fire monk chant.
The congregation is still and reflective.
My mind starts to wander; the tiny voice of criticism begins ranting. I can’t believe you’re in a Buddhist temple. What do you call yourself doing? You don’t even understand what they’re saying. They could be saying anything — anything! They could be dedicating their souls to Satan like those crazy elderly people in Rosemary’s Baby, and you are sitting here complying with their debauchery. What would your family say if they knew you were here? I’ll tell you what they’d say: They’d pray and lay hands on you, and maybe, if they’re feeling lucky, toss in some holy water.
I fidget in my seat and take a deep breath. I understand that the tiny voice is scared and wants to be heard. So I hear it, thank it, and dismiss it.
A monk climbs on the stage and stands at the podium. He is a younger monk, maybe in his thirties. His smile is vibrant, and his face glows as he tells us that he and several monks from the temple recently attended a memorial service at Manzanar, the Japanese internment camp. There was another religious sect at the camp: a Christian church. Both groups spoke and prayed at the same service. “It doesn’t matter what religion you are or who you pray to,” he said. “Whether you’re a Christian praying or a Buddhist praying — all prayers are the same.”
When I hear him say this, I am blown away. Never, in a million years, would my pastor have conceded that a prayer to Buddha and a prayer to Jesus are on equal footing. While I was a kid growing up in church, there was one thing that my Sunday school teachers made clear: Jesus is right and everyone else is wrong. Everything is black and white. Things are either of God or of Satan; there is no in-between. I felt like we were always so busy striving to do good and beating ourselves up if we came up short. But as I sit here in the Buddhist temple, I feel like the Buddhists believe more in just being instead of always doing. There is no right or wrong way to pray. Simply pray; simply give thanks; simply be still. Simply be.
As I leave the temple, I am proud of myself. Today I stepped out of my element and into the unknown. I tried something new. My journey has begun.
Add a Comment