I am not a religious person. When I was a child, all I had ever experienced were the hard wooden pews in the church I was baptized in, the colored glass stories of sacrifice and of turning water into wine. I did not understand sacrifice, and I did not listen to the sermons. The highlight of going to church was receiving the Holy Communion, as that always signaled that it was almost time to leave, time to escape to lunch, or dinner, or my friend's house.
I knew that the church was beautiful. I loved the intricately carved sculptures, the holy water and the peeling gold paint. Even the candles were elegant, their pale waxy surface reflecting the dancing fires that surrounded them, reflecting the wishes and prayers trapped inside. I liked the sound of clicking heels on the stone floor and the shadows the lights made on the wreaths during Christmas. However, I did not feel anything about the religion itself, and that scared me.
When I went to China with my family, we visited all the tourist destinations first. By the end of the day, I was incredibly peevish, jet-lagged and exhausted from waking up at four in the morning. All I wanted to do was to get through the itinerary so I could go back to our hotel and sleep. The last place on our list was the Yong He Gong, the Lama Temple, and we sluggishly walked through the different courtyards of the temple, finally coming across a red building with a large golden Buddha in the center. The gold paint was dusky and glowed, not from the sun’s brightness, but rather softly–dark enough that it seemed the Buddha was giving off a shadow instead of light. I stood, transfixed, trying to read the contours and interpret a meaning out of something so complicated but so simple at the same time. My parents began to leave, but my grandma told them to wait. “They are about to start,” she said, and they all moved to the other side of the room to watch.
From my position on the side of the Buddha, I could see the tops of the monks’ heads as they knelt and began their prayer. It started softly, vibrating, moving my chest. They began to sing, weaving words I didn’t understand together. The prayer felt thick and heavy in the air, making it hard to breathe. In that moment, I didn’t think about my fatigue, or the homework I needed to do. My mind went blank until all I could do was feel, as the ground shook around me and my heart thrummed along with it. I did not know the words, or the meaning, but I wanted to sing along, to find a way to contribute to a cause I didn’t realize existed. In that moment, I paradoxically felt utter contentment and a call to do something.
In that moment, I felt like I was part of something bigger. My problems were no longer problems, and it no longer felt like my life was a competition between the world and me. I was not against the world, I was part of it, and so insignificant compared to the life and music that wove around me. In that moment, I felt whole.
I am not a religious person. I do not go to church every week, and I do not participate in Lent. However, I believe in spirituality, and the idea that we are not alone. Moments of contentedness and wholeness assure me that there is a force bigger than each of us as individuals, and that even when we are not sure what to believe in, or are scared we don’t believe in anything, there will always be moments of clarity.
