Prayer: Jews, Muslims, and a Mormon

          Ok, so this is definitely a different kind of post. It doesn't fit the "So laugh about it" theme and it is quite long. BUT, I think it's pretty good, so you should read it :). It is an essay I wrote last semester for my creative non-fiction class. It is about my experience in Jerusalem and I spent so many hours on it that I really thought someone should read it besides my teacher!

Call to Prayer

We were warned we would wake up around 4 a.m. Our internal clocks were programmed that way but we were told our bodies would adjust within a few days. To help us minimize the effects of jet lag, the Jerusalem Center director, security guards, and teachers kept us awake by talking at us and telling us about all the rules and routines while we sat in the auditorium, staring at them blankly and trying to hold our eyes open. We weren’t to fall asleep until that night, so as to help us adjust as quickly as possible. Classes were to start the next day. We needed to be in groups of three anytime we left the Center, and if it was dark, then at least one of those group members needed to be a boy. We weren’t allowed in East Jerusalem at night, but West Jerusalem was ok. That meant we would have to arrange taxis ahead of time because we lived in East Jerusalem. Each of us was given a cell phone, which we were only to use in the case of an emergency. All we had to do was press the number two and we would be instantly connected with the Center’s security guards.

Mostly we were tired and culture-shocked. We'd stepped in the plane at the John F. Kennedy Airport in New York and stepped out in Tel Aviv, Israel, where it was hot, dry, and desert-y. Men walked around with full beards. Hasidic Jewish men seemed like another species who wore full suits, white-collared shirts, and tall black hats, with curly locks of hair framing their faces. The Jewish women also wore only black and white, with wigs and black hats. My friend, Rachel, would later dub them “classy.” Scarves of all colors covered the heads of Muslim women, and Muslim men wore long, traditional dresses and traditional hats called kufiyahs. All the signs at the airport and on the streets were written in three different languages: Hebrew, Arabic, and English.   

***

I remember the irony of our welcome. One of the head employees at the Center greeted us, "Welcome to the land of conflict, sometimes called the Holy Land" and we all laughed, both relieved by the humor and nervous because it was the truth. I can't remember now whether that employee was Israeli or Palestinian. People of both nationalities worked there and in the beginning I hardly knew the difference.   

***

My first night I woke up at 4 a.m. as promised. It may have been the jet lag, but more likely it was a combination of jet lag and the call to prayer, or adhan, played from the minarets of the Islamic mosques dotted across East Jerusalem and Palestine. It was a man's voice chanting holy words I couldn't understand and it sounded strange to me, especially in my clouded and sleepy state. I was confused why this was happening at 4 in the morning. Did they not know people were sleeping? 

The idea of literally calling people to prayer was new to me. I had known that Muslims had a tradition of praying several times a day, but I hadn’t expected it to be a mass cultural phenomenon. In truth, I was surprised by the volume with which it permeated the culture there. I was used to America, where religion is often stifled in the name of liberty and justice for all. Calls to prayer would never pass there. I didn’t know if I was more impressed or annoyed with the nerve of the Muslims to wake everyone in the name of worship. I was impressed with their boldness; annoyed that it disrupted my sleep.

***

My own prayers are usually quiet, often in my head—a personal conversation between me and God. I was taught to pray on my knees, arms folded, head bowed, eyes closed. I pray like this every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to sleep; I pray to bless the food before every meal; and I pray in my heart throughout the day to thank God and ask Him for blessings.

***

I quickly learned that the call to prayer rings out five times daily in Muslim communities to gather Muslims in prayer to God, or “Allah.” It is centuries old and one of the most lyrical and inspiring prayers for Muslims. It is played each day before dawn, and again at noon, mid-afternoon, sunset, and night.           

Prayer is central in the daily life of a faithful Muslim. By praying five times each day, they are reminded of God often, even when they are busy. When possible, Muslims commune at the Mosque to pray; however, it is also possible to pray alone and outside of a Mosque, though wherever one prays must be clean. While performing a ritual prayer, a Muslim performs various physical movements in standing, bending, and prostrating positions. At the lowest point, the head is on the ground, symbolizing devotion and humility before God.

***

Jerusalem is sacred to three major world religions: Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. I am a Christian. I made the pilgrimage to Jerusalem mainly to study the life of Jesus Christ, to see where He had once lived and walked and taught and suffered and died. I may not have a blood connection to Jerusalem, but as it is the home of my religious heritage, I felt I had a right to be there.     

***

Early in our studies I stood with my classmates in the Old City of Jerusalem at the Western Wall, the last remains of the wall that surrounded the original temple, considered most holy by the Jews. King Solomon had built the temple for the first in the 10^th century BC, but it was destroyed four centuries later by the Babylonians. The temple was eventually rebuilt, and then expanded by King Herod in the first century AD. Before long it was destroyed once again, this time by the Romans. Ever since 70 AD, the Jews have longed and prayed for a new temple, but they are left without one. The Jews, once called the chosen people of God, have long been wanderers, expelled from their homeland and governed by anyone but themselves. Only in 1948 did they finally regain their independence, though at the expense of Palestinians already living in what is today called Israel.

Every day, throngs of Jews pray at the Western Wall, pleading with God for a new temple. They even write their pleas on paper and stick them into the crevices of the wall. Many of them close their eyes and rock slowly back and forth as they pray—a physical manifestation of praying with all their heart, might, mind, and strength. I found this a strange custom at first, especially as they did it amid hundreds of tourists. I was always taught to pray in secret, so as not to showcase my own spirituality. But I had the feeling most of the Jews barely knew the rest of us were there. When they prayed that way—eyes closed and rocking on their heels—it was like no one existed but them and God. I could almost feel the passion in their prayers.

It has taken me a long time to learn to pray with the same sort of passion as the Jews. Most of my life, I have simply said my prayers—not with a lot of faith or feeling, yet still hoping that God would hear and answer them. A really good prayer requires much more energy and focus than I have some days. The passion of my prayers cannot be measured by physical movement as with some Jews and Muslims, and yet I know when I am having a truly successful prayer because I am completely focused and I feel a nearly tangible connection with heaven. God’s love for me fills my soul and I feel light, in both senses of the word. My problems feel lighter and I feel enlightened. I feel calm, empowered, and at peace with the world.  

***

The Arabic text for all five recitations of the call to prayer is similar. Hayya ‘alas-Salah. Hayya ‘alas Salah. Come to prayer, come to prayer, it beckons. Hayya ‘alal-falah. Hayya ‘alal-falah. Come to success. Come to success. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allah is most great. Allah is most great. And so on. The pre-dawn prayer adds the line, As-salatu Khayrun Minan-nawm. Prayer is better than sleep.

***

Despite the compassion I was beginning to feel for the Jews, I always found Muslims easier to approach. Jews intimidated me and I was more comfortable watching them from a distance. Muslims, on the other hand, were always warm and welcoming, even before they knew you. A Palestinian Muslim man once invited my friends and me over to his home when we were walking from the Old City back to the Jerusalem Center.

"Welcome, coffee?" was all he said and at first we didn't understand.

"Really? Oh, yeah!" we replied, trying to be friendly. We thought maybe "coffee" was Arabic for "welcome."  

"Welcome, coffee?" the man repeated several times, wanting so badly for us to understand. "Welcome, coffee?"

"Ohh!" one of us said to the others. "I think he wants us to come over to his house for coffee!"

"Yes, yes!" we all answered, and followed him back to his house just down the hill from ours.

His home was humble; he and his family (a wife and at least four children) were obviously poor. They all seemed just as excited to meet us as we were to meet them, our foreign mannerisms intriguing to them, I’m sure. We all used a minimal number of words and animated hand gestures to communicate since there was no common language between us. They brought us juice and pasta with sauce, eager to impart their culturally bred hospitality with us. Even though we had just stuffed ourselves on pizza and ice cream, we consumed it all graciously. A neighbor or friend or cousin or niece named Zozo (whoever she was, it was lost in the lack of translation) came over while we were there and she practiced her English on us while we practiced our Arabic on her. They were overjoyed to have us there, and we felt it despite the language and cultural barriers. They begged us to return later in the week and we did.

We returned to visit several times throughout the months we were there. When they invited us to a wedding, we eagerly said yes, only to find out it would take place in the West Bank, a place off-limits to us as students because it was dangerous. They didn’t understand when we told them we couldn’t go after all and that broke my heart. How dare we disappoint them when they had been so good to us?    

***

As a class we took a field trip to Bethlehem to see where Christ was born. Because Bethlehem is located in the West Bank, we had to first pass through the Separation Wall. The wall is a nearly 500-mile long barrier (part fence, part concrete wall) separating the West Bank from the rest of Israel. It is reminiscent of the Berlin Wall, only taller—about 26 feet tall in some places. Construction on the wall began in 2002 in response to a wave of Palestinian suicide bombings that killed or injured more than 2,000 Israelis. Israelis generally view the barrier as a necessary for of security, claiming that it has reduced terrorist attacks without imposing excessively on the Palestinians; Palestinians claim just the opposite—that the barrier is unjust, oppressive, and detrimental to their quality of life.

While it is easy enough for Israelis to travel between Israel and the West Bank, it is a major ordeal for Palestinians. First of all, they must have the right paper work if they want to enter Israel, and secondly, there is typically a long wait while each vehicle is checked at the border. I once knew a Palestinian Christian woman who did not have the necessary paperwork and so risked her life each weekend when she snuck into Israel to attend church.        

On our drive back to the Jerusalem Center, Israeli soldiers searched our bus. I remember that several young men with large guns entered the bus and walked up and down the aisles. I’m not sure exactly what they were looking for, but I was secretly terrified. I wondered how often they actually used their guns, and hoped they were mostly for intimidation purposes.   

***

I always loved watching the sun set in Israel, whether in Jerusalem alone on my balcony, on the grass with my fellow students, from the rooftop of our Arabic teacher’s house, or on the shore of Galilee while dipping my toes in the waves. It always seemed so peaceful in contrast to the country itself.  

"Quick! Think about the meaning of life!" my friend always said during the last few seconds as the top of the sun slipped hastily out of sight like sand through my fingers.   

What was the meaning of life? I remember writing about it in my journal one night, watching the sunset on the shore of Galilee. To love, to learn, to play, to learn to live outside of time, to enjoy nature, to get to know God, to have adventures. Is the meaning of life the same for everyone? Or does it differ from person to person?

Perhaps for Jews the meaning of life is to gain control over a country they presume to be divinely theirs, or to rebuild their temple before Jesus Christ comes to the earth. Maybe the Palestinians in the West Bank will be happy if they pass through the Separation Wall without ever being shot.  

Perhaps for the Palestinian man we met the meaning of life is to make strangers feel welcome in his home, or else simply to provide enough to sustain his family and to teach his children the ways of his culture so he can pass it on.

Maybe the most important meaning of life is for a Muslim to be a good Muslim, a Christian to be a good Christian, or a Jew to be a good Jew.    

***

"I think people are more the same than different," a friend of mine recently wrote in a letter. "Sadness is sadness, happiness is happiness, love is love. How we express those things is different, but the feelings themselves are universal. At the end of the day we are all God’s children and we’re all seeking for happiness, right?" 

I believe in only one God, as do both Jews and Muslims, and I believe He is the same for all of us. So even though we all have different views of the nature and character of God, I believe the same Being hears each of our prayers. If we are all His children, and I believe we are, I wonder how He feels when we fight each other, or when we make Him the source of violence in the world. I believe He loves all of us, no matter our culture or religion. He must be touched, then, when we pray for each other, rather than against each other.

***

We returned to the Western Wall our last week in Jerusalem. Instead of approaching the wall like I usually did, I stood in the background and observed. I wanted to burn into memory the Jews standing before the wall, rocking back and forth, pleading with God. I wanted to remember their humility before God and their complete dependence on Him as something for me to emulate.

***

I opened my window my last night sleeping in Jerusalem, to be sure the call to prayer would wake me up. I wanted to remember that God is good—morning, noon, afternoon, sunset, and night, and I wanted to remember the Muslims, their hospitality. 

                                                                   ***

If you're interested in reading more about Muslims and Mormons, here is a link to a series of essays published in the Brigham Young Magazine. Brother Emmett, one of my teachers in Jerusalem, is the author of the last essay.