The Varieties of Religious Experience

Shinto deity about town for a stroll

Everywhere I go I am struck by the diverse ways in which communities form around the connection to and the occupation of space.  Nowhere is this more keenly felt than in the practice of spiritual traditions.  I have, in my travels thus far, had the privilege to witness the worship and discipline of such faiths as Russian Orthodox Christianity, Shintoism, Quakerism, and Zen Buddhism.  Each profoundly distinct from the others, yet each containing within it something which hearkens to something deeper and shared.

A week ago, Nathan and Asami took me biking all over this corner of the city, and it just so happened to be the time of year when all of the Shinto deities are brought out for their annual parade about the streets.  Golden tabernacles supposed to house these deities are hoisted upon the shoulders of local men (some scantily clad in a traditional style loincloth), who march it down the alleys and causeways, jostling it about and chanting enthusiastically.  Followers dressed in yukatas smile jovially, and all about town are street-vendor-filled festivals with music and dancing.

Just down the hill from Nathan and Asami's apartment sits St. Nikolai's Cathedral, a Russian Orthodox church.  Last Sunday, Nathan and I stopped over to sit through part of the service.  Russian Orthodox services are notoriously long, running somewhere in the neighborhood of 3 hours, so we only stuck around for the first part.  The experience was other-worldly.  It began with a long procession of dark robes and big beards, and then the bells began to ring.  First one, then a few, culminating in a cacophonous rhythm punctuated by chants.  The priests converged in the center of high vaulted, domed chamber, and a meticulous ritualized dressing of the head priest began as others worked their way around the room swinging candles and incense into every nook and cranny.  Somewhere in the middle of a bunch of clanging jangles, about half an hour in and before any reading or preaching had begun, Nathan and I ducked out.

Today I got to experience the opposite end of the spectrum in the form of a Quaker meeting.  In a circle of pews holding a small congregation, we sat for an hour in complete silence.  The stillness was broken only once by a woman moved to speak.  I didn't understand what she said, as it was in Japanese, but she occupied the spotlight for only a minute or so before she sat down and the silence resumed.  At the hour's end, everyone gathered for a simple meal of fishy rice, stir-fried cabbage, and tea.  We chatted, people exchanged business cards, and the title of "friends" which Quakers call themselves seemed to be aptly applied.

Zenseian Temple

Finally, this evening I attended a Buddhist temple to practice zazen.  Again, Nathan and I went together.  As this was our first time, we were required to attend a preliminary introduction prior to the main event.  We were handed sacred texts, shown the proper seating and posture, and given the run-down on how the ceremony would proceed.  There were easy a dozen other newcomers in the group.  When the time came, we all headed upstairs to an open room with a tatami mat floor already mostly filled with silent, stoic-looking meditators (all ordinary people, not just hardcore devotees with shaved heads).  The ceremony began with chanting several sutras in Japanese, followed by a reading from some ancient text and a sermon from the head monk.

By this point we were an hour in and it was time to practice sitting meditation.  All of us neophytes were herded back downstairs (all in complete silence), where we positioned ourselves upon small cushions, cross-legged with one foot propped high upon the opposite thigh.  Straight-backed, eyes open and staring at the floor, hands positioned in our laps, one upon the other, thumbs connecting to form a circle just below the navel, we sat for twenty minutes, breathing deep and very slowly.  As we meditated, a monk paced the room with a long bamboo stick.  If one wished, one could signal him as he passed by bowing, placing one hand upon the floor, the other hand on the opposite shoulder, and lowering the head.  He would then whack you twice on each shoulder (you switch your hands in between) with his stick to waken you up.  Both Nathan and I tried this, and I must say, he hits you rather hard.  It stings a bit, but it really does help you to refocus.

By the end of these twenty minutes, one foot is asleep, the other is aching, and fire burns up and down your back.  A loud ding of a bell and a loud clap of bamboo signal the end, and the room is filled with the creaking of joints as legs are painfully untwisted.  We're given 3 minutes rest to let our legs recover, and just when the blood flow resumed and the tingling had just about faded, it was time for the second 20 minute session to commence, and it was back to pretzel legs and no-mind.  At the very end, we were ushered back up to the main hall to be fed tea and cakes, a satisfying conclusion to perhaps the most strenuous spiritual experience I've ever had.

Nathan absolutely hated doing Zen, which he described as "torture" and "hell."  I actually kinda liked it.  Sure, there was a lot of discomfort, but I was able to maintain enough detachment from it that I could still maintain a sense of peace and focus.  Yet, it was without a doubt a humbling experience.  I feel like it was something I'd like to try a few more times to really get a feel for it.

All these things, the Russian Orthodox Church, the Quakers, Shinto, Zen, transported me far beyond my normal frame of reference into something more.  Within each of these experiences I felt a common element, an atmosphere, sometimes cultivated, sometimes revealed.  It's the awakening to spaciousness, that omnipresent non-locality from which all things emerge.  It amazes me that this simple sense of space can be evoked by the filling it to the brim or simply listening to it and breathing.  A balance of both, I feel is essential: to be space and to occupy it simultaneously.