“And I have chosen you,
so listen to that which is inspired to you.
Verily, I am Allah!
There is none worthy of worship but I,
so worship Me
and offer prayer perfectly for My remembrance.”
[Taha 13-14]
Two evenings ago, I had my bi-annual meltdown.
It was the same old, same old. Feelings of inadequacy and utter stupidity, compounded by an impossible thumping pain around the circumference of my skull. The people and places and things gone wrong spun me into a little whirlwind and when a loved one asked me if I was alright, that was when I cracked. She offered a hug I couldn’t take, because it wouldn’t do to cry in the middle of a street.
I made my way, past the kindness of friends and strangers, into the prayer room. It was thankfully empty, and I clutched my head in my hands and started praying hard. My heart reached for its limits and cried for its Maker, and I began to sob.
Making my way home, hands in my pockets and stiff from the cold, I took my time and breathed in the fading autumn. The winter breeze had come, but the autumn leaves were still stubbornly holding onto their branches, and it gave an odd air to the city streets. Cars were milling up at the traffic lights, making their way home; joggers in ridiculously tiny shorts were striding past me, chasing after the last of the daylight. I walked, chasing nothing in particular, except for maybe peace of mind.
I passed by an Orthodox Church halfway down Royal Parade, and as usual, glanced inside. Sometimes they had mass on Friday evenings; sometimes there would be a funeral service, and I’d catch a glimpse of the congregation, all grey and wrinkles, staring straight into their future.
But that day, as with most days, the church was empty. The lights were dimmed. Sunlight shone through the stained glass windows and into the cavernous space.
And as usual, I wondered what it would be like, to be in a church. All alone.
When I was a child, in a moment of defiance, I was determined to enter the neighbourhood church, just down the street where I lived. We children grew an aura of mystique over the church – childhood folklore had it that staring at a cross long enough could make you Christian by default, and no longer Muslim. Even though its huge, lusciously green grounds were open to everyone, the church and steeple seemed like a forbidden space; as if stepping into one were the equivalent of apostasy. As with so many childhood myths, we kept these stories to ourselves, believing them to be absolute truth.
I was nine, and I asked my father about how a church looked like so many times that he walked into the compound with me and made me look for myself.
I lasted up to the donations box and the notice boards, before I took one look past the wooden doors and down the aisle, and ran for home as fast as I could, so I could confess to my mother.
Thinking this, two afternoons ago, I mulled the memory over a background of Cat Stevens and his melancholic guitar. I may have grown older, but I wasn’t any wiser. Each blatant glance into the church still gave me a little pang of fear – of what, I wasn’t quite certain. My mother made apostasy sound so bad that I feared it most as a child. Maybe there were still remnants of that illogical fear, that stepping into a Christian space made you one by default.
And still, childhood wonderment aside, I could imagine walking into a warm, dimly-lit room; all wooden walls and a stage at the end of the aisle; the pulpits set so low that you have to look upwards to see the preacher – it gives the image of speaking to a higher power.
And with all the internal conflict an hour before, I could easily understand how walking down the aisle and kneeling at its end, face turned heavenwards, could feel like a solution to one’s burdens.
‘It always comes down to one thing, honey
Still I kneel upon the floor.’
-Cat Stevens, How Can I Tell You
But while kneeling on one’s knees, as seems to be the popular Christian stereotype, may seem to some as a humble gesture enough, I know of one that is more natural to me than any other:
Prostration.
Knees touch the ground, aligned with the toes; palms pressing against the ground and leaning against its warmth; forehead on the floor, subjugating everything else in a moment. There is nothing like it. It feels like coming home to One who knows you better; who knows you best. And if you’re blessed enough, tears pour down like rain, the mercy of the heavens.
And in Islam, the world is my prayer space. Sometimes, I prefer praying in the park without a mat – letting the grass and earth and moss touch my forehead is a reminder that I am still alive and able to change. My prayer is not limited to four mere walls, and each move, and each word is a gesture of grace and humility and gratitude eternal.
I have a friend who searched for God and peace during Fajr in a park; praying in solitude and amidst the trees and sleepy possums and stirring birds. She says that she found what she was looking for.
And so I understand the idea of the church – of being awe-inspired and humbled into feeling that God is All-Aware. I can only compare it to a mosque, and I must say, churches seem to scare one into submission, while a mosque is just there to facilitate and inspire.
But give me the fields and sand and earth and snow anytime. The remembrance of God should and does exist beyond four walls.
‘…The earth has been made for me (and for my followers) a place for
praying and a thing to perform Tayammum, therefore anyone of my
followers can pray wherever the time of a prayer is due…’
- Narrated by Jabir bin ‘Abdullah, [Volume 1, Book 7, Number 331]
