Why Interfaith

Interfaith is a term that can be used in two distinct ways: first, interfaith can mean, and usually does mean, when people from different religious traditions join together for a common purpose. This is big. This means that people who identify with a religion that is probably more than just a religion — it is probably also culture and family and possibly even geopolitical ideology — decide to love and welcome and interact with and respect people of other faiths.

But there is another way to define interfaith, and it’s the one with which I most resonate. For me, interfaith is not just appreciating other traditions, but dipping into them as I feel called, creating my own syncretic faith, which, truth be told, is ultimately what we all do to varying degrees.

Picking one great wisdom tradition to claim as a sole identity would be like tilling a half-acre garden and then planting only marigolds. It would be like fielding a Super Bowl team with 11 running backs. It would be like trying to write a great symphony using only B-flat.

From Buddhism, I learn zen and mindfulness. From Judaism, I learn history and tradition. From Islam, I learn reverence and devotion. From Hinduism, I learn true yoga and the wisdom of non-duality. From paganism, I learn to honor the earth and recognize my place on it. From Christianity, I learn compassion and grace. From atheism, I learn respect for science and reason. From Sikhism, I learn service and kirtan worship. From Baha’i, I learn unity and peace.

Should I go on? Because I could. So many gifts from so many sources — how could I ever choose one?

Being a minister from this perspective means that no matter what spiritual identity a person claims, I will hold space for hope and divine connection on their behalf, offer my support for their journey regardless of which path they are on, and rejoice in their spiritual evolution, even if it looks nothing like my own. I will love Jesus with them and chant the name of Shiva with them and revere the Prophet with them. I will pray for them, meditate with them, light a candle for them, or sage them. I will accept them fully even as I am accepted fully by the One Supreme Being with whom I have my most precious relationship.

What a beautiful and glorious work is that to which I have been called. I live in a state of wonderment and delight that the Divine has entrusted me with this sacred task.

Peace be unto you. Om.

Peace Be Unto You

There is a Muslim woman on the
walking trail this morning. 
I spot her in the distance,
coming my direction, her

black from head to toe. I
look forward to the chance
for kindness, anticipating a 
warm “good morning,” a smile.

And dare I be so bold as to offer 
“As-salamu alaykum”? Or would
I be appropriating culture to weave
my own humble-brag cloak

of magnanimity? Maybe just “hello.” 
As she gets closer, I begin to calculate
the odds of us meeting on this trail
today.  A trail in a small southern 

town. A town that only desegregated
its high schools in 1970. A town where
one can still see the old slave quarters, and
plantation houses are still occupied. A town 

Trumpier than Trump himself. And here, 
on this walking trail, comes this woman,
bravely hijabbed, shoulders back, not 
curved with the fear that I seem to feel

so often these days, striding with purpose
along a path in a town perhaps far, far
away from her homeland. When we get closer, 
I become sure of this. We smile and say hello.

She makes a comment about my dog,
a friendly comment. A friendly accented
comment.  Pakistani? Afghan? My ear
is not good enough to discern. But not

American. Not USian. Not Southern. 
Her warm rounded vowels, the soft r’s, 
the hard t’s like d’s. I hear almost 
Indian. Pakistani, I feel certain. I have

friends who are Pakistani, and I wonder
how lame it will sound to tell her so, so I
don’t.  I just smile as warmly as I know how.
I try to create a smile that says, “I’m really

glad you’re here. No, really. I’m not just 
saying that. I welcome you, and I honor you,
and I will stand up for your right to be here.”
But the smile is just a smile, and its

sincerity is enough, I suppose. I tell her to
have a nice day, and I hope that I’m not 
the only one who ever tells her that here in
this confederate backwater, but I fear

I could be. And after we pass, I realize that
she handled our encounter with so much
more grace than I. I walk about 50 yards
and turn around to see the woman in

black walking away, shoulders back,
with purpose. And then I think about how
I’m too afraid to even put a Biden sign
in my front yard, and I realize that her smile

was saying to me, “Darlin’, if I belong here,
so do you. You don’t have to hide.” And my
liberal, socialist-democrat, progressive,
lesbian self says out loud, right there on that

path, in the heart of Dixie,
“Wa-Alaykum Salaam.”   

© 2020 Deborah E. Moore, All Rights Reserved

Let’s Ask the Atheist to Say Grace

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In First Thessalonians, the Christian New Testament tells us to give thanks in everything.  The Psalmist of the Old Testament bathed in gratitude.  The Quran tells us that “any who is grateful does so to the profit of his own soul.”  The Buddha taught gratitude as the response to both a kindness and a slight knowing that both contain lessons, the latter often more so than the former.  Hindu practice hinges on living from a place of constant gratitude.  Countless examples of Native American literature emphasize again and again the practice of gratitude to the Great Spirit.

I could go on, but I believe my point is made.  Spirituality, religious identity, holiness — whatever you want to call it — exists in gratitude, regardless of which brand name you prefer.  Thankfulness is perhaps the most consistent element in the history of religious thought.

But, what about those pesky atheists?  Can they even DO Thanksgiving?

I’ve heard people ask that question before.  The assumption underlying this question is that gratitude requires a celestial being as the source of all giving to whom one expresses thanks.

I read a story this past week that came from Hasidic teachings which I will (grossly) paraphrase here.

The student asks the teacher, “Teacher, why did God create atheists?”

The teacher replies, “To teach us compassion.  When an atheist sees a person in need and responds to that need, he does so not to win favor with his God, but simply to act compassionately.  Whenever you see someone in need, you should become an atheist.  Act from a heart of pure compassion and remove any possibility that you are acting out of a selfish need.”

Perhaps also in Thanksgiving we should be atheists.  Rather than thanking whatever your version of God might be — man on a cloud or ethereal energy — perhaps consider who actually provided that for which you feel grateful.  Thank the farmers who raised the turkey and threshed the wheat and bogged the cranberries.  Thank the factory worker who assembled the car you drove over the river and through the woods.  Thank the furniture maker who built the couch you can potato on all afternoon watching football.  Thank the football players who gave up their holiday for your bash-’em-up pleasure.

Thank the breeder who raised the puppy who “helps” you cook.

Now, it just so happens that I believe there is a Source in the universe (though I lean  more toward ethereal energy than man on a cloud).  I have no problem thanking that Source for everything in my life.  Here’s the thing though — when I thank the farmer and the factory worker and the football player, I feel gratitude to both the conduit and the source at the same time.  If I just thank the source, well, I sorta’ skip the middle man.

We are the brokers through which Divine goodness flows from source to other people.  We show up as God in each other’s lives all the time.  I have to believe that being grateful to each other pleases God, however you see her.

So when the big feast starts, bow your head and give thanks, if that’s your preference.  Just don’t forget to kiss the cook as well.  And, always, ALWAYS, ask the atheist to say grace.  You know, just for shits and giggles.