The driver next to me honked his horn six times in quick succession. Annoyed, I looked his way. “Miss, Miss!” He pointed to my car’s rear. “You’ve got a tire going flat.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I opened my door to take a peek. Inconceivable. This has to be a Guinness Book record. At the nearest repair shop, I asked, “How fast can you fix this? I’m still a ways from home.”
“Rush job?” he scratched his chin. “Under an hour. But it’ll be $350.00.”
“Charge it,” I said wearily. “Whatever saves me from sleeping in a hotel tonight.”
Pouring myself stale coffee, I retired to a cement-floored waiting area that smelled of motor oil and B.O. I’d been resting my head against the wall for the better part of an hour when a bell jingled with another waiting customer.
“Hi,” I greeted, less because I wanted to and more because the small area made it uncomfortable to avoid him. He was a sturdy guy who looked like he had been a linebacker in college before retiring to desk life.
“Hey,” he tried for a smile, but I could tell he was having a bad day.
“What are you in for?”
“Break-in. They smashed both windows and stole my stereo and phone.”
“That sucks,” I sympathized.
“The worst part is that I was parked in EmptyTomb Church.”
“Really?” I asked. “Are you a member of EmptyTomb?”
He grunted. “Used to be. I even worked there as a videographer until the pastor tried to force the staff to tithe on our paychecks by telling us that it was ‘God’s will.’ He started firing people over it, so I quit. It’s just one big production, a money-making machine.”
“I hear you.” He had no idea how much I understood, but I was too tired to tell him.
The mechanic jingled the door. “Reba Riley? You’re ready to go.”
“Good luck,” I told my new friend. “Don’t let that break-in break you.”
“IS THIS A CHURCH or the United Nations?” I questioned through the windshield. The EmptyTomb Church was so massive it looked like Elton John could give a concert there. (Not that this church would host Elton John, no sir.)
I regretted my decision to add EmptyTomb to my list as soon as I walked into the lobby, where I could hear the ginormous praise band rehearsing and see the tables laden with books by megapastor Rick Smith. If Rick’s politico smile on his many book covers implied anything about the God he served, that God must ooze panache and eat Grey Poupon.
A menagerie of people—from babies to the elderly, with skin tones in every shade—crowded the halls. Their clothing style varied wildly, which made me wonder if some of the folks were confused about where they were going that morning: a pack of teenage boys with Justin Bieber hair and grunge clothes looked like they were heading to a concert straight from the service, while one sporty-fresh lady wore a pleated skirt and sneakers as if to say “Jesus is my doubles partner.” A handsome black fellow in a throwback Shell Station uniform and blue jeans chatted up a dame who sported a cheetah fur–trimmed jacket over knee-high leather boots.
I stepped into the main sanctuary, unprepared for how large it would be: rows of blue chairs stretched like an ocean. I chose a seat in the middle section near the camera guy, wondering if he had to tithe out of his paycheck.
Projected on huge dueling PowerPoint screens, a service countdown clock unnerved me. Church was beginning in two minutes ten seconds, nine seconds, eight seconds . . . I felt like I should be disarming a bomb. Between the screens a massive stage was set up like a Broadway musical, complete with a light bar that looked more expensive than my college degree.
At T minus two seconds, the lights went down and creepy music filled the auditorium. I’m not talking PTCS-spooky, but full-on horror music spooky. A frightening voice-over of Psalm 23 began. Now, I’ve never considered “The Lord is my shepherd” to be an alarming verse, but when paired with an angry voice, sinister music, and a dark room, it became terrifying. I was frozen in place by the weirdness of it all, barely breathing.
The words, “Experience the terror . . . Feel the horror . . . Face your worst nightmare,” flashed over both screens, with images of red eyes, a woman screaming, and children singing “I know a secret.” This megacreepiness was followed by an advertisement for an anti-Halloween theater production.
If this church’s goal was scaring people into heaven, it was doing a bang-up job.
The spotlights flashed on. The pianist gustily played a riff, bringing the congregation to its feet and signaling the huge choir—I counted nearly seventy members—to sway for the opening song. “Jesus!” the sopranos floated; “Jesus!” the baritones echoed; “We’re here for Jesus!” they harmonized together.
“Are you here for Jesus?!” the music minister yelled jubilantly, as if verifying the reason for our attendance.
I remained seated, feeling more nauseated by the minute.
A muscle man to my left was excitedly raising both hands to the heavens, trading high-fives with the Holy Ghost. To my right, Leopard Coat Lady stepped out of her pew to spin when the Spirit and music so moved her. A guy in front of me did an improvised “Pharaoh-Pharaoh” dance. “Satan be gone from here,” he commanded with authority, as though Satan had been trying to block his dance moves.
The build-up went on for half an hour before Pastor Rick Smith graced the stage. From the thunderous applause that greeted his arrival, you’d think he was Jesus resurrected.
“How many of you believe five thousand people will be saved at the coming revival?” Pastor Rick shouted. The crowd roared.
“I believe!” yelled a short, middle-aged brunette to my left, punctuating her words with large hops. Her daughter, who looked about eleven, sat directly next to me. As the pastor talked on, the mother grew visibly more excited, alternating between speaking in tongues and shouting “Amen!” The daughter visibly shrank into her seat.
I had the urge to grab the girl’s hand and run to a place where she could order ice cream and I could have a very strong drink.
“Hell is REAL!” Pastor Rick yelled. The tween was now practically curled in a ball. If she hadn’t been next to me, I would have bolted. But I felt protective of her, as though by simply sitting there I could shield her. I felt the PTCS symptoms all over: elevated blood pressure, rising nausea. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the guy whose windows had been smashed in this church’s parking lot; I felt like the pastor was taking a sledgehammer to me personally.
The pastor stomped around with a red face, the huge dueling screens rendering him the world’s biggest, scariest Oompa Loompa. “You must be SAVED!” he shouted.
I agreed with him; I needed to be saved, all right. Saved from his service.
“Take out a paper and pen!” he decreed. Pockets rustled. “God told me each person in this congregation needs to save twelve people from hell this year. Make a list of everyone you love and look hard at this list. Every person on that list is going to burn in hell if you don’t do something today!”
That did it. I grabbed my purse and ran to the bathroom, mentally apologizing to the girl for leaving her there alone. But even in the bathroom I couldn’t escape the pastor’s voice, piped in on high volume. “If you don’t invite those people to church, they’re going to hell. And their blood is on your hands!”
I barely made it into a stall before I threw up my breakfast.
“How many people are you going to save this year?” Pastor Rick yelled through the speakers as I sank to the white tile floor in the stall, shaky from heaving.
One. I thought. I hope to save exactly one.
“YOU KNOW, FOR A holiday that’s supposed to be about attracting the goddess of wealth, Diwali sure seems to be repelling money right out of my bank account,” I muttered to Erin on the phone while clearing my wine bar to make room for an altar. “I had to spend forty bucks to prepare for today’s Hindu New Year.”
“Isn’t it a little early for the New Year?” Erin asked. My roommate at Ohio State, she had moved to Tennessee after college. I loved her in spite of the fact that she looked like Giselle the supermodel and had more energy than Tony Robbins on Red Bull. We talked as often as we could.
“Different calendar. Hey, I have to get going. I still have a bunch of preparation to do before going to the temple tonight: buy fireworks, trace Rangoli on the floor, decorate my shrine . . .”
“Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”
“No time to chat. The sari store opens in an hour. Talk tomorrow!”
Since Diwali was a labor-intensive holiday, I was thankful the Sickness had given me a good day. (I’d been awake for a full four hours in a row!) I felt the same joy and excitement of preparing for Christmas with one notable difference: the goddess Lakshmi was a bit more terrifying than Sweet Little Baby Jesus. I mean, this woman had the power to give or take away my wealth and came equipped with more breasts than hands, so I did my best to please her:
1. Clean my house. Partial check: I only got to the kitchen and living room.
2. Place mustard oil lights around my home to attract Lakshmi. Partial check: improvised. I smeared yellow mustard on candles.
3. Set off fireworks. FAIL. Problems: (A) Lack of readily available fireworks in Ohio in October. (B) Setting off fireworks downtown is illegal. (C) My leftover July fourth sparklers failed to ignite. Instead, I watched authentic Diwali fireworks on YouTube.
4. Trace Rangoli (lotus patterns) on the floor with chalk and fill with powder. Partial check. Sidewalk chalk did not work on wood floors, so I put a piece of paper on the floor and drew on it. Since powder was not otherwise specified, I grabbed chili powder, which caused Oxley to sneeze violently and spread chili dust all over the living room.
5. Open doors and windows to let Lakshmi in. Partial check: windows only. It was chilly and Oxley might try to escape.
6. Decorate shrine to Lakshmi to attract prosperity. Check. I created a lovely altar on our wine bar, hoping Lakshmi would enjoy a glass of chardonnay on Diwali like Santa enjoys cookies. My altar included candles, fruit, flowers, cash, and mustard. I am nothing if not thorough.
7. Finalize all account books to be ready for the start of the new financial year. FAIL. No holiday is worth that much effort. Instead, I exerted the powers of online bill pay.
8. Exchange gifts of nuts and sweets. Partial check. We did not have nuts, so Trent and I exchanged granola bars.
9. Wear new clothes. CHECK! But this one took a little more doing. I fell in love with a satin and chiffon sari that, while entirely impractical for work, made me feel exotic and sexy and . . . temple ready? The kind shopkeepers assured me I was. The woman who dressed me murmured instructions about the elaborate pinning in a heavy accent, “Thirty-five pins . . . get all out before take off!” I stood perfectly still to avoid the pins while a second woman fussed to arrange my sari just so. The first woman draped me in jewelry and bracelets while I half-heartedly protested. What am I going to tell Trent? I worried. “The outfit was cheaper than a trip to India?” But it was all so incredibly lovely . . . and the shopkeeper said she would give me a discount . . . and then I was taking out my credit card.
I twirled in front of the mirror, thinking how I had always envied sari-wearing Hindu women for their tantalizing lack of body shame about baring their midriffs at the mall. Toned or ample, supple or saggy, they promenaded in public wrapped in gauzy fabrics, strutting their stuff like colorful butterflies, stomachs exposed between the sari top and skirt, as if to say: So what if I’ve had a few kids! Stretch marks are a point of pride!
MY MIDRIFF WAS BARE under the gorgeous sheer wrap and my sari’s intricate blue-and-red beadwork glittered and sparkled madly. I was an exotic princess. I was a Bollywood movie star. I was Hindu Bride Barbie. I was . . . shockingly overdressed.
As in, wearing-a-tuxedo-to-wash-the-car overdressed. I furtively surveyed the people in the temple parking lot, who were all wearing jeans.
But I had already spent the money on my outfit, so I pulled myself together Scarlett O’Hara—style, and marched my bejeweled behind right through the temple door while giving myself a pep talk: I am fierce. I am fearless. I am . . . totally unsure whether to wash my feet in the little foot shower in the coatroom.
Okay, so the pep talk fell apart as soon as I got through the door. Since I knew I would soon lose my nerve, I tore off my shoes and dashed around the corner, nearly colliding with a short, stout, shirtless Indian gentleman wearing a loincloth. It was a long loincloth—to his feet—but loincloth was the first word that came to mind. Well, that and Buddha, because he looked exactly like one.
“Welcome!” he beamed.
I explained that I had called ahead and could he please direct me to the priest?
“Is my dress okay? I wasn’t sure what to wear . . .”
“Traditional dress is perfect,” he said and smiled.
I was so relieved I almost hugged him. Instead I took him up on his offer of a quick tour and within two seconds, I felt like I’d stepped straight through to India, minus the twenty-four-hour flight and jet lag. There were more shirtless men in loincloths, a few in outfits that resembled white togas with decorative sheets thrown over one shoulder, and several wearing traditional everyday garments. Many, including my guide, Shri Kyran, had markings on their foreheads—like a more elaborate version of what Christian churches do on Ash Wednesday. “To signify the gods we follow,” he explained, adding that this temple served a wide range of devotees from all over the world. I tried and failed to imagine a single Christian church in India that could meet the needs of the gazillion brands of Christianity.
“How many gods and goddesses are there?” I asked.
“Ah, very good question. Many Hindus will say there are ten or a hundred or a thousand or 330 million, but there is really only one God.”
“One?” I said, baffled, because there were at least ten statues of different deities in my direct line of sight.
“Only one.”
The temple was set up in an octagon, with each wall housing a different god/goddess behind a glass wall, like a very large jewelry display case. If there were only one God, why were there eight walls? And two extra statues? And a fountain? On our tour, we had walked counterclockwise around the perimeter to greet each god/goddess, and devotees were doing the same, bringing gifts (like on my home altar!) and bowing, even prostrating, before the statues.
“It certainly looks like they are worshiping multiple gods.”
He reflected for a minute. “The gods and goddesses are different faces of the one God, like different personality aspects of God. You are familiar with Catholic saints, yes?”
“So . . . like how some Catholics relate to Mary as the divine mother, some Hindus relate to the goddesses?”
“Yes. People need different representations to relate to the Divine.”
I considered Shri Kyran’s words as we continued greeting the gods, which I accomplished with a reverent bob of my head and slight bow. He explained that many people had trouble with the idea of God as a father, especially people who had endured drop-out dads or abuse. I was struck by the idea of a female God; there seemed something terribly lacking about a patriarchal male God who was ever ready to smite you but was also the embodiment of Love.
I liked all the gods/goddesses once I got used to their snaky arms, squat hips, and multiple appendages. But my hands-down, write-a-postcard home favorite discovery was a little room with a fountain in the center and just enough space for us to shuffle single-file around it.
“What’s this?” I whispered to Shri Kyran as we approached.
“This is our monument to the invisible God who cannot be seen, who is too vast to be contained.”
Well. Knock me over with a feather: This was a God I once knew very, very well. “Hello,” I said mentally to the God Who Could Not Live Behind a Glass Wall, whom I did not expect to encounter here, in a Hindu temple.
Devotees walked into the little room and around the fountain. We fell in line behind them and I carefully copied the actions of the people in front of me. (Walk halfway around the fountain. Stop. Bow head. Pick up ladle. Dip into fountain. Pour water over top stone. Dip hand in fountain, touch water to forehead. Kiss hand.)
I realized that my attitude to this God had softened enough that I could kiss my own hand in his honor and . . . could it be? Almost enjoy it.
Was I worshipping the God I once knew while performing a Hindu ceremony? Holy cow, I was! (Sorry. The holy cow thing just seemed appropriate, given the setting.)
So it was there, in the Hindu temple, performing a Hindu ritual, that I realized it was possible to honor the God of one religion through the rituals of another.
It was also at the temple that I asked myself a question my heart seemed to already know the answer to: Could it be that all religions were like these statues in the room, different representations of a God who was too vast to be contained? Could it be that the God of my childhood, this Unknown God, was another face I could learn to celebrate?
As I stood there mid-thought, a tiny girl escaped her mother, bounded into the little altar room, and jumped right into the fountain. She splashed me, soaking herself and laughing gleefully, as if playing in the fountain of the Unknown God was the very reason she existed, the very reason we all exist. Time seemed to slow down as I took in her wet dress, lacy socks, and tiny shoes. Her exuberant brown eyes met mine and she lifted her tiny arms to me. I picked her up. Before I handed her off to her apologetic mama, I realized, She is me; she is all of us.
It was late when I bid Shri Kyran a heartfelt good-bye. He pushed a fragrant container of leftover dessert Gulab Jaman into my hands on my way out the temple door. “Enjoy, Reba. Happy Diwali!”
As I drove away, I saw teenage boys setting off fireworks at the edge of the property. Guess I get to check fireworks off the list after all, I smiled. Though exhausted, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss the experience.
Until the drive home, that is. It was inky black on the backcountry roads that Ursula the GPS instructed me to take, making me hopelessly lost in the process. It began to storm, sheeting rain and wind that had me gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands. Near midnight, I put on emergency flashers and drove slowly, but as I turned a sharp corner, I saw two large headlights coming straight at me far too quickly. A truck was hydroplaning in the center of the road.
I didn’t know what waited off the road, but I knew I had to go, now.
I heard the awful sound of truck brakes and skidding. I felt the bumpy crunch of gravel and dirt beneath my car as I veered to the shoulder of the road. The moment was suspended in a wordless prayer: Please, not now. Please, not when I’ve just started to find You.
I don’t know if the “You” I meant was God or me or both, but the truck whooshed past, rocking my car but not touching it. My headlights illuminated a wide tree, and my wheels skidded to an uneven stop mere inches away from it.
Saved, I thought, shaking with thoughts of what could have been and almost was. I’m saved. I sat in the weighty silence, crying terrified and thankful tears. I turned on the interior light to call Trent, but the force of the turn had spilled my phone and the contents of my messy passenger seat all over the floor.
Bending over the console, digging through church programs and religious tracts of multiple faiths, I took stock: I was wearing a sari and holding a New Testament, a Quran, and a synagogue’s Yom Kippur announcement. On the floor, my single serving communion cup and tea bags from the Buddhist meditation center had spilled over my medical files and “Dummies Guide to Wicca” bookmarked with a printout about Native American spirituality.
I started to laugh. If I had died tonight, who would they have called for last rites?