blogging for academic credit part 2: Madison Ave. Lessons in Faith

Note: this was originally written for my NYU class about an even that took place on Sept 26.

He was trying to do me a favor. The security guard at the side of the press pen opened the gate as soon as he spotted my notebook. In the chaos of the crowd, I'd ended up standing in the middle of six very tall men, at the beginning of what was to be nearly three hours of speeches after the 25^th annual Muslim Day Parade. I looked at the guard, into the pen, back at the crowd. I said, “No thanks. But thanks.” and he closed the gate and turned away. The parade officials were listing the names of their Board of Trustees. At the back of the shell hung a giant American flag. I walked back through the crowd into the bazaar.

Jabir Choudhry, one of the parade's co-chairs, told me that the purpose of the parade was to bring Muslims in the New York area together, “so that they could learn from each other.” I had seen this in varying degrees of literalness: multiple tents at the post-parade bazaar sold books from around the world. One tent offered sign ups for free Arabic lessons. But I learned something, too: despite what I'd been told in my theology classes, one doesn't really need to read the Qu'ran in Arabic in order to be Muslim. That is, practically speaking. I was asked, “Have you read the Qu'ran?” and replied, “Yes, but in English.” Three times I was asked, and three times, the reply was, “Oh, I don't know Arabic either.” I asked why. One woman, who preferred that I didn't use her name, said that for her it was something to learn as a way of deepening faith, not as a gateway. What was important first, she said, was that I believe, and know what is true. I thought about faith of a mustard seed. I thought about Latin Mass. I thought about Hebrew School and bat mitzvahs. It occurred to me that I had never before been proselytized by a Muslim. I knew some quotes, I knew some politics, but I didn't know the “why.”

I ended up back in the crowd before the bandshell, in a small group of Bosnian women who stood uncomfortably close to me, scolding their teenaged kids (in a small group directly behind us) and, once, pointing to my notebook. Four speeches in, one of the women muttered, “I haven't heard a word about Bosnia yet.” Although many of the speeches were about Muslim unity, standing up for one's self, and the importance of being proud of one's faith, what was being said on the stage at that moment was directed squarely at the journalists and other outsiders in the audience: Muslims must stand up and tell their own American narratives. The current narrative was wrong, and it wasn't going to be fixed by those outside of the faith.

The crowd thinned out by the end of the second hour of post-parade speeches. I was waiting around to hear Nihad Awad, Executive Director of CAIR and one of the two Grand Marshals of the parade. The press pen was nearly empty, and at least half of the men (and one woman) on stage had not yet spoken. I wandered off into the park, still in earshot of the speakers, and listened.

Site-specific martyrdom!

[I wrote this piece for a j-school workshop, but because the play's been extended, I am happy that I can actually post it and have it be relevant. Go see this show, if you're in the area. And if you're not in the area, you should come anyway. I live around the corner. I'll show you a good bar for a post-wonderfullness drink]

Murder in the Cathedral in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn

T.S. Eliot's work has a way of marking out important moments in my intellectual life: "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is the first poem I ever loved; "The Waste Land" the first with which I had a long term relationship. So it's fitting that I christened my move to Brooklyn, and the beginning of grad school, by seeing a site-specific production of Eliot's play "Murder in the Cathedral" – the story of Thomas Becket's assassination – at the Church of St. Joseph in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn.

The story: Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, returns to England after seven years of exile. He's just barely reconciled with King Henry II, to whom Becket used to be a close confidante. The peace, for whatever reason, doesn't last and four knights go to Canterbury to murder the Archbishop. About three years after his assassination, Becket is canonized. Look it up on Wikipedia.

In Eliot's play, the four knights double as four tempters, each approaching newly returned Becket (played by Godfrey L. Simmons, Jr.) and offering a course of action. The first three parallel the temptations of Christ: physical comfort and safety, power, and treachery. Director Alec Duffy had each of the tempters wheeled down the center aisle at breakneck speed, accompanied by lumieres, and dressed in powersuits. Each were able, but it was the fourth tempter (played by Jordan Coughtry), and the temptation offered, that cut the deepest. This tempter offered martyrdom. In other words, exactly what Becket wants. In this scene, Coughtry, dressed as a saint, chases Simmons through the church and into the confessional, where a portion of the scene takes place out of the audience's sight.

The confessional scene was effective, but it is Simmons's delivery of the Christmas Sermon at the pulpit that shifted the production from a good performance to something a little more eerie. The sermon opens the second act of the play, after a brief intermission (during which, by the way, you can purchase and imbibe beer in the church). I have to admit that I wasn't yet paying attention when Simmons began to speak and found myself, not for the first time in the production, looking around the church to find the source of an echoed voice. Simmons's delivery is perfect. At the end of the sermon, audience members crossed themselves at the doxology and, after Simmons' amen, murmured its repetition.

"Murder in the Cathedral" was first performed in the Chapter House of the Canterbury Cathedral. I can see why this production also uses a church as a stage. It's one thing to see actors, dressed as clergy, barring doors against four actors dressed as murderous knights. But in this production, the actors barricade real church doors, locking us in with them, inviting us to feel a tiny bit of collective dread as Becket orders his men to let his assassins inside.

Directed by Alec Duffy with music by Dave Malloy, plays through October 2 [EXTENDED through October 10]. Thursdays – Saturdays at 7:30 PM and Sundays at 2 PM. Admission is a suggested donation of $10, though they say “No one turned away.” And if you go in a group of 4 or more, admission is $5. The Church of St. Joseph is at 856 Pacific Street in Brooklyn, between Vanderbilt and Underhill. Official Website.