called to pray

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This is a piece I wrote for my Residence Life class last semester.  It is true.

It resounds in the cool smog-filled air, a solitary voice in the quiet of the night.  Echoing around us, it seems to saturate our very beings to the core.  A chill possesses my body; a shiver stirs my soul.  It is 4:00 am, and we are standing atop a quaint hotel in Amman, Jordan.  I am overwhelmed with awe as this beautiful voice simultaneously pierces and suffuses the atmosphere with foreign words declaring the greatness of God.  The sound emanating from the massive minaret across the street dominates the landscape completely.  It has an ominous quality, a call that requires immediate and sincere response.  Rise from your slumber; prostrate yourselves before the Lord.  I have never heard so powerful an appeal.  Prayer is better than sleep.

The hustle and bustle of the city is in full swing.  It is midday, the sun beating down on this ancient and tumultuous city.  The alleyways are cramped and congested, clogged arteries of the heart of Abrahamic religion.  This is Jerusalem.  I am in the Muslim quarter of the Old City, yet I see the effects of small but growing pockets of Jewish settlers moving into the area.  Israeli flags hang from more buildings than the locals would like.  It is an intentional and divisive tactic.  Israeli soldiers are omnipresent, machine-guns in hand.  Palestinian men in jeans, tight t-shirts and greased hair call from their shops, making promises to tourists they cannot keep.  An old Palestinian woman sits on the cold, damp brick of the road selling vegetables from cardboard boxes.  Ultra-orthodox Jews shuffle by rapidly, black pants and coats with tassels, white shirts and dark hats, earlocks swaying anxiously in their hurry toward the western wall.  The visual landscape testifies to Israeli superiority.  But it is noon, and time for Muslims to pray.  The call to prayer begins to blare from a loudspeaker from a small mosque in the interconnected buildings that form this alley.   Moments later another call across the city cries out with the same declaration.  Soon six different mosques are urging the city to prayer, a cacophonous blend of garbled voices transcending the tension of the city.  It is impossible to ignore.  It is an unforgettable reminder that Muslims still live in this city and will not be overlooked.

A dusty road leads to the village of al-Tuani in the south Hebron hills of the West Bank.  Dilapidated mud huts dot the hillside.  We have come to visit this besieged community positioned precariously close to a Jewish settlement.  The settlement is a recent development; the village has been there as long as anyone can remember.  We wander the unkempt roads, listening to the stories of the villagers.  This community is the frequent victim of near lethal attacks from nearby settlers.  Masked men attack children on their way to school with clubs.  Poison is sown surreptitiously among the crops of the villagers to reap destruction.  This is a community beset with poignant hatred and sinister violence.  Our tour takes us by the concrete mosque, a small box of a building with a loudspeaker affixed to the side.  We are told that at prayer time local children race each other to the mosque.  The first one to arrive gets the privilege of performing the call to prayer.  Indeed, this must be the case, because moments later an untrained and incoherent voice shrieks through the loudspeaker across the silent desert landscape, bringing a smile to the faces of those around us.  Laughter in the form of children tumbles out of the mosque.  There is joy in prayer.

Cairo must mean “chaos” in Arabic.  If it doesn’t, it should.  This metropolis is the ultimate discordant convergence of urban sounds.  We dodge traffic all the way to the mosque this smoggy Friday morning.  We have come to observe the Friday noon prayer service, a time when this city comes closest to quieting down.  We sit nervously on the curb of the parking lot as the overflow of people pours out onto the green carpets laid on the asphalt.  All the while the call to prayer booms across the city, only amplified by the incessant traffic noise.  Make haste towards prayer; make haste toward welfare.  The entire service is amplified throughout the city.  We sit patiently, unable to understand any of the words.  The service culminates in corporate prayer.  The masses of people surge forward, pushing toward the front to form lines.  Several of us are caught up in the crowd, unable to extricate ourselves from the pious throng.  Now I am in line with hundreds of Muslims men, completely paralyzed as to what to do next.  My heart races, my muscles tense.  The man next to me sticks an elbow in my side, attempting to tell me something.  My anxiety reaches new heights, as I cannot for the life of me figure out what he is trying to tell me.  After more urgent nudging and nodding I realize that I am supposed to line up my toes with his: each row of people touches their toes together with those on either side to connect one continuous line.  We begin the prayer.  I follow those in front of me, trying to mimic their motions.  I stand with hands to ears, listening to the words of God.  Is my salvation compromised? I wonder as I drop to my knees along with five hundred others in this parking lot.  My forehead is pressed against the coarse green carpet, a posture of prayer, of submission.

We are called to pray.  Or more appropriately, we are called to live a prayerful life.  This is a life of prostration before God, of submission to his will.  We live in prayer as one body, bowing before God together.  We are called to pray.

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Filed under Middle East, Theology