Independence Day

Before coming to the US, I always wanted to be there for Independence Day celebrations. This is the biggest holiday here (apart from Christmas of course). However, this was just the day when Americans made the Declaration of Independence and they had to fight fiercely for 5 years to defeat the British army and then had to wait for another 2 years for the Treaty of Versailles that recognized the independence of the USA. So, the actual Independence Day was not July 4th, 1776. But this is the day celebrated here to commemorate the birthday of the USA (in a similar manner as Christmas; Jesus has not been born on that day). This year, I had the opportunity to spend my holiday like an American; an apologetic American though.

I went to Maumee for the fireworks on July 3rd night. They'd set the mortars on the bridge connecting Maumee and Perrysburg. So, people at both sides of the river could enjoy the fireworks. And that ensured the debris and cinders would fall into the river (or on the bridge) and wouldn't cause fires in the trees or grasslands. And I learned a lesson: don't sit too close to where they fire that stuff; you might get a good view, but that would also mean you'd share the falling debris.

It was magnificent. The fireworks lasted for 30 minutes ending in a crescendo leading to a big applause by spectators. And I was thinking about what one of my American friends had told me; that all the gunpowder spent every year for July 4th fireworks is probably more than what was spent over the Revolutionary War. Well, I cannot be sure of that, but something is for sure: just like the other big holiday (Christmas), people (or more accurately speaking, the stores) celebrate the holiday in a shopping spree, buying firecrackers, American flags and much more and all that while American patriotic tunes are in the air on TV ads and in stores.

Well, one shouldn't be surprised. In America, spending money (and hence boosting the economy that gets its power mainly from all these money transactions) is a way to show one's patriotism. I don't forget that after 911, people were encouraged to show their patriotism by way of spending money to leverage the plummeting economy (which was already stalled long before that fateful day).

The fireworks was the last part of the celebrations where people enjoyed their time eating hot-dogs (an American specialty; over 16 billion consumed each years) and all sort of yummies while watching music bands and parades along Conant St. And all this an excellent opportunity for me as a sociologist to observe how Americans celebrate their Independence Day. Actually, that was the main reason I wished to be here on this day; to observe how patriotic is this truly patriotic day observed. But what I saw was more or less a display of American way of life.

And I can say as a revolutionary, I was not so happy about it. Not that I was surprised (as I knew about how things go even before coming here). But one expects to see some commemoration of the bravery of the people who fought the superpower of their time to win their liberty. One expects to see patriotism beyond merely display of flags, fireworks or shopping. And although I enjoyed both the fireworks and also doing my job as a sociologist in a very warm popular setting, I was not completely happy. Maybe I'm very old-fashioned or (as my father jokes) Mr. Classic.

On July 4th, I went to the Fallen Timbers monument for a tour around the sacred ground (as read in the newsletter announcement). The monument is built in memory of the Battle of Fallen Timbers. According to the official website for the venue:

The Battle of Fallen Timbers, August 20, 1794, has been called the “last battle of the American Revolution” and one of the three most important battles in the development of our nation. The decisive victory by the Legion of the United States over a confederacy of Indian tribes opened the Northwest Territory, a five-state region unceded by the native inhabitants, for westward expansion and led to Ohio’s statehood in 1803!

The battle took place amid trees toppled by a tornado just north of the Maumee River in the present-day city of Maumee.

The legion was commanded by General “Mad” Anthony Wayne, a veteran of Valley Forge handpicked by President Washington to oversee the new nation’s first professional army. Wayne’s force, made up of 1,600 to 1,700 “regulars” and 1,500 members of the Kentucky Militia, marched north from Cincinnati to build a series of forts between the Ohio and Maumee rivers. Among Wayne’s officers was 21-year-old General William Henry Harrison, who would become the ninth president of the United States.

Waiting for Wayne and his men were about 1,000 warriors representing the native confederacy and led by Miami war chief Little Turtle, an old nemesis of the United States. Other leaders of the confederacy included Shawnee Chief Blue Jacket and Delaware Chief Buckongahelas. One of the most famous leaders of the native resistance, Tecumseh, also took part in the battle.

Fewer than 100 men on each side died in the brief battle, but the Legion’s victory marked a major turning point in the battle for the western frontier. The victory led to the signing the Treaty Greenville in 1795. Without the treaty, portions of Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois and Wisconsin might have remained a buffer zone between Indian and settled territory, or even become part of British-controlled Canada.

The actual battlefield is one mile to the north of the monument. But anyway, what makes this ground sacred? The battle that opened the Northwest Territory for expansion? The blood shed on this ground? And if so, whose blood? That of American soldiers who were opening other peoples' land for settlement? Or the blood of the savage (terrorists, in our modern-day terminology) who resisted the occupation of their ancestral land?

The irony is that the very people who had fought the British aggression a few years ago to win their liberty had become the new aggressors in the land of the free and home of the brave and used their might to drive away the people who had been living there for centuries (or probably millennia) in the New World.

Having read about the battle, I felt most angry about the British. Unhappy that they were about losing their most profitable colony, they instigated the Indians and provided them with supplies to fight the Americans. Their old proven policy in all their colonies. And unscrupulous that they were, although they had pledged their support, when defeated Indians fled toward Fort Miami (the British outpost), they faced the closed gates and were routed by the marching American legion (who also decimated Indian villages and crops in the area afterwards). This led to the signing of the Treaty of Greenville in 1795, which ceded much of present-day Ohio to the US, paving the way for the creation of the state in 1803. Well, we know about it: peace under the barrel of the gun.

And those poor Indians fell in the same trap in the War of 1812 and trusted the British. In that war, the British had gone so far as to give bounty for American soldiers' scalp. And as before, they did foresake the Indians when they felt like that. And those defeated Indians had to cede all their claims to their lands for good.

And knowing about all this, while I was walking amid the beautiful prairie on the sacred usurped ground, listening to the song of the birds, I was thinking to myself: what would the soul of those Indians think about me as a Muslim (who is against oppression and occupation) treading their land without their consent?

A Day of Worship with African Americans

It's about passion, energy and stamina. That's how I felt about African American worship judged by what I'd seen in movies. But I had not an opportunity to observe it first hand. My first experience of worship with Africans was oddly enough in Nicosia, Cyprus.

When I'd gone to Cyprus for my visa interview, the day before the interview was Sunday. And it was Mother's Day in Iran. I felt very unhappy for being away from my mother and the religious places that I used to visit. In Iran, Mother's Day is observed on birth anniversary of our Lady Fatima Zahra, the beloved daughter of our Prophet and the wife of our first Imam. And I was so unhappy that a second visa interview (after the first one failed in Dubai) forced me to leave Iran on such a blessed day.

So, I thought I'd better find a religious place to pray for my mother, myself and also for my visa interview. And trivially, the religious places available to me in Nicosia were churches. So, I chose St. Paul Anglican Church as my first stop. I assumed that would be the only place with their prayers in a language understandable to me. I had a hard time at Armenian churches in Iran. Greek prayers at Greek Orthodox churches would have felt the same.

When I arrived at St. Paul, their first Mass was already over. When the second Mass began, I found it mostly populated by Africans. However, it was not an African church and I couldn't still have a completely African worship experience. Upon completion of the mass, the pastor who was Nigerian asked about me, my religious affiliation and nationality and when I explained, he found it quite interesting why I was there. He prayed for my mother, me and my visa interview. And the wording of his prayer was so moving and so simple at the same time.

As I'd already got admitted to the American Studies program at the INAES, University of Tehran (the biggest, oldest, most prestigious university in Iran), another rejection in this visa interview would had not been the end of the world to me. But I was still so angry about the first rejection in Dubai (which was totally unfair) and I badly wanted this second visa interview to be positive even if I chose to continue my graduate study in Iran. And I'd employed an army of prayer warriors with this one being the last. And apparently all those prayers in Iran and at different churches in Nicosia worked quite well.

So, when I decided to attend Bethel Apostolic Church in Toledo, I was already thinking about my experience in Nicosia. When I consulted my church roster to select churches to visit, I was curious about the words Apostolic and Temple. When I went on my reconnaissance tour to the find about church location and its worship schedule, I found it in a black neighborhood. So, this was a black church (hey, I have no racist connotation in mind; I just find African American too long a word).

When I asked about their prayer schedule and its length, I was told that "we don't have a set length in mind; we just pray as long as we feel like that; it could take one hour and half, two hours, maybe more". So, I had to dedicate myself to this service without planning about visiting other churches for the day. And when I attended the service, I understood what my black brother meant; hence, the opening statement to this post. I had already braced for a lengthy service and I found him to be true to his word. The service took more than two hours.

These people were Pentecostal, hence the word Apostolic in their name. The service consisted of almost all parts found in traditional services in any church with the exception of communion given here only 3-4 times a year (in order not to make it a habit). Instead, they have regular healing service almost every week, or as they refer to it, altar call (which is among the tenets of Pentecostal beliefs). This altar call takes a lot of time and people giving it at the altar are not limited to the ordained pastor or his associate. I was told that anybody who has the gift from Holy Spirit could do it. It constituted a very big part of the whole Sunday service (with the sermon being the biggest longest part).

Speaking in tongues is another hallmark of Pentecostalism; however, as I have difficulty understanding black accent (a problem I have to get over with sooner or later), I couldn't follow all their words to make sure how much did they speak in tongues. Almost everything I could understand and the way he spoke, sounded and looked normal to me. But something I didn't have difficulty grasping was the number of times I heard the words Jesus and Amen all over the service. And another recurrent theme was giving thanks to the Lord.

Another thing that I didn't have difficulty understanding was their passion in their worship. It should not be interpreted that I find worship at white churches passion-free, but compared to what I saw here (and what I'd seen in movies about black churches), worship in other churches is mostly a set of rituals. And here, fellowship was very important. Soon after the service began, newcomers were supposed to stand up so that regulars come to their pew and greet them.

And yes, my favorite part: music. Here, music was really passionate and lengthy. It covered most of the service one way or another. At times it was energetic and arousing and at times it was just a background to the words. Although the service was more or less traditional, the songs were mostly praise type (the sort that you would hear in contemporary worships). At times, I felt like listening to Whitney Houston or other R&B songs for that matter. Even when there was no singing (solo or chorus), you could still hear electric organ in the background for the most part. Quite an energy reserve on the side of the organist.

After I left the church, although I had done my homework for the day, I consulted my church roster again to see if I can find any afternoon services nearby. I could find two.

One was God's Family in Ministry. A very small church (or ministry) with a female black pastor. Here too, giving thanks to God was a recurring theme. The pastor was very conservative and (despite lacking seminary education) was quite comfortable giving biblical citations to back up her fiery roaring sermon condemning sins and different manifestations of desire and evil in our life and society. She was fascinated (and I found it funny) that at times I (a non-Christian) helped a young couple beside me with finding those readings in their Bible.

What I observed here was not a typical church Sunday service. As the name implied, it was more like a family gathering to worship God. And although the church was located in a poor black neighborhood with most of the attendees being poor, both pastor and her brother were sort of well-to-do and owning businesses. The clientele were dedicated in their attendance. One of them had walked about five miles to attend the worship. Impressing.

When it came to prayer, I found it quite a family ministry. Prayer was not limited to the pastor; everybody was supposed to stand up and give a prayer. And although I had explained to the pastor beforehand that I was not a Christian and my attendance there was mostly for the sake of observation and research, I was not spared. I was familiar with biblical language, but I found it hypocritical to give a biblical prayer without believing in the doctrine. So, I gave mine with a Quranic theme: May God bless people who spread His word and those who are steadfast in His straight path. Amen.

When the service concluded, I couldn't resist the temptation to play their electronic keyboard (I miss mine in Iran). Their music minister was absent, so I could entertain the people a little with my "Let there be light". I admit that cookies and keyboards are my weaknesses. Especially now that I've left my keyboard back in Iran, whenever I see one, I have a hard time stopping myself.

After this service, I proceeded to my third black worship for the day. This one was the least interesting. The pastor who was Pentecostal (and was bearded like me) had a long list of grievances against untrue Pentecostals (including the first church that I had visited in the morning). And in general, he had a lot to say about how non-Christian are the Christians in this country and how doomed and condemned they are for their infinite depravations. Judged by the name of the church (which I omit here), I expected to hear such words. But he surpassed my expectations.

I felt like I was listening to an ultra-orthodox fundamentalist Muslim. If his beard was a little longer, I could have soundly assumed that one of Bin-Laden's disciples was preaching to me. Although I found myself in the wrong place and felt a strong urge to leave the place to save my afternoon, I pressed myself to stay there to have a better sense of American fundamentalism. This was more or less the black version of the fundamentalist white church I had visited four months ago (and eventually evaded to write about it and put this post instead).

He was patriarchal not only in theory, but also in acts. He had a belt handy to teach his son some lessons in manners and behavior. And just the same way that abusing drugs would render them ineffective, his doses of discipline were very short-lived and he had to politely excuse himself every few minutes for interrupting our theological discussion to take his son to the bathroom and re-invigorate his practical lessons. Actually, his son was quite a normal active little boy for his age, curious about everything but his father thought otherwise. Those belt doses continued even during the worship. Whenever his wife (who like other women in the church had covered her hair with a scarf for the worship) couldn't keep the son from doing mischief by showing the magical belt, the pastor had to leave the stage for a short detour to the bathroom.

The worship was mostly dominated by giving thanks to God for His countless blessings and those thanksgivings words were punctuated by numerous Hallelujah and Amen interjections with tambourines embellishing it all (the pastor wielded one for the most of the service). Well, he had criticized other black churches for making their worship overwhelmed with thanksgiving and devoid of theology and thought. Even if we hold his overgeneralization true, was his service different?

To make me feel even more welcome at his church (as if his fanatical views and practical lessons were not enough), he mentioned at one point during his sermon: Buddha did not create the world, Muhammad did not create the world, Moses did not create the world, only Jesus is the Lord. Apparently, he had some misunderstandings about creation and Islamic beliefs (after the worship I explained to him that we don't hold our prophet as the Creator; there's only one God with all prophets being merely His creatures and servants).

Although this last church visit was not so fun and made me feel my afternoon wasted, I still prefer to think of the first church as a representative of black worship. I hope to visit more of this. They may be lengthy, but surely are invigorating and energetic.

God Has Blessed America

This morning, Pastor Tom at Hope Lutheran Church based his sermon on the famous word and song God Bless America. He made it clear in his sermon (which was as always more like a lecture in eloquence) that God has granted this nation so much compared to others, even though there are some pages in its history which are not so bright (e.g. slavery, treatment of Native Americans, etc).

He supplemented his sermon with a short movie by another pastor enumerating all the amenities that Americans enjoy, giving statistics so that we understand what is taken for granted in America is yearned by huge numbers of underprivileged around the world and how Americans are in ever-increasing greed for more.

Yet, Americans always ask God to bless them. He concluded that God has blessed America already. He has granted them the resources and potentials to earn and make this much. The very ability to do that much IS the blessing by God. So, instead of ever asking for more and more, Americans need to share some blessings with others who are less fortunate and spread God's blessings. That's what Jesus would expect them as Christians as a show of gratitude for what they have already received.