I recently watched the film “Kingdom of Heaven,” and I was struck by one of the final lines spoken by the character Saladin, a Muslim leader who battled to take over Jerusalem during the era of the Crusades. When questioned by Orlando Bloom’s character, Balian, a valiant defender of the inhabitants of Jerusalem, on the significance of Jerusalem, Saladin responds, “Nothing.” He walks away but turns back once more to say, “Everything.” My mind instantly turned toward our modern-day Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the question of sacred land.

Both Israelis and Palestinians have suffered profoundly in the fighting that was recently reignited. The world has seen firsthand that missiles and bullets have the same devastating effect on the flesh of Muslims as of Jews. Yet the recent attacks have produced little more than a tenuous cease-fire agreement, fashioned with the aid of outside mediation, and both sides still cling to their land.

Today, Jerusalem is equally revered by Muslims, Jews and Christians as it was during the time of the Crusades. Old Jerusalem is in fact still divided among them: the Muslim Quarter, the Christian Quarter, the Jewish Quarter and the Armenian Quarter. While such destruction and death strikes me as quite godless, this place maintains a level of sanctity unmatched by any other place on Earth.

But can God live in a place? Obviously, the answer depends on whom you are asking, but the consensus of many believers is likely yes — consider the pilgrimage to Mecca or Bethlehem or even the common formulation, “God lives in your heart.” I grew up learning that God was omnipresent — but apparently, he/she hangs out a little more in some places than in others. Location, location, location.

What I do not understand is how a faith-filled believer can justify murder and violence in an area that allegedly possesses this divine quality. Let’s consider a comparison with the real estate market. When any crime is committed within a house, especially violent crimes, the value of the home usually decreases if this history is known to the buyer. According to this logic, why do some insist that God is closest to humankind in a place of such great bloodshed?

And of course there are political motivations when declaring a site holy or sacred, but the politics are only one part of the equation. During my trip to Israel last summer, I was absolutely shocked by the tears, prayers and outward devotion that many locals and tourists alike took to in front of the Wailing Wall, on the Via Dolorosa or near the Dome of the Rock. The experience of God amplified in one specific place is very real for some people, and I suspect this notion continues to contribute to the conflict between the Israelis and the Palestinians today.

For those of us who do not link our religion or our spirituality to one locale, I think this experience of something greater has been felt at one time or another by everyone, sometimes in the strangest of places. It may even be as simple as an acute feeling of insignificance when standing next to the ocean. I often sense some type of holiness, for lack of a better word, when I’m in nature. Whatever it may be, the Earth, or a god, does have a funny way of giving the impression that a place has power.

This power may be real, symbolic or imagined, but it is no less invigorating for the person in its midst. So while it may be tempting to scoff at a population that claims such a force in a certain place, mocking that assertion does not make it any less true for that population, nor does it make it any less attached to that place.

The “everything” that Saladin refers to in the film is elusive, but understanding what that means is essential to resolving conflict around it. I am neither pro-Palestine nor pro-Israel, but I do see a potential common ground in this concept of sacred land. Even though land is notorious for causing disagreement, a “holy land” could be used and shared as a site of peace. Look no further than Jerusalem itself to see that co-existence and mutual respect, though not always perfect, is possible.

Of course, solutions to problems such as these are complicated. I do not claim to have all the answers, but we can only get closer to resolution by thinking critically about and engaging with the subject matter. Over this past semester, these columns have been my place to wrestle with a vast array of issues and problems related to religion and spirituality. At times, I know my opinions have inspired, angered, frustrated and confused. But I am most proud that they have opened a dialogue. And while I doubt there is anything holy among these words, I do hope that they have possessed some power that is bigger than one columnist to create a deeper understanding among people of all faith backgrounds.

Contact Hannah Brady at hbrady@dailycal.org and follow her on Twitter: @brady_hm.

The post On sacred spaces appeared first on The Daily Californian.

As is common in the religious world, the concepts of both agnosticism and atheism are unforgivingly complicated. Even the standard Google search does not adequately resolve inquiry into their basic definitions. My own attempts to tackle these two subjects were in fact quite humbling — I realized, once again, that my personal knowledge in the realm of religion, and its tangents, is not only lacking, but sometimes decidedly incorrect. Therefore, I have entered into this endeavor alongside the uninformed, and my first question is simple: What are agnosticism and atheism?

To best understand these terms, I should probably even back up one step further. The ideologies behind agnosticism and atheism seem linked, in my opinion, in that both of them are outside of “religiosity.” By that I mean, when someone asks “What religion are you?”, people respond in a few distinct ways: “I am (fill in the blank with religious affiliation),” “I am not religious, I’m spiritual,” “I’m agnostic,” “I’m an atheist,” or “I don’t know.”

The first two seem relatively self-explanatory, but the third and fourth often give way to only a vague understanding. And this ambiguity is not going to be entirely quelled by my following efforts because both agnosticism and atheism — like most other religious or spiritual convictions — have various forms and features. Nonetheless, I think it is important to consider what these identities entail.

From the very beginning of my columns, I have freely shared my own religious beliefs — or perhaps more appropriately, my own nonreligious beliefs — as a self-professed atheist. To me, this means that I do not believe in a god or any sort of higher power, and I don’t believe in an afterlife.

Yet even while I read the definition of atheism on the American Atheists web site, I remarked the bleakness of this position when outlined in such a way. The site says that atheists essentially feel that there are “no forces, phenomena, or entities which exist outside of or apart from physical nature, or which transcend nature, or are ‘super’ natural, nor can there be. Humankind is on its own.”

Though I do agree with these statements, my lived experience as an atheist is not nearly as bleak as “believers” might think. My worldview is arguably just as ordered as that of a religious person’s, and I find comfort in that. I see my time on Earth as an absolutely incredible culmination of science and history that I feel obligated to take advantage of on a daily basis.

Agnosticism is not the same thing as atheism by any account. According to the multiple definitions that I happened upon in my research, agnosticism can most readily be defined as a state of incertitude. The website Faithology asserts that agnosticism is characterized by the opinion that “the existence or non-existence of a deity is ultimately unknowable” and that they “neither accept nor reject the possibility that deities are indeed real and may play a part in human life.”

Over the years, I’ve known several people who were self-identified agnostics at one point or another, but most professed a fundamental belief in a higher power — they just didn’t know exactly what that looked like. And, understandably, it is difficult to track down agnostics to speak with — or even agnostic websites — because this “ideology” does not have any fundamental concepts. On the contrary, it can be viewed as a wholesale rejection of fundamentalism.

However, I think the agnostic state is not unlike the state of being a college student. Bombarded by information, opinion, facts and truths, we often resort to the classic “I don’t know” response that summarizes our inner turmoil. I respect agnosticism because it allows people to admit — and embrace — their incertitude. The world is not always as black and white as one might want it to be, and agnostics engage with the gray.

To be clear, this is not about endorsing any one belief set. It is about understanding difference. Last week in front of Dwinelle Hall, I witnessed a showdown between a fundamentalist Christian and a hardcore atheist, both decrying the truth of the other’s claims. I shuffled by with most other passersby, uncomfortable with the confrontation. But my discomfort was not the only reason why I fled.

Categories within the religious context are essentially different, but I don’t feel that anything productive emerges from harping on that difference. Even identities such as atheist or agnostic include much internal variation. It is important to approach difference through understanding. And while definitions may sometimes be daunting and unsatisfactory, labels are not always helpful in discovering what someone truly believes. Just ask the question: “What religion are you?” Then, embrace the confusion and dialogue that ensues.

Contact Hannah Brady at hbrady@dailycal.org and follow her on Twitter: @brady_hm.

The post Agnosticism, atheism and labels appeared first on The Daily Californian.

On Sunday, I had the pleasure of interviewing Don Carson, the author of a book released this year entitled “The Intolerance of Tolerance.” After the interview, I attended a free lecture and Q&A in Wheeler Hall with Carson that was sponsored by the Solano Community Church and CRU, a Christian club on campus. The paradoxically entitled book and ensuing conversation left me reeling. But, it provided me the opportunity to step back and look at the always glorified virtue of tolerance from a different perspective.

As Carson argues in his book, our current social and political environment has put the “virtue” of tolerance on an ethical pedestal. He asserts that we have moved away from a more “pure” tolerance, where competing beliefs can engage each other while still adhering to their own fundamental truth claims and the conviction that others’ claims of truth are wrong.

The product of such an enforced value, as described by Carson, is moral relativism in the public sphere while discussions about true truth and good vs. evil are relegated to the private sphere.

Religious beliefs are therefore limited to this private sphere because their most basic claim is one of exclusiveness. Christians, for example, believe to be following the one, true and only path to God and that their Bible is the ultimate moral authority.

In our culture of “intolerant tolerance,” anyone who espouses such absolutist dogmatism is villainized and usually silenced. With the banner of tolerance above our heads, many Western nations have put an end to debates that are tinged with religiosity. In these cases, secular positions are upheld instead. But what Carson points out is that this is, in and of itself, a form of intolerance — privileging one set of beliefs over another.

While the book does an excellent job of demonstrating this phenomenon — a much better job than this column — I was still left wondering, at the end, what this meant in practice. In our interview, Carson proposed returning to an “old” tolerance that fostered “robust” debate in a “civil” manner, but he did not completely address how policies work along this intolerant/tolerant bias.

I am all about “robust” debate and the acceptance of the existence of other points of view — a stance championed by Carson — but I cannot help but think that the real issue at hand is law and the implementation of policy. The interplay between these two forces has long been contested and is tricky to navigate. But I think this “new” tolerance is really a response to the hegemonic Christian culture that has dominated the American political scene for centuries, imposing its own moral opinions as law.

The marginalized minority and those sympathetic to these populations have pushed back in a big way. And maybe the pushback has been excessive, to the point that Christian Americans are now actually denied their right to act upon their beliefs — all in the name of protecting a greater, equalizing tolerance.

But the fact is, neither truth nor morals are universal. My advocacy for marriage equality is just as valid as a Christian’s opposition to it. We both come from a specific frame of reference, and although his or hers is a religious framework, it should not be illegitimate because of that.

From this point, it’s a slippery slope. Our government is, in theory, representative of the will of the people, which may be informed by Christian morality. Every individual should be able to voice his or her opinions and be able to vote according to his or her convictions. So the debate should rage on. And when laws are made to which we are opposed, the debate should still rage on. Right?

That’s not really what I believe. I think the problem emerges when a particular belief set uses its moral compass to establish restrictive laws. I respect religious argumentation and others’ right to personally act in accordance with it, but I don’t want that imposed on me.

But that’s neither here nor there. In short, I don’t agree with Carson on all points. However, I do agree that tolerance should be applied with greater care. True, tolerance does not bar disagreement; it is an invitation to the table of debate. I plan on being there to oppose other people’s truths. And I hope to win, like everyone else.

Contact Hannah Brady at hbrady@dailycal.org and follow her on Twitter: @brady_hm.

The post Tolerance: the new god appeared first on The Daily Californian.

Armed with my little blue notebook, I ventured out into Upper Sproul last week with the intention of talking to people about how the religious beliefs of our two main presidential candidates factor into the election. I was shocked to discover that I should have been asking a much more basic question: Do Mitt Romney or Barack Obama’s religious convictions even affect voters’ choices?

My investigative misstep stemmed from my own personal opinion that Romney’s Mormonism is going to be a crucial issue in this election, given that Americans have never elected a non-Protestant president, with the exception of the Catholic John F. Kennedy.

But Mormonism did not come up at all. Not at CalDems’ table, not at the Berkeley College Republicans’ table and strangely not at the Catholic Students at Cal tent either.

However, what I did learn was that religion is still part of the political discourse, a fact which is particularly evident in debates about abortion and gay marriage. Even on Sproul, I was perplexed that I spent 20 minutes debating abortion at the Catholics at Cal tent when I had intended to speak about the presidential candidates’ religions. But then I realized — religious explanations for or against abortion rights are trying to justify legal policy. These spheres intersect, and voting for a president means voting for the candidate that defends one’s moral — and therefore political — beliefs.

For John Ng, a graduate student at the Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology and a practicing Catholic, “personal (religious) convictions” cannot be separated from one’s “dealings in politics.” Religious voters do not seem to be interested in compartmentalizing their religious and political opinions. UC Berkeley undergraduate student Jacob Wells, a volunteer at the tent for Catholics at Cal, very clearly stated that he is more likely to vote for Romney because “(Romney) holds positions that are more like (those of) the Catholic Church.”

The Billy Graham Evangelistic Association just recently “unculted” Mormonism. Nonetheless, Mormonism does not seem to be cause for concern in voters when considering Romney’s ability to be president.

The absence of this issue genuinely surprised me. Mormonism does not veer too far away from the cultural norm. It shares a scriptural basis with Christianity, and Graham himself has urged voters to “vote for biblical values” such as those opposing abortion and supporting heterosexual marriage, thus distancing “biblical” voters from President Obama and his policies.

For Obama, who is a self-proclaimed Christian, religion has been a more complicated part of his presidential identity. He has put legislation in place that does diverge from the conservative Christian agenda, such as defending pro-abortion rights groups and making contraception more attainable for women through Obamacare.

But this is not the only difficulty that Obama faces from a religious standpoint. A small church in Texas recently posted the statement “Vote for the Mormon, not the Muslim! The Capitalist, not the Communist!” on its marquee. Obama is not, and has never been, a Muslim. Yet this dangerous misconception continues to float around America and misinform voters.

In an interview with me last Monday, my UC Berkeley professor Hatem Bazian, who teaches the course “Muslims in America,” explained the power behind this common misconception of Obama being a Muslim. According to Bazian, in our current political climate, Islam is often perceived as “un-American.” By projecting a Muslim identity on the president, critics are simultaneously advancing the notion that Obama is not devoted to the “American narrative.”

With this falsehood intact, the mischaracterization has the potential to influence the election outcome. According to a Gallup poll conducted in June, 11 percent of all Americans still believe that Obama is a Muslim, while 18 percent of Republicans hold this same belief. And belief translates into action.

An unpublished study by a professor at Indiana University conducted earlier this year showed that once in the voting booth, the American public is 49.37 percent less likely to vote for a Muslim candidate for any office simply because of the religion. “Obama the Muslim” is therefore not just sticks and stones – this false rumor could have a real impact on the election.

I have thus come face to face with a paradox: Religion may not emerge in the political dialogue around our presidential candidates outright, but it is employed as a mitigating and desecrating force to inform a voting public. It’s up to voters to decide whether or not we want to let religious beliefs determine who our next president is. And while I fear that religion and hot-button religio-moral issues may take precedence in deciding who to vote for, I hope that all voters consider their candidates as comprehensively as possible. We are a nation of Christians, Catholics, Muslims and more who must share one leader that represents us all.

Contact Hannah Brady at hbrady@dailycal.org and follow her on Twitter: @brady_hm.

The post A religious president appeared first on The Daily Californian.

Among the throngs of eccentric members of the Berkeley community, one can often see — and certainly hear — bands of instrumented followers of the Hare Krishna movement. Their telltale sign is that they repeatedly chant variations of the words “Hare Krishna, Hare Rama.” Last Monday, one such devotee “fliered” me on Telegraph Avenue, and I was more than delighted to accept his invitation to the “World Famous Hare Krishna Chariot Parade & Festival” that took place last Sunday.

Early Sunday morning — well, early for me — I was merrily on my way to join the festivities, but when I arrived, I encountered one small problem: The Hare Krishnas were nowhere to be found. Eventually, I stumbled upon the stalls of vendors who were participating in the event on Haste Street, but even they could not tell me what was going on with the alleged parade.

The delayed parade proved to be a fortunate occurrence. I was promptly greeted by David and Lalita Oster, who were running the very first stand on Haste and who were in fact themselves members of the Hare Krishna movement.

This chatty and endearing couple not only illuminated some of the complexities of the movement for me, but I found their story to also be an intriguing insight into the people who join this type of group. After a mere two hours, I learned that Hare Krishnas, although decidedly conspicuous and quirky, are only trying to simplify a life that is often overwhelming and unsatisfying.

Lalita was the first to approach me. Her stature is unassuming, to say the least — she couldn’t be more than five feet tall — but her bright eyes instantly caught my attention, and she quickly proceeded to delve into the mysteries of the Bhagavad Gita, a sacred Hindu text. Within minutes, she had already broached the topics of reincarnation, divinity and the shortcomings of physical desires — referencing specifically the fleeting satisfaction of the chai tea latte I held.

But I sensed no judgment on her part. On the contrary, it seemed to me that her aim was purely to inform me, and any other passers-by, of this path that she found made her life better.

So I continued to listen. She told me that the Hare Krishna movement used mantra meditation in order to focus the soul on God by quieting the demands of the physical body. Additionally, the Hare Krishnas distribute the Bhagavad Gita, which Lalita said has “all the answers” in a handy, portable form.

At one point, her husband, David, took over the conversation. David, a UC Berkeley alumnus and former Jew, is much newer to the movement than Lalita — his involvement dates back only eight years, while Lalita has closer to 40 years under her belt. Despite his initial hesitation to join this seemingly “wacko” movement, he discovered that the transcendental “reverberations” felt by way of chanting had, over time, fundamentally changed the quality of his life.

With this perception and my shiny, new Bhagavad Gita in hand, I headed toward the parade that finally arrived on the block. Although I did not understand all that was happening around me, I can say that it was noisy, colorful and joyful for all involved. Fruit flew through the crowd, but it wasn’t your run-of-the-mill type of fruit. As David explained to me, this fruit was sacrificed to the deities earlier, and the devotees were now getting to literally taste Krishna’s mercy infused in the apple or banana. The eating was accompanied by chanting, and it seemed to me that the crowd was getting worked up into some sort of divine frenzy.

As an outsider, this was a shock for me — even though I had learned about Hindu practices in the past. But being uncomfortable forced me to engage in some personal reflection. This religious practice was expressive and intense, and that bothered me. I think that oftentimes mainstream Americans, myself included, struggle to understand other religions that do not necessarily engage the divine in a Protestant — read: personal and private — manner.

My time on Haste with the Hare Krishnas was poignant because I had to turn inward while everyone around me was involved in extreme outward expression. I may not want to chant “Hare Krishna,” but I should double-check my willingness to label such followers as “crazy.” Lovely people like the Oster’s who find meaning and fulfillment in a few simple words are the counterargument.

And who knows? Maybe in a moment of turmoil, I may someday find myself comforted by the sound of the divine names of Krishna and Rama. Would that really be so strange?

Contact Hannah Brady at hbrady@dailycal.org or follow her on Twitter: @brady_hm.

The post Hare Krishnas on Haste appeared first on The Daily Californian.

During a recent visit to UC Santa Barbara, I noticed, for the umpteenth time, Tibetan prayer flags hanging in the least likely of places: above a liquor store entrance or dangling from an apartment building with red cups littered in the background. Perhaps I am just oversensitive to these multicolored flags due to my interest in religion, but over the past few weeks, I have been absolutely overwhelmed by the recurring presence of these unassuming strings of fabric in my life.

Each of my daily trips down Telegraph Avenue inevitably reveals another glimpse of a Tibetan prayer flag behind a shop’s door or on a merchant’s stand. The colored flags that dance pleasantly in the wind always seem to catch my eye, and although I know what they are called, I had never officially looked into their meaning. Curiosity and coincidence got the best of me, so I started my own amateur research.

First, the flags themselves. According to an article posted on prayerflags.com, Tibetan prayer flags aim to “produce a spiritual vibration that is activated and carried by the wind across the countryside” with the intent that “all beings that are touched by the wind are uplifted and a little happier.” Contrary to popular belief — or at least contrary to what I had understood for a long time — these flags do not seem to carry specific “prayer requests” out into the vast universe.  Rather, they contribute to a more general and widespread sense of unity and prosperity.

The same article later states that, “If the attitude is ‘May all beings everywhere receive benefit and find happiness,’ the virtue generated by such motivation greatly increases the power of the prayers.” While the content of the flags’ text varies and is inspired by Buddhist tradition, these prayers are tinged with universal concepts that seem to be trying to act upon humanity and improve — however slightly or imperceptibly — the human experience as a whole.

In another particularly interesting note, the Peace Flag Project explains that the flags disintegrate organically over time in order to symbolize “the natural passing of all things.” Given the biodegradable frenzy that is especially pervasive in Berkeley culture, this last element is one of the many reasons that the meaning of the flags resonates with me, both as a Berkeleyan and a college student.

While Buddhism in general is not usually a headline-grabber, I did stumble upon a recent Daily Cal article regarding a proposed street name change in Berkeley. The proposed name “Dharma Way” — “dharma” meaning “true … correct, … the right way to act,” Berkeley resident Santosh Philip said in the article  — was not well received by the community, and the supporters have withdrawn their proposal. But I sensed an ideological link between the prayer flags and the decision to retract the renaming proposition: a greater concern for public cohesion and happiness.

In a society in which personal agenda dominates everything, I think the message behind both the Tibetan prayer flag and the retraction of the street name proposition can serve as a reminder to everyone that the world is bigger than just one person. The power of positive energy and concern for the other are two elements of Buddhism that should be applicable to every human being, regardless of one’s religious creed.

Arguably, the college experience is necessarily an egotistical span of time for students, and I am just as guilty as anyone of forgetting that the world doesn’t actually revolve around me. But I am stunned by the simplicity behind the Tibetan prayer flags, which are likely reflective of a greater Buddhist doctrine. Amid the crushing stress of midterms, wouldn’t it be nice to think that, even as you walk into your classroom, a whisper of positivity has floated into your consciousness from a prayer flag swaying in the Tibetan mountains? And, conversely, how satisfying would it be to know that your own wind-filled flags could be depositing doses of happiness and goodness throughout the corners of the Earth?

I realize this idea might be a bit too Disney for some, but, personally, I revel in the romance. Is it really that unbelievable that happiness can grow from flags? We find happiness at C.R.E.A.M or at the bottom of a really good beer, so why not simple prayer flags? Ideological gems like these emerge from many different religious traditions, continually inspiring me to not only give religion a second — and sometimes third or fourth — chance but to also keep the faith in humanity.

So, if the stress of college life is too much to handle on your own, take a cue from the merchants on Telegraph and hang some Tibetan prayer flags, or just stand in front of anywhere they might waving. Dare to let the happiness in.

Contact Hannah Brady at hbrady@dailycal.org or follow her on Twitter: @brady_hm.

The post Inspiration from prayer flags appeared first on The Daily Californian.

The Elephant Bar may not be the most appropriate place to delve into deeply complicated issues of religious identity, but my father and I always seem to end up broaching that very subject over our macadamia-encrusted chicken breast. And I, inevitably, challenge the reasoning behind his self-identification as “spiritual” rather than religious.

This rhetoric is becoming commonplace throughout religious discourse in America, as UC Berkeley sociology professor Claude Fischer discusses in a recent post on the Berkeley Blog. Think about it: How many times have you heard someone proclaim some variation of “I’m not religious; I’m spiritual”?  Every time this expression is used, I wonder to myself what it even means. This cliche has extended far beyond my Elephant Bar debates, and it is becoming an important subject of academic scrutiny.

My initial, uninformed opinion was that spiritual people — like my father — were more or less using the term “spiritual” as a cop-out. Being spiritual was, in my mind, an easy way to avoid limiting oneself to a single set of beliefs or sometimes even as an alternative to the more difficult admission of being an out-and-out atheist.

But, after reading Fischer’s blog post and talking to him in person last Tuesday, I came to a more balanced realization: A spiritualist is not so much contesting religion in and of itself but rather the way that organized religion negatively interacts with our modern society.

Perhaps that is not so revolutionary, but it was surprising to learn that faith is not really what is on the chopping block. Fischer’s post notes that “9 percent of adult Americans in 1998 and 16 percent of them in 2010 described themselves as spiritual-but-not-religious.” I believe the structure of their answer — spiritual-but-not-religious — is intimately intertwined with the mentality behind it, and its mounting popularity.

As Fischer explained to me, people are interested in “putting distance between the individual and the label” while still genuinely maintaining a belief that there is “something greater than mundane, biological existence.” It seems that the essential quest for the meaning of life, among other ponderings, has not really faded into the background. In other words, the primordial substance of religion is still relevant. This phenomenon reflects the opinion of a growing minority that organized religion has overstepped its role.

In my own life, it was this very sense of alienation — particularly of the political kind — that led, in part, to my conversion to atheism. I struggled to align my own feelings toward gay rights, abortion and the role of women with those of my Protestant Church. My rejection of faith is arguably another response to the same problem that spiritual people are  addressing. Fischer argues in the blog that conservative political activism within American Protestant denominations has turned away some moderates and liberals. While I opted to exit the scene entirely, the spiritual folk seem like they are compartmentalizing their religious and political convictions in order to reserve the ability to choose.

Of course, politics is just one part of the equation. Globalization has strongly influenced religious belief as well — there is a “build-your-own” component to the expanding religious marketplace. Fischer said in the blog that “Americans’ growing interest in spiritual ideas … (and) growing exposure to eastern ideas such as karma yoga, and reincarnation has stimulated discussions of spirituality.” This interplay is creating a veritable American cultural melting pot of religious practices and beliefs. And the end product is much more than a “cop-out” — it’s an inspiring fusion of traditions that allow individuals to follow their own path.

Following true free-market style, some Americans have deemed unacceptable the product that religions are offering, and they have opted to search out their own. College students are particularly engaged in this exploration because our beliefs are “in flux.” During our conversation, Fischer mentioned this very “disconnect(ed)” period of students’ lives, where we are between the settled life with our parents and settling down on our own. And because the college years are defined by experimentation in a range of spheres, this “spiritual-but-not-religious” identity lends itself beautifully to our state of being.

Upon closer inspection, the response that infinitely frustrated me during conversations with my father now emerges as a carefully crafted social, cultural and political critique of our modern era. Spiritual people are not the lazy, closet atheists that I first branded them as. They are reinventing a religious space that caters to their personal beliefs. Does this mean that organized religion could potentially be on the decline? I wouldn’t wager on that quite yet, but the shift toward “spiritual-but-not-religious” may pressure organized religion to reconsider its rigid and often outdated doctrines.

Contact Hannah Brady at hbrady@dailycal.org.

The post The spiritual approach appeared first on The Daily Californian.

Last Wednesday, I spent a few short hours in the Berkeley Hillel center at the top of Bancroft Avenue among 100 or so local community members. It was Yom Kippur, and everyone was gathered for the service that would mark the end of a day-long fast and the “High Holy Days” season.

In Judaism, Yom Kippur is a chance to pray, reflect and ask for forgiveness from God and others whom one may have wronged during the year —- the phrase “clean slate” comes to mind. But for these religious followers, starting a new year seems to indicate undertaking the work of cleaning that slate, which, in my opinion, is an extremely humbling and genuine task. Recent UC Berkeley graduate Brian Maissy — an orthodox Jew currently in Israel who I spoke with on the phone— would even start preparing for this Day of Atonement “months before” to “receive forgiveness for mistakes (of) the last year.” That sounds just downright daunting, but it is the foundation of Yom Kippur.

As the Hillel crowd, scattered with yarmulke-ed men, offered prayers in Hebrew, I learned about this sacred celebration from a pamphlet left just outside the meeting room. Besides a general description of the holiday, I read about a list of prohibitions for the day, including an explanation for the fast and an interesting rule against wearing leather shoes. And although my nerdy, religiously curious self reveled in both the info packet and the “in-the-field” experience, I couldn’t help but remark the diversity of the community that I saw in front of me.

Certainly, one experience with a community is not sufficient to paint a complete picture, but my night at the Yom Kippur service proved to be an engaging starting point.

Given that the center is closely associated with the UC Berkeley campus, I wasn’t expecting to see non-students at the service. While students were the majority, the rest of the crowd consisted of older couples, families and single adults. To be fair, any of these could have also been members of the campus community in a number of other capacities, but it was decidedly not a crowd of 18-22 year olds.

So as I sat after the service, munching on some “break-fast” bagels, I began to think about community building in Judaism in general, but more specifically, here at Berkeley. A strong sense of community is commonly included in general stereotypes of Jewish populations and a multitude of speculations have been made over the years as to why this might be. Building Jewish Bridges, a Bay Area group focused on interfaith community members, implied in a 2008 blog post that Moses and the “children of Israel” could be a source of this community resonsibility. Additionally, a long and recent history of persecution has certainly helped to unify this religion even in face of modern individualism. But what strikes me as equally important is the established cultural identity, much like in other religions, that is constantly reinforced by rituals such as Friday night Shabbat, the High Holy Days as well as the wearing of a yarmulke for some.

One example of the diversity within the Jewish community can be seen in the many different Jewish student groups on campus. My conversation with Maissy turned to this very subject of unity. He said there is a sense of unity within the larger Jewish community on campus, despite their denominational differences — Maissy felt there was little tension between different denominations. Of course no community is perfectly cohesive all the time, but from what I’ve seen, Jews at Berkeley seem particularly able to come together around rituals like Yom Kippur. I find this community aspect quite refreshing.

Even I felt like I was a tangent part of this community when I was standing in the Hillel center. My non-Jewish presence didn’t seem to bother anyone and even when I headed downstairs to partake of their break-fast — to which I technically had no claim, seeing as I sure hadn’t fasted — I only met friendly smiles. Several Jewish students I spoke with were more than happy to chat with me while we ate. But besides general politeness, there was an underlying invitation in the form of the pamphlet. Jews didn’t need to be educated about their own holiday — it seemed more like a non-invasive manner to inform outsiders that might happen to wander in to this unassuming event.

Arguably, community is an experience better lived than explained. But I left the center with a little more faith in the human ability to share a tradition without focusing on their differences.

Contact Hannah Brady at hbrady@dailycal.org and follow her on Twitter: @brady_hm.

The post My Yom Kippur kickback appeared first on The Daily Californian.

A tiny scrap of papyrus is creating quite the buzz lately. Last Tuesday,  Harvard Divinity School professor Karen King made public the text of this tentatively authentic fragment, which includes an alleged quote from Jesus saying the phrase “My wife …” followed by, “She will be able to be my disciple.”

Riveting stuff, I know.

But in all seriousness, these words have the potential to revolutionize several different areas of Christianity. This evidence breathes new life into the age-old debate about Jesus as a man and as a symbol. Also of particular interest for me as a full-fledged Berkeley-inspired feminist, it reopens the conversation about women in the church, especially in the Roman Catholic denomination.

Quick review: Jesus is the messiah of Christian believers, a notable prophet in Islam and the rejected savior of Judaism. His most important role is, of course, within Christianity, but he is a pervasive figure in American culture. But for Christians specifically, he was God in the flesh without the multifarious issues that plague the undivine human male — his mother was a virgin, he lived without sin and allegedly had no family (in the traditional sense of the word). Much of Jesus’ mystique comes from this contradiction: He lived in the corporeal world without bending to its material demands.

But if you throw a wife in the mix, then all of a sudden, Jesus becomes a lot more complicated. His marital status prompts questions about desire, sexuality, spousal relations, etc. The “lone wolf” depiction of Jesus that currently dominates his accepted identity is a lot simpler and safer because it keeps the “divine” at a manageable distance from the profane world. In short, Jesus would be a lot more human than divine if he were hitched.

I spoke with one member of the Cal Christian Fellowship about this very complication. Senior Kirsten Kuwatani feels this argumentation is a little premature, given the nature of the new evidence. In Christianity, the relationship between Christ and the Church is commonly framed as that of husband and wife. Kuwatani said this common motif was likely being employed in the translated papyrus, which is a valid position considering the ambiguity of the phrase.

The limitations of this type of discovery are apparent in Kuwatani’s response. How much can a piece of papyrus from well after Jesus lived fundamentally alter the cult of personality around this man that has been built up for more than 2,000 years? Only time will tell how important this information will be in restructuring overall Christian ideology. Nonetheless, the possibility of a wife figure of Jesus has struck a different, and core, nerve in Catholicism.

Jesus’ permanent state of bachelorhood and his entourage of all-male disciples have been used to uphold a ban against women in the Catholic clergy. In a world where feminist and equality movements have touched nearly every public and private sphere and have even started discussions in religious contexts, the Vatican has remained staunch in its opposition to the integration of female priests. Their logic relies heavily upon the fact that Jesus did not appoint women to be his disciples, nor as priestesses. He was the model of clerical excellence, and his ruling, as extrapolated from his actions, serves as the final word on the subject to this day.

In light of this reality, King’s revelation is no longer as inconsequential as it initially seems. Jesus explicitly uses a feminine pronoun, regardless of whether or not he was referring to his wife, in delineating who can legitimately be among his disciples. And if the Catholic Church stays loyal to its previous process of justification, discipleship and the priesthood would therefore be open to women, according to Jesus’ model. This pint-size papyrus may perhaps even pave the way for a Popess!

Certainly, this would be a positive move toward equality for the historically conservative Catholic Church, but it is underscored by the reality that only a male figure — Jesus — could bring about this change. If Jesus really did have a wife, it is tragic that history has managed to erase her existence almost entirely. But history is never static, and it is promising and exciting that such new developments, with their undercurrents of feminism and all, can still enter into categories “closed” to revision.

I may offend Nietzsche here, but this papyrus is impressive largely because it demonstrates that religion is not dead. And although I am sometimes frustrated and disheartened by how religion reinforces larger structures of patriarchy, I am thrilled at the prospect of learning how these devotees may negotiate that relationship in a new way.

Contact Hannah Brady at hbrady@dailycal.org and follow her on Twitter: @brady_hm.

The post Jesus’ potential main squeeze appeared first on The Daily Californian.

True to form, religion has once again taken center stage in the world arena.

By now, the general premise of the protests in Libya, Egypt and beyond is well known, and special attention has been given to the death of U.S. ambassador Christopher Stevens, a UC Berkeley graduate, here on campus. I am not here to recapitulate these events. My interest is in dissecting the role of religion within this situation.

Islam has been dubbed an explanation of the events, but why? In search of this answer, I want to momentarily suspend any political and personal convictions to create a sort of analytical vacuum so that we can look solely at the religious reasons behind this outrage.

What is it exactly about this video that made Muslims so angry? We’re going to go way back to the basics for this.

The Prophet Muhammad is considered to be the founder of Islam and is therefore a sacred figure to adherents of the religion. In addition to Muhammad’s own personal status, there is a basic religious concern that images of the prophet can divert attention from the worship of Allah. Accordingly, in Islamic law, it is forbidden to depict Muhammad in any form.

Variations on aniconism are a familiar and pervasive concept in religions across the board. Take, for example, the drama of the golden calf — a human made idol that violated one of the 10 Commandments and angered God — in the Old Testament. And this tension around symbolic representation is not limited to the religious world. Let’s not forget flag burning or laws against desecrating money — both reflecting nationalist sentiment — that also spark controversy. The anger of Muslims in the face of such an offense is therefore not a specifically Islamic phenomenon, nor should it be pinpointed as an aspect of religious extremism.

One could even argue that these Muslim populations are reacting to something that offends a very basic element of their identity. This is a crucial distinction that is often overlooked. Religious beliefs are impossibly intertwined with the personal and universal identities of these revolting nations. The result of this fusion is that religion and politics are never truly separate. As Americans who have, in theory, a separation of church and state, we struggle with this overlap.

The question of violence in this particular event seemingly supersedes all other efforts to rationalize the response. Hillary Clinton stated in a speech given after the attack on the Libyan embassy that violence was not an acceptable response. Similarly, it is not my intention to condone the violence in response to this affront; on the contrary, I fully condemn it. But it is important to note — extremist interpretations of “jihad” aside — that Islam does not promote violence as an acceptable means of defending the religion. That being said, it is not only misinformed but also slanderous to say that Islam is, by nature, a violent religion. The violence that we see occurring in these countries is the combination of many other factors, sometimes including religious extremism and misplaced religious justification, but is not exclusively based on them.

One of the most prominent Western critiques of the Middle East is the seeming inability of the people to adapt to “true” democracy, freedoms and all. Let’s consider what the implications of this claim really are. What makes American democracy such a beautiful thing is that it, in principle, represents the will of the people. Well, the “people” in question here are Muslims, and it is a part of their identity that is not invalid. We consistently fail to adequately account for the role of religion in their lives simply because we, as a secular nation, cannot comprehend that relationship.

In an effort to further understand this mindset, I spoke with a Muslim student on campus, senior Sumayyah Naguib, who said she feels that the violence and riots cannot be justified by the offense. She made it very clear that the video should essentially fall under the category of legally unprotected hate speech, as it defames an essential element of the Muslim identity.

Ismail Mohamed, a religious scholar who lived in Germany, advanced this position even further in a news article in The New York Times. He told a reporter that “we don’t think that depictions of the prophets are freedom of expression. We think it is an offense against our rights.” He said the West needs to “understand the ideology of the people.”

In light of this outlook, maybe we should reconsider our condemnation of the anger caused by the video. The situation is complicated — it always is — but is it unfair for us to ask them to build a national identity without one of the most fundamental elements of their society, their religion? What if the will of the people is inspired by the will of Allah? It is certainly a slippery slope, but one thing is sure: Discounting religious sentiment is not going to solve the problem.

Contact Hannah Brady at hbrady@dailycal.org.

The post Can we justify their anger? appeared first on The Daily Californian.