I got married in a Roman Catholic church in a small village of Northern Moravia (and still chuckle at the memory of our priest delivering a sermon that was probably meant for his students, future nurses at the sexual education course.) I spoke to an old Cambodian man in a Buddhist temple in Phnom Penh in French about the significance of burning joss-sticks. I encouraged a middle-aged barefoot Indian woman on her pilgrimage up the 272-step staircase to the Batu Caves, housing several Hindu temples. And I offended another middle-aged usherette in Masjid Negara (the National Mosque) in Kuala Lumpur by giving her money for her explanation about Islam.
Everywhere I realized how little I knew and how silly my questions must have been.
- How do I go inside the temple? From this side or that side?
Just go inside.
- So how many sticks I have to burn?
As many as necessary.
- Can I have my hijab like this?
Yes. But take off your shoes.
- Can I take pictures of Muslim people?
Not if they become Gods. But normal pictures ok, no problem.
But somehow I felt the presence of God in all of the places. But not on the richly decorated walls of the Mosque. Not on the glittering Buddha's throne. Not on the statue of Vishna bejewelled by fruit and flower offerings. Not even on the altar my friends decorated for the wedding. I felt it in the way simple things turned into sacred objects under the look of devoted people.
And I hope God was watching and having fun.
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