Well

I almost walked to the church—to see if pastor Brown (not Wald III) was there—but then I realized that that would be choosing to talk to a pastor rather than write. I’m not sure it’s even enough that I chose to come here, to Arab Café, where I have been at least 50 times, because I considered going to a pastor—going to a pastor—at all. But so I’m just going to trust this.

Yesterday and today I am or, was, participating in this conference: Find Your Voice: A Cross-Cultural Forum on Political Participation and Civic Activism. It was something to do for a change. But I skipped this morning’s lecture to meet Pastor Bright, who is a Nigerian pastor I met at the church at some point in the past few weeks. Bright took me to a bible study at the home of Steve and Conni, formerly of Dallas, which I was going to write about, the bible study, banana bread, and I might still, but now this morning happened and its taking precedence and so—I met Bright at 12 at the church. I was in a good shirt and blue tie, which I had decided to put on for the conference because I was wearing the same thing I had wore Friday, but which turned out to seem to Bright an indication of some preparedness on my part.

I wasn’t sure where we were going. Bright had told me at the bible study last Tuesday that he wanted me to come preach to refugees this coming Saturday. He speaks English, but it’s Nigerian English, plus he’s a self-deemed man of god, thus impractical and incommunicative, and so I am not sure what—but some part of me, it has to be this way, assumed that he couldn’t actually mean what he said. So I met him at 12 at the church and we got on the bus, and Bright paid for my ticket, and on the way he asked me if I had my bible—which I didn’t—and lent me his—“The Good News for the Modern Man”—to choose a passage, or passages, to prepare. I chose Genesis 22—but he didn’t have that. I chose Hebrews 11 and Matthew 26, about Faith and Judas—obvious. It was nothing; I made some notes in my free Forum notepad. Bright told me, make sure to put your asset (mobile) on vibrate when you preach; and a moment of prayer before you start. We passed Roman Ruins, and he said he’d take me after. We went pretty far, into a part of Morocco I hadn’t seen—the urban slums. This particular city was called Youssefia, I think—at least the half-built playground was called: Youssefia Park.

We got off, Bright pushing past sedentary Moroccan woman, and we walked a long way through low open dirty streets littered with cats and loose sheets of notebook paper and populated by a lot of angry men moving diagonally. I almost walked into an open manhole. We passed a little bizarre, which was just folding tables with piles of bright clothes and broken toys piled on top of them, and in our matching ties and intellectual glasses me and Bright made waves—someone called after us in Arabic, it sounded like a public announcement: “Christians!”

I didn’t see any black people, but then finally I did—a man looking at home as ever who greeted us from 50 yards away and led us into a tiny doorway, no door, when we arrived. We walked up four flights of warped narrow yellow and brown stairs, and the smell of boiling chicken got stronger as we did. On the fourth floor, we were greeted on the landing by several milling men, who were on the landing not to greet us but because there was no room inside. A red ribbon and blue ribbon were pinned onto my chest—the pin holding them together and pinning them to my chest—by a heavily made up fat woman. Inside was an apartment, the kind of apartment that would be considered small for one person in Manhattan. It was not an apartment, though, but a church. Black Africans were lined along the walls, even seemingly climbing the walls. Bright crayon colors, pencil drawings. “Welcome to Canaanland”. “The Time of Supernatural Miracles”. “Season of Fire”. There were two sections of plastic patio seats: in one section sat what seemed to be three groups of black Africans, women in front, distinguished from each other by their uniform and attitude, and in the other section—somehow not completely filled—sat a lot of very big smiling men, in long white silk robes or expensive business suits, who would soon be introduced as god’s representatives (why were they so big?). Nobody was sitting, either—most everyone was standing, and praying, shaking, spitting, all in some seeming individual way. Sweat flew, and some of it landed on me. A few women in the corner were rolling their eyes towards the ceiling and shouting; other had their eyelids drawn but you could see, feel, their eyeballs rolling; others were holding each other and quietly swaying, though not in harmony; a few individuals were squeezing their eyes shut tight and visibly swinging their tongues around inside their mouth; there was a room behind me I didn’t see, providing the only ray of sun, in what would have been the kitchen, in which sat people sitting like a jury, watching us; two babies crying at one another; the men in suits and robes had their hands in the air, palms up, and were smiling, taking unofficial turns crying Hallelujas—Praise the Lord—Hallelujah. The Lord is Good. All the Time. So Good. If you’re happy and you know it, praise the Lord. Amen. All the Time. Two men in jeans and leather jackets were filming everything with an expensive tripod. A man in a gold suit profusely sweating was preaching in the small space in front of the two sections of the chairs, but he was speaking in tongues and it wasn’t clear at all that anyone was listening to him.

Bright and me were given two empty seats—the last two empty seats—in what was essentially the front now. Actually, someone was made to get up for me. In front of me was a man in a 70s style blazer and big sunglasses numbly pressing the keys on an electric keyboard; next to him was a low table offering 7-up, water, and orange juice as a sort of flora arrangement, or presentation of jewels—all unopened, even seemingly unmoved. A fan was in front of me and every time it revolved my way it blew open the pages of the bible sitting in front of me, like a breeze. I was already sweating so much I couldn’t see. Many men shook my hand and told me, You Are Welcome. I think at this point I was still only thinking, damn, this is perfect. I furiously wrote unmolested as the celebration—the second anniversary of something, this place, which was not a church alone since at lest 5 black churches were represented here today—went on. A few different men got up to introduce different men, summoning Master Jesus, Praising the Lord, Calling and Answering, and sweating, sometimes screaming, in the end calling for applaud for Jesus—not the man they were announcing—hands for Jesus—until eventually the “special invited choirs” section of the celebration came.

Four different choirs from different churches sang, and it was collectively the worst most hellishly off-key and ugly singing I have ever heard, or seen. I don’t understand how they were all so awful—I had only ever heard really good black church singing, so good that I had developed against my knowing better the assumption that black people were especially good singers. But every single one of these members was awful, grating, beyond parody—and I was weirdly riveted by the unabiding lameness of their music. For the sake of Time, the MC kept on saying. The man in front of me, 70s blazer, literally pressed finger after finger into the electric eyboard, like someone mentally challenged confronted by a corpse; struck, not played. And the choirs, one after the other, forced emotion and joy, thankfulness and goodness, God is So Good, Joy—has—come—tired fingers scratching at chalkboards, without a hint of self-consciousness. Short fascistic claps separated songs. Hosannah, we can’t sing without you. Can’t live without you. A little black tie on a big black man. In between the MC would push them off. Please only one song. For the sake of Time. One group, the Light Choir, was dressed in tight white lacey see-through shirts, tight white pants, visible everything, wore black thin scarfs around their necks that rested on their breasts, straw cowboy hats. They sang, sank to the floor, turned in circles, slowly rotated, and when they sang was the moment I got scared, because the two big men sitting next to me in ankle-length silk white robes—the two present holy men—were so turned on I wanted to run. And even if your name isn’t called, you are special, because the Lord doesn’t need to know your name to call upon you.

Next was a “dramatic presentation”, or a play, which Steph, my love, I will tell you about soon in detail I promise—just let me get through this. It was called “The Consequence”. I have photos, by the way; I even have videos. But do you really want to see them? My battery kept on almost dying on me; then I’d turn my camera off and on, and it would work, somehow—how could I not think Hannukah—for a few minutes, until it died again and I’d have to pray for it to work once more. Not sure why filming or photographing this felt so important, but it did, so much. The play went on, scene and after scene, depicting drinking, smoking, gambling, and repentance—but how do I explain this. These people knew so much about theater. There was a man in white face who would come on, flap his wings and stand wordlessly in the corner. And his counterpart, in a wild black wig and ripped black clothes, who would come on and laugh on repeat—his growing hoarse but regenerating—while the white angel was talking, or a woman was signing to God, or both. At one point a character said what was said to me at the door—I mean the actual door—and what written in bold on my program, too—You are welcome. Face the Consequences. Pastor Mike put his hand on the forehead on one of the sinners, moved him in circles by his forehead and pushed him to the floor, by the forehead—this was hilarious.

And most scenes ended with a monologue indirectly addressed to the audience, weighing pros and cons, telling us the life of a woman, of all things (here)—this woman was playing Hamlet, there is no other way to put it. Church, church, church, church everywhere! complained one man to roars. Playing nonbelievers. People entered with the same short fascistic claps that changed songs—for whom?

In one scene a man in a fur hat came on with a live pigeon in a little bowl. The pigeon’s wings were tied, and while the man spoke, the pigeon would try to fly and would tip over the side of the bowl and the man would continue his monologue putting the pigeon back in the bowl unfazed. The man’s monologue was about his wish to kill a pastor; the pigeon would be freed to fly, and its flight would represent the taking off of God’s wrath against the pastor he wanted to kill. The white angel was in the corner and when the man in the fur hat picked up the live pigeon to have him fly, Go, Go, Go—the white angel said, Stop, stopping the man in the fur hat, and the white angel quietly went on while the man in fur wailed over the din of people—I mean the actual people—murmuring to themselves, made himself cry, and the real pigeon was nearly squeezed to death; then squeezed to death. I would stand in brown blood. At one point the characters were praying and said, Praise the Lord and all of the sudden the audience answered, Hallelujah!—no, it was too much.

“With God, all things are possible!”—I really thought it was the opposite. Just keep on praying. If you’re happy and you know it, say Amen.

I had to go to meet my ISP adviser—this was research—and I told pastor Bright, who had been intermittently falling asleep. He got upset; he told someone to cut the play short—for me to speak. I hadn’t forgotten that Bright told me I was going to preach, as much I want to say I had, and by now I can’t say that it wasn’t clear to me that Bright intended for me to get up on the same stage this play was being performed on. I only hoped Bright would not be heeded, that everyone else, occupied, their willing, would overlook me. But they all knew about me—and though I insisted they not stop the play short for me, eventually it ended.

Number 9 on the program read, simply: Message. I, apparently, was that Message. How did this happen? Why did my going on coincide with my having to leave? Wait. The actors came on for a bow, which was a prayer in which they stood in two rows like the dead in front of us and bowed their heads, individually spoke in tongues in front of us, and then it was cleared and it was the first time I heard or felt silence in the hour I had been in this room, staring at the bottles of water in front of me, writing, fakely smiling, shaking hands, filming. Fleeting silence has a certain sound, I think. I had written down the passages I wanted for Bright, who wrote on the same piece of paper: Evangelist Joshua. He handed it to the apparent MC, who handed it two men who were instructed to read out loud for me.

The MC moved into the floor and said, Now. Prepare yourselves—do you hear? Prepare yourselves. PREPARE YOURSELVES for the Word of God. We are blessed today to hear the word of God. Prepare yourselves to receive THIS WORD. Open your minds. Relax. Be receptive. Praise the Lord. Be ready. Praise the Lord. We have today in our room a great evangelist—Joshua. THE evangelist Joshua.

And I was pushed up out of my seat and moved towards a lectern that had been stood where the MC had been formerly standing. People grabbed at me, really grabbed my thighs and arms, and the whole room moved with a welcoming song for me, it sounded like they were thanking the Lord for my coming. I stood at the lectern. I had to wait; I had to quiet them. I said, Hello. Pastor Bright whispered unseen from behind my ear for me to introduce myself. So I did. From New York City—a big city. I don’t know how I got there—God has a reason. I tried that out. Peopled yelled, Amen. Agreed with me. I tried, Praise the Lord. I don’t think I said it with enough stomach. And then, from there, I spoke, I tried to—preached. I told Bright I wasn’t a pastor. He knows my name and knows I’m Jewish, I’m a student studying this, I was clear, and still he had me come to here to this. I know the bible—I tried speaking about faith in Hebrews 11 and seeing God in your enemy in Matthew 26. I can’t believe I am writing this, either, but it happened.

And I finished whatever it was I saying. The worst part throughout was how I think I looked—I closed my eyes and held the microphone to my chest, held the New Testament Bright had given me to my chest, I smiled, and I looked around and nodded. As far I’m concerned I was imitating the young schizophrenic pastor I had seen in There Will Be Blood. But this was real. What a sentence to have to type, but there it is. I tried that, it’s true, in the minutes before I was stood and pushed before this lectern: this is a performance, I will be playing the pastor, it is all a performance, Judith Butler blah blah blah, I am continuing the play—but no matter how much I wanted to believe this, and I didn’t much, I couldn’t feel it. How did I not just mock the hell out of these people? Out of God, which is the same thing? I felt moved by evil—it’s the only word—when I grabbed my sack with one hand and pushed my way past people who asked me if I was leaving, asking me to stay implicitly, who half-heartedly grabbed at me but directly told me to come back, I should come back—as I pushed out, I really did think to myself, I’m leaving like Jesus, I don’t even know what that means, but I thought it, and that may be the one thought that was the worst, the one I would give anything not to have had.

I mean, the moral thing would have been to get up and say this is a misunderstanding and to leave. Not even moral, the right thing. And I don’t want to disown not having chosen that. But could I have? Do we really always have any choice?

Afterwards, I picked up my bag, and flew in a cab to meet my ISP adviser, I was late, and he wasn’t there when I got there, and I ran into a guy I had met at the conference the day before—a thin sad guy who works in prisons here, whose girlfriend, who was here, fell off a camel and was kicked in the head and blinded weeks before in the desert—and I was so sweaty and shaken and high. I felt like I had did something incredibly wrong when I suddenly saw him coming out of the bathroom—it was more a feeling than knowing, I just felt so fucked…and this can’t be fear and trembling. I won’t accept that. Z, you need opposition! I feel less so now, fucked, that I completely fucking destroyed the notion of God this morning, for whatever reason. God--see, I can't even write that, I'm afraid now to use any religious language, even ironically. Irony is a privilege, man. Fuck.

In the street I kept on telling Bright to lead us to a cab, though he was walking slowly. I asked him if that was okay, if I was good. Yes—it was nice. No rave. My first time, I said—yes, I know, he interrupted me. Smiling to himself, looking around him, looking like he had just settled a small deal, looking at people passing everyone but me, looking through tinted glasses. You will improve with practice—each time…next time. He really said this. A Bulgarian woman I met at the bible study told me last Tuesday that I looked like just she imagined Jews from the Old Testament looked like, kept on tapping me during the study and whispering, David, David. My friend, Sarah, who I saw later in the hotel thought it was clear I looked like Jesus—but how does that, a joke, become what happened this morning? You will become perfect in no time, said Bright. Man, I hope, not pray, that this—blogging of all things at least I don't know I want to roll in mud right now—is making that as impossible as possible.

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