Faithless Resfeber in Summertime

What meditating in an airport synagogue taught me about believing without believing.

The Chabad Lubavitch synagogue in the Bole Addis Ababa International airport.

“I shall become to them a small sanctuary in the countries where they shall come” (Ezekiel 11:16).

My flight from the States to Addis Ababa via Ethiopian Airlines arrived late. This caused me to miss my connecting flight to Entebbe. The same thing happened last summer.

Frustrated with the seven-hour layover and the resulting inconveniences, I reflected on the words of Lao Tzu, “Simple in actions and in thoughts, you return to the source of being. Patient with both friends and enemies, you accord with the way things are. Compassionate toward yourself, you reconcile all beings in the world.”

Seeking to put this maxim into practice, I went off to explore Gate A-13 when I came across a synagogue. I’ve never stepped foot into a Jewish place of worship. This was beyond curiosity. Something was calling me inside. The room was small. The carpet was tannish with evidence of recent footprints to and from. The bookshelves were lined with tomes of books in hues of green, dark red, black and light blue. Golden blocks of Hebrew aligned each volume of what I imagined were the Talmud, the Zohar, the Siddur, and other Judaic works. In the middle stood a makeshift podium with more Hebrew books and a kippa. The wall was decorated in floral motifs with an elegant dark blue tapestry that hung down like a window curtain. It was embroidered in Hebrew writings and a large crown.

A portrait of Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson hung on a wall, I studied about him during my Jewish American literature courses in my undergrad days. I knew then that I was in a Chabad Lubavitch synagogue. My Hebrew is rusty, but for some odd reason, I felt compelled to whisper the only Hebrew blessing I knew, “Baruch Ataa Adonia, Eloheinu Melech Ha-Olam” (Blessed are You, Our Lord, Our God, King of the World).

I sat down in one of the many walnut veneer pews and closed my eyes. I began meditating and deep breathing. I felt tranquility come over me and this great sense of calm. Out of nowhere, I thought about my grandmother passing away a few years ago. I thought about the birth of my daughter last year. I thought of my oldest daughter’s announcement during my brief stay in Atlanta.

She presented me with a small wrapped box, a huge bow on top. I opened it to find a pregnancy test with two pink lines staring back at me. It was her way of telling me that I was going to be a grandfather. I hugged her significant other and welcomed him to the family with a firm hug. How I wished my grandmother was still alive to share the good news.

I told my daughter how before me and my wife did the sonogram my sister had had a dream. She told me that my grandmother visited her. My grandmother asked her to let everyone know that she was doing fine. She then revealed to my sister that I was going to have a baby girl. The story made my daughter teary-eyed. She looked at me and said, A death leads to a rebirth in a different form.

Her words reminded me of Dogen Zenji’s words, “The most important issue for all Buddhists is thorough clarification of the meaning of birth and death.”

As I went deeper into mediation, my mind shifted to the kairotic. All of a sudden, I could feel myself and my surroundings intimately. I felt the blood travelling through my veins. It was warm. I could hear my heart beating. It was not too fast, not too slow. I felt every breath going in and out of my lungs as they moved my chest up and down. I sensed the presence of the synagogue as it is written in Ezekiel 11:16, a mikdash me’at, a small sanctuary. It was as if the synagogue had personified into a trusted companion assuring me that the remainder of the journey was going to be just fine.

I reflected on the English meaning of that word, synagogue. The original Greek is a combination of ‘sun’ and ‘agein’ which means ‘to bring together’. In that moment, my mind and body were brought together as I lived in that silent and comforting moment. Nothing else mattered. Not eating, not drinking, not worrying, being angry or even being afraid. I realized that I didn’t have to believe to feel the belief surrounding me. It was hard to explain, almost ineffable; I felt something within that wasn’t god or gods, yet something profoundly spiritual devoid of religion or the religious.

I was interrupted by the call for Saalat-ul-Asr – the afternoon Muslim prayer, the third prayed out of the daily five - coming from the mosque neighboring the synagogue. I still remembered each line along with their meanings back when I believed. As each phrase of the call neared the end, I only remember hearing the first part of Hayyah ala-l-Falah (come to success) when I began to doze.

When I woke up, I jumped to my feet and rushed out of the synagogue. I wasn’t sure if I had slept a few minutes or a few hours. I arrived at Gate A-13 and frantically looked up at the clock. I had only slept for thirty-minutes. I breathed a sigh of relief. I spent the next several hours eating lunch, washing up, reading, writing, and passing the time in anticipation of meeting my infant daughter. Would she cry? Would she embrace me? Should I even worry about whatever happens?  

The scheduled two-hour flight from Addis Ababa to Entebbe turned to an hour and thirty-minutes. The plane was a jumbo jet with only a hundred passengers. I sat in the back, a whole row to myself listening to the heavenly voice of Aster Aweke as The Grand Budapest Hotel played in the background. The turbulence was minimal and the landing was smooth. I was the first to get my Visa stamped. My Airtel SIMS card worked as I popped it into my iPhone. I didn’t lose any of my luggage. And to top it all off, my daughter didn’t cry when my wife handed her to me. She gave me a look that reminded me of my grandmother…as if to say to me, “I told you so.”