Light and Smoke

What if there was a holy place where people of all ages came and went as they pleased? What if they offered prayers entirely on their own, in whatever words (or non-words) they chose? What if there were no clergy or religious leaders to give people permission to pray, or to make sure they were doing it right?

I am fortunate enough to have been to such a place. It has the lovely name of “The Palace of Peace and Harmony Lama Temple.” It was once a residence of the Qing Dynasty prince Yinzhen. After he took the throne as the Yongzheng Emperor in 1722, he gave this property to the colony of Tibetan monks who lived in Beijing. I spent a morning among the clouds of incense—and prayer—during a recent trip to China.

I came to China with a preconception. I assumed that modern, post-Mao China was non-religious, if not anti-religious. I was aware that several faiths were practiced under the watchful eye of the government in a nation that is officially atheist. I was expecting the Lama Temple to be more museum than active place of worship.

My first surprise: as I walked from a nearby subway station to the gate of the Temple, the sidewalk was crowded with energetic salespeople hawking incense sticks. After having the long, cellophane-wrapped packages shoved in my face by importunate sellers a few times, I decided to buy a package, if only to show that I was not, thank you very much, interested in buying more.

The gate of the Temple gives into a peaceful avenue lined with willow trees. There are five main halls, each with one or more statues of the Buddha. Before each building stands an oil lamp used to light the incense sticks. A kneeling bench that would not look out of place in an Episcopal church faces the hall. Most people would light three sticks of incense and kneel with the smoking sticks held up to their foreheads. After a few minutes, they would rise and bow to the four cardinal directions. The incense would be left in a bronze brazier, where it would continue to smolder along with the sticks left by other worshipers.

So, what was I, a Christian, going to do in this place? I did not want to simply imitate the practices of a faith that was not my own. As I looked upon the serene face of the Buddha, those first couple of commandments were in the back of my mind also. (You know—the ones about “no other gods before me” and “graven images.”) Since one of my many heresies is panentheism, the belief that God is present in all things, I decided that I could add my own devotions to those of the many who were with me.

My ritual created on the spot: I lit my three sticks of incense and prayed for enlightenment, a proper sentiment, I thought, which would be approved both by the former Indian prince and the carpenter-rabbi of Nazareth. I made a discreet sign of the Cross with my incense, and then added it to the other sticks smoldering in the bronze urn. My prayers, along with those of many others, would continue to rise in the fragrant smoke.

Is there a holy place like this in culturally-Christian America? When did you last see working people, teenagers, and elderly folk praying on their own, without someone supervising their practices, or instructing them from on high? There were a few monks among the crowds, but they seemed to be offering the same devotions as the “civilians.”

I’d like to think that I brought home a little of the Palace of Peace and Harmony Lama Temple. I will strive for times of mindfulness and enlightenment as I go about my daily life. I hope my prayers continue to rise, even when I go about my life.