onon prayer WORDS
Whoso reciteth, in the privacy of his chamber, the verses revealed by God, the scattering angels of the Almighty shall scatter abroad the fragrance of the words uttered by his mouth, and shall cause the heart of every righteous man to throb. Baha’u’llah
One Report is spiritually-minded content for and by young people. This publication is borne from a reflection of the teachings of the Baha’i Faith and many of our contributors are Baha’is, but not all. The goal is for One Report to offer space for people from all faith backgrounds and beliefs to discuss issues of faith and spirituality. In a time of turmoil, One Report hopes to be a source of unity and collaboration. It is an opportunity for young people to learn from one another and share reflections that feel relevant, pressing, stirring, and elevated. Thank you.
One Report is edited by Anisa Tavangar with Maya Mansour. Images in this issue are by Alexandra Karamallis.
in the prayer room Written by Parisa Rowhani
i entered the room eager to behold what was inside found it empty a single candle lighting the mind taking a seat feeling its weak but indisputable warmth i fixed my gaze upon the flame and felt myself melt at the touch rid of all attachments to pride, to ego, to fame suddenly engulfed by a new desire to be of service to His name the room, now aglow with the fire of love through ardent supplication, and not thinking too much finally experiencing true detachment an uncompromising reliance upon God in awe of His power His merciful hold who can turn a gnat into an eagle an atom into a sun and me, a speck of dust in the pathway of Thy loved ones
RETAINING WOChekiye i
V
Written by Levi Harter
“Prayer” in the New Lakota Dictionary (NLD) is translated to “Wóčhekiye,” which can also mean “spirituality, spiritual ways, religion, belief.” They translated it that way because of Christianity. It’s easier for them to explain our whole way of being—our relationship to the Land, the Sky, the Unseen, the Animals, the Plants, the Waters, the Winds, the People, our way of life—by calling it “prayer.” Prayer. A woman, hands folded, on her knees, by the bed, begging to the white man’s sky dad for “love” and “wrath” and “mercy.” We don’t pray like that. Us Lakotas never stopped praying, even through the government made Wóčhekiye illegal until 1978. Even when they put barbed wire around our Rez, even when the government was patrolling, even when they were making sure no Savages were building Sweat Lodges or Sundancing or Drumming. Prayer isn’t something that we do once a week. It’s something our men would do every morning with the sacred pipe, the čhaŋnúŋpa. It’s something our women would do as she set up the home that you burned, as she braided her children’s hair you cut, as she cut small pieces of skin off her arm to put in a rattle that her son shook through the war you brought upon us.
Wóčhekiye — [wó- čhékiyA] Wó- — a prefix which can denote many things, sacred, big. Wólakota, real Lakota, sacred. Wóphila, thank you very much, big thanks, sacred gratitude. ČhékiyA — [ČhéyA + ki- ]— to pray, beg, beseech, entreat; address by proper kinship terms. ČhéyA — to cry, weep, wail. Ki1 — to, for. 2 — one’s own (possessive marker). 3 — to become again as one was before, return to original state
I don’t know which form of “ki-“ is used in čhékiyA, but they all make sense to me. This is how we pray— humbling ourselves before the Mystery, crying out to our Relations, asking for help and pity. We’d go out on that hill and cry and beg for guidance and a vision from Thuŋkášila. A HaŋbléčheyA. This is the power of tears and emotions. Big sacred crying to and for all our relations, all our relations. Especially the women, they know boundless love and strength, they hold us down, they are our Rocks. Wíŋyaŋ. This is what I know about “prayer.” I’m still learning and it takes time because they tried to take our wóčhekiye, our way of life, our connections. They tried to replace it with “prayer.” But we never stopped crying for and honoring our relations. We aren’t dead and gone; we’re alive like our culture, like our spirituality. Spirit is what kept Wóčhekiye alive within us.
Beauty in Mystery in BHOAL Written by Suraiya Ali
Within my extremely heterodox sect of Islam is a tradition called “Bhoal,” which loosely translates from Hindi to “Speak.” It is a tradition that only happens every so often, usually during a congregational festival. During Bhoal, an adherent has a word whispered into their ear and are told to do dhikr, spiritual meditation, on that word for a certain amount of time. The practice is a commitment on the part of the devotee, and should not be taken up by someone who is not spiritually for the burden of the word they are given. I became aware of this tradition two years ago, during one of these large congregational festivals, eavesdropping as other people bickered that adherents were only doing Bhoal for the sake of saying they did it. I heard people saying that others were too young, too uncommitted, too impatient to even begin to take on such a spiritual commitment. My curiosity, however, was not to the people participating, but to the word that you could be given. Between Quranic Arabic, Hindi, Urdu, Farsi, and English, it seemed like an infinite amount of words could be given as a spiritual gift. The beauty of Bhoal is its ambiguity. Adherents must put some trust within cosmic workings to ensure their word will make sense and it is considered sinful to ask someone for their
word. The two-fold power of the word given lies in the covenant of Bhoal— the covenant made with God upon it being whispered and the covenant made with one’s self to not give into judgment from others upon accepting the word. Regardless of if that word fits the adherent’s current circumstance, or if it opens doors into a train of thought they had never considered, it is a word that defines the truest form of covenant with Divinity. The practice in some way garners judgment from others but that judgment is to ignored to make way to meditation and thoughtfulness. Whether I ever do Bhoal depends on my life’s journey and if will lead me to a word being whispered in my ear. But words come whispered from every corner of the cosmos, all I have to do is listen. In this way, Bhoal is happening all around us if we choose to lend an ear.
Prayer, As I'm Learning It Written by Jasmine Amato On a recent evening, I sat on the floor in a circle of seven people. We were about to share songs together, when a woman asked a young man, “Would you like to offer a prayer?” He said, “yes” and closed his eyes. There was a long silence. Then, I heard a soft whisper. At first, I thought it was a body shifting but when I peaked my eyes open in the direction of the noise, I realized that it was the young man. His lips were moving but his words were so soft that I could hardly understand him, even though I was sitting only one person away. I was taken aback and humbled because up until that point, I was accustomed to prayer as aggressive proclamations of the favor of God— demanding requests for the “will of God,” “the peace, the protection, the hand of God.” Prayer before was a lot of asking for material things. I never really understood it. Here are several instances of prayer that have shook me to my core and left a powerful feeling in my heart; several instances that I have felt closest to God: There was one day when I went to the park with my family. We were walking on the sidewalk, past the picnic tables, towards the slide when I noticed, gathered by the trees, a large group of people, kneeling in the grass, facing east. Some of the women were sitting upright with their hands clasped. The men sat on their knees, their faces turned upward.
“A few times, my knees lost feeling. Listening to the chanting and singing of a Hindu Priest, he rang a bell while offering flowers for guidance from above. �
Another time, I witnessed an Indegenous Pow Wow. People danced and sang their prayers, played drums, and shook instruments that went shk-shk-shk. A few times, my knees lost feeling. Listening to the chanting and singing of a Hindu Priest, he rang a bell while offering flowers for guidance from above. For many years, I sat in a room full of onlookers as the man at the front shouted and spat, straightened and bent his spine, waved his arm at the crowd. Then I noticed his eyebrows scrunch together. He knew that the harder he shouted, the more free he became, the more power would rumble from the sky. He listened to his own voice. Recently, I heard a young man softly whisper. His facial muscles compress and he listens for a response after every syllable he offers. He searches in every question he asks. Everyday, a group of relatives sit close together and hold hands in a circle. They bow their heads and feel the energy between them. Soon I will feel the rhythm of feet, the clap of hands, and joy in the songs they will sing. These show me what real prayer feels like.
Many sounds of prayer Written by Menaka Kannan In our conversations with the Divine, we twist and conform our scattered thoughts into words that carry our emotions on their backs. Even if we assume that our Creator extends far above and beyond us, communicating to us through silent meditation, we pay careful attention to each intimate word we utter in our prayers. I am so grateful, then, to be able to test my words in more than one language. The sounds and syllables that make up English move around my mouth more simply than those of India’s many languages. English falls right off the tip of my tongue. There’s no energy or time wasted on forming the sounds, which only require a small range of movements to produce. All my thoughts are centered on the meanings of each word spelled out in my prayer book.
"silence is the languag all else is poor trans - Rumi
Tamil, however, is inherently percussive. Some have likened Tamil to the sound of pebbles rattling around in a cup. Almost every word is punctuated by a hard “ka,” “ta,” or “pa.” I have only chanted Hindu prayers in Tamil, and when I do, I get lost in the rhythm, racing to keep pace with my parents. My dad and I later parse out the words and their allegories to Hindu mythology. Tamil prayers smell of camphor and incense and taste of family. Hindi prayer, on the other hand, is dulcet poetry. Some consonants are spoken as is and others are aspirated, throwing in their dramatic flair. The vowel sounds perform a
delicate dance between the spaces of crude English sounds. This is why I love to sing in Hindi. Even the scale of Hindustani music plays on the infinite spaces between two notes. Reveling in the fluidity, I imagine myself escaping this world and soaring through the heavens. The weight of my love for Krishna and Bahá’u’lláh hold up each crescendo. In classical studies we learn that the resonance between our voice and the accompanying cord plucked on a tambura is a form of yoga, or communion with God. Praying and singing in Hindi is deeply personal. The music fills my entire body.
ge of god, slation."
Praying in Sanskrit could not be more opposite. Each line of the Bhagavad Gita is chanted in Sanskrit in the same melody, despite the changing narrators or rising and falling action. These words are born to a lineage spanning millennia. There is nothing personal about praying in Sanskrit. Rather, doing so connects me to the grandparents I never met; to the gopis, or cow-herding girls, who dedicated their every breath to Krishna; and to the rishis, or ascetics, who renounced the world in favor of divine knowledge. As Rumi says, all words are merely poor translations for the love and beauty of God, the Unknowable Essence, the Divine Creator. But we play with them in different ways; and if we’re lucky, we might hear a whisper in the beautiful silence.
Ee Mungu, niongoze, nilinde, nifanya taa inayowaka na nyota ing’arayo. Wewe ni Mwenya enzi na Mwenya nguvu. Wakháŋ Tháŋka, kašká mayúza yo, awáŋmaglaka yo, phetížaŋžaŋ wíyakpa na wičháhpi iléga čha makáha yo. Waníš’akiŋ na wíyoyakihi. 神様、私をお導き下さい。 お守りください。 私の心の灯を明るく して、私を輝く星となし給え。 あなたは偉大なる御方におわし、 力に満ち給う御方にまします。 ¡Oh Dios! Guíame, protégeme, haz de mí una lámpara brillante y una estrella resplandeciente. Tú eres el Fuerte y el Poderoso. O God, guide me, protect me, make of me a shining lamp and a brilliant star. Thou art the mighty and powerful.
Groanings too deep Written by Jesse Ojeda
Your children are calling, Father Lord, hear our prayer the all-familiar sign: a subtle, gentle tug. Now, Lord? Are you sure? Mechanically, my legs carry me from the pews, leading me under the gaze of indigo stained glass. Those sensitive to the slight pull stand forward, eyes shut, hands open to receive. But this is not my posture. Lord, for whom? Stillness, but there is an inherent trust in proximity. I ask one nearest to me if they would desire the laying of hands on their shoulder. They nod. The limestone chapel at 8th and 22nd exists for broken cisterns like them, like us. Words that are not my own begin to flow out of my mouth and well into clumps on the ground. Wind has fallen. Kyrie Eleison Christ, Have Mercy Oxygen and nitrogen trickle in and forsake my lungs in sputters and coughs and wails. My larynx blossoms, bathed in destitution and notes of juniper. The cry of the Psalmist seeps like hyssop from my lips. How long, Lord? Will you turn your face from me? Agony like that in Gethsemane trickles down from mountainous gyri to soak sulci alike. I cannot feel the wind, but I have hope it still fills the air.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven asphyxiation. Sitting in the pews at the church of my birth feigns the perception of waves swelling over my prostrate body. Drowning threatens to set in as I await in silence. Any personal pleas upward have ceased. To open my mouth in prayer is to let the water suffocate me. eventually, the service closes and I am approached by one unfamiliar. Anxiety almost imperceptible pierces like that palpable tug once again. It had been simple for me to forget that the Spirit of God to which I pray returns the favor too. The person’s vision for me had manifested entirely before they knew who it was for. Their mouth opens before mine can prevent the flood, the flush: Can you keep your head above all the water, Jesse? For even the valley of dry bones, given flesh and sinew was Empty, until it received breath.
MUSIC AND PRAYER Written by Nica Sabet
Music is a language. It can be translated, structured, reasoned, materialised into notes. The German poet, Goethe, described music as “liquid architecture…” It is both ordered and organic. A set of scientifically calculable waves, mathematically quantifiable rhythms, theoretically compartmentalised genres, and categorised cultures. These factors pull you up or drag you down and with the pluck of a single string, your spirit is
Oh God, guide me, protect me, make of me a shining lamp and a brilliant star. Thou art the Mighty and the Powerful. Abdu'l-Baha moved. When I was 5 years old, my grandmother sat me down on my neatly made bed and
handed me a piece of paper. On it was a picture of a lamp and a prayer. She chanted the prayer, one line at a time, instructing me to repeat after her; elongating the vowels while rising and lowering her tone. While improvised, the melody was recorded in my memory as I carefully mimicked my grandmother. For the first time, I reflected on the purpose and meaning of the words of a prayer. As that realization unfolded, my heart swelled with contentment. When chanting, the words direct the melody of the syllables and letters recited. The prayer leads and the music follows. Prayer is one of the many languages of Love, the word of God. In the marriage of music and prayer, the deeper meaning of the words can be unveiled. It causes the heart to break free of the material barrier of words; the words themselves dissolve and all is left is the meaning, diffusing like cleaning paint from a brush in clear water
“Chant the Words of God and, pondering over their meaning, transform them into actions!” Abdu’l-Baha
O SON OF DUST! All that is in heaven and earth I have ordained for thee, except the human heart, which I have made the habitation of My beauty and glory; yet thou didst give My home and dwelling to another than Me; and whenever the manifestation of My holiness sought His own abode, a stranger found He there, and, homeless, hastened unto the sanctuary of the Beloved. Notwithstanding I have concealed thy secret and desired not thy shame. Baha’u’llah
Click above for prayers sung by Nica.
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