“Why don’t you pray directly to God?” a determined first year asked of an equally tenacious exchange student. The former, a practicing Muslim, and the latter, a practicing Catholic, stood on a landing of one of Menton's enormous staircases, facing one another earnestly.
Night was swiftly enveloping the coastline, but a bright light spilled out of a small alcove protecting a sculpture of the Virgin Mary, casting their two poised figures into relief. The statue managed to retain a gentle look, despite the harshness of the wrought-iron gate separating it from passers-by. I felt just the slightest elevation in the emotional intensity of an otherwise amiable stroll through the winding Riviera streets.
In reply, the exchange student began to explain her understanding of the Catholic custom of praying to the Virgin Mary. She said that Mary is closer to God and, as a result, can do more to intercede on mortals' behalf. She also added with something of a laugh, et surtout parce quelle est belle.
This answer seemed to satisfy the inquiring first year student, who returned the slightly laughing gesture.
This conversation that I witnessed between these two students highlighted a very interesting distinction between Islam and Christianity, and it is one of aesthetics.
By calling it an aesthetic difference, I do not mean to imply that it is less profound or meaningful than moral, philosophical, or doctrinal distinctions. In fact, it seems to me that the way a religion deals with experience, be it sensory, emotional, artistic, cognitive, or some other configuration thereof, represents an integral part of its composition, and one of the most interesting things about religion.
Christianity, and the countries in whose histories it is deeply embedded, overflow with images. Such religious statues, mosaics, and murals in various states of upkeep are quite common sights around Menton. Comparable depictions of holy figures in the Muslim tradition, on the other hand, are traditionally prohibited.
It is hard to pinpoint what started the conversation between these two young students, but it was clear that the topic was of great personal significance to both of them. Their conversation illustrated that there are many things that religions do not understand about one another. It also suggested to me that it is possible to reach a kind of common ground. Though I was not involved in the dialogue, I sensed the weight of their question in my own way, feeling it reverberate in my consciousness.
Why don't you pray directly to God?
And I wondered if it could be done—if we, I, one—could pray directly to God. That seems to be the goal, but it is one that seems quite difficult to achieve. Sometimes I feel as though my voice is so weak there is no way it could reach another person, much less an otherworldly being. There seem to be so many filters between the divine and the suppliant, not the least of which is language. My American friends who attend Catholic Mass here in France soon discovered that they would have to relearn prayers and services that were once perfectly familiar to them. But then, on some level, the Lord's Prayer is the Lord's Prayer; regardless of what language you use to recite it.
What I have found so far is that although religion has important implications regionally, it also attempts to take on a role that transcends geography.
In reply, the exchange student began to explain her understanding of the Catholic custom of praying to the Virgin Mary. She said that Mary is closer to God and, as a result, can do more to intercede on mortals' behalf. She also added with something of a laugh, et surtout parce quelle est belle.
This answer seemed to satisfy the inquiring first year student, who returned the slightly laughing gesture.
This conversation that I witnessed between these two students highlighted a very interesting distinction between Islam and Christianity, and it is one of aesthetics.
By calling it an aesthetic difference, I do not mean to imply that it is less profound or meaningful than moral, philosophical, or doctrinal distinctions. In fact, it seems to me that the way a religion deals with experience, be it sensory, emotional, artistic, cognitive, or some other configuration thereof, represents an integral part of its composition, and one of the most interesting things about religion.
Christianity, and the countries in whose histories it is deeply embedded, overflow with images. Such religious statues, mosaics, and murals in various states of upkeep are quite common sights around Menton. Comparable depictions of holy figures in the Muslim tradition, on the other hand, are traditionally prohibited.
It is hard to pinpoint what started the conversation between these two young students, but it was clear that the topic was of great personal significance to both of them. Their conversation illustrated that there are many things that religions do not understand about one another. It also suggested to me that it is possible to reach a kind of common ground. Though I was not involved in the dialogue, I sensed the weight of their question in my own way, feeling it reverberate in my consciousness.
Why don't you pray directly to God?
And I wondered if it could be done—if we, I, one—could pray directly to God. That seems to be the goal, but it is one that seems quite difficult to achieve. Sometimes I feel as though my voice is so weak there is no way it could reach another person, much less an otherworldly being. There seem to be so many filters between the divine and the suppliant, not the least of which is language. My American friends who attend Catholic Mass here in France soon discovered that they would have to relearn prayers and services that were once perfectly familiar to them. But then, on some level, the Lord's Prayer is the Lord's Prayer; regardless of what language you use to recite it.
What I have found so far is that although religion has important implications regionally, it also attempts to take on a role that transcends geography.
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