The Sound of Scripture: Evangelical Preacher Immerses Worshippers on the Upper West Side
NEW YORK — The preacher gathers a pool of saliva to the back of her throat and sends a wet suction sound booming through the speakers — hwauuuuk, pftooh. “If you’re in New York, this sound should be familiar,” she says. Thankfully, Yen-Yen Chiu is not actually spitting on the Evangelical congregation gathered in Hope Church at 163 W. 97th St.
Instead, she’s guiding worshippers through John 9:1-38, a Bible passage that’s inspired works of art from John Newton’s "Amazing Grace" to paintings by El Greco and Rembrandt — the story of Jesus healing a man who was born blind.
The miracle is a messy one. Jesus spits on the ground, makes mud, rubs it on the blind man’s eyes, and tells him to go wash in the Pool of Siloam. His sight miraculously comes back, but the Pharisees — a devout Jewish religious group — are not so sure. They question the blind man, refusing to believe that Jesus is from God, and expel him from the synagogue.
Standing at the front of the chilly school hall, Chiu takes her listeners on a guided meditation. “Do me a favor. I want you to close your eyes and I want you to imagine you’re the blind man.” People began to sink into the experience. A young man with a surgical mask squeezes his eyes tight. A woman with a fur hat rests her eyelids so they flutter like leaves in the breeze. All the worshippers see is black, but in the darkness, ambient noises seem to come alive.
Chiu crafts her biblical soundscape, trading the Upper West Side for Jesus’ Jerusalem. “You hear people walking” — she stomps her black boots on the lacquer floor, sending thuds echoing around the hall. “There’s kids that are screaming. You hear animals. And then you hear somebody ask, ‘Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents that he was born blind?’”
At the core of Chiu’s exercise is empathy. She urges the room of 50 believers to imagine how the blind man feels when he hears this. “Maybe you’re interested. … Maybe you’re like me and you’re angry, like, hey I’m blind, but I’m not deaf.” Most of the members chuckle, eyes still shut, faces creasing to reveal grins across flushed cheeks.
“All of a sudden you hear, hwauuuuk, pftooh. And a few seconds later, you feel this goopiness squashed on your eyes.” So powerful is Chiu’s sonic meditation that the sea of shut-eyed faces wrinkle in disgust, as if saliva is being smeared across them. A woman in a pink poncho grasps for her partner’s hands. To her left, a man with a nametag spelling "Moses" squirms in his seat, sliding his feet in front of him.
Chiu pauses, swaying in her blue jeans, then breaks the silence, “You hear a different voice telling you, ‘Go and wash this off here.’” She queues the churchgoers to open their eyes. One by one, they come back to the room, blinking in the fluorescent lights.
Chiu’s black bob bounces as she distills her message, arms rotating in huge circles, “Jesus engages with us. He chooses to get messy.” A wave of murmurs agrees. Yes, He does.
All We Need Is … a Miracle?
NEW YORK — Cecil B. DeMille knew the cinematic power of the biblical story of Moses parting the Red Sea. The Hollywood director depicted this awe-inspiring moment, when the Israelites dash across dry ground to escape the Egyptian army, with epic special effects in his 1956 Oscar-winning film The Ten Commandments. To the fleeing Israelites in the Book of Exodus, however, DeMille’s presentation of the sea split might not have felt so miraculous.
On a recent Saturday morning at Congregation Rodeph Sholom on Manhattan’s Upper West Side (at 7 W. 83rd St.), guest speaker Anna Kislanski suggested that contemporary Jews, too, might question the true marvel of this familiar story. Kislanski, CEO of the Jerusalem-based Israel Movement for Reform and Progressive Judaism, an organization that unites all Reform congregations in Israel, led the “d’var Torah” (“word of Torah”) portion of the Shabbat service, a talk based on the weekly Torah reading.
This week’s reading from the Book of Exodus describes how Moses, with a flourish of his arm, and backing from God, divides the waters of the Red Sea, creating a safe, dry route for the Israelites, water suspended beside them on each side like giant cascading curtains. When the Egyptians attempt to follow, Moses sends the sea crashing back down, drowning the entire army.
Kislanski said the Israelites were likely so scared out of their minds during this experience that they might well had missed the miraculous vibes. “At any moment, the walls of water could collapse and bury the frightened people beneath them,” she said.
When the Israelites reached the other side, Kislanski continued, they briefly stopped their journey of fear to participate in “The Song of the Sea,” a joyful chorus of praise as recounted in Exodus. But their praise was short-lived. The Bible goes on to tell how the Israelites soon returned to grumbling about their predicament, and in particular about the lack of decent food and drink.
Kislanski was not criticizing the Israelites, however, and understood their frustration. She compared their fluctuating feelings of delight and despair to the emotional swings felt by Jews today as they experience a series of historical moments: the weekly return of Israeli hostages from Gaza as part of a ceasefire in the latest war between Israel and Hamas.
“In these moments of liberation, we are full of gratitude and fill our mouths with song,” Kislanski said, “yet immediately afterward, we … feel just like the Israelites on the edge of the Red Sea, with great hope, but also unsure whether we will make it to the other side, whether the ceasefire will hold, whether we will all finally return to our lives of peace and prosperity.”
During a Torah study after the service, a more informal gathering attended by about 25 congregants, Kislanski introduced a poem to elaborate. She first asked a congregant to read one sentence from the Torah reading, Exodus 14:22: “And the children of Israel went into the midst of the sea upon the dry ground; and the waters were a wall unto them on their right hand, and on their left.”
She then read an excerpt from Israeli poet Yehudah Amichai’s “Miracles” (translated from Hebrew):
From a distance everything looks like a miracle
but up close even a miracle doesn’t appear so.
Even someone who crossed the Red Sea when it split
only saw the sweaty back
of the one in front of him
and the motion of his big legs
and at most, a hurried glance to the side,
fish of many colors in a wall of water,
like in a marine observatory behind walls of glass.
Suddenly, the miraculous crossing seemed more … mundane, with all the messiness of any hurried mass of people blundering together and mingling bodily fluids. And when speed is of the essence, who has time to ogle gloriously hued fish or improbable walls of water?
“When you're afraid of the world, running from the Egyptians,” Kislanski said, “you're afraid that the world will collapse. You're not thinking of it as a miracle.”
That does not mean, however, that people should give up hope, she said, or forget to sing, even if they register the miracle for only a brief time. Kislanski said she’d woken up that day to news of three more hostages released to Israel.
“It's a miracle they're able to return, that they were able to survive,” she said. “We're able to see them back with us.” After a pause, she added, “And we realize that it's also a very, sad, sad moment.”
The miracle’s close-up had ended — for now.
A Multicultural Conversation on Immortality at the Vedanta Society of New York
NEW YORK — In a brownstone on West 71st Street, just off of Central Park, inside the Vedanta Society of New York’s prayer and lecture space, a livestream is set up. Swami Sarvapriyananda, the spiritual leader of the society, is about to give his weekly Sunday lecture.
The swami takes a seat at the front of the room in front of the camera. He wears light orange garments associated with a Hindu monk like himself. Sarvapriyananda begins singing “Hymn to Sri Ramakrishna” by Swami Vivekananda , the society's founder. Once the hymn is over, the swami bows his head and presses his hands together in prayer for a brief moment. Then, he begins to speak.
“Since the strength resulting from the knowledge of the self is independent of any means of acquisition, that strength alone is able to conquer death,” Sarvapriyananda says in Sanskrit, then English. This is the mantra the lecture is focused on today. It comes from the Kena Upanishad, a Vedic text used to guide those of the Hindu faith.
“What does this mean?” he asks, and pauses for a moment before continuing. “When Brahman is realized effortlessly, choiceless-ly, it shines.” The swami speaks candidly, his passion for the text evident from the excited expression on his face and the way he waves his hands around as he speaks. In the Hindu faith, Brahman is the “ultimate reality” or the “cosmic principle of existence” as described by philosopher Haridas Chaudhuri in his essay “The Concept of Brahman in Hindu Philosophy." In the context of Sarvapriyananda’s words, Brahman describes the divine consciousness that all Hindus strive for.
All humans are immortal, he explains, but to achieve that immortality, one must fully realize their existence. The term the swami uses for this is “matam,” or true realization. Sarvapriyananda breaks down every section of the mantra using Hindu terms, but explains each term in English as well. It is a comprehensive spiritual education for devoted members of the society, but also teaches the fundamentals in a clear and concise way for those who may be earlier on in their spiritual journey.
The space has very little decoration throughout, and the walls are a plain gray. The only embellished part of the room is a shrine at the front next to Sarvapriyananda that displays photos of the Vedanta Society’s “Holy trio,” as they are called on the society’s website: Sri Ramakrishna, the saint; Vivekananda, the founder of the Society in New York; and Sri Sarada Devi, the Holy Mother. Lit candles and flowers are placed around the three photos, pulling one’s eye to them in the otherwise blank space. The only other piece of decoration in the room is a wall sticker with the society’s slogan: “Truth is one, sages call it variously.”
Vedanta is a branch of Hinduism that focuses on the Vedas, a series of holy Sanskrit texts that provide guidance to worshippers. Vedanta is described by the society as a method of realizing a goal of enlightenment and immortality that all religions share. They accept different religions as different paths of achieving this goal.
When Sarvapriyananda finishes, the lecture becomes a conversation. Each person listening is allowed to ask questions related to the knowledge learned today, or about another part of their spiritual journey. The last question is, “What do I have to gain or lose by being enlightened or not enlightened?” The swami smiles knowingly, like he has a secret, then shares that secret with the group: “Only the enlightened one knows.” He bows his head in blessing, and dismisses the congregation.
New Converts and Longtime Members Learn Byzantine Chant
NEW YORK — On a recent Tuesday night at Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church on the Upper West Side, six students gathered in a basement classroom to learn a skill integral to Orthodox liturgy: Byzantine chant.
The singers’ voices rose and fell in unison. They had no instruments, save their hands, which they lifted and dropped on their knees, creating a steady backdrop of a beat.
Byzantine chant is a type of religious music traditionally used by the Eastern Orthodox Church, characterized by singing with minimal or no background, and is typically sung in a religious context such as the Divine Liturgy, the main Sunday church service.
Christos, the teacher, is a cantor for the Sunday services. His students cover a wide demographic, from teenagers through elders, and all share the goal of engaging more meaningfully with the liturgy.
One student, a longtime church member named Margaret, said she knows what is happening in the liturgy based on the chanting. For her, the class is an opportunity to better understand the proceedings of the service, which are often obscured from view.
In class, Christos began by revisiting the prior week’s lesson on characters that add duration, signified by the number of dots under the symbol (. , .. , or …). Byzantine symbols are comparative — each signifies how many steps up or down, and in what way, the singer should adjust their tone compared with the prior note.
Christos then led the class in practicing hand motions and singing through samples of notation with increasing difficulty.
The students were all at different levels — some already understood Gregorian chant and others had just converted to the religion. Christos worked with each individually to construct attainable goals, giving a promising teenager, a young convert from Catholicism, the assignment of preparing a solo to be sung next month.
But for the most part, the students focused on learning the notes. They used “Ni Pa Vou Ga Di Ke Zo Ni,” which corresponds to the Western C major scale (Do Re Mi…). Only after extensive practice reading and singing along with the codification will they begin adding words.
Byzantine chant notation is a complex, arduous, aesthetically foreign form of music theory. Some students compared the symbols to Arabic, and all agreed that the skill was akin to reading a foreign language.
They began the course learning the basic symbols, which they reviewed at the beginning of class:
Afterward, they learned more complex multi-note symbols, the lesson of the day:
Each student seemed fully engaged with the teaching and asked questions throughout. Several students recorded the examples on their phones as they sang, to listen to at home. Their homework was to practice three of the examples on one of the pages daily.
At the end of the class, Christos opened the floor for questions. He explained the history and development of Byzantine chant and its use in modern churches.
Byzantine chant developed over centuries, likely originating from early Hebrew and Syrian music. During the Byzantine Empire, it was a method of sharing biblical texts and prayers during a time when many people were illiterate, especially in rural areas. Even for the literate, Byzantine chant was a helpful tool to memorize and engage with religious information.
In the early 19th century, the codification was refined and simplified to be more accessible to church leaders and participants.
Although the class focused on teaching technical skills, Christos described the chanting as “fully spiritual,” making sure not to undermine the tradition’s mystical significance.
The goal of Byzantine chant, he said, is to “match hymnography of text with the feeling.”
Suspend the Urge to Understand: Lessons from a Heart Sutra Book Club at the Korean Buddhism Jo-Gei Temple of America
On a frigid February afternoon, six students sat cross-legged on jade-colored cushions atop creaky wooden floorboards inside a Manhattan brownstone. They had come for a Buddhist scripture study group, advertised plainly as “Book Club,” at the Korean Jo-Gei Temple of America.
“I consider myself quite shy,” said Bosung, the monk who leads the weekly gathering. “I find myself much more comfortable talking to trees and growing plants than teaching a class,” he added with a soft chuckle. He wore a bell-sleeve mauvish robe, a white muslin scarf, clear cubic glasses and chestnut prayer beads. Behind him, a gentle glow emanated from an oversized Himalayan salt lamp, creating a roseate halo around his shaved head.
Pipes crackled. A finicky heater whirred. Each student clutched a canary-yellow piece of paper displaying words in English and Hangul (the Korean alphabet), which they scrutinized in silence. Some scrawled notes in the margins, perhaps preparing themselves for the monk’s cold-calling practice. The printed work in question: The Heart Sutra, a text dedicated to Avalokiteshvara — the Bodhisattva of Compassion — and considered by many the foremost piece of Buddhist scripture.
“The Heart Sutra speaks to a quality of knowledge which you already have,” Bosung said. “It speaks to something we can do without understanding.” According to Bosung, the Sutra asks and answers one simple question: “How do we do compassion?” Compassion, he clarified, is not a feeling, but a function — an action to be demonstrated rather than simply discussed.
A student raised her hand to inquire about the meaning of emptiness, a recurring concept throughout the text. At this, Bosung clicked his tongue, released a heavy breath and cautioned against the urge to understand.
“If a child were to run in here crying, what would you do?” Bosung asked the group. Silence. “Would you ask them about emptiness?” he added. Blank stares. A few stifled laughs. “No!” Bosung exclaimed, shaking the room with his bellow. “You would ask what’s wrong and try to comfort them.” Nods and hums of agreement. “It’s our capacity to not know that allows us to comfort the child,” he said.
The lesson might seem counterintuitive: Ignorance enhances the capacity for compassion. One student voiced confusion: Isn’t knowledge required for deeper understanding and empathy?
“There can be real wisdom in ignorance,” Bosung said. Ignorance, he explained, gives way to curiosity, a necessary ingredient for compassion. The sacred act of asking true questions requires first gaining comfort in a state of unknowing.
Before the class adjourned, Bosung emphasized the importance of experiential learning in Buddhist practice. “Don’t take my word for it. Experience it for yourself. And let that experience ripen into your own courage.”