Between fights on Jerry Springer, lawsuits against Seymore Butts' Tampa Tushy Fest Part 1 and periodic morality sweeps by local political hopefuls, Tampa Bay has been cast in the media as sin city. Mayoral hopeful Bob Buckhorn once called the city the 'Holy Land for the porn industry." But the truth is, Tampa may be the Holy Land for religious seekers as well.
In fact, it would take more than 45 years for one person attending a religious or spiritual session once a week to attend each existing church, synagogue, circle, mosque and other sacred place in the four-county Tampa-St. Petersburg-Clearwater metropolitan area. In Tampa Bay, where six degrees of separation from someone who lived in the Voyeur Dorm is the norm, there is also a worship opportunity on nearly every block.
Tampa Bay has incredible spiritual plurality. Some churches even share their facilities with other faiths. In Tampa Bay, you can be as unorthodox or as Orthodox as you want to be.
My personal search for the Big 'G" — be it God, Goddess, Glory or Gimmick — began on A1A at the Daytona Beach Drive-In Christian Church. I had gone there to drink a bottle of champagne and kill time. However, at the end of the service, with cars honking their amens, I realized despite my failed Southern Baptist faith and weary weekend atheism: I really was something different from what I professed to be. I was a skeptic who wanted to believe.
Worse, I was a skeptic who wanted to believe, belong and keep all the peculiarities I called my individuality.
In my trip through some of Tampa Bay's spiritual refuges, I found some faiths identify these points of individuality as tickets to hell. And some accepted me just as I am — as long as I kept to a tithe or paid membership schedule. Many made me long for the sort of inclusion and faith I thought I had intellectualized out of my heart.
My personal search was simple. It focused on walking into a spiritual place, feeling welcome, sensing growth opportunities and seeing active community service.
What pulled me into the Apostolic United Pentecostal Church in St. Petersburg was a foundering friend who sought to switch from cocaine to the United Pentecostal Church International (UPCI) version of Jesus. The UPCI emerged from the Assemblies of God movement back in 1901. One of the beliefs that aided in the split was the idea that speaking in tongues is one of the first signs of receiving the Holy Spirit.
I felt I was suitably respectful for this more conservative branch of Pentecostalism. I was makeup free, covered from neck to ankle and had my Jezebel hair tamed into an Armageddon twist. In the absence of the regular preacher, a senior member of the congregation took to the pulpit expounding on the topic, 'things we honor over God."
As he held forth on how people had turned to the mall and embraced maroon hair in the name of that 'grunge rocker Marilyn Manson," I stared at a loose strand of my own Clairol Herbal Essences #74 Purple Haze tresses. Even as late as 1997, Rolling Stone had referred to Manson as an 'outlandishly savvy, button-pushing frontman" when it reported on his many travails with the Christian Right. I was caught off guard by how my black boots had something to do with speeding me to hell, even though I haven't been in a mall in years and my CD collection is a bit heavy on collections of pipe organ greats.
Being publicly identified as Satan's future roommate should have turned me from the UPCI path, but I hoped I had just been overly sensitive. I held on to this even as a couple of people touched my arm, promising to pray for me as they left the church.
The Pentecostals of Gainesville is one of the largest UPCI churches in Florida. The preacher has assured his large congregation that Gainesville has a special place with God. A sort of Chosen City, if you will. I thought only Gator fans believed this.
I escaped censure until the altar call.
'Sister, the Lord sent me to talk to you and give you a prophecy."
A self-appointed prophet had an arm around me before I could make it to the door.
'Sister, in the end times, Jesus has chosen you to spread his word." I frantically tried to recall the words Jesus used in the New Testament to scatter the moneychangers at the Temple.
'Oh Lord, bring down the Holy Spirit on this sister," he began, shaking me for emphasis.
Oh Lord, please don't bring the Holy Spirit down on this sister, I prayed silently.
The Pentecostals helped me rethink the importance of prayer.
Searching for the Big G isn't for the faint of heart. You walk into places where your only protection is your preconceived notions, the very notions from which a faith or path of enlightenment seeks to unburden you. Searching out a spiritual path is fraught with missteps and danger. Expressing the wrong sentiments can lead to questions.
Most particularly, 'What brought you here?"
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
I realize now I should have just stood there, stoically as the swarm of bees buzzed around my head and used my arms as a landing strip. I suppose my jumping, running and yelling outside the meditation room was viewed as really poor protocol even for a newcomer at Karma Thegsum Choling of Tampa Bay.
A private residence in Carrollwood serves as a frequent meeting place for Karma Thegsum Choling, a Tibetan-based Buddhism. It seemed like a possible path for me. It was the only answer I had for the gentleman who kept asking me why I was there. Having missed the early meditation for newcomers, I sat on the dock behind the house. It was beautiful there. Fish were eating each other. Ducks were fighting. The thunderclouds were rolling over the sun, rendering the sky a threatening gray. All in all, it was an 'all is suffering" sort of day.
A kind, witty woman admonished me not to make fun of the ducks, adding that I might be reincarnated as one in my next life. I am not ready to believe in reincarnation unless it applies to the rebirth of the engine in my 1986 Dodge Ram. My new Buddhist muse was a former Catholic who had been brought to Buddhism by her son. If I ever go back to Buddha, it will be because of her lightness of being.
When I left, I avoided the man who wanted to know why I had come. I felt the why was something for my own soul to wrestle with.
And wrestle it did.
Grappling with the Devil
The Lighthouse Baptist Church in Pinellas Park was hosting the Christian Wrestling Federation (CWF) for a night of God-infused chokeholds. The wrestling ring was right next to Park Avenue.
CWF of Florida puts on shows with titles such as 'Thou Shalt Not" and 'Revenge is Mine." Its mission is to reach the 'lost and backslidden." Unfortunately, the lost don't come tagged and ready to be assimilated, but it looked like the CWF had reached some pretty excited kids. As Rastaman reggaed into the ring, it was clear, too, it had provided a unique opportunity for parents to talk to their kids about such topics as bullying, stealing and a general failure to be humble.
The preacher of the Lighthouse Baptist Church welcomed me warmly to the event. The simplicity of the sanctuary centered on a plain wooden cross as a focal point. Watching the parents as excited as their kids about the spectacle, I was swept up in the warm syrup of familial love. I felt a sticky tug of longing.
There was one nagging oddity. Wrestler Pat McGroin sported a black velvet appliqued hand over his own McGroin. I'm not sure what made it fit the CWF's mission. Maybe it was the wedding ring on the hand's finger.
Oh Lord, Wontcha Buy Me a Giant TV
While the Lighthouse Baptist Church was perfectly happy having a wrestling ring in front of its church with a parking lot of families screaming at a common foe, The River of the Revival Ministries International in Mango wanted something else in front of their church.
A Jumbotron. A $50,000 Jumbotron; a big video screen like the one in Times Square.
After parking my truck in Azerbaijan (The River used to be an AutoNation dealership), I ordered a meat pie from a South African vendor (from the real South Africa, not an old AutoNation parking lot marker).
A man paid for my food and then sped off to the auditorium, saying only, 'No one gives more than God."
The auditorium wasn't packed for the Friday night revival, but the ushers made sure it appeared full for the cameras. A table stacked with letters from around the world about healing and salvation filled the central dais where used car salesmen once hustled.
For a few moments, I felt the joy. Maybe even the Big G. Away from people who knew me, away from expectations of dignity, I began to think I could clap, sing and really get into this exuberant and — dare I say it? — contemporary worship scene. A leather-clad biker was even dancing in the aisles in his vest that read 'Lord of Lords, King of Kings." Unlike the men I had dated, he didn't mean himself.
Flushed with exultation and the heat of the studio lights, a lounge singer for the Lord cued up 'I Got It." This holy Hokey Pokey required synchronized waving, shaking and stomping. My row mates looked beyond me at each other significantly. It was clear I didn't have it.
After the evangelist for the night had rendered the choir songless by screaming 'Jesus!" at each member, they remained stretched out at his feet for nearly two hours in a holy hibernation. He launched into a message on giving as a way to receive: in a nutshell, a sort of prosperity faith wherein God is a vending machine. Using lengthy tales of people who had given away things only to receive greater material wealth, the preacher proposed personal financing that made the lower level of a pyramid scheme seem safe in comparison.
Using these mathematics, I realized then why the man had paid for my dinner. He was using me in the God lottery.
If such financial schemes had merit in Heaven, it was clear in my travels that Allah was great.
The Warm Milk of Sisterhood
Mercedes and high-end SUVs packed the parking lot at the Tampa Bay Muslim Alliance's Islamic Charity Festival Day celebration, the Eid-ul-Adha Festival of Sacrifice and Sharing, at the North Boulevard Park in Tampa. The Festival gave away donated clothing, provided healthcare screenings, distributed food, and presented talks and information on the faith.
As I went through the clothing, a volunteer from the United Muslim Association of Tampa Bay Women (UMA) touched my wrist.
'Do you need a bag, Sister?"
The address of 'sister" from this fiery, strong woman moved me. I didn't take the food or check my blood pressure, but I took some soft drawstring pants, a modest shirt and a hijab.
At home, I tried on the hijab. I wasn't beautiful like the women I had met. I wasn't really a sister. It was kindness she offered me. A door I didn't open, I'll remember her touch through the headlines and events that will threaten or join our mutual futures.
When I left the festival, it was during afternoon prayers. The women separated from the men facing the Hillsborough River, except for one small girl who had her hand on her praying father's back. A boat sped by, heedless of the no wake zone. On board the bikini-clad women and shirtless men gave no thought to manatees or Mohammed.
Secret Joy
Just when it seemed skepticism was winning, something happened that rocked my jaded sensibilities.
I found Janet Kato through a story in New Times, a bimonthly holistic magazine. She had written a piece on the importance of joy in the face of the impossible and a practice called Huna.
Huna means 'secret" in Hawaiian. It also refers to the spiritual wisdom of Polynesia that dates back more than 5,000 years. Kato's appointments are fee-based, but she has special times set aside for those in need. Kato also hosts monthly healing meetings at the Angel Heart Bookstore in Tampa.
When I met this slight, beautiful blond woman, she opened her arms to me. Rather than giving me a perfunctory hug, she held me close. She breathed deeply. As I held her back I felt a tremendous surge. I closed my eyes and felt her expand to many sizes beyond me and beyond that which is human.
I felt the deepest fear. A fear of suddenly coming face to face with what I was seeking with nothing between us. A fear that the thin partition of skepticism I used to maintain my idea of reality would be torn away. She let me go, but I could still feel her hands against my bones and her breath in my heart.
Talking to her was an intimate and joy-based experience. She explained the seven principles of Huna and used a Tarot card reading to further delve in to some issues I had brought to the table. We ended talking about how to realign my living space to welcome what I desired in to my life, using a Hawaiian version of feng shui.
Wavering Skepticism
In the time between my consultation with Kato and my trip to Seminole's Universal Harmony Foundation, I had been injured in a car accident. It was safe to say that I felt I had nothing to lose by seeking healing.
Rev. Nancy Castillo heads up a group that follows Christian principles with inclusion of metaphysical concepts. Castillo's familiar New York accent got me from the get go, though I nearly set myself on fire with the prayer candles.
As Castillo's assistant reverend placed her hands around me, the hair on my head began to vibrate. It seemed to be no small consequence that it was doing so on the side of my head where I had recently been injured. While a portion of the ceremony was dedicated to spiritual healing, it also had other traditional and nontraditional components. Castillo read from Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim and Jewish works on the topic of hope. We meditated. At the end of the session, she delivered a message for each person in the congregation: a message from a departed father to a daughter. A wife received words from a husband who was now 'in spirit." The spirits dispensed advice and health warnings.
I walked out of Love and Harmony with a distinct drop in anxiety. I would rather be a wavering skeptic with peace of mind than a convinced skeptic with cold facts.
Knock Knock
Skepticism doesn't dog Penny Smith's life. My sister kept telling me about this woman who had everything. She played practical jokes. She didn't celebrate Christmas, but she gave personal gifts. When our Grandfather died, Smith gave my sister a book on grief that meant a lot to her. The faith of this woman was seamlessly, beautifully shown in her daily life. Her faith? Jehovah's Witness.
In short, Smith was the person knocking on your door that Saturday morning you accidentally woke up naked with your same-sex best friend after that little experiment with Ecstasy. You know the one. And so does Jehovah God.
Actually, this is really the person on the other side of the door: a person who realizes you may not answer, that you may not agree, that you may not even like her, but she feels so strongly about what she's found to be powerful in her life that she is knocking on the door anyway. In short, a person who lives a life of perseverance in the name of love.
During a study night at the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah's Witness (JW) in Pasco County, I listened as members of the church practiced their outreach on each other. I realized that if I had a good product and wanted a salesperson, the first person I'd pick would be a JW.
Many JWs don't mind JW jokes. Smith said Johnny Carson told his favorite one on The Tonight Show:
'Why don't Jehovah's Witnesses get killed during an earthquake?"
'They're always in your doorway."
As alluring as Smith's involvement with her faith was, I knew I lacked the stamina. Hers was the only church I had ever visited where people didn't trample each other trying to leave after the service's end.
Holy Pierogi
The difficulty in finding a spiritual path was nothing in comparison to finding pierogies in Tampa Bay. The pierogi is a dumpling considered to be the Ukraine's national dish. Find the Ukraine community and you'll find pierogies. That's how I ended up at The Ukrainian Orthodox Monastery of the Holy Prophet St. Elijah and Ukrainian Orthodox Church of West Central Florida in Dover. On my second visit to score some pierogi, the atheist friend who drove me there had a terrible accident. Driving down U.S. 92, an animal leapt in front of the Lincoln Continental he had borrowed from his father.
Already there had been difficulties. My friend was a man of principle. He objected to driving a large resource-depleting vehicle. He objected to his father's politics.
'What was it?" he asked.
'You don't want to know."
'I have to turn around," he said, visibly shaken. I already new it was the worst thing a Democratic, atheist, vegetarian, animal-rights activist could have hit.
When he saw the dead bobcat, he wept. He wrapped the body in his father's American flag, jumped a fence, buried the corpse with his bare hands and prayed over the animal's spirit.
This experience marred my experiment in orthodoxy but reaffirmed my affection for atheists.
At a Ukrainian worship session, the deep bass chanting of 'Lord Have Mercy" added a gilt edge to the service under the calm watch of Icons. Many parishioners are second- and third-generation Americans with a variety of Eastern European backgrounds.
At the frequent bazaars, bags of frozen pierogies are available for sale, including the Tampa version — the crab pierogi. The Romanian stew defies words, as does the warmth of this tradition that thrives in our fast-food nation.
The Gospel According to Rhonda
In my road trip, I would leave one congregation to go to another gathering where either group was convinced the other was going to fare badly in the afterlife. I found people recovering from one religion that another person was fleeing to in order to recover. But with all the differences, many of the essential motivations were precisely the same.
I may never decide on one spiritual path. My Dodge Ram may always be filled with my Santeria St. John's the Conqueror, my crucifix, my PTL Club Jim Bakker St. James Version Bible and a cheat sheet on the seven principles of Huna. I might practice each and every one of my religious freedoms at once, becoming an example of religious plurality in motion. My spiritual counselors may remain Doc, the bartender at Tate Brothers on Davis Islands, and Cary at the Botanica on Columbus Drive. I may not have found the Big G, but I have found the many chambered heart of Tampa Bay.
Sister RhondaK is a poet, writer and librarian living in Tampa. Contact her through her Web site, www.nakedpoetry.com.
This article appears in Jun 12-18, 2002.