When I went to a Thai buddhist temple, I saw worshippers reading their fortunes as they knelt in front of an altar. They held cups filled with thin wooden sticks that were etched with Thai characters. As they shook the cups gently, back and forth, the first stick to make its way out of the cup and land on the floor was the one giving sight into their futures.





When I went to a Hindu temple, I saw statues of Ganesha and Vishnu being bathed in milk as they sat amid piles of sweet-smelling fruit, offerings to ensure the favor of the gods.





When I went to a Jewish temple, the service felt more familiar, and I heard more english, but it still felt like a very foreign hour.





Two Sundays ago, I attended Johanneskirken (St. John's Church), and although not a word of english was uttered, there I was part of the service.











Built in 1894, it has been deemed one of the finest neo-Gothic churches in Norway. Within fancier, more ornate walls I have not sat. As most Lutheran churches do, St. John's got me thinking about ceremony, tradition and ritual. In my life as a Christian it seems that the closer I become to Christ, the more familiar the voice of the Spirit, the more constant the dialogue, the more superficial church rites become. On this walk, as I have semi-consciously let my Lutheran pomp wane, I think that I have made the mistake of letting some reverence drift away as well. I would never trade having Jesus as my best and closest friend for a more rigid or liturgical relationship, but for the first time as an adult I saw meaning behind the stained glass, vaulted ceiling, the tiny, silver communion goblets and thickly-gilded pulpit. I certainly realize that such things can distract or be present to keep up appearances, but that morning I saw them as an attempt to offer something beautiful to a Father whose beauty we know we cannot comprehend.