In two temples, 7000 miles apart, the youngest members of a dying faith are preparing for their formal initiation into Zoroastrianism. In both, the smells of sandalwood and smoke are the same, as are the prayers and the white skullcaps the boys wear. Both sets of children seem largely oblivious to the role they play in the battle over the future of their faith. But there the similarities largely end. One group is made up of the children of Zoroastrian mothers and fathers, the others are the sons and daughters of mixed marriages: Zoroastrian and Hindus, Jews, Muslims and Christians. These two communities, one outside New York City, the other in Bombay, India, have radically different philosophies about how to keep their faith alive.

As Zoroastrianism, which many consider to be the world’s first monotheistic faith approaches a crossroads, those living abroad are learning to adapt in hopes of keeping the faith alive, while their counterparts in India cling to their traditions. The result may be what one expert calls a “cleavage,” with the Indian Parsi community dwindling and possibly even disappearing altogether as the Zoroastrians abroad loosen their interpretation of old traditions and grow increasingly open to outsiders in the community.

Parsis are the Indian descendents of Persian Zoroastrians and today, there are fewer than 100,000 of them worldwide. The most recent Indian census data counted just under 70,000 in India, where the community is not only dwindling, but threatening to die out altogether. According to one demographic study, the number of Parsis will fall to under 21,000 by 2021. It is important to note the difference between the faith and the ethnicity—Zoroastrianism is the religion, Parsis are the ethnic group, descended from Persia, who practice the religion.

While the picture may seem bleak, there are signs of a Zoroastrian revival outside of India. Recently, communities in Iran, Tajikistan, and South America have begun rediscovering their roots in Zoroastrianism, and are beginning to convert back to the faith. And in the United States and Canada, communities of Parsis and Zoroastrians are opening up their temples to the children of inter-marriages, and non-Zoroastrian spouses, both of which have been historically shunned by the Indian community. But despite their dwindling numbers, the Parsi community in India, the descendents of the original Zoroastrians who fled persecution in Iran for refuge in India, refuse to recognize these new converts and refuse entry to their fire temples to all non-Parsis, including the children of mixed marriages whose fathers are non-Zoroastrian.

Lovji Cama, a Parsi who teaches Sunday classes at the Zoroastrian Association of Greater New York’s temple, at 106 Pomona Road in Suffern, N.Y., thinks that the issue is rooted in the definition of who is Zoroastrian. “The problem in India is that people think of ethnicity and religion as the same,” he says. “It’s a mind-set, they can’t conceive how someone not of Iranian descent could be Zoroastrian. They would say that they are not concerned about quantity, they are interested in quality. But the quality of zero is zero.”

“It seems almost like there might be a revival of Zoroastrians in the world. India wouldn’t like it at all, but it’s unstoppable.”

Ervad Parvez M. Bajan, head priest at the Mevawala Fire Temple in Bombay, thinks that the race and the religion are inexorably linked. “If one mixes religions and race, they are diluted,” he says. “If we open the floodgate, there will be a flood. Even Hitler said every race has to preserve its own identity.” Bajan simply doesn’t see any need for conversion. “We respect all religions. Why should there be any conversion?”

Dr. Kaikhosrov D. Irani, a professor of Philosophy at the City University of New York who at 84 is considered one of the world’s foremost experts on Zoroastrianism, believes that the traditionalist Parsi stance actually contradicts the teachings of the faith, which emphasizes the value of individual choice. “It is your choice!” he says. “Anyone can come and make the choice. It’s not the business of anybody else to say no, you can’t make that choice.

“They think this is a tribe,” Irani says of the orthodox Parsis, “In this insistence (that there be no conversion), they are being non-Zoroastrians. Parsis are an ethnic group. Zoroastrianism is a religion of choice. And the two cannot be identical. It’s a matter that strains ones intelligence very slightly.”
“Partly, it’s the psychological self-image of the Parsis. It’s a very strong self-image to protect. It’s a very small community in a large continent.”

The new communities abroad have begun building temples of their own, where believers can come and pray to fire, which the Zoroastrians believe to be the physical embodiment of truth and light, all that their God stands for.

On one recent Sunday at the Pomona temple, the priest, Pervez Patel, stacked nine blocks of sandalwood in perpendicular pairs on the tall copper pedestal in the temple’s prayer room. He lit the stack on fire and slowly the room grew foggy with smoke, the pungent smell wafting into the hallways in thick clouds. Twelve male and female Zoroastrians, converts and native Parsis alike, removed their shoes and stepped into the perimeter of the prayer room. The men wore round topis, skullcaps, the women wrapped scarves around their heads, and all clasped hands.

“Oh light divine,” they chanted in the ancient language Avesta. “May the mighty flame be, in the heart and hearth, ever glowing, deep, ever constant and steady, ever bright and clear, and ever unquenchable, ever waxing, never waning.”

Then Patel said the words, “Dushmata,” bad thoughts, and rang the bell mounted on the ceiling three times. “Duzukhta,” bad words, three more rings. Finally, “Duzvarshta,” bad deeds, with three final chimes. Bad thoughts, bad words and bad deeds are the opposite of the sacred Zoroastrian credo, “good thoughts, good words, good deeds.” And with each triple ringing of the bell, Patel banished them.
In Bombay, the chants and prayers sound the same. Young priests-in-training demonstrate the rituals surrounding the lighting of the fire. They don white tunics and drawstring pants, and wear thin white veils over their mouths to protect the fire from their saliva.

Although Cama represents the Orthodox view of the future of his faith, there are many Parsis in Bombay who see a need for change. “You’ve got such a beautiful religion, why do you want to be so possessive about it?” says Bachi Karkaria, a Bombay-based journalist and Parsi. “Here, they’re forgetting the basics and fighting themselves to extinction. It’s a classic ghetto-ization. It’s ethnic arrogance to think you’re some chosen race. First, I think they have to get out of their ghettos, open some windows and get some fresh thoughts.”

It seems that it’s that fresh thought which has so affected the Parsis living abroad. The Pomona temple has even begun a Zoroastrian Intermarriage Group, headed by Viraf Ghadially, who has been married to a Kentucky-born American for nearly three decades. “The main reason for forming the group was to let the intermarried couples know that they’re still welcome in the community,” he says. “What was happening was the Orthodox people would ostracize people as soon as they married outside. That would create a negative effect because people would slowly migrate out. We can’t afford that. We’re such a small community.

“There is a battle being fought,” Ghadially continues. “If you look at the number of Parsis in India and the number of Zoroastrians abroad, you see that the ratios are changing. The number of Zoroastrians abroad are now greater than the number in India. That’s why the Parsis are upset—they’re realizing that the focus of Zoroastrianism is going to be abroad. It’s going to be a global thing, rather than spearheaded in India.”

Ghadially agrees with Irani that the community in India is too attached to rituals, at the expense of the meaning. “In India, you’re forced to get into that protective environment, because you’re such a minority,” he says. “The thing is the ritual became more important. But the understanding of the prayers is not there. The reverse is true over here. Let’s understand the ethics and values of it. The people who are moving abroad are looking at it and saying, ‘wait a minute, we are Zoroastrians first and Parsis second.’”

But those remaining in India are not entirely supportive of these new communities or the fact that their relatives who have emigrated are becoming more flexible about the rules surrounding conversion. Twenty-six-year-old Aysha Ghadiali’s parents immigrated to the United States 20 years ago and, to the displeasure of their relatives in India, have since become much more liberal in their attitude towards the faith and its requirements.

“My cousins, aunts and uncles who are still in Bombay, they really respect the way that communities outside have tried to forge bonds and build temples,” Ghadiali says. “But there’s also that disrespect that we’re trying to bend the religion to fit our lives here.”

Ghadiali thinks that her parents have changed their viewpoint because they want to see the religion continue. “They understand that the numbers are such that you can’t afford to be so picky.”

Maria Lobo Dumasia is a Catholic living in Bombay who is married to a Parsi. She says that because of the community’s refusal to accept outsiders, she and her husband dated for nine years before they married, a length of time almost unheard of in Indian society. “It is a matter of survival,” she says, noting the health implications among Parsis that have resulted from so many years of inter-marriage. “My husband’s sister is deaf and dumb because of inbreeding.”

“We are representative of the larger Bombay community,” she says. “My husband is still Parsi but we are raising our children as Catholic. He didn’t want his kids to be the first to experience the trauma of being acceptable.”

Irani, for one, is hopeful that the Parsi community in India will eventually come around. “Most of the people are reasonably well educated,” he says. “When they sit and think about it, they realize that if their mother is Zoroastrian, and if their children have been brought up partly in the Zoroastrian tradition, to say no to them seems irrational. . . ultimately reason must prevail.”

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On a hazy Friday evening at the New York Buddhist Church at 331-332 Riverside Drive, a small group gathered in the upstairs meditation room to hear an introduction to the practice and teachings of Buddhism.

The group was led by T.K. Nakagaki, a Buddhist minister from Japan who practices Shin Buddhism, a tradition founded by Shinran in the 13th century. Clad in a black robe, his head shaved, Nakagaki sat on a large, black cushion on a raised, gray rattan meditation mat. An ornate fireplace dwarfed him, as did the objects surrounding him. He explained the significance of each: to his left was a burning candle, symbolizing wisdom, and to his right stood a vase of fresh flowers symbolizing the impermanence of life. A small bench held pots of incense, used in offerings of respect, and decorating the mantle were statues of the Buddha. Nakagaki explained that the statues were in no way meant to be gods, and were in fact developed in reference to European and Greek depictions of gods.

"In Buddhism, there's no failing because there's no God," Nakagaki said of the nonjudgmental aspect of his religion.

Nakagaki began the session by asking the students to sit on identical black cushions in a row on the floor, backs straight, bodies relaxed, heads straining toward the ceiling as if hanging by their hair. In Buddhist meditation practitioners start by breathing out and then breathing in. Those meditating sit cross-legged on the cushions in the position of a triangle, legs supporting the weight of the back, leaning forward, hands in front forming another triangle. The eyes should be slightly opened and fixed on a point on the floor.

"If thoughts come into your head, think them then let them go," said Nakagaki. "When you're sitting, your body becomes a mountain. Whatever comes, rainfall, crowds, the mountain is still there." After meditation, Buddhists chant. In the Shin Buddhist Service Book, the Japanese chants are transliterated and their pitches are denoted in horizontal lines stemming from a vertical line. Practitioners memorize the chants, which praise the Buddha's enlightened wisdom, and each chant is a sutra. Nakagaki explained
to the group that sutra is connected to the word suture, as in a text sewing the Buddha's words together.

Nakagaki reflected on the nature of comparative religion, saying that Western religion tends to be more linear, with a beginning and end point, while Eastern religion is circular; indeed, one of the main symbols of Buddhism is the wheel, symbolizing that the beginning is the end and the end is the beginning. He also explained that Theravada Buddhism is closer to Catholicism in its conservative approach to the teachings of the Buddha, whereas Mahayana is more like Protestantism. Theravada is a rural tradition and Mahayana comes from the city.

"All paths are different, but all reach enlightenment," said Nakagaki.

He ended his teaching with a lovingkindness meditation. "May I be happy, well and peaceful," he intoned. "May my parents and all my relatives be happy, well and peaceful." He expressed wishes for his friends, enemies, neighbors, those who live in his city, his country, his world, all animals and plants, all sentient beings, all future generations to be happy, well and peaceful and free from suffering, pain and attachment. Then he placed his hands together and bowed his head.

Aaron Schumm, an MBA student at Duke who said he was looking for an
alternative to the Christianity he was raised with, was impressed with the evening's lessons.

"I'm a big fan of awareness and respectfulness," said Schumm outside the temple later that evening. "No one's aware so I find that interesting. And attunement with your surroundings, you look at things in a different light. This gives you a different perspective."

As for whether he would incorporate the teachings he'd just learned,
Schumm had mixed thoughts.

"I like the meditation part, I can't relax. But I'm not going to sit around my apartment and chant."

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“One rule. Do not climb on top of the challah, only inside of it,” Mishi Harari said on a recent morning while standing in front of a 6-foot-long plastic loaf of bread at the Jewish Children’s Museum in Crown Heights, Brooklyn.

Her listeners, a dozen fourth-grade girls from nearby Yeshiva Flatbush, nodded obediently before clambering all over a huge mock-up of a Shabbat dinner table, one of the museum’s more popular exhibits. Three little girls took turns shimmying through the tunnel in the middle of the giant challah. Other students clustered around a Shabbat culinary video, broadcast on television monitors tucked inside plaster matzoh balls bigger than their heads.

The mission of the museum, located at 792 Eastern Parkway, is no less than to bring alive the traditions, legacy and culture of Judaism through exhibits and child-focused lessons. But to steer their young visitors to the meaning behind the flashy interactive games and activities, the museum relies on the aid of tour guides such as Harari, a 21-year-old Lubavitch Jew from southern California who moved to Crown Heights last fall.

Harari said she tailors her group tours to the visitors’ needs and their existing knowledge of Judaism. Because her current guests receive specialized religious instruction everyday at yeshiva, Harari chose not to dwell on basic knowledge and moved at a quick pace, leaving more time for the fun stuff.

As preparation for the Shabbas dinner table exhibit, Harari first ushered the girls into a darkened hallway for an exhibit called “6 Days of Creation.”

She asked the girls, “What did God create on the first day?”

“Night and day!” several of them replied together. “Good!” Harari said, and pressed a button on the wall that launched an interactive exhibit, showing a sun setting on a television screen.

The private museum, a project of the Lubavitch Hasidic sect, exists far from the raging national debates about creationism, intelligent design and the big bang. There is no question here about who created the world.

Harari and the group moved through the Lord’s creations briskly, in a hurry to get to the payoff of the day of rest.
“What about on the third day?” Harari asked, and pushed a button that launched dry ice mist over a waterfall poster. “Water!” the girls shrieked. “Uh-huh, and dry land and plants. You see those trees and flowers?” Harari said, pointing to a rock pile covered with artificial roses, tulips and carnations. “That means plants.”

As they walked through the hall, one girl looked down at her feet and noticed the stickers on the floor that counted down the days until the day of rest. Pausing over the last sticker that read, “1 day til Shabbat,” Harari pointed to the wall and said, “What do you see going on during the sixth day?”

Clued in by the exhibit’s statue of a large gray sample specimen, one girl in a red sweatshirt shrieked “Elephant!” while others said, “God made animals!”

At the last exhibit, the girls stared raptly at a television screen, where a video played of people moving in fast motion, going to school, work and playing. A zesty fiddle tune accompanied the action. “What are they doing?” Harari asked the students. “The people are living their lives,” one girl ventured.

“They’re working so quickly,” Harari said. In the video, the music slowed down, a calendar flipped to Friday, and a family lit candles and prepared for dinner. “See what’s happening? They’re not going so fast anymore. What do they get?” Harari replied. “A day of rest!” the girls said.

“On?” Harari prompted her charges.

“Shabbat!” the girls said together.

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A Sunday stroller would have been hard pressed to imagine the scene inside the walls of the house at 88-40 192nd Street in Hollis, Queens. The large, blonde-brick building - blessed like the others on the sedate block with that rarest of New York City creatures: a lawn – transforms on Sundays into the home of the Indian Christian Assembly, one of several Pentecostal congregations in the area made up of Indian-Americans tracing their roots to the Southern Indian state of Kerala.

The service was already over an hour old when the Rev. Anthony Rocky walked up to the podium at the front of the low-ceilinged room to deliver the second of the day’s sermons. “I believe God’s presence is here today,” Rocky said, “and I believe something’s going to happen today, and I believe he’s going to tell some of you something today.” Murmurs of approval suggested that the worshippers agreed.

Rocky, from Kerala like the rest of the congregation but with a surname from European ancestry, had planned to preach on a biblical passage from Genesis. “But God was talking to me a lot as I was sitting there,” Rocky said afterwards, and God directed him elsewhere. God and a friend’s email.

“I received an email yesterday about a gathering on February 11th, a Hindu rally in Gujarat where they’re going to try and re-convert 500 Christians back to Hinduism.”

Rocky asked the congregation to pray for India and for the people of Gujarat, one of several Indian states with simmering tensions between Hindu and Christian communities. He then turned to the Gospels to illustrate the sort of faith needed in trying situations such as these. He told the story of Matthew 9:1-5; Jesus healing a paralytic because he senses the faith of those that brought the sick man to him.

“He saw that they had a humble faith, and he saw that they had an active faith,” Rocky said, settling into the repetition-with-variations that typify much ecstatic Christian oratory. “We all say ‘I have faith,’ but the question we should be asking is ‘Is Jesus seeing you?’”

Only this, he said, could lead Christians to triumph over adversity. “Unless they trust Jesus they’re never going to cross the Jericho wall.” The congregation rose on the waves of the sermon, with an “Amen!” from among the men seated on the left answered by a “Thank you Jesus!” from the women’s section on the right of the room. Hands began to lift into the air, growing towards the sun of the preacher’s words.

Rocky and the congregants had arrived at the familiar ground outside the city of Jericho. Through the telling of the story of Joshua and the Israelites conquering the city of Jericho, the pastor wove a tale of faith being tested. “They walked around Jericho wall one time and I believe on the first day they said ‘What is this stupid thing we’re doing?’”

The murmuring continued for the first six days they circled the walls, he said. “Then they walked around on the seventh day and what happened on the seventh day? The wall collapsed!”

The room in suburban Queens erupted: “Hail!” “Thank you Jesus!”

“On the seventh day the wall collapsed!” Rocky affirmed.

The Hallelujahs erupting from the congregation convinced Rocky that something had indeed happened here today. “Jesus is here to touch you,” he said and, with his head bowed and his voice lowered from the exertion, “Praise God.”

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Families gather for weekly worship at the Jain Temple in Queens. The men are draped in tangerine cloth; the women are festooned in saris of magenta and turquoise. Small children dance in circles, knocking into each other as their fathers bathe each idol in boiled water and their mothers chant and sway in time to the tambourine beat.

The children scuttle across the hall for Paathshala—religious study for Jains—with their teacher, Shilpa Pandya, while their parents practice pooja until lunchtime.

“What are the kinds of worldly beings?” Pandya asks her students, who number nearly two dozen, assembled around a large conference table.

An eager student jolts his hand into the air, excitedly waving it back and forth. “There are five,” he explains proudly, “One, two, three, four and five sense organisms.”

During the week, Pandya, 20, studies economics and south Asian studies at Columbia University and commutes home each evening to her family on Staten Island. On Sundays, she teaches Paathshala at the Jain Temple on 43-11 Ithaca St. in Elmhurst. A new program of instruction that formally began last fall, Pandya reasons if the temple can draw in the kids, entire families will follow. Weekly lessons typically focus on their reasons for ahimsa, or non-violence: All living beings possess consciousness; consuming or harming them in any way is forbidden.

“Open your reader and let’s review,” says Pandya, referring to the pink Jainism reader made of photocopied pages bound by three staples, “Turn to page six and let’s take turns reading it aloud together.”

The voices alternate: “One sense organisms have only one touch sense: plants, earth, water and fire; Two sense organisms have touch and taste senses: worms, shells; Three sense organisms have touch, taste and smell senses: ants, snails; Four sense organisms have touch, taste, smell and vision: butterflies, bees. Five sense organisms have touch, taste, smell, vision and sound: birds, animals, humans.”

“Do all living beings feel pain? All souls feel pain,” Pandya says, answering her own question, “Are humans always five-sense organisms?”

The question lingers in the air. “But what about if you’re deaf?” wonders 10-year-old Abhishek Sambaria.

“If you’re deaf, you still have ears,” Pandya explains, “They just don’t work.”
“Butterflies don’t have ears,” says Aneri Doshi, eight, practically falling out of her chair, “They feel pain even though they don’t have ears.”

“What about non-living things? Let’s review that,” offers Pandya.

Reading from the book, Sambaria says: “Non-living things do not have consciousness. They do not have sense organs.” Pictured below the text is a picture of a yellow Porsche, tennis racket and table.

“A dead person is not living,” yells out Doshi, still fidgety.

“It hurts when you pull out your hair because the root is alive but the bottom of your hair doesn’t hurt when you get a haircut because it’s non-living,” says Pandya, “It’s dead. Or diamonds that are living when they’re inside and attached to the earth, but not after they’re mined.”

Looking confused, Doshi wonders, “How come in India they shave their heads?”

“It’s cultural,” explains their teacher.

Unsatisfied, she persists, “I think it’s weird.”

Lining up the students to assemble for aarti, commensuration of the pooja, Pandya reminds them: “Next week’s homework is true and false questions. Tell me if things are living or non-living.”

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The unadorned, expanded three-storey house at 88-40 192nd Ave. in Hollis, Queens does not look like a house of worship, but the simple sign that hangs above the front door identifies it as just that. India Christian Assembly, the sign declares.

Inside, the low-ceilinged, spacious sanctuary has about 200 blue-cushioned, metal-framed chairs, a video projection system, and multiple microphones set up before an array of instruments. There are no paintings of Jesus, no stained glass windows, no crosses; only a podium, flanked by an American and an Indian flag.

When the congregation arrives for the morning service, however, the church takes on the atmosphere of worship, setting the tone for the two and half hour service that will follow. People begin speaking in tongues almost immediately, as others take their seats and greet one another in a friendly manner, seeming not to notice.

Men and women sit on separate sides of the room. Men, dressed predominantly in dark-colored suits, to the left, women, dressed in vivid greens, yellows and blues, to the right. The younger members of the congregation sit in two forward sections on either side, and children choose to sit with their fathers or mothers or move freely back and forth.

They have come to worship “the living God,” and to hear a message from their pastor, the Rev. Philip Benjamin Thomas.

Thomas preaches in English, but he drives home points and repeats phrases from time to time in Malayalam, the native language of many of the worshipers who come from the South Indian state of Kerala.

“Besides God and humans, someone else is in our presence,” Thomas begins, “the Bible calls him Satan.”

As Thomas speaks, he closes his eyes, stretches out both arms, pauses for emphasis, smiles benevolently to all corners of the room, and allows his voice to tremble ever so slightly at the end of important phrases, signaling the members of the congregation to punctuate his message for him.

“Praise the Lord!”
“Thank you, Jesus!”

Thomas speaks of the “challenge,” as he calls it, of leading a Christian life when Satan is “working against us every step of the way.” Comparing Satan to a crouching lion waiting to attack its prey, he uses the example of animal documentaries on TV to illuminate the image.

“They bite at the neck; at the throat,” he almost hisses, and then, raising his voice to a surprising crescendo, delivers the message home, “and after that, the lion sits back, knowing that the prey is done. He lets it bleed! If you are not careful, he will be waiting at your door!”

Christians must not become complacent in their faith, and that they must never let down their guard or take the grace of God for granted, for Satan, like God, “is always present among us,” he says.

“We are always under threat. We are blessed people to have God in our life. But please,” he implores with seeming urgency, “take your life carefully.”

As Thomas nears the end of his pre-sermon thoughts, a soft music begins to play along with him. First light notes on a piano, and then the gentle chords of a guitar grow stronger as he gathers himself, throws his head back, and delivers what will be his conclusion.

“The devil is a powerful enemy, as powerful as a crouching lion,” he practically growls, now hunched over the podium and gripping it on both sides, “if you give your life to God, he will give you the power to resist him.”
“Halleluiah,” the congregation answers, “praise the Lord!”

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Three girls and a tall boy with wild curly hair gather around a bright green table and repeat a reading as a way to start the class:

O son of spirit, my first counsel is this: Possess a pure, kindly and radiant heart, that thine may be a sovereignty ancient, imperishable and everlasting.

Prompted by the confused looks on the kids faces, Alemash Asfew, 37, explains with a smile.

“Prayer is our way of talking to God,” said Asfew, “so the readings are his answer, they tell us about what God wants us to do: God wants us to have a pure heart by being aware of our virtues. What’s this week’s virtue?”

Val, 11, and her sister Vim, 12, raise their arms and wave their hands in the air, until Val answers, “we had to think about assertiveness, we had to say and do what we think is important.”

Next week’s virtue is commitment. “Does any one know what commitment means?” asks Asfew.

“When people get married they commit to staying married,” answered 10 year-old Samantha while trying to wrestle a pencil away from her brother, 12 year-old Rafael.

“But what about in our lives?” said Asfaw, “can we have a commitment to finish our homework, be on time or eat an orange a day? Is that commitment also?”

“Yes!” shout the children at once.

Asfaw is Baha’Ì who came from Ethiopia to live to live in New York ten years ago.

She works as a counselor in a hospital and has been teaching Sunday school at the Manhattan Baha’i Center located on 53 East 11th Street in Manhattan for the past year.

“Bah’ullah, the founder of our faith, says in the readings the community is responsible for its children,” said Asfaw , “we are responsible of providing an education, and a safe environment, so this is my way to contribute to that principle.”

At the Manhattan Baha’i Center, Sunday school focuses on the development of awareness of one self by practicing the virtues that are reflections of the qualities of god, and understanding both readings, called hidden words, and prayer.

Asfaw teaches the class along with Winsome Linton, 40. Linton is an office clerk who started to teach Sunday School along with Asfaw just a few months ago.

Together they split the class between age groups. “We usually have around 12 to 15 children” said Linton, “but this weekend a lot of them didn’t come.”

For the past few weeks, the class has been studying the life of Bab, also known as “the gate,” the last prophet send to pave the way of the Bah’ulla.

Each child has been making a book about the life of Bab. The books are made with construction paper, glitter, ribbons, and crayons. Today they are finishing a crossword puzzle.

“11 across.” Reads Samantha “, the Bảb was a….of god.”

Rafael starts writing the word messenger on his crossword, as Val and Vim follow. But Samantha is thinking hard and looking at the blank spaces….
“It’s not messenger, its longer…” said Samantha looking at Asfew, “Manifestation?”

Asfew coulnd’t be more pleased as she shakes her head in agreement.

“Manifestation!” screams Samantha, as his brother and the girls correct their puzzles.

“That’s an awful long word, we say it all the time, but how do you spell that?”

As Asfew finishes spelling the word manifestation, Linton comes in to tell everyone lunch is ready and kids storm out to eat macaroni and cheese, grapes and orange juice.

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Seven small children are gathered around a table at the Zoroastrian temple in Pomona, NY, with Avan Patel at the head. Patel, the daughter of the temple priest, has taught four to six year-olds about the Zoroastrian faith for seven years. The children in her class are preparing for their eventual Navjote, the ceremony in which they will be officially welcomed to the Zoroastrian faith.

“Where have we seen fire before?” Patel asks them. They shout out their answers.

“In the fireplace!”

“On a building!”

“Yes, and in the temple. Now, we must remember, we can pray near the fire but not too close to it,” she says.

“Yes, because it can make you dead.”

“Ok, now, God created seven special angels to be special protectors for each of his seven creations: sky, water, earth, food, animals, humans, and fire. Ahura Mazda has a team—it’s like a basketball team—they work together. They are the Amesha Spentas.

“One of them looks after the. . . “ Patel points upwards

“Sky!” the children say in tandem.

“One looks after the. . . “ Patel points down.

“Earth!”

“Good! One looks after the. . . “ Patel points at herself, then at each of the children sitting around the table.

“People!”

These children represent the newest members of a dying faith. Zoroastrianism is disappearing from the globe, in part because of a vehement stance against proselytizing and the rules surrounding the offspring of Zoroastrians and their non-Zoroastrian spouses. Here, at the Zoroastrian Association of Greater New York’s center, at 106 Pomona Road in Suffern, the rules are relaxed. Children of inter-marriages are more than welcome here, where in India, only the children of a Zoroastrian father would be welcome in the temple and be allowed to participate in the Navjote.

It is widely accepted that the non-conversion doctrine in Zoroastrianism has only been in place since the Zoroastrians fled Persia for India, where they are known as Parsis. Once in India, the Hindu king offered them refuge from persecution under the stipulation that they wouldn’t proselytize. Some American Zoroastrians argue that the stance on conversion is not inherent to the religion but was only added later and they ask why Parsis continue to be so vigilant about it now when their faith is threatened with extinction.

Many Zoroastrians in America today are open-minded and welcoming of those of every faith. Some members of the community, even the temple’s board members, have married outside the faith, yet their children and spouses are welcomed to classes and prayers at the temple.

In India, it is not so open, and members of the New York congregation universally said that Parsis in India are much more orthodox in their interpretation of the rules surrounding who is really considered Zoroastrian, despite concerns over the dwindling population.

“They will say they are not interested in quantity, they are interested in quality,” Lovji Cama said about his orthodox counterparts in India. “But the quality of zero is zero.”

But today, in this small room, these young children have little sense of the world they are being trained to enter. They don’t even know the meaning of the prayers they are being taught. They will learn the meaning behind the sounds later.

One young student already seems exhausted. “Do we have to do this,” Sarosh, 6 1/2 says with exasperation when Patel announces they will be playing a game. Then, with a decidedly adult sigh, “I’ve been in this class for years. I’m really bored.”

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Toward noon on Sunday, the second floor of the Gurdwara Sahib in Glen Cove, Long Island started humming with the sounds of a few dozen small children at play. Outside the three-story white building at 100 Lattingtown Road hangs the saffron triangle-shaped Sikh flag. One flaps outside every Sikh temple around the world.

Freed from their parents who go to prayers in the main temple halls below, the children shuffled and skipped through the hallway towards their Sunday School classrooms, often derailed by a shriek from a friend whom they hadn’t seen all week.

Every conversation began with the murmured greeting “Waheguru Ji Ki Khalsa, Waheguru Ji Ki Fateh,” The Khalsa belongs to God, and to God alone belongs victory. The Khalsa is the baptized state of Sikhs and all Sikhs are expected to be in Khalsa or working towards it as the children are in Sunday School. Here they learn Punjabi, Sikh history and the text and songs of their sacred text: the Guru Granth Sahib.

“Who is going to be an ideal Sikh today?” repeated Mokhetar Singh Kamboj, the tall principal, as he walked down the hallway and gently shepherded the groups of chatting children into classrooms.

When the hallway had finally emptied, Kamboj decided to sit in on the class of the youngest children, a dozen children aged 3 to 6 who sat cross-legged or on their knees around their instructor, a high school-aged young woman in a blue sari. Her hands rested on a harmonium—a large box with a keyboard that forms the backdrop to much Indian music.

The teacher first read two lines of the Gurbani--the text of the Sikh’s devotional songs in the Guru Granth Sahib --without music. Gurbani means message from the teacher.

The children went around repeating the two lines one after another. Then they went around again, each taking turns to sing the two lines they were perfecting that day, a refrain found in many parts of the Gurbani:

Charan Chalo-Charan Chalo-Chalo Maarag Gobind
Mitay Paap-Mitay Paap-Mitay Paap Japeey Har Bind
Walk in the path of Gobind,
Your sins are washed away as you meditate on his name.

Guru Gobind was the last of the ten gurus. Guru Nanak was the first and founded Sikhism in 1669. Gobind gave the community the Guru Granth Sahib, the Sikh holy scripture, as the eternal eleventh guru. It is revered as if it were a living guru, and one is installed in each gurdwara.

Crayoned drawings of the ten different gurus decorated the walls of this classroom. Unlike their parents who wear traditional Indian clothing, the children wear jeans or sweatsuits, and veils and small cloth-covered buns –it will take years to grow enough hair to fill a turban.

The children repeated the two lines all together, and this time the classroom took on a bit of a Romper Room atmosphere as some more rambunctious students competed with one another to sing more loudly.

The teacher stopped abruptly to shush them and remind them to sing respectfully. Kamboj nodded in agreement but his eyes twinkled, pleased by the children’s exuberance.

After they have mastered the two lines, the lesson for the day, Kamboj left the room and slipped into another classroom of seven students aged nine through twelve to catch the tail end of their Sunday School Class on Sikh History.

The children spoke casually about Gobind, and Guru Nanak, with the principal.

“Why do we remember him?” prodded Kamboj.

A boy named Agam, which means “infinity,” piped up. “He speaks the three golden rules.”

“And what are those three golden rules we remember every day of our lives?” said Kamboj.

Agam’s sister Angel, a 13-year-old-girl wearing yellow and a translucent white veil, did not wait to be called upon.

First she recited the Three Golden rules in Punjabi and then went through them again in English.

“First, remember God’s Name in every thing you do. Second, share your money with others, especially with those poorer than yourself.” She paused, searching for the third rule. A look of panic began to take form on her face. Her classmates all turned to her, heads cocked expectantly.

“Work,” Kamboj began to prompt her.

“Third, work hard and honestly,” interrupted Angel in a sing-song voice and smiled triumphantly.

Kamboj beamed and bowed gently as he left the classroom.

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Islamic Cultural Center (photo courtesy of www.nyc-architecture.com)

The first thing young Muslim students learn when they walk into the Islamic Cultural Center in the upper east side of New York city is how to greet people.

“Assalam alaikum,” said Imam Shamsi-Ali, a youthful teacher in a dark gray suit and checkered white and blue shirt. He explained that the traditional greeting exchanged between Muslims means “peace be upon you.” Unlike good morning and hello, assalam alaikum is more than just a casual saying. “It’s a prayer and it’s our unique way of wishing goodness on someone every time we see them,” said Shamsi-Ali.

With a degree in comparative religions, the imam teaches both children’s classes and seminars for recently converted devotees to Islam at the Islamic Cultural Center on the corner of 3rd Avenue and 96th Street.

Whether it’s 6-year-olds or 66-year-olds that he’s instructing in the complexities of his religion, Shamsi-Ali uses the same approach. “I’m educating them in terms of character and behavior, not just in religion.” His voice is steady and pleasant. The greeting is a perfect introduction to Islam because it demonstrates how a person should behave towards others – with respect and good will. It is also indicative of how important prayers are in a Muslim’s daily life. Followers are required to pray five times a day, said Shamsi-Ali, who comes from Indonesia.

“There are five pillars of Islam,” he continued in his accented but elegant English. “Five practices a Muslim must follow during his lifetime.” In addition to daily prayers, they are: affirming that there is only one God and Muhammad is his prophet, giving charity to the poor, fasting during the holy month of Ramadan, and journeying to the holy city of Mecca in Saudi Arabia.

In addition to these five pillars, there are an additional six pillars of faith that a Muslim must accept into his heart – faith in the oneness of God, faith in the angels, faith in the holy books, faith in the prophets, faith in the day of judgment and faith in divine destiny.

“Islam is not only six plus five,” cautioned the soft-spoken teacher. “It’s a way of life. We live our lives according to the teachings of the Quran and they touch every aspect of our day. For instance, we eat only food prepared a certain way – Halal it’s called. We don’t drink alcohol. That’s to respect our minds.” He paused as if allowing his listener to digest all that he was teaching.

“Islam is about morality. It’s a way to treat people.” Shamsi-Ali began teaching after September 11th when he realized how little people knew about Islam. He began his seminar for curious non-Muslims with a simple lesson about Islam that had been all but forgotten.

“Assalam alaikum.” Peace be upon you.

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It’s nearly midnight on a cold, blustery Thursday, but none of the worshippers at Masjid al-Farah seem to be missing the warmth of their beds. They are in another zone of comfort – the warmth that a night of Sufi chanting brings.

Darkness veils the world outdoors. Gusts of wind whip the building. Yet inside the mosque – an unassuming three-story in Tribeca – the circle of Sufi believers attempt to work their way closer to God.

The room is long and narrow. Shadows from high ceilings drape the white-brick walls; lights are low. Red Turkish carpets run the length of the room, layer upon layer meeting at edges where they tend to wrinkle up and require flattening out.

For tonight, someone has arranged a circle of sheepskins at the center of the space. Thirty-some participants sit on top, cross-legged, their feet and bottoms absorbing the furry warmth of wool as an occasional draft works its chill through the air.

Sheikha Fariha al-Jerrahi takes the lead. “La ilaha Ilallah,” she begins, her toboggan-covered head nodding deeply and turning from the right shoulder to the left. Those around her repeat the mantra and soon the circle is a mass of nodding, chanting and swaying.

“La ilaha Ilallah” – or “there is no God but He” – is just the first phrase of praise the group will invoke tonight. Sufism, the mystical branch of Islam, encourages followers to seek unity with the divine through meditation and ecstatic experience. In the service called zhikr, or “remembrance,” participants focus on the 99 names Muslims ascribe to God, repeating the words over and over until they sometimes work themselves into religious frenzy.

Many Americans know the Sufis for their most famous order, the Mevlevi, whose spinning dance earned them the title “whirling dervishes” of Turkey. All Sufis are called “dervishes” – the word simply means “poor person” – but there will be no whirling in Tribeca tonight. Like monastic orders in Christianity, each Sufi order has different traditions, and the Nur Ashki Jerrahi order, the group that meets here, is doing “seated zhikr,” a service in which legs keep stationary but upper bodies twist and turn.

Maybe 10 minutes into the incantation – it’s hard to tell time, as the repetition makes minutes stand still – al-Jerrahi senses the need for change and transitions the group seamlessly to its next phrase, “ya Allah,” or “name of power.” Most of those present are white and middle-aged, and that group follows her. A heavyset Jordanian man, the same one who set out trays of dates and almonds for guests three hours before, takes off in a different direction, his Arabic song providing light counterpoint to the others’ heavy chant.

A woman two down from him in the circle adds a third strain of sound: forceful breath that moves in her nose and out her mouth, faster and faster as the group repeats the words more quickly. “Hu,” al-Jerrahi leads, “Hu. Hu.” In translation, “hu” is the breath Allah blew into Adam, the first man.

The swaying becomes more intense. Al-Jerrahi adopts a different pattern and worshippers now move their torsos not only side to side but in a larger orbit all the way around their seated base. The concept of time has lost all meaning. Upstairs, a pot of stew bubbles on a stovetop, but no one downstairs seems to have the upcoming communal meal on their minds.

“Sheikha, I’m thirsty,” one goateed young man had told al-Jerrahi before the service began. Not for water, he’d said, but for God.

“It’s good to be thirsty,” al-Jerrahi replied, touching her heart. Repeating the names of God, she explained, is the way to drink in the love and goodness penetrating the universe.

“All we have to do is accept the invitation,” she said. “May it be that we say ‘yes.’”

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Imam Al-Hajj Talib ‘Abdur-Rashid is a tall man with a round face and full cheeks when he smiles. Last Sunday afternoon, he tucked his large, round hands inside the pockets of his loose-fitting indigo pants as he explained why he would be leading this class at Harlem’s Mosque of Islamic Brotherhood, Inc., for the next three months. He jiggled the coins in his pockets, and light radiated from his warm, dark eyes. It was that light and warmth which he hoped to pass on to the seven followers of Allah seated in folding chairs before him.

The Nafs, ‘Abdur-Rashid told the sisters and brothers of this mosque at West 113th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue, are a “body of knowledge” within Islam. They are not the central tenets of the faith, but knowing them will strengthen a believer’s relationship with Allah. If you look through a lens that is “dirty or cracked or covered over somehow, then your perception of what you’re looking at is going to be less than complete,” he began. “Well, the Nafs is our looking glass for perceiving the almighty Allah.”

But before introducing the six stages of this ancient and mystical body of knowledge, the veteran leader of this Harlem spiritual landmark gave his students an etymology lesson. “Arabic is a multi-dimensional language,” ‘Abdur-Rashid said, picking up a piece of tangerine-colored chalk. To understand Islam’s religious concepts, it is first necessary to understand where they come from, he continued, and scrawled the word “Rūh” on the chalkboard behind him.

He then turned back to his students. The men were physically separated from women by a small aisle, but all leaned forward in their seats, and enthusiasm was plain on their faces. “What does it mean when Allah says, ‘my rūh’?” ‘Abdur-Rashid asked. “Sister Maryam?”

Looking up from her notebook, the middle-aged woman with the mustard colored headscarf answered, “My consciousness, my essence.”

‘Abdur-Rashid smiled and nodded. “It’s that life force, that animated life energy created by almighty Allah that comes into being at his command,” the imam’s voice gaining volume and speed as he delved deeper into his lesson. Rūh comes from the same Arabic root as rīh, or “wind.”

“The wind has no physical or material form or substance, just a moving force,” he said. His excitement for the subject was palpable and, as if to hold himself up amid all his enthusiasm, ‘Abdur-Rashid leaned against the wall. “The wind can be a lovely breeze on a summer day or it can be a hurricane. It can be light or extreme—as is the rūh inside the human being.”

Circling back to the topic at hand, ‘Abdur-Rashid then picked up the chalk. He turned to the board and wrote, “nafasa.” The word that gives the name to The Nafs means, “to be precious,” and, “to breathe.”

But the breath in nafasa differs from that in rūh—in both intensity and intent. “Rūh communicates an image of this,” said ‘Abdur-Rashid, and exhaled wholly and hastily. He then inhaled and added, “Nafasa, the image is this—” And he breathed in and out, calmly and steadily. Rūh gives humans life; nafasa sustains it and makes each person’s spirit unique.

Recognizing that every human being has a different breath within will help you understand one another better, ‘Abdur-Rashid told his students. And understanding one another better will lead to increased patience and acceptance. “This is essential in the practice of brotherhood and sisterhood,” he said to the brothers and sisters seated before him. “It’s essential to the cultivation of good character and a soft heart.”

‘Abdur-Rashid paused a moment. Almost as an after thought, he then added, “Only the person with a soft heart gets into paradise.”

And from the small cluster of women seated in folding chairs swelled a hushed but warm, “Mhmm.”

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In every generation Jews are commanded to tell the story of the exodus from Egypt in ways that are relevant to their lives. Standing in that tradition, Rabbi Sharon Kleinbaum used the Biblical story to celebrate the 33rd anniversary of Congregation Beth Simchat Torah, New York’s gay, lesbian and transgender congregation.

“In every generation we are required to tell the story of the exodus from Egypt,” she said during a recent Friday night service marking the anniversary at the Church of the Holy Apostles at 296 9th Avenue in Chelsea. “Telling this story is essential to our survival as a people.”

Kleinbaum stood before the congregation with two gay pride flags and an Israeli flag behind her. She explained how the story of Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt is related to this congregation remembering the struggle for a homosexual and Jewish identity.

“Coming out,” she said in reference to being openly homosexual, “is a great act of liberation.”

In 1973, she said, an Indian Jew named Jacob Gubbay put a small classified ad in the Village Voice asking for gay Jews who were not welcome at other New York congregations to come together for a Shabbat service at the Chelsea church were the congregation still meets, along with its smaller West Village location. She called this ad a small step towards liberation.

“The number of people who say they were at that service far exceeds the 10 people I know who where there,” she said as the congregation chuckled.

While the gay rights movement was growing in New York, in the fall of 1973, Egypt and Syria launched a surprise attack on Israel on Yom Kippur—the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. Those two events sparked many gay Jews to become more involved in Judaism.

Kleinbaum asked people who joined the gay congregation in 1973 to stand, and only a few of the nearly 100 people in the congregation stood up. She moved on to1974, 1975 and so forth, going through all 33 years that have passed. When she said 2006, the last people seated came to their feet.

Recalling the exodus from Egypt every year, Kleinbaum said, was important because it would inspire Jews to address the struggle of all people who were oppressed. While this congregation has grown, some of its leadership still faces resistance for forming a community that is deeply Jewish and openly homosexual. One rabbi at the congregation, Rabbi Ayelet Cohen was censured in 2005 by the Conservative Jewish movement, to which she belongs, for conducting gay marriages and for breaking other procedural rules of Rabbinical Assembly. In 2004, she told the New York Times that she feared legal consequences for performing such ceremonies in the state.

But the story of the exodus was also meant to inspire the congregation to remember those in the community who have died of AIDS and to inspire them to volunteer at the church’s soup kitchen, the second largest in the nation.

“It’s criminal that this is still necessary in 2006,” she said in reference to the city’s homeless problem.

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Jenny Chocko sat at a small round wooden table in a red salwar kameez and a black scarf pulled lightly around her head. She had a sore throat and a congested voice, but was determined to complete the last 10 minutes of Sunday school for children at the Malankara Catholic Church in Long Island, a congregation made up of Indian immigrants from Kerala who follow Syrian rites, but reconciled with the Vatican in the early 20th century. Their service is held each weekend at The Immaculate Conception Center, a sprawling campus for the Catholic Diocese of Brooklyn, but technically in Douglaston, NY.

More than 30 families attended the two-hour service conducted in Malayalam, the language spoken in Kerela. Their children stayed behind for a half-hour class taught in English, in small groups by Chocko, several other church mothers and two nuns.

“Samuel was sleeping one day at a temple,” said Chocko, referring to the Old Testament prophet who is the subject of this week’s lesson. Stacy and Amal, both seven, and Christy, eight, climbed into the other seats at Chocko’s table. “Stacy, what’s a temple?”

Stacy, with haphazard bangs, a palm-tree ponytail, and two missing front teeth, hesitated a moment. Then she remembered, and jumped up. “It’s like a church!” she cried.

“So Samuel was asleep, and God called him.” Chocko continued reading, as her students followed along in Glory to the Triune God, a coloring-book style introduction to the Malankara Catholic catechism. The books are standardized and shipped over from India, complete with a young Indian boy on the cover, three fingers clasped, touching his forehead in prayer. Chocko looked up, “Who is God?” she asked.

All three children sat up straight and pointed upwards.

“And how does Samuel respond?”

“Say what you have to say, I’m hearing,” said Christy, a girl with pinch-worthy cheeks in earrings and a purple selwar kameez. “I’m listening,” Chocko corrected.

“And Samuel was a prophet,” Chocko continued reading in Lesson Eight; “Samuel Whom God Called.” “Who is a prophet?”

The children were stumped. “Is Garfield a prophet?” Chocko prodded. “Yes!” her students giggled and answered in chorus.

Chocko sighed and repeated, “Who is a prophet? Was Moses a prophet?” This time Stacy had an answer. “Someone who’s going to lead!” she cried.

Samuel is considered an important Old Testament prophet, and the last of the Hebrew judges in Rabbinical literature. His story is told in the Book of Samuel, and as a young child, he began to receive communications from God. A mysterious voice came to him one night, and on the instruction of his teacher, Eli, he responded, "Speak, Lord; for thy servant heareth." Samuel foretold the destruction of Eli’s own sons, and went on to become the spiritual power of Israel.

“And what did Heli mean,” Chocko read, “when he told Samuel ‘If he calls you again, you shall say: Speak, Lord, for your servant hears?’ We should hear the call of God and do his will?”

“We should listen to God,” started Christy, as she stared in her catechism-coloring book at a purple-robed God holding a young Samuel’s hand. “And like, do what he says?”

“Yes,” Chocko smiled wearily. “So when you pray tonight, think about that.”

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They were ready. After 30 minutes of silent meditation, nearly 100 students of Buddhism trained their eyes on the middle-aged storyteller, cancer survivor, and Buddhist sitting before them.

Laura Simms, the speaker at a recent Tuesday night dharma gathering at the Shambhala Meditation Center at 118 W. 22nd St., sat cross legged on a platform raised slightly above her audience. Most of the devotees, both first-timers to the center and longtime Buddhists, sat comfortably on rounded floor cushions placed in neat rows on the wooden floor. As the charismatic teacher leaned into the microphone, she had one message in mind: Never forget the Hinayana.

In the Buddhist tradition of progressive revelation, “Buddha’s first presentation, the Hinayana, was the ‘lesser vehicle,” Simms explained. Ignored in favor of the later teachings, the Mahayana and Vajrayana, it was easy to forget that the early teachings remained the basis of Buddhism, she said.

Moving naturally into professional storyteller mode, Simms, author, performer and leader of storytelling workshops, recalled her days in the 1970s studying with the Shambhala Center’s founder — Tibetan teacher Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche.

Part way through her three month study session in an isolated tent camp, Simms recalled, her class was ready to begin learning the Vajrayana, the highest Buddhist teachings. “The night before we were going to learn the Vajrayana,” she said, “people slept. Suddenly, at 2 a.m., the gong rang. We were woken up to hear an important teaching.” In the cold early morning, Simms and all of her classmates assembled in the main tent. There, the Rinpoche greeted them with only four words, before sending them back to bed.

As college students to senior citizens listened intently, waiting for the ultimate teaching, Simms let her words hang in the air.

“Never forget the Hinayana.”

On hearing the story, some listeners smiled, nodding their heads in recognition and others jotted notes on small pads of paper, as Simms explained the importance of Buddhism’s most basic teachings, the entrance to Buddhist practice.

The basis of the Hinayana, she explained, is the sitting practice, the meditation that all adherents practice, from the gurus in Tibet to the novice practitioners now sitting before her in a 6th floor apartment in Chelsea. Meditation, she said, is the key to mindfulness, to becoming aware of one’s thoughts and emotions.

“It is the idea that we can question how we perceive the world,” she said.

Part of this shift in perception is the recognition that everyone suffers, she said. Through Buddhist practice, one must recognize others’ pain as well as one’s own.

“We see the force of our own suffering and see others involved in the same process,” she said. “We see people with compassion.”

Determined not to give her audience any excuse to let their attention wane, she turned the conversation to her own struggle with cancer. Looking professional but comfortable in a black jacket over a red silk shell and a long black skirt, it was hard to imagine Simms enduring grueling radiation treatments.

It was Buddhist teachings that helped her face her illness, she told the audience. She endured the treatments during the three months that a Tibetan guru coincidentally ended up living in her home.

One might think the guru’s presence would have been a blessing, and in many ways it was, Simms said. “But you don’t know how distressing it is when you want to feel sorry for yourself to have an enlightened person always present and always cheerful,” she quipped.

Through her own struggles, Simms said, she discovered what it meant to learn from the Hinayana. “The first teaching of Buddha deals with investigating ourselves, knowing the origins of suffering,” she said.

Simms’ message rang true to a number of students present. Ann Kenan, 33, formerly an Episcopalian, found Buddhism through her work as a yoga teacher. After learning yoga, she began to meditate and that led her to seek out further Buddhist teachings, as Simms suggested it would.

Of the progression from yoga to meditation to Buddhism, Kenan said, “It’s all built on top of each other.”

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