Patricia Elam chants with her son Justin. (By Michael Williamson – The Washington Post)

By Patricia Elam
Saturday, October 10, 1998; Page B09

I grew up attending an African American Congregationalist church in Boston. My grandfather and father were deacons. My mother had an important role as well, although I don't recall whether it had a title.

There was never anyone clapping or yelling out, "Amen," during the service, as happens in many black churches. Our choir never swayed to the beat of its own singing, and no white-clad ladies stood with hands clasped, waiting to assist someone who might be "overcome with the Spirit." Members of our well-dressed, middle-class congregation always kept their composure.

We children attended Sunday school, although we fought vigorously against it. We thought it so boring and stiff and without relevance to our daily lives. The only good part about Sunday was the chicken our grandma cooked, using her secret spices. We always went to her house after church – and the chicken was the most delicious I've ever tasted. I had faith in grandma's Sunday cooking, but that was my only religion.

During high school and college I gave religion little thought. But later, as a divorced adult with a career, children and dreams, I realized something was absent from my life – and it wasn't just a meaningful relationship with the opposite sex. It was something unknown and confusing, but something that, when I found it, would soothe the anxiety and emptiness dwelling in my heart.

I surprised myself by realizing that what I needed was some kind of spirituality. After all, everyone I knew who had it seemed to be satisfied with their lives on a level I had not yet attained.

It was 1984. I was living in Washington by then and began visiting different churches. I had a list of criteria: must be African-centered, have a great choir and must allow one to dress casually. I found myself most attracted to the churches with the best choirs. Their earnest, wrenching vocals ripped into me, satisfying the pain in my soul and filling up the empty spots.

I kept going but paid little attention to the sermons because I had trouble connecting to the concepts of "God" and "Jesus." Who were they? Where were they? How did anyone know they existed? Why couldn't I feel their presence? And didn't some mortal men write the Bible, and why should I believe them since I didn't like some of the things it said about women and gay people?

So I never joined any of those churches. During the early part of 1986, two people tried to get me to chant, "Nam myoho renge kyo," a Buddhist phrase loosely translated as "Devotion to the mystic law of the Lotus Sutra." One of these people was my former brother-in-law, who I already thought was a little crazy. The other was a woman I occasionally ran into at the gym. She also didn't seem to be "all there."

But soon I began a new job, and there was a man in the office who seemed so peaceful and calm in the midst of stressful situations. I began to watch his life and finally asked him how he managed it. "My life isn't without problems," he said, "but I'm learning how to handle them better by chanting, 'Nam myoho renge kyo.' " I was stunned. I asked him to take me to a Buddhist meeting.

It was strange at first. Many white, black and Asian people sitting on rugs without shoes. Candles, incense, beads and the incessant chanting, like bumble bees humming loudly. In spite of the weirdness, though, people seemed genuinely happy. And they were friendly, positive and encouraging. I wanted some of whatever they were feeling.

So I began to chant at home and attend Buddhist meetings on a regular basis. I found the practice challenging because the prayers were in another language and were done morning and evening. But I felt so good when I finally caught on to the rhythm of the words. More importantly, there was no divine being to pray to. I was only encouraged to seek the "Buddha nature" within myself and others.

I have now been chanting and practicing Buddhism for 11 years. I have learned to look within myself for the answers to my problems and have developed myself beyond my own wildest dreams.

And I now see very clearly who I am: an African American woman, mother and writer who is contributing, in my own unique way, to accomplishing world peace – the long-term goal of my Buddhist practice. I finally have joy in my life. We have a rousing choir (although we call it a chorus), too!

Patricia Elam, 44, lives in Northeast Washington with daughter Nile, 6, and sons Denzel, 9, and Justin, 16. She belongs to Soka Gakkai International, a Buddhist lay organization.