You walk into the hall. Inside, the sermon has started. The rows of dark brown wooden benches with a thick bible looking book tucked behind a craftily made shelf announces that you have entered a church. The moment you walk in, the pastor, dressed in a suit and standing on the elevated stage in front, points the crowd to turn to hymn 108. Everyone rises while you locate yourself strategically in the corner of the last row. The choir erupts in a christian like melody and you suspect if you have entered the wrong room. It was supposed to be middle eastern music. The crowd was primarily white, middle class and retired, accentuating your belief that you had arrived in a church. But there is no cross in front, nor a statue of Jesus, just rows of blocks of wood pressed against the wall like a incomprehensible, abstract contemporary art. The music is soothing, peaceful and when it ends, everyone takes their seat. The pastor then narrates something and the crowd chant a phrase in unison. You