BLACK ROCK CITY, Nev. — Last Friday on a pleasantly brisk night in the desert, Jack Fertig laid his prayer mat on the parched ground, faced toward Mecca, and gave praise to Allah.
A devout Muslim, Mr. Fertig wasn’t at a quiet mosque in Istanbul or in a marketplace in Cairo. The San Francisco resident was in the unforgiving Black Rock Desert of Nevada, surrounded by costumed revelers and a soundscape dominated by thumping techno music.
In other words, he was at the counterculture festival known as “Burning Man.”
Every year, tens of thousands of people descend on a dry lake bed outside Reno, Nev., for a week of hard-core camping, partying and artistic revelry. A mainstay for hippie or “alternative” types and young people exploring the meaning of life, Burning Man’s patrons generally proclaim themselves “spiritual, not religious.” Mr. Fertig is hardly the expected audience — but he and a growing number of just plain religious folks have been turning up at the event, suggesting it’s a place to find God as well.
The 21-year-old festival, which traditionally starts in late August and runs through Labor Day with the “burning” held the Saturday before the holiday, has expanded in attendance since a small group of friends started it on a San Francisco beach in 1986. This year, about 45,000 people made the pilgrimage to Black Rock City, bringing with them an impressive expanse of artwork, from a huge, steam-shooting tree house to a forest of neon mushrooms to a space-dome-style camping shelter.
They erect a miniature civilization in the dreamy white desert framed by black mountains, and for one week each year, Black Rock City becomes a temporary city, complete with its own ZIP code and two newspapers.
The inhabitants, known as “burners,” endure harsh conditions, including frequent dust-storm whiteouts and 100-degree plus temperatures, to commune with fellow artists and live out the fest’s ever-present theme of “radical self-expression.” They traverse the white desert floor, known as the “playa,” on bicycles in elaborate costumes often ending in big black boots.
With all-night parties and loud music, it’s not really the place you’d expect to find a religious practitioner — at least not voluntarily.
Still, Mr. Fertig, who attended Burning Man for the third time this year, considers it a highly religious experience.
“I love the desert. And just being out in the desert in a community with a strong orientation toward the arts — I think there is a very strong sense of spirituality,” says Mr. Fertig, who was raised mostly agnostic and found Islam in spring 2001, on a trip to Istanbul. He then took classes in Middle East history.
“It was funny. I was out walking around early one morning last year, and these two guys offered me a bloody mary. I said, ’Thanks, but I don’t drink,’ and they said, ’How are you enjoying the rave?’ And I said, ’Well, it’s not a rave for me. There are 40,000 people here, and each of us brings our own ideas, our own feelings and our own spirituality. And Muslims have always celebrated music and art.’ “
In an attempt to find other Muslim “burners” to commune with, Mr. Fertig, who does traditional prayers five times a day, inside his tent or just outside, posted a notice on the Burning Man online message board earlier this year. He was surprised at the result.
“Not a single Muslim responded, but I got lots of very weird hate responses,” he says. “You sort of expect that on any kind of Internet discussion, where you have less intelligent people writing bigoted stuff. But I didn’t expect that from the Burning Man community.”
For other traditional religious folks, Burning Man is a chance to reach out to others and get them thinking about a higher power. Kathleen Hollingsworth, also of San Francisco, has led a choir service on Sunday morning at Burning Man for the last three years.
Also known as “Madi,” she was raised “uber-Christian” in New Hampshire and started singing in church as a child. She has since obtained a masters degree in choral conducting from San Francisco State University and sings in the choir at church. Music, she feels, is a good avenue through which to reach people.
“There are not too many spiritual music opportunities out there,” she says. “The second year I did it, it turned into a service, and now I also give a sermon. Last year, about 20 people came, and their reactions were pretty intense. There were a lot of tears shed. It was really powerful for all of us.”
Ms. Hollingsworth prefers not to talk directly about God during her Burning Man services, because she wants people to interpret them in a way that’s right for them.
“I’m so honored that the spirit is in control in my life, and that is what I like to pass on,” she says. “I think God wants us to show our devotion through getting out there and helping other people, and that is what Burning Man is all about.”
For many, a moment to express their faith at the event is a welcome chance to regroup and reflect. Dan Robbins of Seattle has attended for the last five years and always takes advantage of the Black Rock City Jewish Community Center’s Shabbat service to find some clarity.
“All religion is about finding meaning in the world,” he says. “Here, it can sometimes seem that meaning has gone out the window. My beliefs are important to me, and amidst all the chaos and craziness here, I need something to anchor me.”
The service, a lively celebration of song and dance whose attendees are far from traditional — there was a young woman in red devil horns, a guy in a pirate hat and a young rapper performing “hip-hop Shabbat” this year — is unique in that it draws Jews from across the spectrum. “We get reformed to Sufi to ultra-orthodox Jews here, while at a synagogue, it’s usually more homogenous,” says Sandy Kovtun, who volunteered to help with the service this year. “Here, everyone interprets everything in their own way.”
Jess Michalik of New York, a recent graduate of Harvard’s Divinity School and a devoted Christian, has created art projects for the last two years and says he does it to “show people that there is more in the world, something bigger than ourselves and our material belongings.”
In 2005, part of his project involved reading some Christian Gospel.
“In general, people were very receptive and ready to experiment and experience new things,” he says. “But one woman came up and said people don’t want to hear about religion at Burning Man. We understand that some feel uncomfortable with that.”
For that reason, Mr. Michalik avoids direct mention of Christ in many of his projects, though to him, Burning Man is definitely a religious experience.
Rich Mackin, a believer in the Zen practice of Buddhism, also understands people’s discomfort. He has led a Zen chanting service on the playa for the last two years and fields a lot of questions from curious or skeptical fellow burners — but he sees it as an opportunity to make people aware of his religion.
“A Zen temple is a church-looking building with people in robes and incense burning, so it reminds some of their Catholic upbringing, when they may be exploring for something different,” he says. “Burning Man has a more artistic atmosphere, so it removes some of those religious trappings. Some people wouldn’t go into a temple, but they’ll see a guy on the playa with reddish-purple hair leading chanters, and it takes away some of the scariness.”
Some of the most religious folks even take part in the crazy costumes that are a hallmark of the event. Catherine Gacad has attended the fest for the past six years and volunteered at the art planning and support center — “the ARTery” — for the last two years.
This year, she donned a cute, white bunny suit one day — but never told fellow burners that she prays nightly as a devout Catholic.
“I don’t get on my knees or clasp my hands together — it’s just in my head. But if I did those things, I would certainly make sure I was in my tent so no one would see me,” says Miss Gacad, 32, whose parents are from the Philippines, a largely Catholic country. “There is this mind-set that Burning Man and burners are open and welcoming. That’s true to a certain extent, but I find that people have to be spiritual and liberal to be accepted. I’m not spiritual, I’m just plain religious.”
Miss Gacad found her first Burning Man a “life-changing experience” and looks forward to the fest each year. But she still struggles with the anti-religious sentiment she finds there.
“The other day, I was biking around and I saw someone who was hanging on a crucifix; he was being Jesus, and it was supposed to be funny,” she says. “But he was saying to the crowd, ’I’ll save you, but I won’t save you,’ and I thought, ’You know, that’s not really what it’s about.’ But obviously, there are some stereotypes of what religion is, and everyone is entitled to their own beliefs. What can you do?”
“Mr. Harvey,” or just plain Larry as he’s known around the playa, didn’t know he’d be creating such a movement when he called up a friend one morning in 1986 and said, “Let’s burn a man.” They constructed an 8-foot wooden sculpture of a human male and torched it on the beach in celebration of the summer solstice. The display drew an enthusiastic crowd, and the event has since grown in size and stature each year — the man now measures 45 feet tall and looms over the crowd until it is burned on the eve of the final day.
“We assigned no particular meaning to it in the first place. But as time wound on, it became very meaningful,” Mr. Harvey says. “After we moved into the desert [in 1991], a number of traditions and rituals grew up. … I’ve been saying from the beginning that it is a spiritual event. … I have found that everyone has a sense of the sacred, even if at first they deny it.”
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