I wore a yarmulke once, but it wasn’t mine. It belonged to a Jewish temple somewhere on the outskirts of Philadelphia. I arrived there on a trolley that had seen better days, but it was just my method of transportation. I was dressed to the nines in full black suit with vertical stripes, the consummate 1980s formal outfit for weddings, funerals, and religious services, hence the reason I wore it. The yarmulke was white, so it didn’t quite go with my suit, but I sure wasn’t going to wear a white suit after labor day.
The week before my journey to the temple, I had gone to a Baptist church where I didn’t have to wear any headgear. In fact, they discouraged it, those church-worn, church-born Baptists who screamed more than whispered, and who clapped newcomers on the back and treated them like they were family. Maybe a little too much like they were family. And the week prior to that I worshiped at an Episcopalian church where the service was in Latin, but I didn’t realize it until halfway through, for whatever reason. Maybe because it was so quiet in there I could have heard a pin drop.
So, when I arrived at the Jewish temple I had no clue what to expect. Would I have to pretend to be friendly to people I had never met, and “feel” the hand of the lord pushing down on the top of my head so I would fall to my knees like everyone else was doing up front when they were speaking in tongues? Would I have to shut my mouth when I entered the building or risk the death stares of the lily-white faithful who may not have understood what the priest was saying, but were paying attention as if they did anyway? Or would I have to deal with a completely different type of system I would have to adjust to as I had the other two?
At the door there were two men who met me. They were dressed in all white from head to toe, with freshly laundered yarmulkes on their heads. One of them looked confused as to why I was there, and the other one appeared to be loaded on amphetamines, with this glazed look on his smiling face. I think he would have kept smiling if Hitler himself had come to the door.
“You must cover your head,” the smiling one said as I approached.
“I didn’t bring anything,” I said, contritely.
“We have head coverings,” he replied.
“I hope they’re freshly laundered,” I said.
He nodded, and I wore that yarmulke proudly for the entirety of my time in the temple. Funnily enough, my time at the service was largely forgettable, but I will never forget wearing something on my head while inside a building and not feeling like I got away with something.
Sam
Sam's Online Journal 
Were you visiting all possible congregations?
Not quite, although it does sound like it. I was taking a course in college called “History of Western Religions,” and we had to visit representative congregations of each of the religions we were studying. In order to compare and contrast.
Oh, I see. That would be interesting.
It was definitely an interesting experience, especially with each of the visits coming so quickly after the others. There was a lot to assimilate in my mind.