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Jerald F. Dirks, Minister of United Methodist Church, USA (part 1 of 4)
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Description: The early life and education of a Harvard Hollis scholar and author of the book “The Cross and the Crescent”, disillusioned by Christianity due the information learnt in its School of Theology.
By Jerald F. Dirks
Published on 16 Jan 2006 - Last modified on 20 Feb 2006
Viewed: 16584 (daily average: 12) - Rating: 4.4 out of 5 - Rated by: 12
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Category: Articles
> Stories of New Muslims
> Priests and Religious Figures
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One of my earliest childhood memories is of
hearing the church bell toll for Sunday morning worship in the small, rural
town in which I was raised. The Methodist Church was an old, wooden structure
with a bell tower, two children’s Sunday School classrooms cubby-holed behind
folding, wooden doors to separate it from the sanctuary, and a choir loft that
housed the Sunday school classrooms for the older children. It stood less than
two blocks from my home. As the bell rang, we would come together as a family,
and make our weekly pilgrimage to the church.
In that rural setting from the 1950s, the three
churches in the town of about 500 were the center of community life. The local
Methodist Church, to which my family belonged, sponsored ice cream socials
with hand-cranked, homemade ice cream, chicken potpie dinners, and corn
roasts. My family and I were always involved in all three, but each came only
once a year. In addition, there was a two-week community Bible school every
June, and I was a regular attendee through my eighth grade year in school.
However, Sunday morning worship and Sunday school were weekly events, and I
strove to keep extending my collection of perfect attendance pins and of awards
for memorizing Bible verses.
By my junior high school days, the local Methodist Church had closed, and we were attending the Methodist Church in the neighboring
town, which was only slightly larger than the town in which I lived. There, my
thoughts first began to focus on the ministry as a personal calling. I became
active in the Methodist Youth Fellowship, and eventually served as both a
district and a conference officer. I also became the regular “preacher” during
the annual Youth Sunday service. My preaching began to draw community-wide
attention, and before long I was occasionally filling pulpits at other
churches, at a nursing home, and at various church-affiliated youth and ladies
groups, where I typically set attendance records.
By age 17, when I began my freshman year at Harvard College, my decision to enter the ministry had solidified. During my freshman
year, I enrolled in a two-semester course in comparative religion, which was
taught by Wilfred Cantwell Smith, whose specific area of expertise was Islam.
During that course, I gave far less attention to Islam than I did to other
religions, such as Hinduism and Buddhism, as the latter two seemed so much more
esoteric and strange to me. In contrast, Islam appeared to be somewhat similar
to my own Christianity. As such, I didn’t concentrate on it as much as I
probably should have, although I can remember writing a term paper for the
course on the concept of revelation in the Quran. Nonetheless, as the course
was one of rigorous academic standards and demands, I did acquire a small
library of about a half dozen books on Islam, all of which were written by
non-Muslims, and all of which were to serve me in good stead 25 years later. I
also acquired two different English translations of the meaning of the Quran,
which I read at the time.
That spring, Harvard named me a Hollis Scholar,
signifying that I was one of the top pre-theology students in the college. The
summer between my freshman and sophomore years at Harvard, I worked as a youth
minister at a fairly large United Methodist Church. The following summer, I
obtained my License to Preach from the United Methodist Church. Upon
graduating from Harvard College in 1971, I enrolled at the Harvard Divinity School, and there obtained my Master of Divinity degree in 1974, having been
previously ordained into the Deaconate of the United Methodist Church in 1972, and having previously received a Stewart Scholarship from the United Methodist Church as a supplement to my Harvard Divinity School scholarships. During my
seminary education, I also completed a two-year externship program as a
hospital chaplain at Peter Bent Brigham Hospital in Boston. Following
graduation from Harvard Divinity School, I spent the summer as the minister of
two United Methodist churches in rural Kansas, where attendance soared to
heights not seen in those churches for several years.
Seen from the outside, I was a very promising
young minister, who had received an excellent education, drew large crowds to
the Sunday morning worship service, and had been successful at every stop along
the ministerial path. However, seen from the inside, I was fighting a constant
war to maintain my personal integrity in the face of my ministerial
responsibilities. This war was far removed from the ones presumably fought by some
later televangelists in unsuccessfully trying to maintain personal sexual
morality. Likewise, it was a far different war than those fought by the
headline-grabbing pedophilic priests of the current moment. However, my
struggle to maintain personal integrity may be the most common one encountered
by the better-educated members of the ministry.
There is some irony in the fact that the
supposedly best, brightest, and most idealistic of ministers-to-be are selected
for the very best of seminary education, e.g. that offered at that time at the Harvard Divinity School. The irony is that, given such an education, the seminarian is
exposed to as much of the actual historical truth as is known about:
1) the formation of the early, “mainstream”
church, and how it was shaped by geopolitical considerations;
2) the “original” reading of various
Biblical texts, many of which are in sharp contrast to what most Christians
read when they pick up their Bible, although gradually, some of this
information is being incorporated into newer and better translations;
3) the evolution of such concepts as a
triune godhead and the “sonship” of Jesus, peace be upon him;
4) the non-religious considerations that
underlie many Christian creeds and doctrines;
5) the existence of those early churches
and Christian movements which never accepted the concept of a triune godhead,
and which never accepted the concept of the divinity of Jesus, peace be upon
him; and
6) etc. (Some of these fruits of my
seminary education are recounted in more detail in my recent book, The Cross
and the Crescent: An Interfaith Dialogue between Christianity and Islam, Amana
Publications, 2001.)
As such, it is no real wonder that almost a
majority of such seminary graduates leave seminary, not to “fill pulpits”,
where they would be asked to preach that which they know is not true, but to
enter the various counseling professions. Such was also the case for me, as I
went on to earn a master’s and doctorate in clinical psychology. I continued
to call myself a Christian, because that was a needed bit of self-identity, and
because I was, after all, an ordained minister, even though my full time job
was as a mental health professional. However, my seminary education had taken
care of any belief I might have had regarding a triune godhead or the divinity
of Jesus, peace be upon him. (Polls regularly reveal that ministers are less
likely to believe these and other dogmas of the church than are the laity they
serve, with ministers more likely to understand such terms as “son of God”
metaphorically, while their parishioners understand it literally.) I thus
became a “Christmas and Easter Christian”, attending church very sporadically,
and then gritting my teeth and biting my tongue as I listened to sermons espousing
that which I knew was not the case.
None of the above should be taken to imply that
I was any less religious or spiritually oriented than I had once been. I
prayed regularly, my belief in a supreme deity remained solid and secure, and I
conducted my personal life in line with the ethics I had once been taught in
church and Sunday school. I simply knew better than to buy into the man-made
dogmas and articles of faith of the organized church which were so heavily
laden with the pagan influences, polytheistic notions, and geo-political
considerations of a bygone era.
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Jerald F. Dirks, Minister of United Methodist Church, USA (part 2 of 4)
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Description: The early life and education of a Harvard Hollis scholar and author of the book “The Cross and the Crescent”, disillusioned by Christianity due the information learnt in its School of Theology. Part 2: A lack of religiousness, contact with Muslims, self-questioning, and the answer.
By Jerald F. Dirks
Published on 16 Jan 2006 - Last modified on 31 Jul 2006
Viewed: 11171 (daily average: 8) - Rating: 4.8 out of 5 - Rated by: 12
Printed: 624 - Emailed: 9 - Commented on: 0
Category: Articles
> Stories of New Muslims
> Priests and Religious Figures
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As the years passed by, I became increasingly
concerned about the loss of religiousness in American society at large.
Religiousness is a living, breathing spirituality and morality within
individuals and should not be confused with religiosity, which is concerned
with the rites, rituals, and formalized creeds of some organized entity, e.g.
the church. American culture increasingly appeared to have lost its moral and
religious compass. Two out of every three marriages ended in divorce; violence
was becoming an increasingly inherent part of our schools and our roads;
self-responsibility was on the wane; self-discipline was being submerged by a “if
it feels good, do it” morality; various Christian leaders and institutions were
being swamped by sexual and financial scandals; and emotions justified
behavior, however odious it might be. American culture was becoming a morally
bankrupt institution, and I was feeling quite alone in my personal religious
vigil.
It was at this juncture that I began to come
into contact with the local Muslim community. For some years before, my wife
and I had been actively involved in doing research on the history of the
Arabian horse. Eventually, in order to secure translations of various Arabic
documents, this research brought us into contact with Arab Americans who
happened to be Muslims. Our first such contact was with Jamal in the summer of
1991.
After an initial telephone conversation, Jamal
visited our home, and offered to do some translations for us and to help guide
us through the history of the Arabian horse in the Middle East. Before Jamal
left that afternoon, he asked if he might use our bathroom to wash before
saying his scheduled prayers; and borrow a piece of newspaper to use as a
prayer rug, so he could say his scheduled prayers before leaving our house.
We, of course, obliged, but wondered if there was something more appropriate
that we could give him to use than a newspaper. Without our ever realizing it
at the time, Jamal was practicing a very beautiful form of Dawa (preaching or
exhortation). He made no comment about the fact that we were not Muslims, and
he didn’t preach anything to us about his religious beliefs. He “merely”
presented us with his example, an example that spoke volumes, if one were
willing to be receptive to the lesson.
Over the next 16 months, contact with Jamal
slowly increased in frequency, until it was occurring on a biweekly to weekly
basis. During these visits, Jamal never preached to me about Islam, never
questioned me about my own religious beliefs or convictions, and never verbally
suggested that I become a Muslim. However, I was beginning to learn a lot.
First, there was the constant behavioral example of Jamal observing his
scheduled prayers. Second, there was the behavioral example of how Jamal
conducted his daily life in a highly moral and ethical manner, both in his
business world and in his social world. Third, there was the behavioral
example of how Jamal interacted with his two children. For my wife, Jamal’s
wife provided a similar example. Fourth, always within the framework of
helping me to understand Arabian horse history in the Middle East, Jamal began
to share with me: 1) stories from Arab and Islamic history; 2) sayings of the
Prophet Muhammad, may the blessing and mercy of God be upon him; and 3) Quranic verses and their
contextual meaning. In point of fact, our every visit now included at least a
30 minute conversation centered on some aspect of Islam, but always presented
in terms of helping me intellectually understand the Islamic context of Arabian
horse history. I was never told “this is the way things are”, I was merely
told “this is what Muslims typically believe.” Since I wasn’t being “preached
to”, and since Jamal never inquired as to my own beliefs, I didn’t need to
bother attempting to justify my own position. It was all handled as an
intellectual exercise, not as proselytizing.
Gradually, Jamal began to introduce us to other
Arab families in the local Muslim community. There was Wa’el and his family,
Khalid and his family, and a few others. Consistently, I observed individuals
and families who were living their lives on a much higher ethical plane than
the American society in which we were all embedded. Maybe there was something
to the practice of Islam that I had missed during my collegiate and seminary
days.
By December, 1992, I was beginning to ask myself
some serious questions about where I was and what I was doing. These questions
were prompted by the following considerations.
1) Over the course of the prior 16
months, our social life had become increasingly centered on the Arab component
of the local Muslim community. By December, probably 75% of our social life
was being spent with Arab Muslims.
2) By virtue of my seminary training and
education, I knew how badly the Bible had been corrupted (and often knew
exactly when, where, and why), I had no belief in any triune godhead, and I had
no belief in anything more than a metaphorical “sonship” of Jesus, may God
praise him. In short, while I certainly believed in God, I was as strict a
monotheist as my Muslim friends.
3) My personal values and sense of
morality were much more in keeping with my Muslim friends than with the “Christian”
society around me. After all, I had the non-confrontational examples of Jamal,
Khalid, and Wa’el as illustrations. In short, my nostalgic yearning for the
type of community in which I had been raised was finding gratification in the
Muslim community. American society might be morally bankrupt, but that did not
appear to be the case for that part of the Muslim community with which I had
had contact. Marriages were stable, spouses were committed to each other, and
honesty, integrity, self-responsibility, and family values were emphasized. My
wife and I had attempted to live our lives that same way, but for several years
I had felt that we were doing so in the context of a moral vacuum. The Muslim
community appeared to be different.
The different threads were being woven together
into a single strand. Arabian horses, my childhood upbringing, my foray into
the Christian ministry and my seminary education, my nostalgic yearnings for a
moral society, and my contact with the Muslim community were becoming
intricately intertwined. My self-questioning came to a head when I finally got
around to asking myself exactly what separated me from the beliefs of my Muslim
friends. I suppose that I could have raised that question with Jamal or with
Khalid, but I wasn’t ready to take that step. I had never discussed my own
religious beliefs with them, and I didn’t think that I wanted to introduce that
topic of conversation into our friendship. As such, I began to pull off the
bookshelf all the books on Islam that I had acquired in my collegiate and
seminary days. However far my own beliefs were from the traditional position
of the church, and however seldom I actually attended church, I still identified
myself as being a Christian, and so I turned to the works of Western scholars.
That month of December, I read half a dozen or so books on Islam by Western
scholars, including one biography of the Prophet Muhammad, may the blessing and mercy of God be upon him.
Further, I began to read two different English translations of the meaning of
the Quran. I never spoke to my Muslim friends about this personal quest of
self-discovery. I never mentioned what types of books I was reading, nor ever
spoke about why I was reading these books. However, occasionally I would run a
very circumscribed question past one of them.
While I never spoke to my Muslim friends about
those books, my wife and I had numerous conversations about what I was
reading. By the last week of December of 1992, I was forced to admit to
myself, that I could find no area of substantial disagreement between my own
religious beliefs and the general tenets of Islam. While I was ready to
acknowledge that Muhammad, may the blessing and mercy of God be upon him, was a prophet (one who spoke for
or under the inspiration) of God, and while I had absolutely no difficulty
affirming that there was no god besides God, glorified and exalted is He, I was
still hesitating to make any decision. I could readily admit to myself that I
had far more in common with Islamic beliefs as I then understood them, than I
did with the traditional Christianity of the organized church. I knew only too
well that I could easily confirm from my seminary training and education most
of what the Quran had to say about Christianity, the Bible, and Jesus, may God
praise him.
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Jerald F. Dirks, Minister of United Methodist Church, USA (part 3 of 4)
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Description: The early life and education of a Harvard Hollis scholar and author of the book “The Cross and the Crescent”, disillusioned by Christianity due the information learnt in its School of Theology. Part 3: Psychological games and the struggle to surrender.
By Jerald F. Dirks
Published on 16 Jan 2006 - Last modified on 31 Jul 2006
Viewed: 9907 (daily average: 7) - Rating: 4 out of 5 - Rated by: 4
Printed: 605 - Emailed: 4 - Commented on: 0
Category: Articles
> Stories of New Muslims
> Priests and Religious Figures
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Nonetheless, I hesitated. Further, I
rationalized my hesitation by maintaining to myself that I really didn’t know
the nitty-gritty details of Islam, and that my areas of agreement were confined
to general concepts. As such, I continued to read, and then to re-read.
One’s sense of identity, of who one is, is a
powerful affirmation of one’s own position in the cosmos. In my professional
practice, I had occasionally been called upon to treat certain addictive
disorders, ranging from smoking, to alcoholism, to drug abuse. As a clinician,
I knew that the basic physical addiction had to be overcome to create the
initial abstinence. That was the easy part of treatment. As Mark Twain once
said: “Quitting smoking is easy; I’ve done it hundreds of times.” However, I
also knew that the key to maintaining that abstinence over an extended time
period was overcoming the client’s psychological addiction, which was heavily
grounded in the client’s basic sense of identity, i.e. the client identified to
himself that he was “a smoker”, or that he was “a drinker”, etc. The addictive
behavior had become part and parcel of the client’s basic sense of identity, of
the client’s basic sense of self. Changing this sense of identity was crucial
to the maintenance of the psychotherapeutic “cure.” This was the difficult
part of treatment. Changing one’s basic sense of identity is a most difficult
task. One’s psyche tends to cling to the old and familiar, which seem more
psychologically comfortable and secure than the new and unfamiliar.
On a professional basis, I had the above
knowledge, and used it on a daily basis. However, ironically enough, I was not
yet ready to apply it to myself, and to the issue of my own hesitation
surrounding my religious identity. For 43 years, my religious identity had
been neatly labeled as “Christian”, however many qualifications I might have
added to that term over the years. Giving up that label of personal identity
was no easy task. It was part and parcel of how I defined my very being.
Given the benefit of hindsight, it is clear that my hesitation served the
purpose of insuring that I could keep my familiar religious identity of being a
Christian, although a Christian who believed like a Muslim believed.
It was now the very end of December, and my wife
and I were filling out our application forms for U.S. passports, so that a
proposed Middle Eastern journey could become a reality. One of the questions had
to do with religious affiliation. I didn’t even think about it, and
automatically fell back on the old and familiar, as I penned in “Christian.”
It was easy, it was familiar, and it was comfortable.
However, that comfort was momentarily disrupted
when my wife asked me how I had answered the question on religious identity on
the application form. I immediately replied, “Christian”, and chuckled
audibly. Now, one of Freud’s contributions to the understanding of the human
psyche was his realization that laughter is often a release of psychological
tension. However wrong Freud may have been in many aspects of his theory of
psychosexual development, his insights into laughter were quite on target. I
had laughed! What was this psychological tension that I had need to release
through the medium of laughter?
I then hurriedly went on to offer my wife a
brief affirmation that I was a Christian, not a Muslim. In response to which,
she politely informed me that she was merely asking whether I had written “Christian”,
or “Protestant”, or “Methodist.” On a professional basis, I knew that a person
does not defend himself against an accusation that hasn’t been made. (If, in
the course of a session of psychotherapy, my client blurted out, “I’m not angry
about that”, and I hadn’t even broached the topic of anger, it was clear that
my client was feeling the need to defend himself against a charge that his own
unconscious was making. In short, he really was angry, but he wasn’t ready to
admit it or to deal with it.) If my wife hadn’t made the accusation, i.e. “you
are a Muslim”, then the accusation had to have come from my own unconscious, as
I was the only other person present. I was aware of this, but still I
hesitated. The religious label that had been stuck to my sense of identity for
43 years was not going to come off easily.
About a month had gone by since my wife’s
question to me. It was now late in January of 1993. I had set aside all the
books on Islam by the Western scholars, as I had read them all thoroughly. The
two English translations of the meaning of the Quran were back on the
bookshelf, and I was busy reading yet a third English translation of the
meaning of the Quran. Maybe in this translation I would find some sudden
justification for…
I was taking my lunch hour from my private
practice at a local Arab restaurant that I had started to frequent. I entered
as usual, seated myself at a small table, and opened my third English
translation of the meaning of the Quran to where I had left off in my reading.
I figured I might as well get some reading done over my lunch hour. Moments
later, I became aware that Mahmoud was at my shoulder, and waiting to take my
order. He glanced at what I was reading, but said nothing about it. My order taken,
I returned to the solitude of my reading.
A few minutes later, Mahmoud’s wife, Iman, an
American Muslim, who wore the Hijab (scarf) and modest dress that I had come to
associate with female Muslims, brought me my order. She commented that I was
reading the Quran, and politely asked if I were a Muslim. The word was out of
my mouth before it could be modified by any social etiquette or politeness: “No!”
That single word was said forcefully, and with more than a hint of
irritability. With that, Iman politely retired from my table.
What was happening to me? I had behaved rudely
and somewhat aggressively. What had this woman done to deserve such behavior
from me? This wasn’t like me. Given my childhood upbringing, I still used “sir”
and “ma’am” when addressing clerks and cashiers who were waiting on me in
stores. I could pretend to ignore my own laughter as a release of tension, but
I couldn’t begin to ignore this sort of unconscionable behavior from myself.
My reading was set aside, and I mentally stewed over this turn of events
throughout my meal. The more I stewed, the guiltier I felt about my behavior.
I knew that when Iman brought me my check at the end of the meal, I was going
to need to make some amends. If for no other reason, simple politeness
demanded it. Furthermore, I was really quite disturbed about how resistant I
had been to her innocuous question. What was going on in me that I responded
with that much force to such a simple and straightforward question? Why did
that one, simple question lead to such atypical behavior on my part?
Later, when Iman came with my check, I attempted
a round-about apology by saying: “I’m afraid I was a little abrupt in
answering your question before. If you were asking me whether I believe that
there is only one God, then my answer is yes. If you were asking me whether I
believe that Muhammad was one of the prophets of that one God, then my answer
is yes.” She very nicely and very supportively said: “That’s okay; it takes
some people a little longer than others.”
Perhaps, the readers of
this will be kind enough to note the psychological games I was playing with
myself without chuckling too hard at my mental gymnastics and behavior. I well
knew that in my own way, using my own words, I had just said the Shahadah, the
Islamic testimonial of faith, i.e. “I testify that there is no god but God, and
I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of God.” However, having said that,
and having recognized what I said, I could still cling to my old and familiar
label of religious identity. After all, I hadn’t said I was a Muslim. I was
simply a Christian, albeit an atypical Christian, who was willing to say that
there was one God, not a triune godhead, and who was willing to say that
Muhammad was one of the prophets inspired by that one God. If a Muslim wanted
to accept me as being a Muslim that was his or her business, and his or her
label of religious identity. However, it was not mine. I thought I had found
my way out of my crisis of religious identity. I was a Christian, who would
carefully explain that I agreed with, and was willing to testify to, the
Islamic testimonial of faith. Having made my tortured explanation, and having
parsed the English language to within an inch of its life, others could hang
whatever label on me they wished. It was their label, and not mine.
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Jerald F. Dirks, Minister of United Methodist Church, USA (part 4 of 4)
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Description: The early life and education of a Harvard Hollis scholar and author of the book “The Cross and the Crescent”, disillusioned by Christianity due the information learnt in its School of Theology. Part 4: “From Cross to Crescent.”
By Jerald F. Dirks
Published on 16 Jan 2006 - Last modified on 31 Jul 2006
Viewed: 10535 (daily average: 8) - Rating: 4.7 out of 5 - Rated by: 33
Printed: 687 - Emailed: 41 - Commented on: 1
Category: Articles
> Stories of New Muslims
> Priests and Religious Figures
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It was now March of 1993, and my wife and I were
enjoying a five-week vacation in the Middle East. It was also the Islamic
month of Ramadan, when Muslims fast from day break until sunset. Because we
were so often staying with or being escorted around by family members of our
Muslim friends back in the States, my wife and I had decided that we also would
fast, if for no other reason than common courtesy. During this time, I had
also started to perform the five daily prayers of Islam with my newfound,
Middle Eastern, Muslim friends. After all, there was nothing in those prayers
with which I could disagree.
I was a Christian, or so I said. After all, I
had been born into a Christian family, had been given a Christian upbringing,
had attended church and Sunday school every Sunday as a child, had graduated
from a prestigious seminary, and was an ordained minister in a large Protestant
denomination. However, I was also a Christian who didn’t believe in a triune
godhead or in the divinity of Jesus, may the blessing and mercy of God be upon him; who knew quite well
how the Bible had been corrupted; who had said the Islamic testimony of faith
in my own carefully parsed words; who had fasted during Ramadan; who was saying
Islamic prayers five times a day; and who was deeply impressed by the
behavioral examples I had witnessed in the Muslim community, both in America
and in the Middle East. (Time and space do not permit me the luxury of
documenting in detail all of the examples of personal morality and ethics I
encountered in the Middle East.) If asked if I were a Muslim, I could and did
do a five-minute monologue detailing the above, and basically leaving the
question unanswered. I was playing intellectual word games, and succeeding at
them quite nicely.
It was now late in our Middle Eastern trip. An
elderly friend who spoke no English and I were walking down a winding, little
road, somewhere in one of the economically disadvantaged areas of greater ‘Amman, Jordan. As we walked, an elderly man approached us from the opposite direction,
said, “Salam ‘Alaykum”, i.e., “may the blessing and mercy of God be upon him”, and offered to shake
hands. We were the only three people there. I didn’t speak Arabic, and
neither my friend nor the stranger spoke English. Looking at me, the stranger
asked, “Muslim?”
At that precise moment in time, I was fully and
completely trapped. There were no intellectual word games to be played,
because I could only communicate in English, and they could only communicate in
Arabic. There was no translator present to bail me out of this situation, and
to allow me to hide behind my carefully prepared English monologue. I couldn’t
pretend I didn’t understand the question, because it was all too obvious that I
had. My choices were suddenly, unpredictably, and inexplicably reduced to just
two: I could say “N’am”, i.e., “yes”; or I could say “La”, i.e., “no.” The
choice was mine, and I had no other. I had to choose, and I had to choose now;
it was just that simple. Praise be to God, I answered, “N’am.”
With saying that one word, all the intellectual
word games were now behind me. With the intellectual word games behind me, the
psychological games regarding my religious identity were also behind me. I
wasn’t some strange, atypical Christian. I was a Muslim. Praise be to God, my
wife of 33 years also became a Muslim about that same time.
Not too many months after our return to America from the Middle East, a neighbor invited us over to his house, saying that he wanted to talk
with us about our conversion to Islam. He was a retired Methodist minister,
with whom I had had several conversations in the past. Although we had
occasionally talked superficially about such issues as the artificial
construction of the Bible from various, earlier, independent sources, we had
never had any in-depth conversation about religion. I knew only that he
appeared to have acquired a solid seminary education, and that he sang in the
local church choir every Sunday.
My initial reaction was, “Oh, oh, here it comes.”
Nonetheless, it is a Muslim’s duty to be a good neighbor, and it is a Muslim’s
duty to be willing to discuss Islam with others. As such, I accepted the
invitation for the following evening, and spent most of the waking part of the
next 24 hours contemplating how best to approach this gentleman in his
requested topic of conversation. The appointed time came, and we drove over to
our neighbor’s. After a few moments of small talk, he finally asked why I had
decided to become a Muslim. I had waited for this question, and had my answer
carefully prepared. “As you know with your seminary education, there were a
lot of non-religious considerations which led up to and shaped the decisions of
the Council of Nicaea.” He immediately cut me off with a simple statement: “You
finally couldn’t stomach the polytheism anymore, could you?” He knew exactly
why I was a Muslim, and he didn’t disagree with my decision! For himself, at
his age and at his place in life, he was electing to be “an atypical Christian.”
God willing, he has by now completed his journey from cross to
crescent.
There are sacrifices to be made in being a
Muslim in America. For that matter, there are sacrifices to be made in being a
Muslim anywhere. However, those sacrifices may be more acutely felt in America, especially among American converts. Some of those sacrifices are very
predictable, and include altered dress and abstinence from alcohol, pork, and
the taking of interest on one’s money. Some of those sacrifices are less
predictable. For example, one Christian family, with whom we were close
friends, informed us that they could no longer associate with us, as they could
not associate with anyone “who does not take Jesus Christ as his personal
savior.” In addition, quite a few of my professional colleagues altered their
manner of relating to me. Whether it was coincidence or not, my professional
referral base dwindled, and there was almost a 30% drop in income as a result.
Some of these less predictable sacrifices were hard to accept, although the
sacrifices were a small price to pay for what was received in return.
For those contemplating the acceptance of Islam
and the surrendering of oneself to God—glorified and exalted is He, there may
well be sacrifices along the way. Many of these sacrifices are easily
predicted, while others may be rather surprising and unexpected. There is no
denying the existence of these sacrifices, and I don’t intend to sugar coat
that pill for you. Nonetheless, don’t be overly troubled by these sacrifices.
In the final analysis, these sacrifices are less important than you presently
think. God willing, you will find these sacrifices a very cheap coin to pay
for the “goods” you are purchasing.
_001.jpg)
Please note: The ordination certificate above
was too large to scan in completely - the top line of text is missing, which
says “Let It Be Known To All Men That”
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His Web Page:
www.muslimsweekly.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=blogcategory&id=92&Itemid=93
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