Reflections of a Saved Muslim…
Tonight might be Laylatul Qadr, which is one of the most special nights of Ramadan. Laylatul Qadir happens in the last 10 days of Ramadan, no one knows for certain if it is today, but there is a high probability. Anyhow, I have just finished my tarawih prayers for the night, and feel inspired to share my reflections with whomever might be reading. I am a very human and imperfect person. I am not an ideal model or representative for any religion. I am simply me — a flawed person who loves God…and the following reflection is a stream of consciousness…
My mother is a devout Christian, and my father, who recently passed, was a devout Muslim. So, I often joke with people that I am a “saved Muslim”, because I literally grew up going to jummah on Fridays and church on Sundays. My mother ensured my twin and I were baptized at a young age, and I would undergo several other baptisms (without my mother’s permission) while visiting the different churches of my friends. My childhood friends frequented churches that were strikingly different from our family’s church. These churches used scare tactics to invite people to Christianity. As a kid I was high-key terrified of going to hell. Being concerned for my soul, and also enjoying being dunked in water, I would often walk to the altar and sign up for on-the-spot baptisms repeatedly. I was never really sure if the previous altar-call and baptism had saved my soul, and I wanted to err on the side of caution. I can laugh at it now, but truly my child-mind was terrified, and fear is not a best practice for inviting people to God. God is truly merciful and loving.
Anyhow, my mother was born and raised Catholic, and identifies as a unitarian Christian, meaning she believes Jesus is the Son of God born by divine birth through the Virgin Mary, but that God is above Jesus, and they are not equals. She believes God is totally sovereign and has no partners. My father, being orthodox Sunni Muslim, also believed that Jesus was born to the Virgin Mary by the will of Allah (swt), and that Jesus is a messenger of God, and hence subservient to God’s will. Lastly, he believed that Muhammad (pbuh) was the last and final messenger of God, and was also subservient to God’s will. Clearly, these beliefs are not the same, but they were similar enough to create spiritual accord in our home. As a matter of fact, my mother especially encouraged her children to be inquisitive and challenge ideas coming from the pulpit. I remember being as young as six, and she would cross examine us during our walk home from church.
-What did the preacher say that you agreed with?
-What did the preacher say that you disagreed with?
-Never believe someone just because they are a religious leader, always research and follow your own mind. And most importantly, don’t believe Jesus is the only way to love and honor God.
-I received the call through Jesus, but others may receive the call through Muhammad, or Buddha or Nature…never judge a person for their religious background.
This was important for our mother to explicitly state because she knew that we were trying to reconcile the pastor’s claims that Jesus was the only way to Heaven. She also perceived that our young minds were wondering why our Dad would be predestined for hell simply because he was Muslim. Lastly, she understood we were too shy to confront either her or our father with these questions, so she initiated the conversations, modeling that it was okay to disagree with our pastor, without compromising our belief in God.
Adding to the texture of my mother’s Christianity is her ethnic identity as an African-American. Being an African-American Christian is deeply rooted in challenging biblical texts which were once corrupted to justify our subjugation as a people in the United States and former European colonies across the globe. Hence, her survival as an African-American woman is predicated on her ancestors challenging pastors and biblical interpretations seeking to sanctify oppression. And these actions of religious interrogations actually increased our faith as African-Americans. This is why African-American iterations of Christianity come with a unique ethos and rebellious personality. An ethos that cannot be underestimated, because it literally preserved the souls and minds of my ancestors who endured unthinkable brutality in the name of Colonial Christianity and enslavement.
My father being a Muslim and Pan-African, always respected my mother’s bold expressions of piety. Growing up, I was entrenched in the parallels and contrasts of Islam and Christianity. The soft adhan (call to prayer) in contrast to thundering Gospel music was common. Worldly music on a Sunday was a big no-no for mom, and worldly music on any day was a big no-no for dad. The simple measured postures of my father’s salaat were strikingly different from my mother’s flamboyant expressions of adoration for God shown with flailing arms, sporadic cries of thanks, and most importantly fits of being hit with the Holy Ghost. As a child, I loved the stark differences between praise at the mosque and church. And I am forever thankful that my mother exposed me to the unabashed African-American Christian style of praise for God and His saints. And I am equally grateful that my father modeled the more reserved and structured Islamic style of worship.
It is no secret that Islamic worship doesn’t always allow for the unscripted release of expression that many need in their worship to God. Which is why I am especially thankful for my mother. Because of her, I know how to throw my hands up, fall to my knees, and just cry out my love for God. I also know how to praise dance, allowing my body to move in a way that expresses my love and gratitude towards God.
I don’t mean to brag, but truly, God has brought me through so much, and creative expression in relationship to God has allowed me to heal from deep wounds. I have literally loved wicked people who pretended to love me in return. And as many of you know, loving deceitful people who conceal their heart is a dangerous game. And yet God delivered me from these ominous situations and so much more. Truly, there is nothing too great for God. And I am forever grateful for the unscripted tools of praise my mother passed down.
A couple of nights ago, my mother accompanied me to tarawih prayers at the masjid. It was adorable because some of the Eritrean muslim women were telling my mother pull her hijab (head covering) further down her head. I told my mom not to take it personal because Eritrean women are naturally very vocal, and they only told her that because they love her, and in Islam it’s haram (prohibited) to backbite. As muslims we are supposed to tell people feedback in a kind way directly to their face and not behind their back. Later in the night, these same women were literally competing for my mom to pray next to them, because they wanted the baraka (blessings) of showing a Christian woman how to pray during the month of Ramadan. Honestly it was so beautiful.
So what is the point of this late night reflection? The point of this reflection is to be aware of the beauty in the little things. As a matter of fact, one of my favorite surahs (chapters) of the Quran is entitled Al-Maun, which can roughly be translated into The Little Things / The Small Acts. I love this surah because it reminds me to not be discouraged by the big disappointments in life, and to also not be fooled by big acts of grandeur (which is heightened in this age of filtered reels and edited highlights).
No matter your faith background, if you are looking for a little more meaning in these crazy times, I will leave you with this closing reflection:
Focus on the small victories that have edified you along the way. Don’t devote your thoughts to the best-friend or lover who betrayed you, instead think of the stranger who lended you an ear in your time of need. There is so much illusion in this life, and breaking away from it requires that we notice the little things for a better understanding of the whole picture. Be proud of yourself, because someone along the way didn’t want you to make it…yet here you are, still standing despite the odds stacked against you. Truly, it is the little things that reveal so much more than the big things. When you finally get that degree, it’s not about the glitz and glamour of commencement day. It’s about the janitor who stopped you from dropping out after your favorite professor with fancy degrees declared you would never make it. Indeed, it is the little acts of love and kindness that will sustain us in this underhanded world of duplicity and make-believe.
Book of Matthews Chapter 25 Verses 42–45 of Bible
42 For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink,
43 I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’
44 “They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’
45 “He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’
Surah Al-Maun - 107th Chapter of Quran
- Have you seen the one who denies the Day of Judgement?
2. That is the one who pushes away the orphan.
3. And eos not encourage the feeding of the poor.
4. So woe to those who pray.
5. Those who are insincere in their prayers.
6. Those who make a show of their deeds
7. Yet withhold the smallest acts of kindness.
