I recently visited India to speak at a conference called “Future to the Responsibility”.
When I landed in Mumbai, a driver called Arun was fortunately waiting for me at the airport, armed with an umbrella for the rains which really taught me what a Monsoon is!
We had quite a long drive to the hotel and although I know it’s a cliché for journalists to quote drivers during their blink-and-you’ll-miss-them visits to cities around the world, Arun and I exchanged quite a few gems.

I’d told him I’d arrived from the U.S. but that I was Egyptian. He still chose America as my country – e.g. how much do drivers make in “my country”, does “my country” have roads like the highway which starts shortly after Bombay International airport, etc.

“That’s an Indian church,” Arun said. “Do you have churches in your country?”

“Yes,” I replied.

Then a few minutes later, we passed a temple to Ganesha, the Hindu god of wealth and wisdom – a rare combination at the best of times!

“Do you know Ganesha?” Arun asked.

“Yes. He’s an Indian god, right?”

“Yes!” Arun said. “What is the American god called?”

Good question!

I was too exhausted for irony so I gave it to him straight – there are Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Seikhs and Buddhists in America, all worshiping their own god. And then I told him I was a Muslim and asked him how relations were between Hindus and Muslims.

“Like brother and brother,” he said. “How are relations in your country?”

“Sometimes like brother and brother,” I replied. “Sometimes difficult.”

“Yes!” Arun said. “The same here.”

During my stay in India I got to see both “brother and brother” and “sometimes difficult”.

As a Muslim, I wanted to visit shrines to Muslim saints that I was told draw both Muslims and Hindus. So I went to Haji Ali in Mumbai, a shrine of a Muslim holy man who was believed to have died on his way to Haj (pilgrimage to Islam’s holiest site Mecca in what is today Saudi Arabia) and whose body is said to have been carried back home by the waters of the Arabian Sea.

Along the way to Haji Ali’s shrine were stalls where garlands were prepared to be given as tokens to the holy man, reminiscent of the offerings made at Hindu temples. And once inside the shrine – at the “ladies section” – I saw Muslim women wearing hijab and others reciting from the Quran alongside Hindu women with bindis on their forehead, all standing inside the mausoleum, saying prayers and awaiting blessing.

As the women exited Haji Ali’s shrine, the Hindus among them would bend to touch the doorstep of the ladies section in a move reminiscent of touching the feet of elders or parents as a sign of reverence by Hindus.

And so I was eager to see that cross-religious spirituality at Ajmer, home of one of India’s most important Muslim pilgrimage sites – the shrine of Khwaja Muin-ud-din Chishti, a Sufi saint and founder of the Chishti order, the main Sufi order in India to this day.

In case I was under any illusion that Muslims and Hindus were always like “brother and brother” my visit to Ajmer was cancelled exactly because brotherly love at times eludes Hindus and Muslims in India. Inter-communal riots and bombings in 1992/3 killed hundreds and left Hindus and Muslims still suspicious of each other.

Just as I was about to head to Ajmer, the driver taking me found out that because of a nationwide strike called by a Hindu nationalist party, tensions between Hindus and Muslims in Ajmer were high and that he wouldn’t be able to take me into the town nor would any other Hindu driver.

Instead of Ajmer, I visited Amber Fort, which was the ancient capital of Jaipur. Work on the fort – very representative of the architecture in Rajasthan State – began in 1592. The artwork in some parts of the palace was a mix of Hindu and Muslim art. For example, the screen from behind which the queens could look out onto the public area of the palace was made of panels which were alternately comprised of lotus flowers - representative of Hindu art - and stars - symbolizing Muslims art.

It was a beautiful expression of responsibility to the future that we can still learn from.

When I first moved from Egypt to the US in the summer of 2000, my then-husband – an American from whom I am now divorced – offered to drive me to the neighborhood mosque. He had looked it up so that he could take me there when I arrived in Seattle.

As we approached the mosque, I saw a man coming out who looked as if he’d been lifted from Saudi Arabia, where I lived for many years as a young adult. He was wearing a turban and a white robe and had a huge beard. He represented the most conservative elements of my religion and I wanted nothing to do with him or the mosque. I told my husband to keep driving.

I vowed there and then that I would not join any Muslim community in the US but would find my own way as a Muslim in my new home. I maintained that vow during my time in Seattle.

After I signed my divorce papers, I was offered a job in New York City. I’d been to NYC several times before and always loved it – its energy, the crowds, the non-stop pace, and even the noise. I’m from Cairo, Egypt, one of the largest and most crowded cities in the world and for me, NYC is Cairo right here in the US!

I didn’t want to get on a plane and start a new life six hours later so I decided to drive from Seattle to NYC. I took 18 days to drive across the country, stopping at places I wanted to visit and in cities where I had arranged to meet an old friend and two new ones. My road trip began on Nov. 1, 2002, just over a year after the terrible attacks on Sept. 1, 2001.

It was a time of increasing suspicion of Muslims and all things Islamic. Getting into my car and driving alone through the US was my way of introducing my fear of those suspicions to the paranoia that Americans.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but my road trip was also taking me to a community I had been determined not to find in Seattle.

They say it’s not about the journey but the destination but it was about both for me. While the journey was indeed my quest to find my own way in my new home country, the destination was of utmost importance not just because NYC is still my home city but because it also turned out to be the home of a community of Muslims I never thought I’d find.

Looking back, I see a pattern I never noticed before. I see now that my arrival at each of the cities I’ve lived in during my life has heralded a new stage in my faith.

I became a feminist in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia when I realized that the Islam we practiced at home was so different from the Islam outside of my home and which so often discriminated against women and denied them their rights. I became a liberal Muslim in Jerusalem where I lived in 1998 and where my ultra-Orthodox Jewish neighbors reminded me of the ultra-conservative Muslims in Saudi Arabia. Seeing the impact that such orthodoxy has on religion, again particularly on women, I was able to start a journey towards liberal Islam that my road trip to NYC completed.

Soon after I arrived in NYC on Nov. 18, 2002, I came across the liberal Muslim website www.MuslimWakeUp.com and made friends with the founder of the site, Ahmed Nassef, and Patricia Dunn, the site’s current managing editor.

Through them and the website, I discovered a community of like-minded liberal and progressive Muslims which I happily joined. For the first time in my life, I felt comfortable sharing my ideas and values as a liberal Muslim.

I’m so glad I drove past that mosque in Seattle and all the way to NYC.

It used to be conventional wisdom to avoid religion and politics at gatherings of friends and family. Nowadays, it’s nearly impossible not to talk about them. I think that’s a good thing; after all, for people of faith their religious convictions, if they mean anything at all, certainly inform their political opinions. It’s true for all traditions. When Benazir Bhutto was murdered, I offered condolences to my close neighbor, who a Muslim from Pakistan, and then we spoke about the religious politics of his former country.

For Jews and Christians listening week after week to the teachings of Torah, the Prophets and the New Testament, it is impossible not to have an convictions about the pressing social problems of our time. For instance, I believe caring for God’s people who are hungry, poor, without homes; destitute, sick, in prison and even unborn is a Biblical calling. It is not optional. Neither is it optional to be a good steward of one’s resources while caring for the resources of the earth in a manner that preserves it for future generations. Patterns of consumption that leads to eradication of species and threaten death to the creation, is an offense to God according to the scriptures of both Jews and Christians. Repentance is basic.

How can I teach and preach without these scriptures having some influence on my own political decisions about social policies that will more closely adhere to my religious convictions? Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said, The church must be reminded that it is not the master or the servant of the state, but rather the conscience of the state. It must be the guide and the critic of the state, and never its tool. If the church does not recapture its prophetic zeal, it will become an irrelevant social club without moral or spiritual authority.

The current political discussions are focused on the very matters that our scriptures address: care for creation, hospitality to sojourners in the land, fair and equitable economic policy, health care for the sick, lifting up the poor, restraining greed, ending war while preserving peace, protecting the innocent and sustaining human freedom. These subjects are not unfamiliar to people of faith who read the Bible. I don’t expect people to agree on the precise way to address these problems, but I do believe it’s important for Christians to be fully engaged in the process by offering a vision rooted in scripture that corresponds to the hope offered there for all God’s people.

Speaking of people not agreeing, my guess is that not everyone in our congregations agree on every matter of politics, theology or church practices any more than we agree on books, movies or restaurants. People in our congregations, like our larger Church bodies have differences of opinions. That is no surprise and I don’t expect anything else. The real challenge for congregations is the same for our denominations, and our country. Treating one another with respect while disagreeing is the great challenge. At heart, it is a spiritual opportunity to learn how to care truly for another with respect while disagreeing on matters of real substance. The challenge is the same as that facing the country: living respectfully with different people and different opinions. People of faith have a narrative that calls us to such a life. Whether the country does right now is up for serious debate.

I just returned from Israel and the West Bank. Is there any hope left for peace with Israel and the Palestinians? Jackson Diehl of the Washington Post suggests that the last vestige of any remaining hope may life in the Annapolis Summit scheduled for early December. I agree with him. But, as always, the stakes are very high with both Mahmoud Abbas and Ehud Olmert putting their lives on the line for this chance at a two-state solution. Once a hawk, Olmert is now calling for everything to be on the table. Abbas, for his part, has affirmed Israel’s right to exist and his willingness to negotiate for peace, something the hard line Hamas opposition and other extremists continues to refuse. On the Israeli side, there is a Jewish minority opposed to any negotiations. This is a fringe element in Israeli society. During my visit, the great majority of Israeli citizens and Palestinians are ready to make a deal that will end the violence, provide a state for Palestinians and ensure Israel’s existence. That is the only road left for peace. Still Hamas refuses and Diehl suggests that this current effort at peacemaking may result in a surge of violence as it has in the past. Olmert himself has evoked the memory of Yitzak Rabin as he seeks to bring about a peace that he calls “the legacy I will leave.”

What will have to happen is a cessation of violence, including what Diehl refers to a Palestinian “militias” harassing the population. While I was in Jericho I met with Bassem Eid, a Palestinian and the Director of the Independent Palestinian Human Rights Monitoring Group, whose purpose is to monitor and report human rights abuses by Palestinians. He founded the agency in 1996 because no one was paying any attention to the human rights abuses among the Palestinians, particularly in the intifada of 1994. The most recent report of his agency, which is available on the web, is a narrative of abuse that is virtually unknown in the West.  See it here: http://www.phrmg.org/

Consequently, Bassem is not a popular person among his own people and especially the Hamas leadership who consider him a collaborator with the enemy for speaking truthfully, particularly about the intimidation and persecution of Christians in the Gaza strip. His story is one that deserves to be told.

He reported that 75% of the Palestinians want the current intifada to stop immediately. While Hamas continues to agitate for violence against Israelis, the moderate Palestinians of the West Bank and Gaza have no solid leadership to provide an alternative vision. There is a huge internal conflict between Hamas and more moderate Palestinians, of which Eid is one along with some of the Fatah leadeship including Abbas. According to Eid, Yassar Arafat was a complete failure for the Palestinian people. For Eid, the primary question now is whether they will learn anything from his mistakes. Peace with Israel and a Palestinian state hang in the balance with the answer to that question.

In Gaza, Hamas is ruling by intimidation and continues to violate the human rights of the people there, in particular the few Christians still living there who are considered enemies by Hamas, solely on the basis of their religion. For Christians, they must either obey a hard Islamic rule imposed by Hamas or leave the area. Anyone who is not Muslim is considered godless and treated as such.  Bassem Eid says this must come to an end if there is to be peace in the Middle East.

In all honesty, there is nothing in Bassem Eid’s story that is connected to the ancient story of Zacheus other than the town, the trees and a man unpopular among his own people. But I just couldn’t keep Zacheus out of my imagination as I sat in Jericho listening to a truth-teller who may be nearing the status of outcast among his people.

I learned something that impressed me when I visited Wichita a few weeks ago.  As a passenger in a car driving over the river that bisects the city, I said, “Oh, there’s the Arkansas (ARkansaw)!”  It brought back memories of a cross-country road trip I took many years ago, following the river down from the foothills of the Rockies.  At Canon City, Colorado, the river tumbled through a gorge lined with mica-laden rock that shimmered in the sunlight.  Then it flowed placidly across the endless plain of Kansas.  It’s one of America’s longest and most important waterways.

The driver of the car corrected me immediately in my pronunciation.  “No.  Here we call it the Arkansas (OurKANsas) River!”

I was enchanted by the idea that this river could be the Arkansas (ARkansaw) in Colorado, the Arkansas (OurKANsas) in Kansas, and once again the Arkansas (ARkansaw) in Oklahoma and Arkansas (ARkansaw). 

It’s a lingustic misunderstanding, I suppose.  The best-known version of the river’s name came from an Indian word transliterated by the French, who aren’t in the habit of pronouncing the last “s”.  But not all Americans bought everything that came with the Louisiana Purchase.

The pronunciation of the river’s name says much more.  Not just about the French.  Not just about Kansas.  Not just about America.  It says something about the human and divine condition.

What, or whom, I call God is a river that flows through many, many souls. Some call the river Watanka.  Others call it Allah.  Others name it Brahman.  Others pray it Yahweh.  Some sing it Nature.  Others refuse, on grounds of religious principle, to name it at all.  Meanwhile, the water is the same.  The river flows on, without apparent concern for what it is called or how it is defined.  Fish happily swim up and down its current, oblivious to theological attempts to constrain it.  Some people stand by its banks and declaim its intentions and directions, without bothering to follow it.  Without taking the trouble to jump into it and go with its flow.  Without honoring how others might experience it, elsewhere along its path.  Some people have adamant opinions about it, instead of just enjoying it and letting it exist on its own terms.  Some people call the river “Our God”, as if they could control or own it, or as if it had chosen them to be its exclusive spokespersons.

Meanwhile, the river runs its long and steady course through every heart and soul, bringing life to all, regardless of what any might think of it, regardless of the names we give it.

Perhaps the highest praise we can give to God is to appreciate how very many ways we describe and name the transcendent dimension.  Honoring the fact that there is no one way to say God’s name is itself a profound act of worship.

So, more power to the people of Kansas for their special way of saying the name of the great river that defines their landscape.  Thanks to them for their addition to the cacaphonic poetry of America’s language about itself.  With a wink and a chuckle, let us thank them for reminding us of the infinite possibilities for naming the river that flows through us all.

This is a story about neighbors.

Marduk is my neighbor. We share a fence in the suburbs of Maryland near Washington, DC. “In my country” or “in my village” is how Marduk begins many sentences, having lived in Iran until seven years ago when he moved to Maryland with his wife and two children. He moved next door two years ago. When his wife’s mother became too riddled with Alzheimer’s disease to live alone, she moved in with them. Occasionally she would leave the house, as is common for Alzheimer’s without very close supervision, and wander aimlessly. Now she lives in a more secure environment.

Marduk drives a bus. He leaves for work at 4 AM. He speaks like many others who have learned English on their own. For instance, subject and verb occasionally disagree and words are sometimes left out. “I like, I like!” is one of his favorite phrases. When I asked how he learned English he explained that after the revolution English was no longer taught in any schools and rarely spoken. (The revolution is code for the fall of the Shah of Iran and the subsequent reign of Iranian fundamentalists and political allies.)  When I first met him he was quick to share that he is not a practicing Muslim. “We like Christmas!”  I laughed at his candor and noted how much he wanted to assure me of his background.  Was he afraid I would treat him with suspicion if he were devout? I wonder. Our other neighbors who are modern practicing Muslims have no such worries. But that is after many conversations.  Marduk’s wife sells perfume at the local Mall and she speaks in English all day. “Every day she is learning more and more words. Me? I don’t have to have English. People get on the bus and tell me where they want off.  That’s all. But I am trying.  That’s why I like to talk to you!”

I listen with curiosity. The other day I asked him about his home in the south of Iran. “In my village it is always hot, very hot. Makes Florida seems frigid in summer. We never went out of the house before eight at night. Still hot.” His comment came at the end of a very hot day and the joyous completion of a project I didn’t think was possible.

Early in the summer I began negotiations with a contractor to rebuild the twenty-year old sagging wood fence that we share. The price came in much too high. Marduk said, “let’s do it together! We can. We can.” I hemmed and hawed, unsure of this budding construction partnership. But my wife agreed, “That’s a great idea. You can do it.” When she said that I sighed, knowing I was defeated, bracing for the heat and humidity, and knowing how “easy projects” are rarely easy.

Marduk (the name is the same as the ancient Babylonian god) suggested we go to Lowe’s and pick up the fence posts. I had some spare fence rails that we had salvaged from another project but we still needed several posts.  It is quite a helpful learning experience, culturally and personally, to shop at Lowe’s with an Iranian immigrant who speaks English with his own distinct grammar. But we did it and to my growing surprise I began to relish this opportunity to work together. But not always. I didn’t on the day that I discovered my tools locked in Marduk’s garage when I wanted to put in some work alone of the project. I bounded over to his house. “Why are my tools locked up?” I asked impatiently. He smiled impishly. “We will work together! Not alone. I like us to work together.” What could I say to this neighbor taking such happiness in working together?  “Okay.” So there we were men, both Americans one from South of Atlanta, the other from the South of Tehran, sweating and grunting in the hot sun. It took us several days and several conversations, but we did it. Now Marduk stands on this deck and I on mine admiring our work. “I like, I like,” he says, “we do it together!”

Jesus once said love your neighbor as yourself.  This is a story about two men, from vastly different backgrounds, becoming neighbors, and building a neighborhood once fence at a time.

I was well into my two-eggs-sunny-side-up brunch last Saturday morning at the local café when I found a copy of that day’s New York Times opened at the opinion section. I browsed it as I munched on my toast and then turned to the front page of the paper where a picture I saw stopped me dead in my tracks – and in my eating.

It was of lawyers in Pakistan celebrating the reinstatement of a chief justice who has been suspended by Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf in March. Joyous abandonment was the only phrase that came to mind when I saw those men, some with their heads thrown back as they punched the air in victory.

I could not take my eyes off those happy men. I scoured their faces, one by one, vicariously celebrating with them their breathtaking joy. And then it hit me why the sight of these men was moving me to tears.

Here were happy Muslim men. How often do we see happy Muslim men?

It’s quite convenient that they were Pakistani because I’ve developed a theory about the Muslims we see on our television screens and whose images usually take up the front pages and they are usually from Pakistan.

Here’s how it goes:

Angry Bearded Muslim Man is the most favored of all. Whenever the Muslim world is supposed to be upset or offended, invariably that story is illustrated by images of Angry Bearded Muslim man marching – usually in Pakistan – shouting, fists raised in the air in righteous anger never joy, and burning something: an American flag, an Israeli flag, an effigy of President Bush. Preferably all three!

Angry Bearded Muslim Man’s female equivalent is Covered in Black Muslim Woman. She’s seen, never heard. Visible only in her invisibility under that black chador, burqa, face veil, etc.

So there you have it – in those images you have conveyed all you want to say about Muslims: the men are angry, dangerous and want to hurt us; the women are just covered in black.

While there are indeed some Muslim men and women who fit both such descriptions they are by no means the majority and they are utterly insufficient in describing the diversity of views, appearances and attitudes among Muslims. But they make for sexy TV and front page photos. And they are my biggest competitors when I give lectures or appear on television.

My first U.S. TV appearance was on Fox News’ “The O’Reilly Factor”. Talk about trial by fire! After the usual back-and-forth yelling, some viewers sent me email asking “Are you sure you’re a Muslim? Where’s the headgear?” Others wanted to know why I spoke English so well. Clearly, I did not deliver on the Covered in Black Muslim Woman that central casting usually offers to viewers. I was confusing them.

Which brings me back to the happy Pakistani lawyers on the front page of the New York Times.

I am a huge fan of confusion. I am the last person to deny the danger of radicals in the Muslim world. Much of my time and effort goes into denouncing violence in the name of religion. But just as importantly I wave the flag for those of us who call ourselves liberal, secular Muslims. In other words, I live to confuse you by subverting the stereotype of Muslims that you always see and hear from. By breaking the false equation between conservatism and authenticity we end the monopoly over religious thought by radicals and their supporters.

When we stop equating conservative with authentic, we recognize our diversity and refuse to allow one voice to speak for us all. Only then can we be recognized as human beings, in all our differences.

For Muslims, that will become possible when you see more Happy Muslim Men and Women Who Confuse You.
 

Over the past month, I’ve been to Qatar, Germany and Egypt. As jet setting as all that sounds, I was counting the days till I was in Bellevue, Ohio for it was in this tiny town halfway between Cleveland and Toledo that my family would finally gather again for the first time in six and a half years.

And so here we are. My parents and sister flew in from our hometown Cairo, Egypt, three days ago and as I write this, my father is feeding my nephew something green and mushy. My niece is eating Arabic food that her father bought from a Lebanese store in Toledo and I’m trying to write amidst the chaos that my family is famous for. But it is chaos that we have longed for. The last time we were together, loudly and gloriously and chaotically together, was in London in February 2001.

And then September 11, 2001 happened.

But this isn’t one of those “Muslims are miserable in America” essays. For sure, it hasn’t been easy for Muslims in the U.S. since those awful attacks. But the story, as are the best ones, is complicated.

My brother, a cardiologist in Toledo, has not left the country since the terrible events almost six years ago because as a Muslim and Arab man in this country on a work/study visa, he would have to renew that visa at the U.S. Embassy of whatever country he travels to. To renew that visa, he would have to submit to a FBI background check that could take months and that could cost him his fellowship and job. Two co-workers lost their jobs because of lengthy background checks when they traveled to their home countries of Syria and Pakistan respectively.

He was one of 5,000 Muslim men visited by the FBI shortly after the attacks to be asked, among other things, if he knew anyone who celebrated the attacks, and a year later he had to submit to being fingerprinted and photographed as part of Special Registration, which was put in place by the Patriot Act but which has thankfully been suspended.

But he would be the first to tell you that despite the FBI questioning and the humiliation of Special Registration, he is happy here in the U.S. And the reason that he commutes almost an hour to and from Toledo every day is so that his wife can maintain her OB/GYN practice here in Bellevue. She is the only woman OB/GYN doctor in the town and her waiting list is almost as long as her husband’s commute to Toledo.

There are many delicious ironies and surprises that make this story even more complicated. My sister-in-law wears hijab, or a headscarf and modest clothing that some Muslims believe is required of Muslim women. But her patients could care less. Their only concern is that they have a woman doctor to tend to them. I like to think that if they ever see something on television that is Islamophobic or an ugly stereotype of Muslims, they can yell at the television and say “My doctor is a Muslim and she’s not like that”.

And finally, the house where we’ve all gathered for the first time in six and a half years is one which is rented from the church which is just a few yards from our kitchen window. Every time the church parking lot fills with its worshippers’ cars, I am reminded that despite our differences and despite the complications of our stories, many of us turn to faith and to God to sustain us during challenging times, whether they are years of separation or the longing for family or whatever else ails us.

And as I look around my family finally gathered in this house around the dinner table and as my niece says grace in English and Arabic, I am thankful for that faith and for God’s sustaining presence. And thankful for this tiny town of Bellevue which has finally brought us together.
 

By Jarrett McLaughlin

On a recent pilgrimage to Turkey I had the rare honor of visiting the ancient city of Ephesus. It was an incredible feeling to walk the streets of this ancient city where Paul assembled a rag tag group of Greeks and Jews into one of the first Christian churches ever. I use the term ‘Rag tag’ intentionally because that is what the Christian faith does – it calls together people who have no business associating with one another. Our faith calls us together in unity…it is for this reason that a letter written to this Church in Ephesus reads “There is one body and one spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all.”

We were a rag tag group as well…14 Christians from the US, 6 Turkish Muslims. We had no business associating with one another, but there we were, together nonetheless. It’s easy to read the newspaper and watch the television and write off the entire Islamic world as right-wing fanatics hell-bent on creating nothing but death and destruction. It’s easy to let that divide us, but there we were, walking the streets of Ephesus together just as Jews and Greeks did so many centuries ago. It’s also easy to read that passage from Ephesians about “one faith, one Baptism, one God” and hear that Christianity is the only true way. But one thing I do know is that this rag tag group of Christian and Muslims was not brought together out of obligation. It was brought together out of love…and I must admit that this love flowed much more freely from our new Muslim friends in Turkey. After all, it was our hosts who invited us to be their guests out of love. It was our hosts who emptied themselves to provide us with the best hospitality imaginable, providing us with beautiful hotel rooms, food enough for 7 meals a day, plane tickets to fly us to every corner of their beautiful nation…all out of love. It was one of our hosts, a young bride who spoke very little English, who after merely one day of knowing us, bid us farewell with the words ‘We love you.’ Now, the Apostle clearly wrote in that same letter to the Ephesians that we are all called to use our gifts to promote “the body’s growth in building itself up in love.” So is it only the Christians who are living that out? Certainly not!The Apostle also wrote that “we must no longer be children, tossed to and fro and blown about by every wind of doctrine, by people’s trickery, by their craftiness in deceitful scheming.” Indeed, there do seem to be forces who do not want us to stand together…Christian and Muslim. There are those who would rather sow seeds of discord between our faiths and the nations that practice them. In Turkey, our hosts belong to a movement…it is called Hizmet which means ‘Community Service.’ What they do is establish schools. They began many years ago in Turkey, but now their schools can be found in many nations, from the Middle East to Africa. They place schools in areas where quality education is sorely needed…where the ignorance of the people has provided Terrorist groups with plenty of new recruits. When a person cannot think for himself, he is too easily told what to believe…and so they establish schools. That is their way of speaking the truth in love, of teaching a generation of children to think for themselves before somebody tosses them about with trickery and false doctrine. Though it is an uphill battle, they are doing their part to speak the truth in love, to defend our one calling to be one body, a calling that does indeed bring us together into the occasional rag tag group of Christian and Muslim friends. After all, our guide Fatih took to calling us ‘People of the Book.’ Christian, Muslim, Jew…we’re all people to him, we are people who share one God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all…rag tag though we may be.

In this time and place, in this generation, that unity to which we are called is different from what the Apostle envisioned. While our churches are in sore need of unity from within, we are also called to a unity with those outside of the Church. How do we get there? I’m not entirely sure. Not only is my body tired and my brain over-loaded with so much information, but I am also acutely aware that I am only one person, that our group was only 14 persons. It’s hard to share this experience with the congregation I serve, much less with the Church of Jesus Christ. But in the midst of this feeling of powerlessness, I turn to some other words from the same letter written to that Church in Ephesus:

“Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine, to him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen.”

Working in a Christian Seminary, I sometimes feel like the wacky upstairs neighbor in a Hallmark Channel sitcom. Sure, the great rabbinic sages of past centuries, like Menachem Meiri and Yakov Emden valued Christianity’s contributions to building a more ethical  and compassionate world – but would they have played Santa at the office Christmas party?

Inter-religious work has not changed much since its un-official birth at the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, and it is often a community relations exercise in putting aside differences with the religious other to further “making nice.” Other times it is done in the name of some vague sense of “understanding” and you find yourself smiling and nodding at someone’s warped theological ideas. I often play the part of spokes-model for the Jewish people—as very earnest people ask me about oysters and salvation and foreskins and mezuzahs.

But thankfully, most of my work these days is enlightened by the emerging academic field dedicated to wrestling with the question “What is the point of inter-religious work?” Three folks worth a careful read are Paul Knitter, Miroslav Wolf, and Jonathan Sacks. They answer with the following goals: to uplift the voice of the suffering; to critique bellicose gods; and to respond to globalization’s dark side.

What I appreciate about these thinkers is that unlike the visionaries of the last century, they are wise to religion’s trump card. They push me to navigate the terrain between those who are fundamentalists and those who are not with great care. They remind me that inter-religious work changes in every generation.

As a rabbi, I have a strong tendency to value doubt over faith. I sense that multi-faith work is often a healthy corrective to this cynicism. A Zen teacher (Sensei Shugen Arnold in Brooklyn) who saw how difficult it was for me to sit on a pillow and meditate told me ‘after a few years you move beyond the pillows.’ This reminded me that long-term faith commitments matter. Long term doubt does not produce such great results.

But ultimately, I think that the point of inter-religious work is, to quote Rabbi Abraham Joshue Heschel’s No Religion is an Island, “to respond to the predicament of the here and now.” In Heschel’s world that meant Jews, Catholics, and Protestants speaking out against systemic racism with a unified, prophetic voice. Today, we need to do even more island hopping – and to do so in a world which is rife with religious extremists who stockpile fertilizer and unbridled consumers who are stripping the ecosystem. I salute the Quick to Listen team for embarking on this endeavor.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks has written, “The radical transcendence of God in the Hebrew Bible means that the Infinite lies beyond our finite understanding.”1 

In college I traveled to Egypt on one of those “see the holy sites” tours of the Middle-East.  The first day we stopped for lunch in a crowded market place. Animals were running here and there, taxis honking their horns, and the noises of the city surrounded.  Walking to the café, I saw a man at prayer. He was between some cars parked by the side of the street, bowing on his prayer mat. I knew nothing about Islam. My sophomoric reaction was simple:  This does not appear to be Christian prayer; therefore, he is wasting his time.  It was a spiritual low point in my own Christian journey. Echoing the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector, I might have prayed, “I thank God I am not like that bus driver who kneels in the city dust and lifts his voice to the God of his knowing.”

My reaction today is different. The world has changed.  Gone are the days when we might imagine there being one faith for the human family.  Our salvation rests not in striving for one faith, but in recognizing in our Christian faith the insistence on one God who is always beyond our capacity to know fully. 
  
What does it mean to profess Christ as Lord in a world that has always been and will always be religiously diverse?  Some would say that we should be tolerant.  This sounds good, but tolerance it too weak.  Tolerance is a civic virtue.  Tolerance is grounded in a respect for human thought and for human opinion.  Our Christian faith calls us to go beyond tolerance and love our neighbor.  It seems to me that such a posture of love of neighbor, even neighbors who worship other lords, requires a respect of the neighbor’s faith. When we demonstrate this kind of respectful love, we will bear witness to Christ, not in requiring agreement with the truth that we know, but in living the truth that we know in Jesus Christ.

1Jonathan Sacks, The Dignity of Difference (London, New York: Continuum, 2002, 2006) p. 55