Four Questions

A regular visitor to this weblog has asked me four short questions:

How did you deal with atheism?
Do you ever feel that God doesn’t exist?
If you do, how do you get rid of that feeling?
How do you handle it?

The questions are short, but there’s no way I could answer them either easily or briefly. That period of my life when I claimed not to believe in God was difficult for me, even when with time it softened to the assertion that I just did not know if I believed in Him. It was especially problematic because I knew of no member of my family who was not a practicing Christian: my mother was amongst the first women to be ordained as priest in the Anglican Church, my father was a lay preacher and warden of all the lay preachers in the diocese and a number of my relatives were missionaries. I was, as some would say, the black sheep of the family: the odd one out. It was that great feeling of discomfort that drove me in the end to search for faith, to try to believe. I cannot say how I “dealt with atheism”, only that in time a kind of innate belief in God returned, even though that wavered fairly frequently. One thing that I did do in those days when I was sure that He was there was “speak to God”, often while lying on my side in bed or whilst walking in the park. I also had quite a strong sense that there was “guidance” – even in a sunny day that made me feel happy and led to me forming a decision a key decision about my life.

Do I ever feel that God doesn’t exist? Actually, I can’t say that I have had a feeling like that over the past nine years, but I must confess that now and then over the first few weeks as a Muslim I did have momentary doubts, for I had come to believe quite suddenly after a long period of disbelief. I was not in the position of a Christian adopting a different faith, but of an agnostic accepting faith anew. Those doubts were only momentary, however, for I was able to remind myself why I had come to believe in Islam and in God as a result.

Nowadays I do struggle in my faith, but the problem is not the question of belief in God, but of disbelief in myself, by which I mean that I stand in the way of my own success, of my spiritual progress and growth. I believe in God absolutely, but I am rather wayward myself, leading myself away from Him even though I am well aware that He is aware of everything I do. I believe this is called lack of taqwa. The Quran speaks of the attractions of the world being like glitter and gold, and this is exactly how it is for me from time to time, sometimes with increasing frequency. I can go off course chasing after something that will not benefit me in any way, either in this life or the hereafter. I usually return in repentance eventually, but who knows, one day I may put it off too long and then I will have ruined everything. This is what I mean by disbelief in myself.

If I did feel He did not exist, how would I get rid of that feeling? I can only tell you of the things that strengthen my faith in Him, and perhaps that may be of use. I will visit www.hubblesite.org and dwell on those beautiful images of deep space, 65000 light years from earth. I will spend time looking at nebulae in particular, in which we witness stars being formed in Stella spires trillions of miles high and I will reflect on those words of the Quran which say that God turned to the Heavens when it was smoke. I will reflect on the great improbability of a single protein molecule coming together by chance. In the past I would try to watch Horizon when it featured magnificent computer animations of the expanses of space; this may sound strange, but sometimes I will even watch a space-based science fiction film, for it has the same effect. Reflect on creation, upon whatever inspires awe in you. Reflect on the complexity of your eye, even of a skin cell, and the fact that you can see the world around you, that you have an organ that perceives smell and taste, that your heart beats without you giving it a second thought. Consider the diversity of life on a rock hanging in the midst of space. Reflect on your dreams. And pray. Pray that He strengthens you in faith.

I would be lying if I said I did not struggle in faith from time to time. I believe in God absolutely, but sometimes clinging onto religion is indeed like holding onto burning coals, just as our Prophet (peace be upon him) advised us it would be. As for the wayward self – one has to persevere, to struggle and work really had. I struggle with myself because I do not persevere and I give in extremely easily: I am lazy I suppose and sometimes the appeal of the glitter and gold is just too strong. How do I handle it? In the case of the former, sometimes you have to cut yourself off from the gossip of the modern world: newspapers, radio, the internet. These things can damage your faith if you are not careful, so sometimes you have to ignore them. Remind yourself that a hundred years ago there wasn’t this constant noise vying for your attention, so ignore those who demand that you know everything that is going on in the world, everywhere, all the time. Sit and read and reflect. Keep good company if you can. Bless your tongue with dhikr. As to the latter, the struggle with the wayward self, I cannot help very much for I fail in this constantly, but past experience proves that prayer and giving a lot of charity is the cure for many an ill.

I hope this helps in some way, rambling though it is. I am sure you will find better advice from wiser folk in our community. Perhaps if any of them see this post, they might care to add their comments below to help all of us together.

The uncomfortable voice within

Mainstream contemporary discourse represents a relativist worldview, wherein there is no truth, only ideas and arguments; all beliefs are generally valid, although some are more valid than others. Yet it is doubtful that this worldview is widely held within faith communities.

It is impossible to ignore the fact that my belief in Islam causes deep unhappiness in my family. I am not a good believer and my practice is hugely wanting, but I do believe in Islam sincerely. It is not something that I take lightly, nor is it something which I took on as a choice of fashion. I came down this path because I believe that it is the correct way to worship God. For this reason I cannot turn my back on it for the reason of bringing ease in my relationships.

Most people who are sincere in their faith hold a position similar to this, whether they are Roman Catholic, Pentecostal or Jewish. I have been told that my family and friends continually pray that I may be guided back to the truth. They worry about me, fear that I have taken the wrong path and that, on the Day of Judgement, I will be amongst the losers. This situation is just one of the things which come with the territory of believing there to be a definitive truth and a reason for our existence. On both sides we believe that we have a hold of the truth.

There is a problem, however. To believe in a path as the one authentic way to worship God and yet withhold that from one’s loved ones is obviously hypocritical. In life it is easier to hide – fearing to cause offence by saying that you believe this to be the way – than to invite others to believe in what you believe. Our pluralist society insists that there is no single truth and that while some views may be more valid than others, all beliefs are nevertheless legitimate. We are therefore uncomfortable when it comes to sharing our beliefs with others; we avoid being a nuisance or causing resentment at all costs. Even as this dominates, however, with belief there is always an uncomfortable feeling inside: one day, when our meeting with our Lord finally comes, will my family and friends not hold me to account for failing to adequately explain this belief to them? The uncomfortable voice within says that though you fear their anger now, there is something worse along the line if you are silent. Such is the lesson of the lamp which was hidden beneath a bushel.

But why?

Who in their right mind, in this day of age would become a Muslim? This appears to be the often mocking sentiment of those who question the convert to Islam. Look at all the civil strife in the world, the acts of wanton terrorism, the way they treat their women. Show us a Muslim democracy; show us a peaceful Islamic State. What could possibly attract a person to that aggressive, uncivilised faith? The question presupposes that the believer is a consumer, acting exactly as they would when buying a car. Yet in reality the decision is made on the basis of what one considers to be true.

Several years ago, whilst I was still at school, my heart began to turn away from Christianity, the faith with which I had been brought up. There became a shyness of my beliefs. When a friend from church approached me one lunch time at school to congratulate me on my Confirmation to the Anglican Communion, I felt too embarrassed to respond. While alone on holiday on the shores of Lake Windermere one year, I remember my discomfort with the display of Christian fellowship there.

I have often identified my second trip to the Hebrides island of Iona – a traditional place of Gaelic Christian pilgrimage – as the source of my disbelief, but in fact my doubts and shyness in faith were with me for at least two years prior to that. It was, however, on Iona that I formalised my atheism. Many who go there find themselves in a state of high emotion at some point, absorbing the beautiful music and the acute sense of isolation. Other people would speak of their confusion, their alienation and their disbelief when I returned a year later. For me there was a night towards the end of my stay on the island when I decided that I didn’t believe in God any more. I stood half way up the mount of Dun-Í in the darkness, making myself cry, telling God that he wasn’t real.

On my return from holiday I announced that I did not believe in God any more. Over the next few months I began wondering about things which my mind was too small to comprehend. Was the nothingness outside the universe of the same substance as that which made up the nothingness in-between all the matter within it? I would invent ideas about the universe and ponder on them. It was as if God had been a roof to the cosmos and now there was just infinite space. Belief in God had made the universe homely; disbelief made it vast and incomprehensible.

I do not recall when I was first uncomfortable about going to church, whether it was before or after that visit to Iona. Nor do I remember when my belief in God returned, but it did because for a long time I used only to utter a portion of the Nicene Creed. ‘I believe in one God, creator of Heaven and Earth.’ For the majority of the time from the point of my rejection of belief, I did actually believe in God, but I did not believe that Jesus was God. Innately I was uncomfortable with any worship of him. I did not have any deep philosophical reason for this, as those who argue against the Trinity do, only a strong feeling inside that God was completely separate.

It was after my first year at university that I began to feel the need to find the ‘Truth’. Though I was agnostic, I had retained my Christian morals which I felt clashed with the outlook of those around me. I had become friends with somebody who had something of a dependence on alcohol, while I had confrontations with other students, so that by the end of the year I was far from happy. Towards the end of the summer term I would withdraw from almost everyone and in May I promised myself that I would never drink another drop of alcohol because I did not like what friends became in their drunkenness, nor what I became.

Over the summer I attended a service at the evangelical Anglican church, All Souls, Langham Place, and listened to a sermon by John Stott. I was quite impressed by what I heard and it inspired me to reform myself. With the start of the new term I became perpetually obsessed with searching for the Truth. I began attending All Souls church every Sunday just to listen to the sermon. At university I disassociated myself from those I had known the previous term and kept myself to myself. I felt that I had been influenced by friends towards foolish ways and so I was cutting myself off. I didn’t even go to sit in the pub any more.

I do not remember the details of this journey any more or the order in which events took place, nor when I first started thinking about Islam along side Christianity. However, this was a time when the search became all that I would think and talk about – boring and distressing friends. When I finally came to believe in Islam it was as the truth. It was not an issue of choosing a religion which suited me.

So how did I come to believe in Islam? It came out of my agnosticism, my discomfort with myself and my feeling that I had to reform. It came out of my failure to believe that Jesus is God. It came from my stubborn pursuit of the truth, when I realised that I could not rely on my friends, but I could rely on God. I came to accept Islam as my path for no other reason than believing it to be the true religion of God.

Starting over

I begin as our close friend and neighbour flies off to a life in a new country. For them the growing hatred of Muslims expressed in our midst had reached its pinnacle and they decided that their future was not with Britain. We watched as they packed their bags and then we waved goodbye reluctantly. Not long ago, another friend – a history teacher by profession – announced his defeated observation amongst friends: ‘Now I know how the Jews felt in the nineteen-thirties,’ he said. There is a low mood amongst friends these days; a kind of fear permeating our conversations. The days of condemning terrorism – with which we could all agree – seem distant memories now; today the institutions and personalities dearest to Muslims are under attack. Voices of moderation are labelled as voices of extremism, and so we all now feel under threat. The reassurance once felt – that a clear distinction had been made between terrorists and the rest of us – has disappeared. The ever narrowing definition of a moderate Muslim and ever widening description of the extremist causes little less than despair. Suddenly all of us who practice our faith are extremists and thus a legitimate target for the wrath of right wing, left wing and liberal commentators alike. There is something telling in my friend’s emigration to a hot, unfamiliar country.

Exhaustingly, Muslims are perpetually the focus of attention in television programmes and newspaper articles. The modern anthropologists subject us to a bizarre public examination, never tiring of their quest, as if there were no Sikhs, Hindus, Buddhists or Jews in the country. How many more programmes must we see on women turning to Islam or women choosing hijab, and how many more series on the radicalisation of Muslim youth or documentaries quizzing the eccentric white convert? Whether positive or negative, the attention is becoming suffocating. And it is all a distraction, taking us away from the keys of our faith. Negotiating all the talk of conversion, hijab, women, terrorism and the permissibility of this and that, one wonders what happened to the focus of our faith. All these philosophical acrobatics ignore the focal point of our lives. Distracted by politics and emotion, all mention of God appears to be some way down the list in the topics of our discourse.

The main principle of Islam is not that we should not eat pork, although some Muslims would give that impression. I once only learnt three things from some early Muslim acquaintances: Muslims do not eat pork, they only eat halal meat and they do not drink alcohol. No mention of God at all.

The Arabic word Islam means the submission or surrender of one’s will to God. A person who does this is known as a Muslim. This is why Muslims believe that the religion of all the prophets was Islam and that all of them were Muslims. The first principle of Islam is encapsulated in the Arabic phrase, ‘La ilaha ill-Allah.’ This is a testimony of faith which states that there is nothing worthy of worship except God. Allah is the Arabic word for God, as seen in Arabic and Turkish translations of the Bible. The two oppositions to this principle are that a person refuses to worship God at all and that a person worships others as well as God. The latter harks back to the first commandment, that ‘The Lord your God is One God.’ The oneness of God is concept that is known as Tawhid and it is one which affects all aspects of the Muslim’s belief and worship.

A Muslim declares his or her faith by witnessing that none has the right to be worshipped except God and that Muhammad is the Messenger of God. By these words, Muslims reject the worship of anything other than God. This means that they will not worship idols, rivers, rocks or a person. By these words they recognise that they have a direct relationship with God, the Creator of all things. The second half of the statement indicates belief in the Prophethood of Muhammad, upon whom be peace. This belief means that one believes in and follows the guidance which he taught. The first part of this declaration of faith, however, indicates that if a person were to worship Muhammad, they would not be considered a Muslim.

Why do I believe in Islam?

AT SOME point whilst I was still at school my heart began to turn away from Christianity. I believe a large part of this was teenage selfishness – seeing life in a wholly negative light, despite its reality. And maybe, too, there was a shyness of my beliefs. I remember Frasier from St. Andrews congratulating me on my confirmation one lunchtime at school and feeling a little embarrassed by it. This was a great contrast to my ways at Hessle Mount, where I would censure friends who would say ‘Oh my God,’ following Rena Downing’s words at Sunday School, or one afternoon in the Junior School at Hymers. I remember one hot day at the end of afternoon break, a boy called Kristian asked me to cover for him for some reason or other. ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘I’m Christian,’ I replied. ‘Well, so am I,’ he said, unable to understand what that had to do with not lying. It only dawned on me years later that maybe he was making fun of me, his name being what it was.

I recall that on the adventure holiday in Windermere I attended one year, I was uncomfortable with the Christian fellowship shown there. I have often identified my second trip to Iona as the source of my disbelief, but I think the doubts and my shyness in faith were with me for at least two years before that. It was, however, on Iona that I formalised my atheism. I think it was my second visit, though I’m not exactly sure. I recall it quite well. Most people who go there seem to end up in a state of high emotion, because the music was really beautiful and there is an acute sense of isolation. A few other people would speak of their confusion, their alienation and their disbelief when I returned a year later. I think, though, I was just looking for excuses. We had an evening session one day considering the blessings which God had granted us. In my selfishness I had convinced myself that life was terrible because I had so few friends at school. And that night I decided that I didn’t believe in God any more. I stood half way up Dun-Í in the darkness, making myself cry, telling God that he wasn’t real. It was very artificial.

On my return home, I met mum in the utility room whilst she was doing the washing and announced that I didn’t believe in God any more. I can’t recall exactly what the response was, but I know the Bishop of Durham came in somewhere. Over the next few months I began wondering about things which my mind was too small to comprehend. Like whether the nothingness outside the universe was of the same substance as that which made up the nothingness in-between all the matter within it. There wasn’t any point to it, but then nor was there any point to my atheism. I would invent ideas about the universe and ponder on them. It seemed to be mainly at tea time on Sundays when I would bring up my foolish questions about God, which could only offend.

I cannot recall the order of things in any detail. I don’t recall when I was first uncomfortable about going to church; whether it was before or after that visit to Iona. I remember there was a phase when I would sit right at the back because of my discomfort with my lack of faith. I don’t remember when my belief in God returned, but I know it did because for a long time I used only to utter a portion of the Nicene Creed. I would say, ‘I believe in one God, creator of Heaven and Earth,’ I think, and then only the ‘Amen’ after that. I didn’t like to sing the hymns if they involved the worship of Jesus, and for a while I was satisfied with being in the music group for Come and Celebrate because it meant avoiding the words altogether. At another time I would avoid church where possible claiming tiredness, because I never had the courage to inform everyone that I did not share their beliefs (my earlier attempt had only met with unspoken disapproval).

For the majority of the time from the point of my rejection of belief, I did actually believe in God. Occasionally I would find myself without any faith at all, but on the whole I did believe in God. I did not, however, believe that Jesus was God. Many people talk about not understanding the Trinity. My problem was much more elementary. I just did not believe that Jesus was God; as simple as that. Innately I was uncomfortable with any worship of him. I did not have any deep philosophical reason for this. It was simply a strong feeling inside that God was completely separate. There is no lie in this, and God is my witness.

It was after my first year at university that I began to feel the need to find the ‘Truth’. I did not have a brilliant time that year. I was insecure and unable to fit into the way of life of others my age. Though I was agnostic, I retained my Christian morals, which clashed heavily with the outlook of those around me of my age. So instead of waiting for them to get bored of seeing who they could get to spend the night with them, I migrated towards the company of some ‘mature’ students. Most of them were around the age I am now, but he with whom I spent most of my time was ten years older than me. I didn’t particularly choose this course; I think it chose me. I knew him because we had met on the day of our interview.

It turned out over the course of the year that he was a bit of an alcoholic. If I have a hatred of alcohol today, this could be said to be a major factor. He got me into drinking, sometimes with insane heaviness, even though, as you will recall, I did not drink when I first arrived. I had confrontations with other students and, by the end of the year, I was far from happy. Towards the end of the year, I would withdraw from almost everyone and in May I promised myself that I would never drink another drop of alcohol, because I didn’t like what friends became in their drunkenness, nor what I became. I only really had one friend my own age at that time and he was a Muslim, though he wasn’t practising at that time. We would just play pool together, whilst every now and then he would quote obscure words from the Book of Proverbs.

Over the summer I attended a service at All Souls with Granny Oxborrow, the sermon delivered by John Stott. I was quite impressed by what I heard and it inspired me to reform myself. I had told numerous lies at the end of the year because my life had turned into such a disaster area, but now I was set to correct that. With the start of the new term I only had one thing on my mind, and that was searching for the Truth.

I began attending All Souls church every Sunday just to listen to the sermon (and perhaps to get a good lunch). This went on for some time until the preacher said something which really put me off. One day he invited all those who were still unsure of what he was saying to stay behind after the service and he would explain it. So I did, for that was my reason for being there. But his explanation was the most pathetic I have ever heard. I was so angry with the laziness of his explanation that I decided not to return the following week. My objection was still the same; I did not believe that Jesus was God; but I had been making an effort to find the truth.

At university I had disassociated myself from those I had known the previous term and kept myself to myself. I had been influenced by friends into foolish ways in the first year, but now I wanted nothing more to do with it. I didn’t even go to sit in the pub any more. I think, perhaps, I became obsessed with my search for the Truth. I would talk religion with my Muslim friend quite a lot and ask questions of him.

I am not actually capable any longer of recounting the details of this journey or the order in which things came, or when I first started thinking about Islam along side Christianity. All I can really say (and all I need to say) is that during that time, trying to determine what was truth and what was falsehood became all I would think about and talk about. When I finally came to believe in Islam it was as the Truth. It was not an issue of choosing a religion which suited me. I wanted the Truth whatever it might be.

So how did I come to believe in Islam? It came out of my agnosticism, my discomfort with myself and my feeling that I had to reform. It came out of my failure to believe that Jesus is God. It came from my single-minded pursuit of the Truth, when I realised that I could not rely on my friends, but I could rely on God. I came to accept Islam as my path for no other reason than believing it to be the True religion of God. I didn’t accept it because of people, but because I believe it is from God. It is as simple as that.

‘How can you accept one book of the Bible and reject all the other?’

THIS IS a question I was once asked when I sought to draw attention to the teachings of the Letter of James. This has been my way on various occasions, for historic parallels have been drawn between early Judaic-Christianity and Islam. The question, of course, is a perfectly fair one and it is one which I intend to address here. The truth is that I do not accept this book whilst rejecting all the others. I make reference to it because I find it very interesting, in the same way that other sources interest me, but I do not ‘accept’ it as authentic on its own or in the place of others.

The reason for this lies in the way in which reports are evaluated for authenticity in Muslim tradition. A report concerned with the religion in Islam is always scrutinised for reliability on the basis of two factors: the study of the text itself (matn) and consideration of its chain of narration (isnad). An example of a chain of narration would be me telling something to Katharine, she telling it to Christopher and he telling it to dad; the isnad would then read, ‘It was reported from Christopher from Katharine that Tim said such and such.’ The Muslim methodology regarding the isnad does not end with checking whether there is one or isn’t one, however, as the famous Orientalist, Montgomery Watt, explains:

‘The chains of transmitters were therefore carefully scrutinised to make sure that the persons named could in fact have met one another, that they could be trusted to repeat the story accurately, and that they did not hold any heretical views. This implied extensive biographical studies; and many biographical dictionaries have been preserved giving the basic information about a man’s teachers and pupils, the views of later scholars (on his reliability as a transmitter) and the date of his death.’ What is Islam?, 1968, Longman, Green and Co. Ltd., pp. 124-125

When a Muslim considers the reports presented in the Bible, by contrast, the first thing with which he or she is faced is the absence of a chain of narration. Bernard Lewis (Islam in History, 1993, Open Court Publishing, pp.104-105) writes:

‘From an early date Muslim scholars recognized the danger of false testimony and hence false doctrine, and developed an elaborate science for criticizing tradition. “Traditional science”, as it was called, differed in many respects from modern historical source criticism, and modern scholarship has always disagreed with evaluations of traditional scientists about the authenticity and accuracy of ancient narratives. But their careful scrutiny of the chains of transmission and their meticulous collection and preservation of variants in the transmitted narratives give to medieval Arabic historiography a professionalism and sophistication without precedent in antiquity and without parallel in the contemporary medieval West. By comparison, the historiography of Latin Christendom seems poor and meagre, and even the more advanced and complex historiography of Greek Christendom still falls short of the historical literature of Islam in volume, variety and analytical depth.’

It would be illogical then for me to accept a book of the Bible as authentic when it does not meet the strict criteria required by Muslims in this regard. The biographical information offered at the beginning of this letter, for example, is severely limited. Reference to this work is, therefore, purely a matter of interest. The Letter of James is not a source of my religion; it is, however, identified as being directed to believers amongst the twelve tribes and therefore presumably its roots lie in early Christianity. In my own study of this religion over the past three or four years, my main interest has been in the beliefs and practices of the earliest Christian communities, as they should, I hypothesise, have been closest to the truth on these matters. As a matter of interest, I feel the Letter of James is very important in this regard.