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.

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.

The Ethnic Religion

ONE OF the biggest disservices to Islam has been to put it into the ‘Ethnic religion’ category in the thoughts of many, along with Hinduism, Buddhism, Sikhism, but probably not Judaism. Many people consider Islam the religion of Pakistanis (which is odd, as it has its roots in Arabia). In fact, in an age of nationalism, Muslims have contributed to this view themselves. I hardly recognise the proceedings in the mosque in Maidenhead and it’s amazing how many times you say, ‘Assalamu alaikum,’ (peace be upon you) to faces who will refuse to return the greeting. Islam, however, has always been a religion for all people, despite the claims of some Christian missionaries. In fact, one of the first converts to Islam in Mecca was an African named Bilal. Within decades of the death of the Prophet, Islam had spread across North Africa up to Spain in the west and into China in the east. There have been Muslims in Britain for centuries, although many of them migrated and settled in north Africa and other Muslim regions. These people were typically known as ‘Renegades’. In 1641, for example, the Puritans published a pamphlet about a sect of ‘Mahometans’, a term used to describe Muslims, warning: ‘this sect is led along with a certaine foolish beliefe of Mahomet, which professed himselfe to be a Prophet’. Muslims have existed in other parts of Europe, especially the Balkans, for centuries. In fact, Islam entered some parts of what is now Russia and its satellites long before Christianity. The idea that Islam is for a certain group of people is unfounded nonsense.

The problem for me is that when I was younger and very naive, I behaved a certain way which now acutely embarrasses me. While I did have what might be considered a healthy interest in the agricultural politics of Africa and in ideas of social justice, I also had some rather dubious ideas and habits. So, while it might be reasonable to suggest in the light of how I once behaved that I was attracted to Islam for a reason other than considering it the truth, the reality is that I moved away from those ill-intended ways long (a year or so) before I came across Islam.

So let it be known: my only criteria for taking Islam as my religion was considering it as the true way to worship my Creator.

The passages below speaks of the problem for the Muslim of those who perceive Islam as an ‘ethnic’ religion. This, by the way, is not a problem only for ‘white’ Muslims; I have a Somali friend who, whilst at SOAS, wished to study her religion, but, instead of encouraging her, others would say, ‘Why study Islam when you’re an African?’ For her, they made the issue one of it being an ‘Arab’ religion. I suppose there’s still power in that old saying, ‘Divide and Conquer.’

“Sire, we live in a strange age. I havt learnt of feelings unbeknown to mine self a fore. Whence I wast a student, life as a Muslim wast relative ease, for I didst know people didst hold opinions, but I didst know not what they were, for I couldst so easily escape them. But now, sire, I beest within a world wherest opinions are common for contact with the unbeliever ist part of the course for employment. It hast dawned on mine self that while I doth believe in Islam for the sake of the truth, I am perceived as believing for a lifestyle choice, such that I couldst be a hippy or a Buddhist in its stead. In this world where religion ist so absent (and by that I mean within the hearts of men, and indeed women), one who ist a religious minded soul is considered a fool, and the convert considered insane. For unto they, they doth consider Islam an exotic, and thus mineself as some follower of the fashion of men and women who doth take to mushrikism [idol worship], and so forth, a style, not a life. And though Islam arises from the same soil, or thereabouts, of Christianity [...], they doth consider it alien, and thus consider a native who embraces the alien a fellow of somewhat dubious nature. Alas, it is such and I fear how mine self shalt fare.”

Whatever makes you happy

According to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the meaning of life is 42. By some people’s definition, I could take that as my faith and I wouldn’t be any worse for ware. Choose another stance, and nothing will ever seem quite right again: “God? Why bring ‘that’ up?” I suppose if you want people to respect you, you don’t. “It’s something private” at the very least. But mid-term I did what nobody expected; it shocked some, offended a few and upset one or two. “I’ve got something to tell you,” I said to my partner in crime of the first year, as I stood on the steps outside, warm in the summer heat. “I became a Muslim.”

You probably wouldn’t believe it either if you really knew me, as he did. But nobody knows anyone ‘really’. You take what you like (or dislike) of a person, and put aside the rest. You ignore their mutterings about religion; their enquiry into meaning. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” I asked. Well, yes, and no. Actually he thought I had been pressured into it by a friend, just as he had pressured me into drinking binges, while I still drank, more than a year before. After all, I was he who always sat on the fence. And so it’s true what Elbert Hubbard, whoever he was, said: “To escape criticism – do nothing, say nothing, be nothing.” I had been everything for everyone: submissive if it suited, understanding, liberal or vain. I had friends on the left, the right, the pink and the green. I thought, naively (both of them and my deen), that that would stay the same.

When you’re caught face to face, it’s awkward, for you can’t slip away like the recipient of a rumour. You’re there when the announcement comes. You’re shocked and lost for words. “You became Muslim?” Grasping for an explanation, it strikes you as futile. In the end, as he starts to respond, you realise that you don’t really want to know. “Well,” finally, “whatever makes you happy.”

Apparently, if I wanted to have faith in a plastic bag, that would be okay. Spiritually, if it made you feel good; if it sustained you; that would be fine. I used to think something similar, but then I think I lost the plot. I thought that the perfect incarnation of life would be a rock, because rocks don’t think, they just ‘are’, and thinking was getting me down. But then, it seems, thinking gets many people down, and it wasn’t just me. When I accepted Islam, I wasn’t considering whether it would make me happy, or more importantly, as I would have to make great sacrifices, whether it would make me miserable. I was considering only one thing: I believe it is the Truth. Now, admittedly, to every atheist, which is hardly a minority group at SOAS, this will undoubtedly sound absurd. I believe in God, and I believe in Heaven and Hell, and I believe in angels, and in prophets and in revelation. These are hardly things which jump upon you as you’re going about your study.

But, yet, I believe that it is true. It would certainly be easier to have faith in my friend’s plastic bag. There are people here in SOAS, after all, who have spent their lives studying Islam, yet they’re not Muslim. They’ve had articles published in Time Magazine. They’ve been interviewed on CNN. There are students studying an Introduction to Islam. Studying Islamic History, Islamic Thought, Islamic Economy. I’m the mad man, it seems to them, and they’re all perfectly sane.

“Whatever makes you happy,” doesn’t even figure. True, since I accepted belief, I have felt a dignity that I have never known before, but you don’t say, “I believe” and think that you won’t be tested. Wiser, trusting, more humble people believe for better reasons. I believe because I couldn’t understand how a person could know the future. I believe because I couldn’t account for the appearance of certain descriptions in a fourteen hundred year old book. I believe through female bees, through the tips of my fingers, through the greatest third millenium archive ever unearthed, whose clay tablets record “Iram, an obscure city referred to in Sura 89 of the Qur’an.”1

“But don’t you think that’s a bit shallow?” a Christian asked of me. “I don’t see why,” I replied, “I was always told that Jesus came with miracles.” Had I hitchhiked across the Galaxy and discovered a mad professor, not of dub fame, but a traveller with a time machine and a map to sixth century earth, I might perhaps have agreed with him. “Yes, it’s a bit shallow,” I might say, “to believe that a man living in the desert, fourteen centuries ago was a prophet because he spoke of things to come.” I might say that; I might agree. Whatever makes you happy.

1 K. La Fay (1978) National Geographic, Vol. 154, No.6, pp.731-759