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22 December 2009
My dad’s name is Sead because his family is Muslim. My mom’s name is Marta because her family is Christian. My family lived in the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, which meant we were all supposed to be “dialectical materialists.” And we were all three—Muslim, Christian and materialists—but we didn’t believe any of it. We just lived.
Actually, we did more than just live. We loved life. We had a spitfire-roasted lamb party at the end of the month of Ramadan—without fasting for a single day. We had a Christmas tree and a roasted pig on Easter—without going to church. We made elaborate homemade European pastries on our country’s holiday weekend—without ever visiting the Socialist Revolution Museum. “If only we could find a Jewish family,” we mused. “It would add even more zing to our celebration of life.” In many ways life couldn’t have been better.
Until I became a Christian.
After years of atheism, I embraced the teachings of Jesus Christ, and the sky fell on our unsuspecting family. What the heavens meant to be a supreme blessing, we experienced as the greatest curse.
A lot was at stake. My father reasoned that if my faith had any basis, then his worldview was an illusion, and, by extension, his life was an illusion. He couldn’t accept that. Nobody can. On the other hand, if his worldview was sound, their beloved son was living an illusion, dedicating his life to a personality as real as Bugs Bunny. Either way, once a son or daughter becomes a believer, someone gets hurt.
My devastated parents recruited one of Europe’s best psychiatrists, 50 relatives and my ex-girlfriends to take their best shot at helping me get over this infatuation with God. My mom was on stress medication, and after a couple of months her face was scarred by an unending stream of tears. For the first time in my life, I saw my father cry.
After two months of agony, I was tired. My body was giving in, my faith seemed more and more selfish, my God seemed distant. My parents fared even worse, so they resorted to desperate measures and asked a religious person for help. They invited Imam Muhammad, a Muslim wise man and a leader in our community, to try to throw my Christian belief system into disarray and hopefully stir me toward Islam.
When Muhammad walked into our home, somehow I felt safe in his presence. After being introduced, Muhammad kindly asked my parents to leave the room so that he and I could be alone. Time passed in silence. When I was ready, I raised my eyes and looked at him, dreading the inevitable argument. He stood up quietly, walked over to me, placed his hand on mine, sat down and said, “I am glad you became a believer.” And that was it! There was unmistakable gladness in his voice. We just sat in peace for a while. Soon after he left, my parents nicknamed him “Crazy Muhammad.”
Would I be a Christian and a pastor today without Muhammad’s blessing? I don’t know. But I do know Muhammad loved me. I felt he even loved the God who made me a believer.
For years I’ve been talking about three monotheistic religions to non-believers. These non-believers say that at best Jews, Christians and Muslims look like three religious stooges slapping each other, and that at worst they look like three brothers whose hands are soaked with blood. Believers of all three faiths have littered history with much stupidity, injustice and suffering. The world has simply had it with us.
Jesus showed interest, listened, forgave and blessed others. I’m convinced that what Jesus did actually works. Love works! I believe with all my heart that if we show interest, if we listen with respect, if we forgive, if we bless Jews and Muslims around us, the non-believers would certainly want the faith we have. Take out your dancing shoes and go to a synagogue.
Labels: Culture
