My wife is stranded in London, so she’s gone to wait with a friend. She has an appointment in the morning so she can’t stay overnight. I leave home at 8.30, clear roads all the way, from this hilly valley to those towers of concrete. Indoors we’re all glued to our TVs. Few cars pass me all the way. I arrive at 9.20 just in time for Maghrib, gliding through the ghost town. I tell my friend I’m disgusted by all this – I say I know our thoughts should be with the victims, but I can’t help praying that the perpetrators are anarchists or something. My friend says they are – but he is using it as an adjective. I want it to be the noun.
Work goes on. I’m asked to attend a meeting in the afternoon. We’re discussing the implementation of Choose and Book in our GP Practices. I’m with them at first, but my mind begins to wander. I am sitting at the back of that now mangled bus. I’m on my way to work, minding my own business, lost in my own world. There’s a bag left underneath my seat. I look to my left and right, I assume it belongs to one of my fellow passengers, but I don’t ask them. Perhaps they’re wondering the same thing. But we all mind our own business; we always do. I’m not in my meeting now. They’re speaking but I don’t hear them. I’m in that bus and it suddenly explodes and what is the end for me? I feel sick. I can see those poor souls as their bodies are torn to shreds by a bomb beneath the seat. Their last moment gone before they could even see it coming. The shock jolts me back to my meeting. I was supposed to be taking notes, I’ve missed the conversation, it has passed me by. Did the people who did this never visualize that moment as I did in my meeting? Did they never imagine that when they planted their bombs? Could they have done this if they had? I feel like I’m going to be sick, but I block it from my mind. Back to Choose and Book. When we leave the room we are told that we have been officially stood down. Crisis over. But I still feel sick.
Islam teaches that actions are only by intentions and everyone has only that which he intended: ‘Whoever’s emigration is for some worldly gain which he can acquire or a woman he will marry then his emigration is for that which he emigrated.’ Therefore sincerity to God is the key to faith in Islam. Believers are asked to ensure that all acts of worship are done exclusively for God’s pleasure. When actions are only by intentions, it means that deeds are only acceptable and rewarded if the intent behind them is sincere, although sincerity does not change the nature of forbidden actions.
Where a person’s intention is to show off, their acts of worship may be nullified. The greatest action, such as feeding multitudes of the poor, could be reduced to nothing because one’s intention was to earn a good reputation. Yet, at the same time, even the smallest action can be made great by the intention behind it. Good intentions are not spoken for they are matters of the heart of which God is well aware.
If dialogue is to be of any benefit we should set aside philosophical debates on our approach to different faiths and come as we are with a view to first understanding what we each – as faith communities – believe. I have encountered time and again Christians writing about Islam with no real knowledge of its basic teachings; and, yes, Muslims writing on Christianity in a similar manner. The question of forgiveness is a key example, many writers convinced by the notion that Christianity exclusively amongst the world religions has addressed the issue. The opinion of the prominent evangelist associated with the Alpha Course is just one example amongst many.
Perhaps understandably, authors often view the beliefs of others through the prism of their own theology. As a result Christians are concerned about salvation to such an extent that they view its absence in other faiths as a great oversight. Salvation by good works, for example, is a Catholic concept, for Muslims do not believe that humans are by nature fallen and thus do not seek salvation. Instead, good works are undertaken for the pleasure of God, who loves goodness and beauty. We also believe that we are not judged by the deeds themselves, but by the intentions behind them. Thus one could feed the poor seeking people’s good opinion and it would not be of benefit at all. Yet sin is addressed by Islam, with a huge emphasis placed on forgiveness; it just happens to be a practical step, rather than a metaphysical one: ‘as long as you call on Me and hope in Me, I will forgive you whatever comes from you and I do not care.’
An article in the Church Times some time ago had David Banting saying, in relation to the General Synod discussion on Christian witness in a plural society, that Muslims expect Christians to have convictions as clear as their own. While diversity of opinion is of course to be welcomed, the meandering, self-conscious spirit amongst many does not promote confidence in the process of dialogue. Representatives of the two faiths need to define clearly what it is that they believe, not wavering because they fear causing offence. Honesty must crown any efforts at dialogue and this means addressing issues even if they cause discomfort.
Where to begin? For me a return to the fundamentals of a religion and, therefore, to its earliest history should be the starting point of any dialogue between faiths. This definition of fundamentalism implies a study of history, which is something positive. To become ahistorical implies a denial of the most important aspects of one’s belief, i.e. its origins and primal teachings.
Repeatedly recently, newspapers have labelled as extremists people whom many Muslims consider to be voices of moderation. So who are the moderates? Week after week, just before the radio phone-in host denounces the alleged actions of another extremist amongst us, we hear the tired refrain, ‘The vast majority of Muslims are peaceful people…’
‘What have you gained from being Muslim?’ asks another mocking voice. ‘Why make your life so difficult?’ It is true that living life as a Muslim has not always been easy. Indeed, on the first day that I acknowledged my belief in Islam I lost most of the people whom I had considered friends. My journey towards faith had been a private affair, but outside, my private affair had already become public knowledge. So many nominal friendships were now dead, and I hadn’t even moved from my place of prayer. I had, it seemed, really blown it this time.
People often ask me why I became Muslim, or how, or what brought me this way, and there are many answers I give. Through reading, through listening, through watching. And yet, when I really think about it, it was something more. The final impetus was something deeper. There was a realisation that inside all was not well: the lies I would tell to get myself out of an awkward situation, my thoughts, the nature of my intention. Inside, hidden from view, my life was a mess and I was lost.
A few months before I became Muslim, there was a Saturday morning when I had gone to the library to do some work on the computer, only to find that the network was down. So instead I started out on an aimless walk through the streets of London. After a while, I reached Regent’s Park and I was walking through there when something troubled me. I was disturbed by something inside. Enough was enough, I told myself. So walking through that park in the bright sunlight, I began to speak to God. I made myself a covenant with God, saying that I would stop this and if I should start again, He could desert me. For a while, I was good, I did reform myself and I felt better, but then I slipped again. I broke my promise, but He did not desert me.
There were other things which kicked me; my insincere intention – looking to impress people by any means possible – and my self-pity. Over a few months, there was a realisation that within me there were problems. The final change came quite suddenly, however, over a long weekend when I did a lot of reading, little sleeping and I became convinced that Islam was the true religion of God.
A new beginning is always possible, though I did not really understand this at first. I became distressed after a few months: ‘How can it be that God guided me,’ I asked repeatedly, ‘when I was such a foolish person, while my family are good people, devoted to their religion?’ It took time to recognise that Islam refreshes, brings life anew and grants us a new beginning. Muhammad, like Jesus before him, came for the sake of ‘sinners’, not the righteous, for the religion is one of reform. It is us old fools who need a religion of reform, not the already pious.
Since coming to believe in Islam, I must have performed a certain ritual over eleven thousand times and may have prostrated before my Lord around eighty thousand times. These irrelevant numbers only indicate that there are duties which Muslims are obliged to perform as part of their day to day lives.
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.
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.
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.
I am tired of hearing you say day after day ‘the vast majority of Muslims…’. I wonder, would you include me in that category? I absolutely abhor the attacks on innocent civilians attributed to Muslims, such as in Bali, New York or Luxor. It goes totally against the teachings of the Qur’an and of our Prophet who laid down rules governing behaviour even in a full scale war, such as engaging with combatants only, safeguarding the enemy population’s food supply and protecting their places of worship. Indeed our Prophet prohibited causing death by fire, which no doubt informs why many Muslims consider bombing totally un-Islamic. But I have a great problem with this term ‘moderate Muslims’ you use, because you never define it. What do you mean? Do you mean a practicing Muslim like me, who believes in Islamic Law? Do you mean all those other than the type who blow people up? Or do you mean something else?
