Soon after Sept. 11, I started my mental list of things I could do in response to the tragedy. Besides the obvious, give blood, send a check to the Red Cross, I added to my list-- become friends with Muslims in Tallahassee.
My connection with those of the Muslim faith began in 1959 when we lived in Turkey. The first time I saw city workers kneeling in prayer on the street, outside our house, I realized they had a devotion to God that I lacked. I wished for a relationship with God that would stop me in my tracks daily and call me to prayer. From my perspective, this discipline was automatic for them and so elusive for me.
Two trips back to Turkey in these intervening years only strengthened this image. I saw that speaking with God and listening for the call to prayer was part of everyday life. For me, it was still "hit and miss."
Call to Prayer
In Tallahassee, I had little awareness of Muslims. When I did see a "covered"
woman in the grocery store, the assumption always was that they were here
because of the university. It never occurred to me that they resided in
Tallahassee the same way I did. I never heard the call to prayer, that was
familiar to me in Turkey, so I had no notion of anyone practicing these prayer
disciplines in "my city."
After Sept. 11, I realized I had not followed my old urging of the Spirit to learn something of what the Muslim faith had to teach me about prayer and devotion to God. A little blurb in The Tallahassee Democrat gave me the opening I needed. This was an invitation to come to an interfaith gathering at a downtown Presbyterian Church. I went and there made friends with a young woman, who was an FSU student. She was from a Muslim family and had been born and lived all of her life in this country. She wore the covering, that immediately identified her as a Muslim, and yet, she was a U.S. citizen, just like me.
We promised to stay in touch and soon after that meeting, we brought a small group together at my house for afternoon tea. We were a group of twelve, six Muslims and six Christians. The mixture of ages and ethnic origins was unplanned, but it was apparent that we had formed a group of true diversity.
We sat in a circle, told something of our personal story and friendships were formed. One month later, we gathered in the home of Salah and Hana. Again, we sat in a circle and continued the sharing of our stories.
Labyrinth
Our next gathering was done at the site of my church's labyrinth. Again, we started with our sharing circle. This time there was no tea or pastry. The holy month of Ramadan had begun and those of the Muslim faith were fasting from sun-up to sun-down. A discussion about Ramadan led to new insights for the Christians in the group. We told of practices we observe during Advent. Questions were asked freely and each of us gained new awareness of the other.
The invitation to then walk the labyrinth was accepted by some. While walking this twisting turning, very familiar path, I became aware of how holy the place had become for me. A labyrinth walk, unlike any other discipline I have tried, helps me turn aside from activity, get quiet and listen to God. Like my Muslim friends, I also hear the call to prayer.
In this season of Ramadan and Advent, I am thankful for friends whose practices are different from mine, but who have shown me that we are one family. They are my cousins through our common uncle, Abraham. We do worship the same God, we just use different names.
I have discovered by reaching out to those who are different, and asking questions about their faith, I am able to see the common bonds that unite us. When we sit in the circle, we see that each of us does belong to the same family--the family of God.
Chris McMillan writes from Tallahassee FL.