One day, I receive a door hanger inviting me to attend a “Kids Fun Day” at a local church. That Sunday afternoon, I go with my 11-year-old son. Just after I park my car, a gracious, smiling greeter walks us to the event ground. A pretty good gathering in the courtyard. A kids’ inflatable play area. Food and beverage station. Pleasant, cheery faces milling about. An unmistakable festive ambiance filling the air. While I let my son run free to eat and play and have fun, I meet and chat with anyone who shows interest in me. Some come up to introduce themselves, including the pastor. They linger, asking the usual questions: Where do I live? What do I do? Where am I from? Then comes the final, and clearly the most important question: “Are you a Christian?”
A question like that always makes me uncomfortable. Question about faith. If I were not at a church, I’d have answered: I’m a human. But I try not to sound vague here. I tell them: I was born into a Muslim family, and around ninety percent of people in Bangladesh, where I come from, are Muslims. The listeners look at me without blinking and nod their heads. Then I meet a man in his thirties, possibly a lay member or church helper. Let’s call him Gary. He asks me if I have read the Bible. Of course, I say, adding that I keep a copy on my writing desk. I am not lying. There’s always a holy book on my desk. I read religious scriptures of any faith as literature. As stories. As a source of spiritual guidance.
How do I see Jesus? Gary asks. I respect every religion and every religious figure, I say. That’s my philosophy. Then at some point, Gary begins to compare Jesus with Muhammad. You see, he says, Muhammad was a warmonger, a mass murderer, a polygamist, a pedophile. He married Aisha when she was just a child. Collected and calm, I listen to the speaker with an unusual silence. I do not stop him and argue with him. I study him and wonder: Has he taken me as a representative of Muslims? Is he trying to prove (as fast as he can) that his god is bona fide, and say, “look, my god is superior to yours, so convert to my religion”? But his sanctimonious sermonizing does me no good. I resist saying: My friend, you’re wasting your holy words on me. I’m not religious. (Even if I were, I do think yours is a terrible way to spread the message of love and peace.) I long to ask him: Is this the way you love your neighbors? Treat your guests? Respect the people of other faiths?
One thing I learned early in my life is that religion is not a matter of debate. It’s a matter of belief. Either you embrace it or you don’t. I can easily engage in arguments with my haranguer, Gary, but then, what’s the point? In my younger and vulnerable years, I engaged myself enough in these kinds of pointless discussions. Whose religion is the best? Is Hinduism better than Islam? Is Islam better than Christianity? Is Christianity better than Judaism? Frustratingly, every discussion I got into ended with heated arguments. No one was the winner in the end. Making fun of others’ religions (and thinking “mine’s the best”) is an unholy act. An act of sheer stupidity.
In his essay, “Self-Reliance,” Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “When a man lives with God, his voice shall be as sweet as the murmur of the brook and the rustle of the corn.” Truth be told, I found Gary’s voice, as a man of God, too harsh, haughty, and hubristic.
I’m not trying to defend the Prophet Muhammad here. I do not have that kind of expertise in Islam. Or any religion. But I understand simple stuff. Several major religious texts I have read share striking similarities: they are filled with stories of bloodshed, murder, rape, violence. Pedophilia? Of course! Polygamy? Sure!
It’s funny that some people draw conclusions too soon. To truly understand someone, it is imperative to know their time, their culture, and, even better, learn their language. Both of my grandmothers were married before turning twelve. Sure, both my grandfathers were pedophiles then. In 1883, the Nobel Laureate Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore was 22 when he married 10-year-old Mrinalini. When the 27-year-old Edgar Allan Poe married his first cousin Virginia Clemm in 1836, she was only 13. Poe was surely a pedophile.
Time changes everything. Social context matters. Every place has its own norms. “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio,” I wanted to say to Gary. There is always more to a story. It’s stupid to judge someone and their actions without understanding their social, cultural, political, and religious backgrounds.
Historical information and narratives are also subjective. The question is who is telling whose history? Whose narrative? From whose perspective? New York mayor Zohran Mamdani’s father, Mahmood Mamdani, published his 2004 seminal book, Good Muslim, Bad Muslim: America, the Cold War, and the Roots of Terror. In it, he examines how the post 9/11 political climate and media narratives framed Islam almost as a religion of “terrorism.”
I want to be honest here. I am not religious. I don’t care about religion in the least. But I care about people. Humans. And I love spirituality. I pity those so-called enlightened religious minds who do not understand human emotions: if you call yourself a religious person and you don’t respect others’ religion, how do you expect others will respect yours?