A
Christian Minister’s Conversion to Islam
The Comfort of the Old and Familiar Identity
“One’s sense of identity, of who
one is, is a powerful affirmation of one’s own position in the
cosmos … Changing one’s basic sense of identity is a most
difficult task. One’s psyche tends to cling to the old and
familiar, which seem more psychologically comfortable and secure
than the new and unfamiliar. On a professional basis, I had the
above knowledge, and used it on a daily basis. However,
ironically enough, I was not yet ready to apply it to myself,
and to the issue of my own hesitation surrounding my religious
identity. For 43 years, my religious identity had been neatly
labeled as “Christian”, however many qualifications I might have
added to that term over the years. Giving up that label of
personal identity was no easy task. It was part and parcel of
how I defined my very being.” |
One’s sense of identity,
of who one is, is a powerful affirmation of one’s own position in the
cosmos. In my professional practice, I had occasionally been called upon
to treat certain addictive disorders, ranging from smoking, to
alcoholism, to drug abuse. As a clinician, I knew that the basic
physical addiction had to be overcome to create the initial abstinence.
That was the easy part of treatment. As Mark Twain once said: “Quitting
smoking is easy; I’ve done it hundreds of times”. However, I also knew
that the key to maintaining that abstinence over an extended time period
was overcoming the client’s psychological addiction, which was heavily
grounded in the client’s basic sense of identity, i.e. the client
identified to himself that he was “a smoker”, or that he was “a
drinker”, etc. The addictive behavior had become part and parcel of the
client’s basic sense of identity, of the client’s basic sense of self.
Changing this sense of identity was crucial to the maintenance of the
psychotherapeutic “cure”. This was the difficult part of treatment.
Changing one’s basic sense of identity is a most difficult task. One’s
psyche tends to cling to the old and familiar, which seem more
psychologically comfortable and secure than the new and unfamiliar.
On a professional basis, I had the above knowledge, and used it on a
daily basis. However, ironically enough, I was not yet ready to apply it
to myself, and to the issue of my own hesitation surrounding my
religious identity. For 43 years, my religious identity had been neatly
labeled as “Christian”, however many qualifications I might have added
to that term over the years. Giving up that label of personal identity
was no easy task. It was part and parcel of how I defined my very being.
Given the benefit of hindsight, it is clear that my hesitation served
the purpose of insuring that I could keep my familiar religious identity
of being a Christian, although a Christian who believed like a Muslim
believed.
It was now the very end of December, and my wife and I were filling out
our application forms for U.S. passports, so that a proposed Middle
Eastern journey could become a reality. One of the questions had to do
with religious affiliation. I didn’t even think about it, and
automatically fell back on the old and familiar, as I penned in
“Christian”. It was easy, it was familiar, and it was comfortable.
However, that comfort was momentarily disrupted when my wife asked me
how I had answered the question on religious identity on the application
form. I immediately replied, “Christian”, and chuckled audibly. Now, one
of Freud’s contributions to the understanding of the human psyche
was his realization that laughter is often a release of psychological
tension. However wrong Freud may have been in many aspects of his theory
of psychosexual development, his insights into laughter were quite on
target. I had laughed! What was this psychological tension that I had
need to release through the medium of laughter?
I then hurriedly went on to offer my wife a brief affirmation that I was
a Christian, not a Muslim. In response to which, she politely informed
me that she was merely asking whether I had written “Christian”, or
“Protestant”, or “Methodist”. On a professional basis, I knew that a
person does not defend himself against an accusation that hasn’t been
made. (If, in the course of a session of psychotherapy, my client
blurted out, “I’m not angry about that”, and I hadn’t even broached the
topic of anger, it was clear that my client was feeling the need to
defend himself against a charge that his own unconscious was making. In
short, he really was angry, but he wasn’t ready to admit it or to deal
with it.) If my wife hadn’t made the accusation, i.e. “you are a
Muslim”, then the accusation had to have come from my own unconscious,
as I was the only other person present. I was aware of this, but still I
hesitated. The religious label that had been stuck to my sense of
identity for 43 years was not going to come off easily.
About a month had gone by since my wife’s question to me. It was now
late in January of 1993. I had set aside all the books on Islam by the
Western scholars, as I had read them all thoroughly. The two English
translations of the meaning of the Qur’an were back on the bookshelf,
and I was busy reading yet a third English translation of the meaning of
the Qur’an. Maybe in this translation I would find some sudden
justification for …
I was taking my lunch hour from my private practice at a local Arab
restaurant that I had started to frequent. I entered as usual, seated
myself at a small table, and opened my third English translation of the
meaning of the Qur’an to where I had left off in my reading. I figured I
might as well get some reading done over my lunch hour. Moments later, I
became aware that Mahmoud was at my shoulder, and waiting to take
my order. He glanced at what I was reading, but said nothing about it.
My order taken, I returned to the solitude of my reading.
A few minutes later, Mahmoud’s wife, Iman, an American Muslim,
who wore the Hijab (scarf) and modest dress that I had come to associate
with female Muslims, brought me my order. She commented that I was
reading the Qur’an, and politely asked if I were a Muslim. The word was
out of my mouth before it could be modified by any social etiquette or
politeness: “No!” That single word was said forcefully, and with more
than a hint of irritability. With that, Iman politely retired from my
table.
What was happening to me? I had behaved rudely and somewhat
aggressively. What had this woman done to deserve such behavior from me?
This wasn’t like me. Given my childhood upbringing, I still used “sir”
and “ma’am” when addressing clerks and cashiers who were waiting on me
in stores. I could pretend to ignore my own laughter as a release of
tension, but I couldn’t begin to ignore this sort of unconscionable
behavior from myself. My reading was set aside, and I mentally stewed
over this turn of events throughout my meal. The more I stewed, the
guiltier I felt about my behavior. I knew that when Iman brought me my
check at the end of the meal, I was going to need to make some amends.
If for no other reason, simple politeness demanded it. Furthermore, I
was really quite disturbed about how resistant I had been to her
innocuous question. What was going on in me that I responded with that
much force to such a simple and straightforward question? Why did that
one, simple question lead to such atypical behavior on my part?
Later, when Iman came with my check, I attempted a round-about apology
by saying: “I’m afraid I was a little abrupt in
answering your question before. If you were asking me whether I believe
that there is only one God, then my answer is yes. If you were asking me
whether I believe that Muhammad was one of the prophets of that one God,
then my answer is yes.” She very nicely and very supportively
said: “That’s okay; it takes some people a little
longer than others.”
Perhaps, the readers of this will be kind enough to note the
psychological games I was playing with myself without chuckling too hard
at my mental gymnastics and behavior. I well knew that in my own way,
using my own words, I had just said the Shahadah, the Islamic
testimonial of faith, i.e. “I testify that there is no god but Allah,
and I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah”. However, having
said that, and having recognized what I said, I could still cling to my
old and familiar label of religious identity. After all, I hadn’t said I
was a Muslim. I was simply a Christian, albeit an atypical Christian,
who was willing to say that there was one God, not a triune godhead, and
who was willing to say that Muhammad was one of the prophets inspired by
that one God. If a Muslim wanted to accept me as being a Muslim that was
his or her business, and his or her label of religious identity.
However, it was not mine. I thought I had found my way out of my crisis
of religious identity. I was a Christian, who would carefully explain
that I agreed with, and was willing to testify to, the Islamic
testimonial of faith. Having made my tortured explanation, and having
parsed the English language to within an inch of its life, others could
hang whatever label on me they wished. It was their label, and not mine. |
