Invited to the Mosque

Dang it, I would have to practice what I taught to my students. Why did I always teach them to love the outsider and stand with the oppressed? I was invited to the Mosque. As a Christian, did I truly need to go?

My tribe is Christian and we’re supposed to imitate Jesus. Jesus shared meals and spent time with quite a diverse group of people, and his enemies criticized him for it. He engaged in conversation with the Samaritan woman, who had three strikes against her according to Jesus’ tribe, the Jews. Men, and especially Jewish rabbis, didn’t speak to women in public, much less mixed-race women of a different religious persuasion like the Samaritan. So, when my husband’s friend invited us to visit the mosque, I had no legitimate excuses. As an introvert, I chafed at the thought of facing so many new people, but I agreed to go.

Why a Christian Might Be Invited to the Mosque

As a regional director for a peacemaking organization, my husband Martin had become friends with the Muslim leaders in the city, including the imam at the prominent mosque downtown. Earlier in the week, Martin told me the imam invited us to a dinner and celebration for his newborn son on Friday night. I purchased a cute little outfit for the baby and prayed it would be the rare occasion that allowed men and women to be in the same room together.

By the time Friday rolled around, exhaustion weighed me down like a heavy blanket. I wanted to collapse into a solitary warmth and hibernate. I loved teaching, but after dealing with one group of students after another every day for a week, I needed some down time. But here’s the thing: I had been teaching my girls’ Bible class that Jesus was always eating and socializing with diverse groups of people, often defending and honoring those that the majority didn’t like or approve of, people who were different.

Preparing for a Mosque Visit

“Ugh! I have to find a dress that covers from head to toe, tame my thick mane under a headscarf, make a salad, and they probably won’t let me stay with Martin, and I won’t know anyone, and I’m tired, and I just don’t want to go!” I complained, all the while thinking, “But this is just the kind of thing Jesus would go to, and he would love the people my community might be tempted to reject right now.” Reluctantly, I donned a long-sleeved dress, stuffed my hair into a scarf, and huffed into the car, a very poor excuse for an ambassador of peace.

As we drew close to the mosque, I panicked. “Oh man! I forgot about socks. I’ll have to take my shoes off.” I wore boots, and my hidden socks looked awful—you know how dark socks grab those little white lint balls in the dryer—these were droopy and lint-balled, short, disgustingly ugly, and didn’t match the dress.

“So, go barefoot?” said my husband.

“My legs are hairy! And it’s freezing cold!”

“Okay, we’ll find a store and buy you some socks,” said my patient husband, who wasn’t letting me get out of this. After spending a ridiculous $16.00 on socks at the nearest pharmacy, I was on my way, grumpier than ever.

Entering the Mosque

Darkness enveloped the parking lot, and Martin started to escort me around to the women’s doorway when a man flagged him down and said, “Men enter back here!” They didn’t allow him to walk me to the door. I approached it. No one was around. I tried the door—it was locked.

“Maybe I’ll just go wait in the car,” I was thinking, “I’ll go listen to my audiobook.” Just then some women appeared out front, and I followed them into the correct entrance, resigned to facing all of those strangers alone.

Joining the Women

After removing my boots, I found my way into the large upstairs room full of women and children. I stammered awkward greetings. The ladies welcomed me, but they didn’t know what to say. One lady beamed with excitement when I told about our peacemaking work, and we chatted comfortably.

Others asked if I was a Muslim, and I said, “No, I’m a Christian. The imam is friends with my husband,” and I stumbled through an explanation for my presence. Next they introduced me to an American convert to Islam. She treated me kindly, but it felt wrong. A thought exploded in my brain: This is what Muslims feel when Christians try to convert them. It feels yucky—I feel like a project.

Out in the Parking Lot

No one else brought food. The meal was catered, but they graciously agreed to serve my salad, which I had left in the car. A little nervous, I walked out to the dark parking lot behind the building. I grabbed my salad and the gift, and as I walked back up toward the front of the building, a truck passed by on the main road and shouted, “Go home, you f—ing Muslims!”

Slowly, the words registered in my consciousness—those words hurled at pasty-white-blond-American-Christian me!

Stepping into the skin of a Muslim by putting on a head scarf, if only for a moment, opened me up to assault. I became the victim of a drive-by-cussing out at the mosque. I survived the evening, removed the head covering, and stepped back into my own skin, feeling safe, but saddened. My Muslim sisters cannot skin themselves alive.

What do you think? Should Christians visit the Mosque?