May 7, 2004, Ann Arbor, Michigan

By Maajid Mudhil

I looked at the digital clock imbedded in the cd player as I listened to public radio. Usually, I’d play a CD, but I started to get a nagging feeling that it was immodest on the way to Jumah. Somehow it felt too indulgent considering the sun radiated everywhere, the breeze was just enough to stave off summer for a few more weeks, and the car’s sunroof struck just the right balance between being inside and being outside.

As I walked through the parking lot, I was ill at ease. Probably just the usual jitters, I told myself. I’d been coming to the masjid for almost two months now, and even with the rainbow triangle in the car’s back window these visits were without incident.

“Assalaamu alaykuwm. Khayf al-haal, akhi?” a black man saluted - interrupting his conversation with an Arab – and placed his hand on his heart and flashed a smile.

I was caught off guard, but after a brief hesitation, I replied “Wa alaykuwm assalaam! Bikhair, alhamdulilah!” His greeting reminded me of Arabic classes I’d taken in college and the ’60s, as described by daddy. So I returned the warm smile in kind.

By now I had just a few minutes to perform ablution and undergo the preliminary solitary genuflections. I quickened my step, passing a woman in hijab, two teens, and a man with his daughter. I thought it rather standoffish of me not to greet them properly, but I didn’t feel a part of the community just yet and it wasn’t common for me growing up. Besides, the week before, a sermon had been given and in it, it was mentioned not to greet before the congregational prayer, a further testament to the somberness of the occasion.

I entered the masjid and slipped out of my sandals, gaze downcast as usual. It was always a strange affair to bustle and jostle about with men of all ages as well as mere boys, nary a woman in sight. I felt even more out of place at these times, surrounded by men from foreign countries speaking Arabic and a cacophony of other languages, none of which I could identify. It was important to remain detached in these moments lest I jostle too close to someone or be asked a question.

Somehow I assumed on these visits that the less I spoke, the less likely people were to know I was gay, though it wasn’t such a closely held secret for me elsewhere in my life, a silly reasoning but it allowed me to give Islam the chance I hadn’t been able to while growing up.

In the bathroom, the ritual began: a moment of contemplation, then one hand after the other I washed. Symbolically, I cleansed my mouth that I might praise Allah in all purity. I cleansed my ears that I might hear his praises purely. I cleansed my feet that I might walk on the path of the Righteous. In a moment the first ritual, ablution, was complete.

When I entered the grand hall of the masjid, the sun’s rays were streaming through the overhead windows, down the wooden paneled walls and falling either on the rows of soft beige carpet underfoot, high lighting a bookshelf here or there, or reflecting toward me from the shiny heads, bright shirts, and slightly damp skin of other men seated alone or in clusters of twos and threes scattered about the floor. The breeze couldn’t be felt in this part of the masjid, though it was surrounded on all sides by ceiling-high windows jarred open for circulation.

The air was stilled and the men seemed as much. I found a spot toward the front, that way I wouldn’t have to move much as we filled in the lines. I closed my eyes, inhaled, and began my genuflections with the same sense of anxiety one might expect of a diver being watched by judges on the sidelines as he pierces the water’s cold surface. As warm as the room was I could still feel a chill.

By the time I’d finished my second genuflection, more men were filling in the rows around me that were empty before I’d closed my eyes. The muezzin began the call to prayer just as the flow of congregants entering increased. I tried to focus on the familiar intonations of his call, a bead of light on the wall, anything so as not to stare or linger in a gaze and betray myself or be engaged by someone.

It was strange, this regular affair of attendance with an as yet aloof participation. I told myself I was trying to understand the difference between my hermetic relationship with the Divine and this communal worship experience. Sadly, I spent the whole time on these visits, trying not to be noticed or to engage the community.

When the crier finished, a black man approached the lectern, the second in my two months of visiting. It was a small comfort in a space populated by so few of us and where more Arabic was spoken than I could decipher on my own. As he started his sermon, I wondered if it were Professor Johnson.

By the time I recognized him for sure, he was clearly into the heart of his sermon having already lain out his subject: Islam’s weakness to and wholesale adoption of Western values. He began to hue out of the warm Friday afternoon a theme of compromised meanings, values, and sensibilities. He returned to this theme over and over again, surveying history and current affairs as if they were a series of footnotes in one of his regular lectures. His voice grew with intensity and disdain as he refrained “Meanings, values, and sensibilities.” His verse and verve detailed in examples he would soon expound upon.

I shifted uncomfortably, sitting akimbo and wrapped in my arms as he seemed to rail against the West while simultaneously extolling a nostalgic Islamic ideal. The feeling I got reminded me of the utter skepticism with which I’d listened to “The Evidence,” a lecture given two years before by a Seventh Day Adventist preacher making a historical case for Christ’s divinity. In both instances, I tried to remain open-minded but found myself blocked by what seemed to be glaring inconsistencies. I admonished myself for the distraction before giving myself credit for showing up (as customary in these situations) and, finally, I refocused on the professor.

His example was that of “a Muslim woman who approached me recently at a conference. She asked about gay marriage.”

I was stunned, excited yet afraid as I heard for only the second time someone speak to an Islamic audience, unprompted, about homosexuality. (The first being at a series of introductory lectures on Islam in 2001 given by a professor from Wayne State University who’d mentioned it neutrally as an example of the “Clash of Civilizations”.)

My excitement was immediately transformed to disappointment and even confusion as he continued.

“She asked me how we could reconcile it with Islam,” he explained, allowing the audience to reflect before adding “how it might be justified in Islam.” This he expressed with about as much disbelief and disdain as I was feeling as I listened.

I was so surprised that my jaw dropped open, my eyes widened, and my spine just about went erect. I felt under assault: my eyes burned, my head throbbed, my neck stiffened, and my joints ground with the slightest shifts in posture. I craned my head around to see if anyone else was surprised or taken off guard. I noticed how much the room had filled since I’d started my first genuflection, and I now felt trapped. It seemed almost stifling, everyone still, the only air stirring from audible sighs of disdain amongst the congregants.

He continued citing the Episcopalian community (who’d just ordained a gay bishop and was at least in some congregations blessing same-sex unions), the Presbyterians (known nationally to be in flux on whether to punish clerics who bless same sex unions), and even the Zoroastranians (who, the professor mentioned, marry their mothers) and their respective peculiar nuptial allowances. Then he drew his line in the sand at Islam. With that he returned to his refrain of meanings, values, and sensibilities.

I was still in a state of incredulity. Had he really said all that? Was there no one left feeling as I did? Did I really just sit through it all? I promised myself I wouldn’t sit through more of that kind of degradation again; I had to show some resistance or at least protect myself from further spiritual abuse.

Sure enough, he returned again to the issue, but this time he tackled homosexuality head-on. I took a deep breath, bowed my head to withstand the chill of fear as it traveled up my spine, and resolved to leave, but not before considering that it might be a discourtesy to turn my back in the middle of a Jumah sermon. When I considered the alternative, the choice was clear.

I wanted to cry but instead I rose with waning energies, turned around, and began my long trek toward the back door. I scanned the eyes of the men seated as I passed for something: a kindred sense of confusion, some shred of compassion for the distraught young stranger leaving Jumah in the middle sermon, a familiar face … anything to comfort me. I stepped over people hand and foot, repeating a muted and embarrassed “Excuse me,” all the while realizing how alone I was.

I retrieved my shoes and jacket on the rack in the coat room and exited the masjid for my car. But as I rounded the corner, I decided that the Professor deserved to hear how his sermon had made me feel. I could hear his tenor gaining as it wafted through the screens on the open windows. He seemed now to be much more incensed than when I was inside; I considered myself fortunate not to discern his exact words.

I sat on a stair outside in a posture of half-prayer and half-defeat, my face resting in my clasped hands for what seemed like forever. Soon though, the congregants began to trickle out. Just 20 feet away seemed worlds away from where I sat, stilled, almost lifeless.

After awhile, I decided to go back just inside the doorway to find Professor Johnson. I stood for about 3 minutes, scanning the crowd to make sure not to make eye contact and betray myself or my current state of distress. Still, the hustle and bustle there inside seemed not to reach where I was standing. Just then a gangly young Arab in an off-white tunic and loose pants informed me that that this was a place where people prayed and that I should take my shoes off. It was more or less a confirmation of that outsider status. I backed away towards the door and lingered a bit there. I didn’t know what I would say to the professor but I knew it was important to do so nonetheless.

Out of nowhere, a young black man at the door said hello and asked casually how I was. “Good,” I said with a forced smile. He returned the smile and melted back into the mass. Geez, I thought to myself, so much for dealing with this upset openly. Then Ya’Seen, a classmate from before the turn of the century, appeared from the crowd streaming by. He wore scrubs now, a student of medicine somewhere no doubt, but his chubby face and round kufi hadn’t changed a bit.

“Hey, Maajid! Assalaamu Alaykuwm!” he greeted hardily. I smiled and again returned the gesture. We shuck hands and he said the usual. “How are you?” This time, I wouldn’t silence myself.

“Not too good,” I responded calmly, pleased that I was able to do so honestly rather than reflexively.

“Oh, what’s wrong?” he asked with genuine concern. He’d always seemed to me to be a compassionate and understanding soul, approachable despite his lack of response years back when I’d sought his counsel on being gay and Muslim.

“I was just surprised by the sermon. I’d come to share worship in peace and it just really made me feel like this wasn’t a place for me to do that.” It was the best I could muster but it about said all I was feeling.

“Oh, do you want to talk to Professor Johnson? I think he’s outside.” I nodded in the affirmative. He motioned and I followed him outside.

Just to our left, the professor stood with three gentlemen including, I believe, the current president of the Muslim Community Association. They bantered back and forth in Arabic like shopkeepers and costumers haggling over prices, but I got the gist that it was a discussion of religion and I resented that it was happening in Arabic rather than English given that the president seemed to be challenging Johnson, a native English speaker and fellow black man, to defend his ideas.

I was all but hiding behind Ya’Seen as we waited in the bright daylight to be acknowledged by the professor. It was so crowded still, though, that I was almost pinned there even after we were received and I’d shaken the Professor’s hand.

He explained something to the Professor but I couldn’t hear. They switched spots and the professor was before me, Ya’Seen occupied by another congregant. “Assalaamu Alaykuwm!” I said.

“Wa alaykuwm Assalaam!” he returned smiling, sunlight reflecting off his bright teeth.

“My name is Maajid. I just want to say that I was surprised by the sermon. I hadn’t expected it. Since I’d come out of the closet a few years ago, I’ve been working my way back toward the faith, seeking a relationship with Allah by coming to Jumah. Just kinda came to worship in peace like everyone else, and your sermon just communicated to me that this wasn’t a space for me. I really felt marginalized as a gay man.” I motioned as if being pushed away as I spoke and took a series of small steps back to underline the feeling.

“Ya’Seen! Come over here, I want you to hear this.” He motioned for Ya’Seen who complied.

“You don’t owe those people in there anything!” he said making it clear that my responsibility was not to this masjid but rather to Allah.

“I understand that definitely, it’s just that I my working on that relationship with Allah and had hoped that this would be a place to do so but I just really felt marginalized by your speech.” I tried to stay focused without taking a swipe at his logic.

“Now I love women! I mean I seriously love women, but I have to control my proclivities and as long as I don’t act upon them, I’m not sinning. Well,” he caught himself and added with a mischievous smile, “it’s not a major sin if you don’t act.”

He continued and it was clear that he wasn’t going to give me what I wanted. I wasn’t sure what that was given that I had no illusion that just because this masjid was in a university town that it would be one that wholly welcomed gays. If the way they treated women was any indicator, the idea was out of sight, out of mind. Nevertheless, at the least I’d hoped for an acknowledgment of the impact his words had had on me. I started to get impatient, which usually is betrayed by a twitching in my face or fidgeting in my body. (It didn’t help that I was wearing a bright red raincoat in 75 degree weather, either.)

“Well, I do appreciate that you were willing to listen and I hope that I can find a space that will make it possible for me to work on my relationship with Allah. Thank you,” I said bowing out graciously but not before they had their last words.

“You’re still my brother, though,” the professor reminded me … or himself.

Ya’Seen echoed the sentiment, saying, “You’re always welcome, Maajid.”

I thanked him for what I felt was a sincere albeit unsatisfactory response, and bid them both good day.

I drifted back to the car unaware of the ground beneath my feet and more disconnected from the institution of Islam than ever before. I struggled to figure out all that it meant. It wasn’t a response I hadn’t heard before, I was just surprised hearing it from someone in a community I’d thought I was a part of. I’d never felt the logic he laid out to carry any weight of ostracism when I’d heard it from Christians, considering I wasn’t Christian. And for all the things I’d read about gay people in Iran, Saudi Arabia, Palestine, and elsewhere in the Islamic world, that kind of inhumane treatment was literally and figuratively worlds away from even the blatant homophobia here in the US.

Nonetheless, to expect anything different than Professor Johnson displayed would have been naïve. At least I knew more fully then the extent of what people in the local masjid found acceptable, even if I fell outside of that realm of acceptability.

Maajid Mudhil hails from a huge Islamic family in Detroit, Michigan, where he studied performing arts in high school before pursuing twin passions of modern dance and French in his undergraduate years. A recent move to Delaware to serve in a national civilian corps has also led him back to school for language study, though now he runs competitively instead of dancing. He is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, March 30th, 2007 | Email This Post

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