A Lesson in Tolerance

As many of you may already know, I was once married to an Arab. Sounds like a made-for-Lifetime movie, right? Well, I guess it could be. In any event, I am currently enrolled in Cultural Diversity, one of my last two graduate courses. One of my assignments is a community experience which entails logging four hours at a religious establishment that is not my own, and analyzing its method of worship. A colleague recently asked me if I was going to “research” Islam, what with being married to a Muslim and all. My answer was “no, I do not need to research Islam because I am quite familiar with its practice, and besides it would be a bit cliché.” Why, you might ask? Well, since 9/11 Islam has been put under a microscope, so to speak. My goal is to learn something new, to remove or perhaps intensify, a stigma that has been placed on a particular religious group. Islam has been done over and over and over. It, like Catholicism and Judaism, has become a stereotype rather than a way of connecting with a higher power.

As a child I can remember the dreaded knock on the door. Those people who didn’t believe in Hell or Christmas or Birthdays were nothing more than a nuisance to our lives, as busy as we were with watching sitcoms, drinking beer, and hiding the tray with the green stuff on it. My mother often morphed into a theologian, grabbing her Bible that sat beneath the aforementioned tray, and inviting those people inside. She would rant and rave to them about their belief system as they sat quietly listening. She would condemn them to hell in a hand basket, as they graciously awaited her next exhale so they could get a word in. Peering around the doorway, I would watch my mother escort them to the door while simultaneously rolling her eyes and cursing them under her breath. I felt sad that they had to go to Hell, while we were allowed to sit at the right hand of the Father, whoever He was.

My mother church-hopped. One year I was Lutheran and the next I was Pentecostal. One year I was quietly reciting the Lord’s Prayer, and the next I was standing at the front of a church trying my damnedest to speak in tongues, but giving up because I didn’t want to run around the church like the others. Religion, for me, was a circus and the ringmaster was the preacher. Even as a young adult, I just couldn’t feel what others would say they felt when reading the Bible or listening to their pastor. I was extremely jaded by the fact that we, as individuals, had the right to threaten eternal damnation, yet, I remembered that the Bible clearly stated that we did not have the right to judge.

All of this reminded me of the poor young lady sitting in my living room when I was a child. I have therefore decided to attempt to understand those people my mother judged. None of us has the right to assume that people are bad because they think differently than us. Sure, we can disagree with their beliefs or way of living, but lack of celebrations and articles of clothing and door-to-door preaching are not what we should fixate upon. Instead, we should remember that tolerance is of utmost importance. In a few days, I will invite my friend, Jacque, over once more. She is a Jehovah’s Witness. I am learning quite a bit from our chats, and, no, she is not trying to convert me, nor do I intend on ever labeling myself this or that religion. Each time she walks through my door, I remember that lady my mother called a liar, and the shy smile she gave me as she walked away. She did not frighten me like preachers had done in the past, but instead, the memory of her reminds me that stones do not have to be cast in order to claim a spot in the hereafter, wherever that may be.