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I'm just back from my week of playing professor -- actually a day of playing professor and a week of relishing being, in all sincerity, a student. I was part of the faculty, along with a nun and an imam, for a little inter-term seminar on human rights in the three Abrahamic traditions. The course was at the Dominican School for Philosophy and Theology, part of the Graduate Theological Union.
The idea of the course was to look at how Judaism, Christianity and Islam might each set about to frame the idea of universal human rights -- which is in many ways quite a modern notion -- in terms of the theology and sacred texts of each. But it was also a chance to just hear the thinking process of each tradition, at least as it was channeled by one practitioner apiece.
Being the spokesperson for the oldest of the faiths, I went first. And I gave exactly the presentation that any of you would expect me to give. I talked about how millennia of rabbis have struggled with basic ideas of human rights: in particular with the problems of self-defense and of universalism and particularism. I talked about the biblical passage which says that if a thief breaks into your house at night, you can kill the intruder; but if she breaks in by day, you can't. I talked about how some teachers say that "love your neighbor" means only your fellow Jew, while others say it means all of humanity. I talked about how in so many cases, history trumps text, especially how the recent experience of the holocaust has made talk of human rights, on all sides of the debate, so intense. I talked about -- and I think I demonstrated -- how noisy and messy and lively Jewish tradition often is, how difficult it is to say, "Judaism says X."
Sister Marianne Farina taught next. I am just giving a few soundbites from many hours of closely-reasoned lecture. And of course she is only one teacher, from only one corner of an enormous faith tradition. Still, I found her talk fascinating, for reasons rather different than I expected. At the very beginning of her lecture she read a passage from one of the gospels and then just sat silently for a few minutes. I looked around and saw that the other students had their eyes closed. What were they doing? At one point she listed six ways that Christians might approach scriptures:
She herself has spent many years in developing countries -- fighting alongside of indigenous people in Bangladesh against cutting the teak forest, working alongside Mother Theresa in India and more. She talked about globalization, about climate change and its effect on the world's poorest people, about third-world debt, about income inequality, with a powerful, passionate political critique. So, when she offered one more example, in some specific instance or other, this time of an evangelist she admires, who has managed to distill the truths of Christianity down to a few stories so that he can bring them effectively to the Masai in Tanzania, I sat up in surprise.
"Wait a second! Did I hear you right? Are you speaking approvingly of evangelizing native people in Africa? Isn't that just another kind of imperialism???" She could hardly understand my question. Of course she was speaking positively of evangelism. Other students (almost all Christians) joined in the general puzzlement about my reaction. Which in turn led to a long and thoughtful exchange about what it means to belong to a tradition that sees itself as having 'good news' for all of humanity -- in contrast to belonging to a tradition which is basically tribal and concerned about its own survival and development. Suddenly all kinds of things fell into place for me in that conversation -- why universalism might come so much more easily to a Christian than to a Jew; why missionaries often do such a staggering mix of the best and the worst for poor communities worldwide; why it takes more translation to motivate the Jewish community to care about global inequality than it seems to in Christian communities…
And that was only Day Two. After class that day I went downtown and bought my first Quran. I was afraid even touching it -- was I allowed to own one? What if I dropped it? Could I put it in my book bag next to my copy of Craft Magazine? Our teacher the next day was Imam Khalid Sidiqqi, Imam of the Islamic Center in San Jose and professor of Islam at several community colleges around the Bay. One of the students mentioned to me before class that Dr. Sidiqqi is a "hafez," the title for someone who has memorized the Quran, and that he also has a doctorate in philosophy. He is from India, small of stature, with a strong accent and some of the combination of twinkle and authority that I associate with my beloved Archbishop Tutu.
He began immediately by asking if we had questions. Questions about what? He welcomed us to ask him anything we wanted to know, about any aspect of Islam. Sr. Marianne suggested that someone try to recap the conversation about evangelism from the day before. What did he think about evangelism? He began quoting the Quran (which he always spoke of as the Holy Quran, making me wonder how I should cite his holy book here) by chapter and verse: "Let there be no compulsion in religion" (2:256); "If it were God's will, then everyone would have believed" (10:99 -- that's a paraphrase.) Jews in particular are the chosen people, with a special status of goodness -- if you fulfill your responsibility to God and creation, you continue to be chosen (3:110.)
He moved on to the subject of the day, citing verses about the foundation of universal human rights in the Quran. He had a big stack of index cards in his hand, each covered with tiny handwriting. Chapter and verse about peace, justice, fairness, love, compassion, reconciliation between enemies. At some point people in the class started asking all the hard questions that any of us would ask: about the behavior of so-called Islamic states, about the harsh punishments of Sharia law, about Osama Bin Laden and September 11, about Saudi Arabia and the Taliban. He maintained his grace, offered reasoned responses to all. Some of his answers worked for me; others did not. I felt for him, standing before yet another audience of people who are fundamentally scared of and mystified by his faith.
Afterwards he and I went out to lunch (at Saul's Jewish deli!) He liked my little car, chatted about having many different teaching positions, talked about his three children. He said he'd never been up to Mendocino and would love to visit. I almost hated to get back to all the big questions that were still kicking around in my head. I asked him at one point if he had ever had doubts about his faith, a "dark night of the soul," or anything like that. "Oh no!" he said without hesitation, "the Holy Quran says that doubt is the enemy of faith."
Now back home I find myself thinking about that line over and over: "doubt is the enemy of faith." For me, doubt, questioning, wondering, worrying, trying thoughts on for size, shedding the ones that don't fit, poetry, paradox, puzzlement -- all of this has been the source of whatever pieces of faith I now have. I do have faith, but it's in ounces, not gallons. What would it be like to see myself as having "good news" for humankind? What would it be like not to doubt? What would it be like to have a vision for the world?
I don't have a punchline to any of this -- just more questions, of course.
- Rabbi Margaret Holub
© 2009 Rabbi Margaret Holub
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Updated 01/30/2009 (rge)