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Inner Peace is a Pavo series highlighting a few non-mainstream spiritual centers in Birmingham.  There are many, and though this journey will surely leave some important stones unturned,  for those of us who are not quite right for the mainstream Christian world or who may just need a different world view, there may be peace to be found here in Birmingham, yet.

“There came Our Messengers to Abraham with glad tidings. They said, 'Peace!'  He answered, 'Peace!' and hastened to entertain them with roasted calf.”  Qur’an Sura 11.69

Raed Awad is the Imam of the Hoover Crescent Islamic Center.  His voice mail greets the caller with As-Salāmu`Alaykum.  The Arabic phrase—it can be translated as “peace be upon you”—is a customary greeting among Muslims, to which the customary response is Wa`Alaykum as-Salaam, “and upon you be peace.”

This greeting is among the first experiences of my first in-person encounter with Islam.  I am an American-born, white, male, middle-class member of a predominantly Christian environment. Which is to say, I suppose, that I’m statistically bland.  Throughout my life (48 years so far) I have been an Episcopalian, sometimes more, sometimes less, observant.  For years I’ve read about other religions and wanted to see how they’re done in practice.  Finally, a small step.

It was from this perspective that found myself in Imam Awad’s office a few minutes before the start of the 1:00 pm Friday prayer service, the Salaat-ul-Jumaa',  which is Muslims’ the main weekly congregational observance. The Center in Hoover serves as masjid* and provides other services, such as a weekend Islamic school for children, a variety of other classes and lectures, a wi-fi location, and base for outreach activities.

Imam Awad (“Raed is fine”) is around my age. I soon feel a connection with his rather understated sense of humor. I say that I feel I’m visiting a foreign country, where I don’t know the language or basic the norms of social interaction.  He seems bemused and reassures me that all is well.  His wife, Nur Awad, makes hot tea. Raed he offers me a banana.

I ask Raed about his background.  He is of Palestinian origin, though he has lived in the United States since 1984.  His university study was in Medina, Saudi Arabia.  Our discussion quickly turns to the sad state of Palestinian-Israeli relations.  He tells me about a young Palestinian woman can’t complete her final semester of university studies because of travel restrictions between Gaza and the West Bank.  The issue, he says, has been addressed by the U.N. and the European Commission.

Soon, the sung call to gather, adhan, issues loudly to indicate that the service is about to begin. Raed accompanies me through the masjid’s “men’s entrance” (where we remove our shoes) and into the prayer hall itself.  After greeting many of those gathered, he shows me to a chair, one of eight or so situated against the back wall.

The prayer hall can accommodate around 400 worshipers. Other than the few chairs—they’re available for visitors and those unable to perform the postures of prayer—the space is unfurnished.  The floor is covered with an immaculate carpet of a deep maroon color.  Though from where I sit I see only men, I discover later that the women are just behind, in an area marked off by columns and a partial divider.  Overall, I am struck by the contrast with traditional Christian architecture.  In many churches the altar and main entrance are located at opposite narrow ends of a rectangular space.  Here, the area is less rectilinear, and the worshipers face a wide, mostly unadorned, white wall.  In this way they face qiblah, toward Mecca.

...on this floor all are equal and are able to pray in an unmediated relation to God.In the center of this wall is the mihrab, a small recessed space, akin to an apse.  Beautifully elaborate calligraphy on the wall surrounds it and focuses the eye toward it, and, one imagines, toward Mecca.  Above, to the right, is another, smaller, recessed space, the minbar.  Access to it is through a door and up steps hidden behind the wall, so that the minimalist aspect of the wall is maintained.  It is a sort of pulpit, from which Raed is to deliver the day’s speech.

In the few minutes before the service itself begins, a man sitting beside me greets me and begins to talk.  He explains that on this floor all are equal and are able to pray in an unmediated relation to God.

The service itself begins with the iqamah, the call to prayer, declaimed in Arabic, powerfully amplified, from the mihrab. All (except me) join in Arabic responses.  I don’t know what anyone is saying, but time and space are beginning to take on a feeling of specialness.  Imam Awad has appeared in the minbar to deliver the speech.  (Though I have heard references to this as a “sermon,” Raed seems to prefer to call it a “speech.”)  He talks for about 30 minutes, beginning in Arabic and soon switching to English.

His topic today concerns issues of social action and justice. His positions on these issues, he says, are fundamental to Islam. He speaks first about shepherds, whom he likens to leaders, and then about the obligations that leaders are bound to uphold. These obligations, he says, apply equally to governments—those in authority must respect the humanity and dignity of all people, which includes insuring that all have healthcare and decent living conditions.  Government, he says, must also ensure that people are proper stewards of the environment.  He relates a saying of Mohammed: if one is planting a tree when the time of Judgment comes, one must continue the work of planting regardless.  He then addresses the processes by which leaders make decisions. He emphasizes that leaders must follow the principle of shurah, decision-making by consensus, or “mutual consultation.”**  This, he says, is a principle that the dictatorial regimes of many Islamic nations notably fail to adhere to.

As he speaks, men continue to file in, even towards the end of the service. They are in all manner of attire—expensive suits, hoodies and backward-turned baseball caps, and varieties of what I suppose to be traditional Muslim garb.  I decide to concentrate on one person to try to discern It occurs to me that salat is something that engages the whole of one’s “self”—involving language, mind, heart, body—and characterized as much by its intentionality as by its contemplativeness.the pattern to the bodily movements—gestures, bowing, prostration—that accompany the individual prayers. Later Raed gives me a small book designed to teach children the prayers in Arabic and the sequence of postures.

This prayer activity, salat, is performed five times each day.  It occurs to me that salat is something that engages the whole of one’s “self”—involving language, mind, heart, body—and characterized as much by its intentionality as by its contemplativeness.  I imagine that, like practices in other religious traditions, the liturgical repetition of salat is part of what helps lead one to a communion with the divine.  This repetition on the individual level is paralleled by other cyclical patterns in Islam that are linked to patterns in the cosmos.  Each day, two of the five obligatory daily prayers are timed to coincide with sunrise and sunset, respectively.  Thus, depending on the season of the solar year, these prayers become gradually either later or earlier. Also, the Islamic year is measured by the lunar month.  This means, for example, that Ramadan, the ninth month, and the month of fasting and pilgrimage, will occur during the ordinary human life span in all the seasons of the year.

When the service is completed (it is around 2 pm), some people leave, many stay to greet one another, many others continue their prayers.  I sit and look.  Everyone who passes by greets me. I feel immensely welcomed by this community. (Unfortunately, although I saw women at the masjid, I did not speak with any other than Nur.  This was simply what happened—the incompleteness of an experience—and not due to any restrictions that I know of.)

I leave the prayer hall and put on my shoes.  In the outer hallway young men talk on cell phones and discuss girlfriends.  Two older men in suits discuss football.  A woman stands behind a table distributing lunches in to-go boxes.

I wander for a bit, and then Raed and I find each other. We return to his office. There are numerous lunch boxes.  I am instructed to sit and to eat.  The food is hearty, still-warm, Middle Eastern.  Raed asks why I am not eating.  I say that I’m chewing.  He tells me to chew faster.  A few minutes later, he again wants to know why I am not eating.  People come and go.  Another gentleman sits with us.  We’re introduced, but I don’t know why he’s joined us, at first.  But it doesn’t matter. We’re all here, together, and we’re sharing a meal, and this is how it should be.

I have questions for Raed about his speech. As he responds, he’s attending to the business of the Center, signing checks, consulting his laptop, lending keys, fielding questions about a dinner they’re having that evening.  I’m wondering about Islamic concepts of sin and forgiveness.  Raed is explaining (no worries about Original Sin), and I’m asking more questions, and trying to eat as instructed.  At some point a prayer call issues from his cell phone.  Finally the man beside me interjects politely: “Two questions.”  He needs to discuss some work he’s done for Raed.  They break into Arabic.  I’m sort of conversing with Nur.  I ask how one learns to sing or intone the prayers. Raed rejoins our conversation.  He wants to know if I can sing.  He tells me to sing for him.  I can’t think of anything besides “Blowin in the Wind,” and I sort of sing that.  Nur asks what kind of music I like.  They seem unimpressed.  I may not have what it takes to be a muezzin. I tell him that my sister is a Sufi.  At least I think she is.  Raed is interested.  Nur shows me a video on her phone of a nine-year-old Malaysian boy who is a master muezzin.  A child prodigy. He has also memorized the entire Qur’an.  His singing is indeed beautiful, and I can begin to discern something of its tonal centers, and patterns of its exquisite melismas.  I’m thinking that Bob Dylan could be good at this.

Nur invites me to the evening dinner at the Center. I’d heard that they’d asked people to bring their own plates, and I remark that I think this is a very good idea. The idea is that it’s to be part of the Center’s focus on the environment for this month. Apparently there is a vocal minority who don’t like the idea, and Nur is quick tell those nearby that I’m on her side. Sounds like the sort of minor squabble that might come up in my own parish community.

By this time, the easygoing hospitality of the people and of the place has joined seamlessly with the discussion of Islamic theology.  The anxiety I’d felt earlier is beginning not so much to lift as to transform to an awareness of a closely-knit, healthy community.  Not terribly different from the communities I’m more accustomed to.

I’m no angel, but Nur and Raed and the other Brothers and Sisters, like Abraham, have wished me peace and have “hastened to entertain” me.  I’ve had plenty to take in during these couple of hours, and I decline their invitation to dinner.  Next month, they’ll be serving food from around the world. I’m invited.  I’ll be back inshallah.

* Raed tells me that many Muslims prefer the Arabic masjid to the word “mosque,” which seems to be a Europeanized version of masjid. Another masjid is located in Homewood. That facility is also home to a full time school, the Islamic Academy of Alabama.
** “That which is with God,” says the Qur’an, is “for those who,” among other things, conduct their affairs by “mutual consultation” (Surah 42.38).

For more information on the Hoover Crescent Islamic Center and the Homewood Masjid, visit the Birmingham Islamic Society’s web site.



 

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