Seeking Allah, Finding Jesus: A Devout Muslim Encounters Christianity

by Qureshi, Nabeel

  But not me. I turned to David, unable to get past what Mrs. Adamski had just said. David subtly shrugged and returned his attention to the professor as she moved to the next topic. It appeared I was the only one still thinking about the bomb she had just dropped.

  How could something be many things at once? Many different things? We were not talking about the attributes of something like a steak, which can be hot, juicy, thick, and tender all at once. We were talking about separate spatial and electrical arrangements. What the professor said would be akin to saying that Nabeel is eating said steak in Texas while simultaneously napping in a hammock in the Caribbean. As wonderful as each would be individually, it made no sense to say I might be doing both at once.

  I was perplexed, and what made it even worse was that no one around me seemed bothered in the least. I looked around the room, agape at their blind acceptance.

  But was it really blind? The professor was teaching rarefied science, describing the subatomic world. At that level, things happen that make no sense to those of us who conceptualize the world at only a human level. Even the apparently simple idea of atoms is baffling when we think about it. It means that the chair I am sitting on is not actually a solid object, innocently supporting my weight. It is almost entirely empty space, occupied only in small part by particles moving at incomprehensible speeds. When we think about it, it seems wrong, but it’s just the way things are in our universe. There’s no use arguing about it.

  I turned my glance away from the other students, concluding they had not blindly accepted a nonsensical concept. They had just realized before I did that there are truths about our universe that do not fit easily into our minds.

  My eyes rested on the three separate structures of nitrate on the wall, my mind assembling the pieces. One molecule of nitrate is all three resonance structures all the time and never just one of them. The three are separate but all the same, and they are one. They are three in one.

  That’s when it clicked: if there are things in this world that can be three in one, even incomprehensibly so, then why cannot God?

  And just like that, the Trinity became potentially true in my mind. I looked over at David and decided to say nothing.

  Later, I revisited the doctrine of the Trinity with a fresh perspective. What do Christians mean when they say God is three in one? Three what in one what? I looked it up in a book called The Forgotten Trinity by James White, and it all made more sense after I realized a triune entity was possible.

  The doctrine of the Trinity teaches that God is three persons in one being. “Being” and “person” are not the same thing, which means the Trinity is not a contradiction. To illustrate, consider this: I am one being, a human being. I am also one person, Nabeel Qureshi. So I am one being with one person, a human being who is Nabeel Qureshi. The doctrine of the Trinity teaches that God is one being with three persons: Father, Son, and Spirit.

  Doctrine of the Trinity: The belief that God is one in being and three in person

  Being: The quality or essence that makes something what it is

  Person: The quality or essence that makes someone who he is

  In the fullness of time, and without any productive discussion with David, I understood the Trinity on my own terms and realized it was a possible model of God’s nature. I was not convinced it was the true model, since it contravened Tauheed, but I had to concede it was viable. And when that happened, my thoughts about God became richer.

  But there was one major Christian doctrine that still hindered me from understanding the gospel. How did Jesus’ death pay for my sins? By the time David and I addressed the question, our duo had become a trio.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  SALVATION IN THE BALANCE

  MY SENIOR YEAR AT ODU WAS ATYPICAL. Apart from the fact that it was actually my third year, it was also my first year living on campus. Up to that point, despite my protestations, Ammi and Abba insisted that living on campus would doom me to depravity. It was not until my senior year that I was able to convince them I simply had too many responsibilities at school to continue commuting.

  One of those responsibilities was serving as president of the honors college, and I tapped into that role to choose my dorm room when I finally got my parents’ permission to move out of the house. Located in the southwestern wing of Whitehurst Hall on the top floor, my room afforded a grand view over the Elizabeth River, the second best view on campus. The adjacent room had the best view, but I declined it because it had heating problems.

  That room was ultimately occupied by someone who quickly became my friend, a Buddhist named Zach. Zach was a philosophy student, soft in speech and methodical in thought, which made him an excellent person to spar with intellectually. A few weeks into the semester, we were already good friends, and I had engaged him in dawah more than once.

  Dawah: The practice of inviting people to Islam

  As fate would have it, Zach attended some Philosophy Club meetings, where David was the president, and the two had hit it off. So David and I both became good friends with Zach independently of one another. After we learned about our mutual friendships, the three of us began spending time together. We were a motley trio, serving as the butt of more than a few jokes.

  On one particular day, when a Muslim, a Christian, and a Buddhist were sitting in a smoothie bar, I brought up the final Christian doctrine that continued to offend my sensibilities: substitutionary atonement. It was part of my ongoing efforts at dawah for Zach, which made for a comical scene. Here I was hoping to bring Zach to Islam by indirectly critiquing David, who was evangelizing both of us. Caught in the middle was Zach, who wanted nothing. Literally. His goal as a Buddhist was to attain nothingness.

  Substitutionary atonement: The doctrine that Jesus is able to take and pay for the sins of man.

  “You see, Zach,” I pontificated boisterously, pointing my smoothie at him, “Islam is a fair religion. It has none of this nonsense about some random person having to suffer for your sins.”

  “Now wait just a minute!” David sputtered over his smoothie, trying to interject. I steamrolled over him.

  “You wait a minute, I’m not done yet! As I was saying, according to Islam, we will all stand before God, each accountable for our sins. No one will be able to intercede for us. Our spiritual lives are our own responsibilities, and if our good deeds outweigh our sins, we will go to heaven. If our sins outweigh our good deeds, we will go to hell. That’s fair and just. See what I’m saying?”

  Zach was characteristically stolid. “I do.”

  “Of course, if God wishes to grant us grace, He may. He is God, after all. But what is completely out of the question is God taking your sins and placing them on an innocent man, as if that man can be punished for your crimes while you get off scot-free. What kind of justice is that?”

  David was smiling but looked ready to jump across the table. “You’re not representing it fairly.”

  “It stinks when people aren’t fair, doesn’t it? Now cool down a bit. Try sipping on that smoothie. I have one more thing to say.”

  We were all laughing. This was fun, even though the topic was very serious. I wanted to make my most poignant illustration before turning the conversation over to David, who obviously had a lot to say.

  “Our national debt right now is, what, seven trillion dollars? Suppose I walked up to President Bush and said ‘Hey W., I know our debt is seven trill, but I can pay for it. Here’s a dollar, that should cover it.’ What do you think Bush would say?”

  Zach didn’t skip a beat. “He’d say you’re an idiot.”

  “Ex-act-ly!” I exclaimed, accentuating each syllable by jabbing my smoothie at David.

  Zach wanted me to spell it out. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m saying it’s bad math. Just like a dollar can’t pay for trillions of dollars of debt, Jesus’ death on the cross can’t pay for everyone’s sins. Even if one man could pay for another man’s sins, it doesn’t add up for ju
st one man to pay for billions of sinners. So not only is Christian soteriology unjust, it’s bad math. Islam, on the other hand? Simple, easy to understand, totally fair.” With that, I returned to drinking my smoothie with a triumphant air of finality.

  Soteriology: The doctrine or study of salvation

  Zach looked off into the distance, considering. “Well, that makes sense to me, I guess.”

  David wasn’t having any of it. “Are you done?” he asked pointedly, half smiling and clearly amused.

  “Nah, I just started drinking it.”

  “I mean with your rant?”

  “The floor is yours.” I had once again deployed arguments I had known since childhood in order to build my case against Christianity, and I felt confident in their strength. Smug, even.

  “You’re inappropriately compartmentalizing Christian doctrines in order to make your case, Nabeel.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, so I was unfazed.

  “Proceed.”

  “You know full well that Christian doctrine teaches Jesus is God, yet you took that out of your equation when you critiqued the theology. God is not forcing ‘some random person’ to suffer for our sins. He is paying for our sins Himself.

  “A better analogy would be a son who has stolen from his father’s business. If after wasting the goods, the son returns to the father and sincerely seeks forgiveness, it is within the father’s right to forgive him. But not all would be settled yet; the accounts haven’t been balanced. Someone has to take the hit for the stolen goods. If the father wants, he has every right to pay for his son’s debt from his own account. That’s fair.”

  I was confused. “Who is the son?”

  “We are the son, and God is the father. We have incurred a debt against God, and we can’t pay Him back. So in His mercy, He pays our sins for us. The wages of our sin is death, and He died on our behalf, balancing the accounts.”

  I sat silently, sipping my smoothie. Zach chimed in. “Okay, David, I think I get what you’re saying. Since our sins are against God, God has the right to forgive us. And if Jesus is God, then Jesus can pay for our sins.”

  David considered this. “Yeah, I guess you can put it that way.”

  I wasn’t convinced. “But that still doesn’t explain how one person can pay for all the sins of mankind.”

  “Nabeel, you’re still forgetting that this isn’t just any person. This is God! This was not like paying off trillions of dollars of debt with one dollar. This was paying trillions of dollars of debt with an infinite bank account! God’s life is worth more than all the other lives in the universe combined. His death more than paid for all the deaths that the rest of us deserve.”

  I looked over at Zach to see what he thought, hoping for support. He impassively returned my glance, as if to say, “It’s your move.” I rallied my thoughts.

  “Alright, David, there’s another problem. You’ve been assuming this whole time that if someone sins, then it means they need to die. I’m not buying it.”

  “It’s what the Bible says. Romans 6:23.” It always impressed me when David quoted Bible references, but it also irked me. I rarely knew the references to Islamic doctrine, since most of what I learned was from my teachers, who never knew the references themselves. In this instance, his reference to the Bible sharpened our disagreement.

  “I honestly don’t care if the Bible says it; it makes no sense. What kind of judge is it who punishes the pettiest crime with the same judgment as the most heinous? Think about it. Imagine you were sent to court for jaywalking. The guy before you is found guilty of rape and murder and sentenced to execution. Then you are found guilty of jaywalking and also sentenced to execution. Forget unjust. That judge would be cruel, probably sadistic!”

  This argument had real implications for my heart. I knew I was a sinner and that I had rebelled against God’s commands at times and chosen my own path over His dictates. But since Muslims believe that salvation is a matter of doing more good deeds than bad, I never really felt anguish over my sins because I believed myself to be on the positive side of the scales. To me, sin was bad, but not that bad.

  But if it was true that all sins are so devastating that they lead to hell, what chance did I have? Of course, Allah could show mercy, but the Quran says Allah does not love sinners. What reason would He have to forgive me?

  David must have been given some insight because he spoke to the heart of the issue. He shook his head and said solemnly, “Nabeel, you’re still seeing Christian doctrines from an Islamic perspective. Christianity teaches that sin is so destructive it shatters souls and destroys worlds. It’s like a cancer that slowly consumes everything. That’s why this world went from perfection in the garden of Eden to being the sick and depressing place it is today. Do you think God would allow any of that stuff in heaven? Of course He wouldn’t. If heaven is going to be a perfect place, by definition there can be no sinners in it. None at all.”

  His last words hung in the air, their gravity slowly sinking in. After a few heavy moments, I spoke. “Then what hope is there for us, David?”

  David smiled reassuringly. “Only the grace of God.”

  “But why would He give me His grace?”

  “Because He loves you.”

  “Why would He love me, a sinner?”

  “Because He’s your Father.”

  David’s words hit me powerfully. I had heard Christians call God “Father,” but it never clicked. Only when trying to figure out why God would give me mercy and grace when I deserved none did the gears start turning.

  I couldn’t speak. It was all connecting. Would I ever question why Abba loved me? He had loved me since I was born, the day he first spoke the adhan into my ear, not because of anything I did but because he was my father. I never doubted his love and generosity toward me, not because I had somehow earned his favor but because I was his son.

  Was this really how God loved me? Could God be that loving? Could He be that wonderful?

  It was as if I was meeting my Heavenly Father for the first time. After having just confronted the depravity of my sins, His forgiveness and love was that much sweeter. This God, the God of the gospel, was beautiful. I was spellbound by this message. My heart and my mind were caught in the beginnings of a revolution.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  ASSESSING THE GOSPEL

  THE THREE OF US LEFT the Tropical Smoothie Café, climbed into my car, and started heading back to campus. While driving, I continued to process what I had just grasped. It was as if the last groove of a key had just clicked into place, and my mind was beginning to turn over the message.

  David could sense that I was still processing, so he decided to interact with Zach, giving me space, while also affording me the opportunity to interact should I choose to do so. “So, Zach, how do you think the case for Christianity compares with the case for Buddhism?”

  Zach had already been with David to one of Mike’s Dream Team meetings, so he was used to this kind of questioning. He answered from the back seat, “There isn’t really a case for Buddhism. It’s a path you can choose to follow. I follow it because of the meditation, but I wouldn’t tell anyone else that they should follow it or that it’s true in some sense. Christianity is really unique like that. With Christianity, either Jesus died and rose from the grave or he didn’t. That’s something you can build a case for.”

  This caught my attention, and I couldn’t help but respond. “I think you’re right about one thing, Zach. You can build a case for Christianity, but I think you can do the same for Islam.”

  This was the open door that David wanted. “Alright, Nabeel, time to man up. You said that the case for Christianity rests on three things: that Jesus claimed to be God, that he died on the cross, and that he rose from the dead. We’ve studied all those issues. On a scale of zero to one hundred, with zero being unfounded and one hundred being the best explanation, how historically likely do you think those claims are?”

  This was a mome
nt of truth. Our conversation at the smoothie bar had softened my barriers, and I was not in a defensive posture. I considered his question carefully before responding, “Eighty to eighty-five. It’s pretty strong.”

  I didn’t have to turn to the passenger seat to know that David was shocked. “Where do you put Islam?”

  All of a sudden, I was in a defensive posture, and the knee-jerk defense of my faith kicked in. “David, it’s 100 percent. There’s no hole in the Islamic case. Anyone who studies the life of Muhammad honestly will walk away concluding that he was Allah’s prophet, and anyone who objectively approaches the Quran will be astounded by its scientific truths and beautiful teachings.”

  Now, I knew, as did David and Zach, that I had not studied Islam with as much careful scrutiny as I had Christianity. But for me, as for most Muslims, an uncritically reverential and fulsome assessment of Islam was a given. It is as much a part of Islamic culture and heritage as the very languages Muslims speak, and it is absorbed in a very similar way: everyone around us just operates in that paradigm. So my bold response to David was not obstinacy, it was the filter through which I saw the world.

  David did not dwell on my brash response. “Are those your two criteria? Muhammad and the Quran?”

  “Yeah, I think so. If I can show with a high degree of probability that Muhammad is a prophet of God, then I can conclude the message he brought is true. Or if I can show that the Quran is a divinely inspired book, then I can conclude that the message it teaches is true.”

  Although David gave me some grace, Zach did not. He gave an incredulous laugh and put me on the spot. “Do you seriously think the case for Islam is 100 percent? I mean, come on. Nothing is that strong!”

  “I think Islam is, Zach. It’s hard to believe, I know. But if you take a look at it, you’ll see what I mean.”