Several years ago I was sitting in a room full of religious and community leaders from across middle Tennessee. It resembled a typical clergy meeting, but what made that gathering distinct for me was that half of the leaders were Muslim.
During our time together, a colleague of mine shared his own story about growing up in Jerusalem as a Palestinian Muslim, moving to the U.S., and eventually finding a home and family in Tennessee.
His story was moving and honest, and it lifted the veil for many of the Christinas in the room, most of whom were white, on what life is like for non-Christians in Tennessee.
In 2008, his mosque was firebombed by several members of the Christian Identity movement. Newspapers covering the attack printed photos of him walking amid the embers and charred remains of his place of worship.
The local Islamic community did not scatter in fear, however. Instead, they were welcomed by local Christian congregations to worship in their sanctuaries.
After he had shared his story and the role his Muslim faith plays in this life, a Christian pastor came up to him and said, ?When I hear you talk about your faith, I hear my faith.?
Coming face to face with our religious neighbors ? and listening to their stories ? reminds us that God has charged the church with a public, political birthright.
My first experience in interfaith organizing was as a Young Adult Volunteer in San Antonio where I spent a year working with the Industrial Areas Foundation.
I learned here that organizing is about values, not merely issues, because the issues fade, but the values don?t.
What I loved most about that year was the vocational clarity it provided. I spent many hours every week working with grassroots leaders fighting for their community. The highlight was organizing a 500-person public event where city council candidates listened to testimonies by local community members. The community had packed into an old Catholic church gymnasium. One teenager with whom I was working took the stage to tell the candidates that she wanted them to promise to build more speed bumps in her neighborhood. Her request came from her heart: Her little brother had been hit by a speeding car the previous year.
That year taught me the power of helping people move from the ?is? to the ?ought.?
For many Christians, our faith gives us tools and stories showing us that we do not have to accept the way the world is. We are called to move the world toward what it ought to be. I caught glimpses of the kingdom of God in that Catholic church gymnasium. The power of witnessing people living out their faith ? giving flesh and bone to these abstract stories ? moved me. It still moves me.
Nowadays, I?m writing my dissertation on this work, because I have come to realize that the power of interfaith organizing lies as much in its results (the ?wins?) as it does in the process of everyday folk acting out their faith in public.
I believe this is our Christian birthright. Christians and Jews share the biblical concept of birthright, which Esau famously (and foolishly) gave up to Jacob for a little bit of stew.
Listeners of that story today are less shocked at Esau?s brash actions in part because we are less familiar with the religious, familial and political importance of a birthright. To give up one?s birthright is to renounce not only one?s identity, but also material inheritance. To renounce one?s birthright is to renounce the very relations that have nurtured you. For the ancient Israelites such relationship were not merely familiar and monetary, they were also political.
