People I Meet

Shortly before the inauguration earlier this year, I was stopped by an older black man on the street while walking in the Castro, late to meet a friend for brunch.

“Excuse me, can you please tell me where the black church is?”

“Sorry, I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You look like you live around here.”

I wanted to point out the obvious–I’m Muslim, I don’t go church–and the perhaps not-so-obvious–I’m not black.

Instead I just shrugged and apologized again. As I started walking away, he asked me, “Are you Muslim?” When I answered in the affirmative he stated, “You know, Obama is a Muslim.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Yes, he is. I read his book.”

“No, he isn’t. I read his book too.” Question to self: why are you engaging in this conversation, you’re late for brunch.

The man launched into his thoughts about why Obama is Muslim. His father was Muslim, his step-father was Muslim and he lived in Indonesia, a Muslim country.

“That doesn’t make him Muslim.”

“You’re right. He’s not Muslim.”

Wow, he capitulated rather easily.

I thought about that man today as I walked by the black church I do know about, a block away from my apartment. The African-American population in San Francisco has dwindled significantly over the years, with the largest drop in black population of any large American city. Every Sunday, however, people come from all over the city to the Community Baptist Church–cars on the street are double and triple parked, and I like to watch as the congregants arrive.

I passed the church this morning at 11:00, shortly before services were about to start. Little girls in sweet Sunday dresses and older ladies with fancy hats made their way into the church.

I wanted to join them.

I go to the mosque every Friday, but I’m always in jeans (Friday is casual day at the office) and have to bolt out after prayer to get back to work. I miss going to the mosque on Sunday as I did every week growing up, where I could leisurely hang out and catch up with friends after prayer (and during Sunday school class).

As I passed by the church after a nice walk around the neighborhood, services were in full swing. A window was open and I could hear the preacher preaching and the congregation amen-ing. I stopped outside the open window, pretending to tie my shoelaces, hoping to catch some of the sermon. The microphone cut in and out, but I managed to hear the preacher reminding the congregation of the good works of Jesus and an admonition that I can never hear too many times (especially because I always seem to forget or ignore it): “If you’ve come for gossip, if you’ve come for idle talk, you shouldn’t have come at all.”

Thank you for the Preacher at the Church.