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Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

March 10, 2015 By Michelle 8 Comments

What I Learned about Jesus from Mohammed on the Bike Path

Y is for Yaweh

We passed each other on the path several mornings a week. He walked slowly, shuffling, staring ahead with a stern, almost angry look on his face. Occasionally he rode a bike, the old-fashioned kind with a wide seat and no gears. He sat straight and tall like a diplomat, his winter coat flapping open in the breeze. When I waved or said hello, he didn’t make eye contact, but held up his hand, palm out, as if to offer me a high-five.

One morning, as we traveled in the same direction, I passed him as he was walking. “How far are you going?” he called out to my back.

“Four,” I answered, turning around, still jogging backwards. “Four miles. What about you?” He told me he was walking six; the same route he walked every day, unless he decided to ride his bike instead. I was impressed. The man was far from young, although it was hard to discern his exact age. I thought seventy; maybe even eighty.

We chatted for a long time that morning. Because his accent was so thick, I had to ask him to repeat himself numerous times. He told me he was Pakistani; his name was Mohammed. He had five children; his wife died several years ago. He lived with his son here in Lincoln.

“Do you like Pakistani food?” he asked me.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t think I’ve ever had it. Is it like Indian food? I really like Indian food.”

“No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head and waving his hand dismissively. “Pakistan and India, very different, very different.” Mohammed seemed annoyed, although it was a little hard to tell because he never smiled anyway.

Only much later did I realize he probably didn’t appreciate the fact that I’d lumped Pakistan together with its arch-enemy India. I’d managed to insult Mohammed in the first five minutes of our conversation.

After that first meeting, Mohammed and I talked on the path at least once a week. One of the times we chatted he mentioned he was Muslim, but had been attending the Mormon church in town. I couldn’t quite figure that one out.

Whenever I saw him, Mohammed always asked me the same question, “How far you are walking?” And I always had to bite my tongue from answering, “Does this look like walking?” as I wiped sweat from my brow and heaved like a Clydesdale.

One day, about a month after our first conversation, when I stopped to talk to Mohammed he wanted to discuss food again – it was a popular topic with him.

“So you’ve never had Pakistani food?” Mohammed asked.

“Nope,” I answered, shaking my head. This time I didn’t mention my love of Indian food.

“You need to come then. I make you Pakistani food. Your husband and children come, too.” Mohammed proceeded to give me elaborate directions to his house, only a quarter of which I could make out through his accent.

“Okay, sure. Yeah. That would be great. Maybe we’ll come to dinner sometime. Thanks for asking,” I stuttered.

Mohammed took a slip of paper and a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Here,” he said, handing them to me, “you write your address.”

Now I was confused. The whole language barrier thing was making this exchange terribly complicated. Had I misunderstood? Had I just inadvertently invited Mohammed to my house for dinner?

“Oh, um, okay,” I said, stalling. “Well, how about just my telephone number? You can call me, okay? I wrote my cell number on the slip of paper and handed it to him.

Had I just made a date with an eighty-year-old Pakistani on the bike path?

Later I announced to my husband and kids that we might be going to Mohammed’s house for dinner. I also mentioned there was a chance he might be coming to our house; I wasn’t totally clear on the details. “What?” Rowan yelled. “Pakistani food? What’s Pakistani food? It sounds gross! What if I don’t like it?”

As it turned out, we didn’t go to Mohammed’s house for dinner, and he didn’t come to our house either. Mohammed never called. In fact, more than a year went by before I saw him again. For a long time I looked for him every time I ran. I missed his grumpy, unsmiling face and his high-five wave.

Back in the sixth century a monk by the name of Benedict of Nursia had a lot to say about hospitality. So much, in fact, he wrote what’s now known as The Rule of St. Benedict, a guidebook of sorts on how to live a spiritual life in community with others.

Among his many words of wisdom, Benedict conveyed to his monks that the notion of hospitality extended far beyond a home-cooked meal served on fine china and fresh hand towels laid out the guest bathroom. Benedictine hospitality was, and is, centered on the act of receiving a person as if he is Jesus himself:

“All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ, who said: ‘I was a stranger and you welcomed me’…By a bow of the head or by a complete prostration of the body, Christ is to be adored and welcomed in them.”

Think about this for a moment. As awkward and downright bizarre as it would surely be to bow your head to Christ in every stranger who appeared at your front door, or who stood in line ahead of you at Walgreens, or who sat next to you in the waiting room at the dentist’s office, can you imagine the radically transformative power of such an approach?

Can you imagine, for a moment, the possibility of seeing Christ in everyone, even in the people you might least expect to see him? I don’t think we’d ever be the same, which is exactly what Jesus, and Benedict, intended.

This was the kind of hospitality Mohammed showed me. He could have brushed me off after I’d demonstrated my complete ignorance of his native country and culture. But instead, he went above and beyond expectations by continuing the dialogue every time I saw him on the path and by inviting my family and me to his home for dinner.

Mohammed offered love, respect, community, camaraderie, and above all, the gift of Jesus in a stranger, exactly where I least expected to see him.

I saw Mohammed on the path again yesterday. It had been a long time.  He gave me a high-five wave as he road past on his old-fashioned bike, his winter coat flapping open in the breeze. I doubt he recalls the dinner invitation, or perhaps even who I am. But I smiled big when I saw him, remembering how he’d unexpectedly extended Jesus’s grace and hospitality, remembering how he’d shown me what it looks like to be Christ to a stranger.

The Spiritual Habit of Staying in Place
What a Monk and Two Delivery Men Taught Me about Hospitality

Filed Under: blogging Benedict, hospitalty Tagged With: hospitality, Mohammed, St. Benedict's Rule

Reader Interactions

Comments

  1. Jillie says

    March 10, 2015 at 8:35 am

    Good Morning, Michelle! Good story, great illustration. Causes me to pause and ask myself if I’ve ever “met Jesus” in another human being?

    I recall a sweet little girl in my church. One Sunday, there was a vase of carnations and roses at the front of the church. Someone had placed them there in remembrance of a dear lady who had passed on a year before–a lady everyone loved because she was so genuine, so friendly. We were invited, at the end of the service, to take a flower from the vase, in order to remember “Marg”. I had Library duty that day, so completely forgot to go up and take a flower. I was telling someone in the library that I was sorry I’d forgotten and that I wished I’d gotten a flower. Marg had been a good friend to me.

    Next thing I know, this little girl came into the library and extended HER flower to me. She said both she & her mother had taken one, but that she’d heard what I said and wanted to give me her flower. Such a simple thing, but I immediately “saw Jesus” in little Rebecca. I was humbled. I went home that day and wrote a “Thank-You” note to her, in which I told her I had seen Jesus in her. Because I truly had. Some people just “exude Christ”, and little Rebecca is one of them. What a loving, unselfish heart. What a Gift I received that day. “And a little child shall lead them.” Isa. 11:6

    Reply
    • Michelle says

      March 10, 2015 at 12:45 pm

      What a sweet, sweet story, Jillie – thank you so much for sharing it here. Kids, including my own, always surprise me with their generosity and willingness to reach out to others, even to strangers. That truly is a “Jesus trait.”

      For me, I think I struggle most to see Jesus in the person I might consider the “other” — the person least like me. So someone like Mohammed – a Muslim — someone I probably assume I have absolutely nothing in common with. Experiences like my connection with Mohammed illustrate how close-minded I so often am, and how Jesus doesn’t pick and choose who he embodies and acts through.

      Reply
  2. Deidra says

    March 10, 2015 at 9:02 am

    Love this. Absolutely love it!

    Reply
  3. Martha Orlando says

    March 10, 2015 at 9:25 am

    What if we all did something so radical as to see Christ in others and treat them as such? Wow! Beautiful story, Michelle! Blessings!

    Reply
  4. Sandra Heska King says

    March 10, 2015 at 9:52 am

    I wonder where he was during that year. I was so glad you saw him again!

    You sure know how to piece a good story.

    Reply
    • Michelle says

      March 10, 2015 at 12:46 pm

      I know! I thought he died! Or went back to Pakistan. I was shocked to see him again after so long…and strangely relieved. I haven’t talked to him since he returned from his long absence, so I haven’t been able to ask, Hey, where were you all that time? I really don’t think he remembers me. And maybe he’s a little off or a little unbalanced…but I still saw Jesus in him, that I know for sure.

      Reply
  5. Diana Trautwein says

    March 11, 2015 at 11:05 am

    Wonderful story-telling, Michelle. And yes, Benedictine hospitality is radical and wonderful and should be high on all our lists of things-to-aspire-to, even though it can be scary sometimes. Kudos to you for stepping over the line of fear and engaging Mohammed – so glad you saw him again!

    Reply
  6. Jean Wise says

    March 12, 2015 at 7:59 pm

    What a neat story. I am really into Benedict lately. Seeing him everywhere and drinking in his wisdom

    Reply

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Living out faith in the everyday is no joke. If you’re anything like me, some days you feel full of confidence and hope, eager to proclaim God’s goodness and love to the world. Other days…not so much.

Let me say straight up: I wrestle with my faith. Most days I feel a little bit like Jacob, wrangling his blessing out of God. And most days I’m okay with that. I believe God made me a questioner and a wrestler for a reason, and I believe one of those reasons is so that I can connect more authentically with others.

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