Its been a couple of weeks since I last reviewed the Friday prayer in my city. There’s a good reason for that: I simply wasn’t able to go. So, instead of making stuff up, I did not write about it. But, today I did go and my intentions were less than pure, at least in the Sufi sense. You see, I skipped classes yesterday; in fact I skipped breakfast, morning coffe, lunch, work and coherent speech. And, despite my exhaustion, I thought it would be good form to show up today since S. is old school and kind of expects people to show up. Seriously, so would I.

This morning I left home early for the long drive into town because my Islamic Studies professor scheduled a graduate student session for Fridays at 11am. He swears the timing was not meant to ensure I arrived at Friday prayer on time, but in any case that's what is happening. So, I walked over, pleased that none of the Muslims-behind-the-wheel thougt it was a good idea to lunge at me with thier vehicle in the mad dash for a parking space as I crossed the street. I suppose there is merit to arriving early before the last-minute crowd pulls up.

I'm glad I was early, having walked in and stuffed my jacket into the shoe rack since there were no more coat pegs open. Maybe if we deported those Saudi students I could properly hang my jacket. As I sat down I was surprised to see the recently returned Egyptian Ramadan imam who won't speak English sitting in the third row next to my professor. In his place on the pulpit was a blind man in what passes for casualware in the Arab world. It was Marwan Sadeddin, one of the famed flying imams! He started out his sermon stating who he was and that he was pleased to be back in his beloved Tucson, starting out well enough. I began the sermon interested to hear what he had to say and ended the sermon thinking I would have kicked him off the plane, too, if only for being such a bore.

This morning, I decided to test a new Friday routine. Since the guest preacher from Egypt doesn’t deliver his sermons in English, I figured there was little point in listening to him. While I can understand the words in Arabic, sermons in my native language delivered by native speakers have a far greater rhetorical impact on me. The subjects of sermons, too, are just as important. Preachers who have experience in the kind of lives we lead can use metaphors that strike us like lightening and instill in us an immediate understanding. I remember fondly some of the sermons in my home city by a Blackamerican preacher who had converted in the 1950’s, Imam Mansour. Because of his colorful metaphors, I would see rows of heads nodding with grins, because we all had been there and knew the exact nuances of what he was telling us. I don’t experience that in this city, but for one memorable episode when a Blackamerican imam form a different city stood on the pulpit and spoke plainly, telling us in a fairly good fashion that he knew “what the game is, and I’ll tell you, you young Muslims, the gig is up!” Only a few heads nodded in knowing agreement, while perhaps the majority immigrant audience was struggling to understand what a “gig” was (and no, its not short for Gigabyte in this case).

I had not missed Friday Prayer for tha past two weeks; they were just uneventful enough to comment on, I arrived when prayer was already in session or I was too busy with the beginning of the school year to write about them.

In any case, I arrived right on time this week and found that the gentlemen to whom and about whom I had complained once before on this blog was giving the sermon. I will tell you this: it was one of the more enlightening sermons I've heard in this city in a long time. It seems my meeting with him had some effect, but probably merely brought out some ideas he already had. He talked about the need for Muslims to care about all humanity and to start with this city. His "Islamic" proofs were somewhat weak and he could have used other verses or traditions to back himself up, if only because such a style is the de-facto expectation in this mosque and probably alot of others. Nevertheless, one would have to have never read the Quran or know nothing about Muhammad to beleive that the preacher was incorrect. One of my lunch-mates told me he thought I had written the sermon.

I head to NYC on occasion, as Masjid al Farah is the closest, most tolerable mosque. Imam Feisal's khutbahs are like warm honey, and men and women pray together in a rather cozy space; men who arrive late go upstairs, giving equal opportunities to men and women to see the imam, and fully participate in Jumu'ah.

I've come to the conclusion that Jumu'ah, and indeed all congregational worship, is meant to bring together the vertical (human to God) and horizontal (human to creation) dimensions of faith. That we don't merely watch the imam celebrate Jumu'ah, and we don't worship to justify the gathering- the gathering and the worship are each other's purpose. That's part of the reason why I object to segregation in worship; it undermines an essential aspect of Jumu'ah. This is why I spent half the khutbah wondering why a few inches of wood were keeping me from participating in Jumu'ah.

I was sick again, thanks to a cold I got from the my son's birthday party… I wasn't sure I would go, but I decided that staying caged in the house was not a pleasant prospect. Alhamdulillah, I missed the sermon this Friday. Yes, its gotten to that point where I learn so little that missing it listening to it is the same. I've pondered a number of verses (ayaat) and sayings (Hadith, for the those challenged in English-Islamic terminology). They talk about black spots on the heart and other such deficiencies. For many years, I told myself I just needed to increase my faith (iman) more and more. But, it didn't help. Instead, the more I read, the more I consulted preachers (imams) the more I came to see how wrong I might be in seeing it as only a deficiency within myself. In fact, so much of what we do conforms so little to the character of the Prophet that I've often considered divorce. Say what? No, not from my wife! I'd keep her around anyday over any and all Muslims alive today. I mean divorce from the community. But, what form would that take?

Today was an easy Friday Prayer. My wife dropped me off while she and my father took the kids out. This saved me the quarter mile hike from the campus parking garage. With that and lower than average temperatures at a cool 89 degrees, I arrived cool and dry. I stopped by my department to clear out my desk; I will not be a teaching assistant this Fall along with several others due to funding constraints (and also because it seems I suck). Apparently, our government is not interested in creating a pool of intelligent experts in Near Eastern and Islamic Studies. In the 1950's and 60's, the government flooded Academia with funding for Soviet studies and Russian language. We won that one. But, I digress.

I got to the mosque late today. I have a turkish exchange student staying with us until she finds a place and had to take her to see a prospective room mate. When I got to the mosque, I was wiping my brow continuously with a hankerchief I carry around specially to fill the august role of sweat-rag. The campus parking garage I have a permit for is about a quarter mile away, and mind you this is the South West.

First, the Good. I managed to hear the last 10 minutes, so my judgement is based only on that, and it scored a 6.5 /10. The preacher was an Arab guy dressed in the typical kufi and gallabiyya, but he spoke in flawless English, so kudos to him for actually caring to make himself understood. He was talking mostly about how futile it is to play political games, and that supplicating to God was the best remedy. I gave him big points when he said at the end that he wouldn't list the countries, for fear of marginalizing some Muslims' sufferings and that God alone knows who is suffering the most. That final supplication is often a litmus test I give to people to guage thier jihadi quotient. He then said that he appreciated the mu'adhdhin's voice and that it was good when younger people could do it. Good to go.

Sorry, but I couldn't go to Friday Prayer this week; I was otherwise occupied with regretting something that I ate on Thursday and thought it better not to inflict it on others or create a scene by running to the sink every few minutes… I expect that the patronizers among the readers will attribute my recent writing to being sick, but I assure you it all actually comes from the heart.

Honest reviews of Tucson's Friday prayer, the good, the bad and the ugly will return next Friday, inshallah.

So, there I was hiking to the mosque from the campus parking garage. I stopped off at my department to drop off a document; its on the way. Still, it was almost 110 degrees today, so I arrived rather wet…and it wasn't because of left over wudu water. But, I digress.

I walked in with the sermon in progress. The preacher was Black American; it reminded me of the community I grew up in. I haven't heard a Black American preacher since I left there a couple years after high school. Can you believe it: in OC, San Diego or Hawai'i I never heard a Black American give the sermon for Friday prayer? So, anyway, he had decided to use a translation of a sermon given by the Prophet since he wanted us to hear what the Prophet had to say and not himself. Such a selfless decision is in rare supply among us, isn't it?