Oh Lord, Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

I made a mistake.

On top of a boat, bathing in the most extraordinary post-sunset, my brother and I had just mistakenly intruded upon some people finishing their evening prayers. They were friendly and devout, and very curious about us. They asked us about our religion.

Now. I do not have enough Bangla to discuss theology or spirituality (or, for that matter, politics, medicine, home-improvement or cookery); but at the same time, I don't like simply describing myself as a Christian and leaving it at that.

The global reality of bad evangelism over several centuries has meant that to most Muslims in Bangladesh, Christianity is just a particularly violent strain of Hinduism, which limits itself to three gods, starts wars with good Muslims, and believes that God had sex with Mary (if you will forgive indelicate phrasing). Worse, it's a polytheistic heresy which at the same time has the illogical front to claim that it worships only one God, and all the while allows the existence of a culture of pornography and moral dissolution (for, as we know, America Is A Christian Nation).

And in the face of this complex web of ethnic, religious, spiritual and historical uncomprehension, I stand, with my ability to buy onions and direct a rickshaw.

Hence a misunderstanding.

I tried to explain to our open-faced new friends that I also believe in God (there is no distinction to be made between the word Allah and the word God), and that I am a Christian, that I also worship God for the beauty of his creation, and that I follow Jesus Christ (Isa in the Muslim tradition, an important prophet).

I thought I did pretty well, actually. Since I had neither time nor language for an ongoing discussion of our different cultures, I was trying to leave these nice people with an image of Christians that is respectful and devout. This is hopelessly naive, but it's a hell of a lot better than perpetuating the great shame of Christianity's historical engagement with Islam: an endless, arrogant, condemnatory yelling match. Where Christ is supposed to be in such encounters bewilders me.

And I thought they understood me. They responded with words which I took to be rephrasings of what I'd said, so I agreed with them. A dumb mistake if ever there was one.

My Bangla is now at a point where I can understand most of what's said to me. Just don't, as the Comte de Frou-Frou said, ask me to take a physiology class or direct a light opera.

However, that is a dangerous place. You think you're following what someone's saying. You think. And, compared to the agonising months of complete ignorance, this comprehension is a soaring height indeed. So you nod and smile, and repeat what you said, and go away wrapped in the warm sensation of successful communication.

Which is often the purest poppycock. As I learned when we climbed down from the roof of the boat. An elderly, serious-looking man in loose robes and a tupi prayer cap stopped me at the top of the ladder and asked my name.

'Dave...David,' I said.
'What?' He was abrupt, but this is normal for elders in Bangladesh.
'David. My name is David.'
'What sort of name is this?'
'It's a Hebrew name.'
'Yes, yes, I know.' He grabbed my arm and addressed me firmly. 'Why do you still have this name? Why are you not with a Muslim name now?'

Er, what?

I tactfully took my arm back. 'Um, say that again?'
He leaned in closer and spoke as though addressing a moron. 'If you are a Muslim, why are you not Daud?!'

Clearly, my pacific attempts to surf the boundaries of inter-faith dialogue had failed. Daud is a prophet in Islam - poet, warrior, king, terrible husband and slingshot genius, Christianity and Judaism know him as King David. This rather intimidating pensioner had assumed that the only explanation for my acknowledgement of the power and glory of God was that I had converted to Islam.

Not so. God, in that moment, in that place, was evident both to me and to this bloke. There are (doubtless) thousands of differences in our understanding - and one of us will, one day, turn out to be more right than the other - but where we started was this. God is great; look at the things he makes.

I am not a Muslim, I said. I believe in God.

I can understand why the kind of clever-clever distinction I was making would come off like mealy-mouthed, quisling twofacedness to one whose world is made up of 'people who believe in God and are like me' and 'everyone else'. To this guy, I might as well have said 'I am not a vegetarian, but I refuse to eat meat'.

I tried to explain.

'I follow God, but he doesn't care what kind of name I have.'

This, I thought, was fair enough. I'm named after the same guy, just in a different language, so what's the problem?

A big problem, to this Muslim. Fair enough. Islam is a very located religion. Wherever you are in the world, Arabic is the language used by the Angel himself, and Mecca is the holiest place on the planet - no exceptions and no arguments. Who was I to say what name God wanted me to have? God speaks Arabic!

'What? You should have an Arabic name!'

I repeated my point, but he didn't get it. To him, I could not claim to worship God and ignore the primacy of the Arabic language. I, conversely, am very thankful that God is equally true in all languages. And I would have liked to have found a way for us to explore this difference together; but my Bangla had already reached its limits with an embarrassing flop.

I caved. 'I need to go downstairs now.' I looked him in the eyes, tried desperately to communicate fellowship. 'May peace be with you.'

I turned, and started to descend the ladder. He paused, then roused himself once more to the sacred business of getting my signature on the celestial dotted line. An aim in which, I note, he had a lot in common with my hit-and-run evangelical brethren.

'When will you tell your parents you have converted?!'

To which there really is no answer at all. I carried on down the ladder, and went back to my cabin.

Perhaps to find common ground, both interlocutors have to acknowledge that it is both possible and desirable.

So it goes. But today's moral is as follows, and if you're learning a foreign language I think you should get it tattooed to the inside of your eyelids.

Smiling and nodding is not always the best thing to do.

Be told.