I braced myself for that all too familiar wave, poised to
descend and crash down on me, of feeling overwhelmed. Every time I visit
Toronto it happens to me. There is such a large presence of Muslims who live in
certain areas of the large multicultural city. I can get overwhelmed with the
challenge.
We were hungry for chicken curry and naan and found a Pakistani
restaurant which was next door to a huge mosque. A Muslim man wearing Pakistani clothes and
sporting a long beard walked across the street at the same time. He looked
formidable giving the appearance of a fundamentalist. Ed engaged in
conversation with him and found out he had recently come from the very same
town in Pakistan where we first lived. After we crossed the street Jamal and Ed
continued in friendly conversation on the street corner while I stood quietly
beside Ed waiting to move on. The man was in no hurry. For Jamal it was amazing
that somebody would care enough to talk to him. As we waited for our chicken
curry we took in the scenes of the restaurant. There were partitioned areas
curtained off for privacy for women who prefer strict segregation. Suddenly
from behind one curtained off area a woman in face niqab and black cloak
emerged. A little girl all dressed up in purple and frills ran around. I
beckoned for her to come to me. Shyly she approached me. I asked Fatima where
she was from. “Somalia,” she answered. I told her that was where I grew up.
“Are you Muslim?” she inquired. “No, Fatima, I’m a Christian.” There was silence as she stared at me. “Is that okay with you?” I asked. “Yes,” she
replied and then ran back to her table. But I knew she was trying to process
that she was actually seeing and talking to a Christian; probably for the first
time. Then the manager who excelled in pleasant public relation skills came
over to our table offering us free dessert. He was eager to get more regular
clients. In our conversation he informed us that he was a Muslim from India. He
had married a classmate from university in the States. She had converted to
Islam. My heart sunk. Oh no, not again,
I thought. “Does she wear the hijab?” I asked. “Yes, she has totally become one
of us. My mother taught her about Islam.”
Everywhere in that area of Toronto are masses of Muslims
from all over the world. How much more in Cairo, Karachi, or Tehran! I can
easily get overwhelmed by the masses. What difference can I make? Where do I
even begin? Then I reflect on Jesus. He encountered the masses, too. As He
moved among the masses He focused on an individual man, woman, or child. Likewise when I encounter masses of Muslims I
will start by engaging with a Muslim crossing the street, a little girl in a
restaurant, or a manager of a restaurant.
Dear heavenly Father, please help me not to get so overwhelmed
by the masses that I can’t see the individual in my path. In Jesus’ name, Amen. 
