Easter Lessons From My Muslim Cab Driver

Under any other circumstance, the cab driver pantomiming the recoil of a double-handled machine gun would induce extreme panic. His hands were definitely not at ten and two; more like the clock was about to expire on our earthly time.

For over 20 years Easter has meant a trip to the Washington, DC area for services and celebrations with my mother. Our favorite church is opposite the White House, and for two decades the pastor provided great insight and reflection upon the meaning of the passion, crucifixion, and rising from the dead of Jesus Christ. While I can’t speak for the rest of the congregation, we also looked forward to his insights on two secular, but no less religious, topics. As a UNC graduate, and with Easter often falling during the final four, our minister had very strong opinions about college hoops and how good should triumph over evil. To nobody’s surprise, Duke never made it as an example of good. And the start of the baseball season always brought out lessons about hope and eternal opportunity. As he was a lifelong Baltimore Orioles fan, the congregation definitely could see our minister as a man whose faith has been sorely tested.

Which brings us back to our overly-demonstrative taxi operator.

As with many large American cities, driving a cab in our nation’s capital is primarily a job manned by immigrants. On this bright Easter morning, Muhammad cheerfully picked us up and started speeding toward our church destination. Perhaps inspired by the miracle of empty traffic lanes, he started asking where we from, what brought us into town, and other cabbie chit chat. Returning the favor, we found out that Muhammad was from “a town outside of Kabul” which, geographically, meant little to us beyond “Kabul.” This being a few years after 9/11, the conversation then naturally turned to his experience with practicing Islam under the Taliban. It was at this point that our driver’s workable English morphed into charades while also going well over the speed limit on an otherwise deserted George Washington Parkway.

“Rat-a-tat-tat” he voiced, while simultaneously mimicking the gun recoil with both his arms. “They just beat it into you. All the time.” My mother and I nodded, simultaneously murmuring a sympathetic “Mmmm.” “I just want to pray, not be told how by Taliban.” Again, something we could all agree upon. With this triumvirate in agreement on the nature of peaceable assembly and practicing of religion, Muhammad managed to release his imaginary gun and return his hands to the very real steering wheel. Relaxing his demeanor and pressure on the gas pedal, he casually turned his head and asked, “So tell me about this Jesus and this Easter thing.”

Oh my.

Clearly the price of divine intervention at 60 MPH was God having a good laugh at my explanation of His Son. Sunday school had been many decades ago, and my less-than-daring twice-a-year church attendance meant I was still good with most of the popular hymns—liturgical instruction was going to be a big stretch. But if the man asked, I would reply, and so I gave the holy highlights of Jesus (Immaculate Conception, miracles, crucifixion, resurrection, absolving of sins). Muhammad took this all in, carefully considering this scant but heartfelt mini-ministry. “That was very interesting.” he concluded. “Thank you very much.” He seemed genuinely appreciative, perhaps even a little bit better informed. Equally clear was that professional Episcopalian missionaries had no fear of losing their jobs to me.

Despite some absurdity, surely this was an example of the day’s message of peace and love. What could be better than three people spanning half the globe hurtling along inside a steel and glass chariot discussing faith and God? For as my mother and I paid our fare and left the cab, Muhammad provided the final word—the simple wishing to us of a “Happy Easter.”

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved