When I first started studying Islam, there was much that appealed to me. I had long before determined that if there was a God, it not only had to be unitary, it had to be utterly transcedant. It had to be a God of love and mercy, to have created such a spendid universe. I found this God reflected in the Qur'an.

I had certain beliefs about humankind -- that we are all created of equal value, regardless of race, gender, ethnicity, orientation, or ability, and that human beings are basically good, with grave temptation to evil, but with a longing for good. I belived that if there were a Divine, then each individual would relate to that Divine directly, without the intercession of other humans. The Qur'an and the Prophet had a similar vision of humankind.

I believed in justice -- economic, social, political -- and in an inclusive, humane vision for our future. This also, was echoed in the Qur'an and hadith.

As a woman, I found the Qur'an's attitude towards women refreshing and empowering. It at once affirmed our essential equality, the necessity of equal opportunity, while at the same time providing safeguards for those who chose not to purse careers in order to focus on family life. It seemed to me the social system I read about in the Qur'an ensured real choice, not just lip service choice, but choice backed up by injunctions which ensured a woman did not suffer unduly from her choices. I embraced the hijab as a means to opt out of the exploitation and objectification of women's bodies so rampant in Hollywood, the music industry, and marketing.

But none of this was sufficient for me to decide I was a believer. The morality that appealed to me, the practicality that grounded the idealism, the appropriate understanding of individualism and the Divine, could simply have remained pleasant ideals and affirmations of my own beliefs.

It was the Prophet who made me a Muslim. I was, at the time, a devout atheist. I say devout because I had as much faith in the non-existence of God as I now have in God's existence. I did not doubt there was no God. In fact, I did not want to beleive there was a God.

But I read about the Prophet. I read of his of his patience in the face of severe opposition, and his forgiveness for those who had scorned and actively tried to harm him. I read about his humility and how he lived a life of poverty when he ruled the community in Madinah, so different from the conduct of most men when they gain power. I read about how he spent time in his home darning socks, and helping with the housework -- and this from a Prophet, who surely had many, many demands upon his time. I read about his relationship wife, and how he used to run races with her, and tease her, how he would lie with his head in her lap, and how he praised her learning. I read about how he commanded that conflict should not be without bounds, that women and children and non-combatants should not be harmed, nor were farmlands or orchards to be destroyed. I read about how his nickname in his community was "al-Amin," the trustworthy, and how they turned to him to solve tricky social problems. I read about his love for his grandsons, and how he would stay with his face pressed into the ground when they climbed upon his back when he was praying, and how, when a dessert tribes man scoffed at him kissing children, he replied, "if God has put no love in your heart, I surely cannot."

The turning point for me came from the story of the first revelation. The Prophet was in the habit of meditating in a cave in the mountains surrounding Mecca. On one such occassion, he was visited by the angel Gibril commanding him to read in the name of God. The prophet, being unlettered, replied that he did not know how to read. Three times the angel pressed him, and commanded him to read, at last giving him the first revelation: "Read! In the name of your Lord who created, created mankind from a clinging drop, Read! Surely your Lord is most generous, He who teaches by the Pen, teaches mankind what they know not."

Then comes the part that really touched me. The Prophet ran down the mountain to his wife and, shaking and shivering, asked her to cover him up. He told her what had happened, and said that he did not know if he were mad, possessed, or if this was truly revelation. Khadijah expressed her faith in him, and her belief that it was truly revelation from God (thus becoming the first Muslim, before the Prophet himself!).

The sheer, human honesty of this confession of dread and confusion impressed me deeply,
especially in light of everything else I had read about his honesty, his humility, his love and compassion for everyone around him. What benefit could it possible serve to admit that he had been terrified (especially in a culture that prided itself on male bravado)? That he thought he might be mad or possessed? None. It certainly wouldn't bolster his claim to Prophethood. It was simply a revelation of the utter truthfulness of his character.

And so, believing implictly in his honesty, and in the truthfulness of his report, I accepted that he had received revelation. And, obviously, if he had received revelation, then he had to have received it from somewhere, someone, in other words, from God.

Thus I became a believer, not only in Islam, but in God, and in God's prophets. At the time, I knew pretty much nothing about the Muslim world. I had no idea about some of the more egregious interpretations, nor the complete departure many Muslims societies have made from various tenets found in the Qur'an and the Prophet's example. I was in for a bit of a rude awakening. But that's another story, for another day.