American Muslim finds obstacles in quest to become an imam

By Michelle Boorstein
Washington Post Staff Writer
Thursday, April 1, 2010; B01 

If there were a prototype for an American-style imam, Adeel Zeb might be it.


In Koran study groups, the 28-year-old volunteer chaplain at American
University weaves in references to U.S. Rep. Keith Ellison (D-Minn.) and
comedian Dave Chappelle (both Muslim), TMZ.com, frat life and President
Obama. 

He preaches tolerance
<http://newsweek.washingtonpost.com/onfaith/guestvoices/2010/03/everyday_isl
am_in_my_name_is_khan.html>  and civic idealism and sports a pinstriped
suit, a GQ-ish trimmed beard and an animated delivery he learned from the
Baptist college where he minored in communications. He'd like to become part
of the first generation of American-born imams, but it's a career path that
is proving much more difficult than he expected. 

"From what I'm hearing from my elders," Zeb says after months of fruitless
job hunting, becoming an imam is "something you do when you can't do
something else. It's like the last-choice career track." 

Or as his wife, Nohayia Javed-Zeb, a 23-year-old law student, puts it: "Any
guy with a Koran and a beard can be an imam." 

Although the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, and the coming of age of a
generation of American-born Muslims have triggered a call for spiritual
leaders rooted in U.S. culture, most American mosques are led by imams from
overseas who aren't fluent in English. They speak Arabic and have memorized
the Koran -- the sole requirements of imams in most Muslim-majority
countries. 

They know how to lead prayers but don't necessarily have the professional
credentials or communication skills to become community leaders: to speak to
the media about Islam, advocate for Muslim civil liberties, preside at
interfaith events and create youth programs, such as Boy Scout troops or
speed-dating nights, that many Muslim American parents want for their
children. 

"I think that finally there is a realization [in the United States] that
qualified imams do not just appear; they have to be developed," said Ingrid
Mattson, president of the Islamic Society <http://www.isna.net/>  of North
America. 

To Zeb, the need for American-trained spiritual leaders is desperate. He and
his wife rattle off a list of issues on which younger Muslim Americans have
asked their advice: men who wonder whether they're gay, women debating
whether to wear a head covering, others questioning whether it's better to
go hungry than eat meat that's not halal (prepared according to Muslim
standards). 

"I'm not trying to insult them," Zeb says of the imams from other countries,
"but they can't speak the language. Kids get turned off from asking
questions. They go on the Internet to try and find answers, and that's not
appropriate." 

"It's paramount -- that's not even a good enough word -- to have indigenous
imams here who can understand the plight and problems of Muslim Americans,"
he said. 

But there are no accredited imam-training programs in the United States nor
standardized requirements for education, pay or benefits. Most imams don't
make much -- $40,000 a year would be a generous salary, a number of Muslim
leaders said -- and often don't command the same stature in their
communities as Christian and Jewish clergy. 

Transformed at Mecca

Zeb's job hunt illustrates the challenges of transforming what it means to
be an imam in the United States. 

He was born in New Jersey and grew up outside Dallas as the ambitious eldest
child of Pakistani immigrants who were expecting him, like the rest of the
men in his family, to become a doctor or lawyer. And that was his direction,
until he went to Mecca as a teen. Standing before the cube-shaped Kaaba, a
building that Islamic tradition teaches was built by Abraham, Zeb says he
felt the awe and power of history and the proximity to the divine. 

He returned home transformed. He began worshipping at a mosque in Waco and
giving sermons. After graduating from Baylor University with a management
degree, he got a job overseeing a cardiology clinic, but he longed to spend
more time studying Islam. 

He received a bachelor's degree in Islamic studies after studying on
weekends and became a spokesman for the local branch of the Council on
American-Islamic Relations. He did Muslim outreach for two Texas members of
Congress and helped navigate civil rights discussions with the departments
of Justice and Homeland Security. 

His two-page résumé is filled with other faith-related experience: youth
mentor at mosques, organizer of Islamic charity fundraisers and banquets,
working with AU's Muslim students. 

Yet he has been stymied in his efforts to land a paid position at a mosque.
Unlike aspiring Christian or Jewish clergy, Zeb has no seminary job board,
credentialing group or denominational associations to help him with his job
hunt. He networked with everyone he could think of and looked on the Web
site workhalal.com. <http://workhalal.com/>  He came up with five places in
need of imams. In the entire country. 

Not all of them are interested in hiring a 20-something imam, even if he's
American-born. 

"If I have a marital problem, I'll think 10 times before going to someone 10
years younger than me," says Reza Baccus, secretary of the imam committee at
the 250-family Masjid al Salam
<http://masjidalsalam.org/index.php?landing=0>  in Houston, which has been
looking for an imam for four years because the last one had a "lack of
understanding about the culture." Someone like Zeb doesn't have "the look --
the old gray beard. This is what we struggle with as a community, the older
generation versus the newer one." 

Zeb's age isn't his only obstacle. When he cold-calls mosques about possible
openings, he gets the same questions: Have you memorized the Koran? Do you
speak Arabic? 

"I try to turn every weakness into an opportunity. I say, 'Have I memorized
the whole Koran? No, but I'm continuing to learn more every day. I'm not
fluent in Arabic, but I understand the importance of learning it.' I try to
promote my strengths: I know how to fundraise, I know how to talk with
people. I sell myself," he says. 

Zeb is picky, too. To him, most mosques look like "an American sports bar in
England," a hangout for expatriots. He wants a dynamic place with young
families, a board of directors, and an interest in politics and interfaith
efforts. "A place with karate and a basketball court," he says. "A place
that wants to move to the future." 

Preaching middle ground

Zeb's preaching style reflects a cross between a businessman and an
evangelist. He finger-jabs when making a point, even a noncontroversial one:
"Utilize your skills!" 

Away from the pulpit, he has a shy demeanor and a babyish face that helps
him blend in with college students. He likes to play video games. He wears
dirty tube socks. He talks about Superman in his sermons. 

His theology is upbeat. He emphasizes what he sees as Islam's wisdom, the
successes of Muslim Americans in sports and politics, and the need to boost
Muslim self-esteem in a time of increased prejudice. A favorite topic is
interfaith relations, in particular the importance of Muslim Americans being
ambassadors to other communities. 

Zeb prefers the middle ground in most disputes, focusing on cultural context
and not on orthodoxies about who keeps more halal or whether online chatting
with someone of the opposite sex is ever acceptable. 

"Find an imam you trust, and if what they say is in accordance with what
your heart thinks is right, go with that," he tells students. "But don't try
to find someone who will please your desires." 

But Zeb's tolerance has limits. Preaching to Georgetown students in
mid-February, he tells them not to celebrate the holidays of other faiths.
During a Koran study session a few weeks later at American, he walks a fine
line when a student asks: Can non-Muslims be righteous? Are they doomed to
hell? 

"It's God's choice," Zeb says after circling the question a bit. "There can
be non-Muslims who go to heaven and Muslims who go to hell. It's an
individualistic thing. Every person has to account to God." 

Zeb's future remains unsettled. Although he's pursuing interviews with
mosques across the country, he's exploring alternatives, including opening a
center to train Muslim chaplains for universities. He's open to politics. Or
being a professor and spiritual motivational speaker. 

For now, he says, those might be more viable options than becoming a
full-time, home-grown imam.