“When are you going to be a Christian, little Moro?” inquired the kind Padre.
“I am a Mohammedan. My people come from the southern Philippines. We worship one God, and Mohammed is his prophet. We make converts by the sword of force, rather than by preaching,” replied Moro, his eyes looking strange and brave.
“Tell me more about your religion. I have heard it is peculiar,” said Filippa.
“When we pray, we face Mecca, instead of Jerusalem or Rome. At Mecca in Arabia is the Holy Book, which we call the Koran. There, also, is the birthplace of Mohammed, our prophet. We believe in troops of angels above, as well as in ‘jinns,’ or spirits, on earth, who are ready to help us. We have no altars in our mosques or churches.
“Our mosques are immense, plain structures, with only large Arabic letters of texts, painted on the walls and ceiling. Five times a day, the Muezzin priest mounts the outside of the mosque tower, and calls the faithful to prayer. Each Mohammedan carries his own praying mat. After placing it on the tile floor beneath the thin pillars, he kneels and bows upon his mat, facing Mecca, where our prophet was born. We do not use music or organs.”
Moro’s Father
All this Moro explained to us. What he told about his religion was very different, very interesting, very new.
“There are good things in your religion,” said the kind Padre, as he placed his hand gently on Moro’s dark head.
“You despise the use of intoxicating liquor. You teach the duty of giving alms and of being charitable to the poor, the unfortunate, and the sick. You teach that every one is his brother’s keeper, and should help his brother to succeed in life. You teach that cleanliness and plain living are almost a part of religion. And we Christians agree with you, Moro, in all these grand ideas; for I think that, with all the sorrow now in the world, some of us have been too selfish, too luxurious, as though we thought we would live forever, and had no duty except to ourselves.”