Muslims do a St Paul in reverse

Illegal migrants, mainly from Syria and Iran, are adding new touches to the Damascene experience.

The original story involved Saul, a full-time persecutor of Christians in Jerusalem. The High Priest was so happy with Saul’s zeal that he decided to give him new responsibilities.

Saul and his retainers were sent out to chase Christians in Syria but, as Paul later told the story, a funny thing happened to him on the way to Damascus. A bright light shone from heaven and God asked him a trick question: “Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?” (In those days, God still hadn’t learned to speak in street English.)

Saul couldn’t give a satisfactory answer to that question. Hence he instantly became a Christian, changed his name to Paul and made the phrase ‘on the road to Damascus’ proverbial.

Well, today’s Syrians prove that a similar experience can also occur on the road from Damascus.

They arrive in Britain by rather unconventional methods, such as clinging to the undercarriage of a lorry or packing themselves into a rubber dinghy. Upon landing, that daring act entitles them to such benefits as living allowances and free accommodation, sometimes in four-star hotels.

But it doesn’t entitle them to the right to stay. Of course, they can do so illegally, and many follow that path, but that involves looking over the shoulder to see if immigration officers are lurking in the shadows.

So they apply for asylum, some successfully, some less so. At this point, one would think, the rejected applicants only have two options: either to go back or to go illegal.

Nothing especially interesting so far, is there? But here comes the third option, one that has inspired the above story of Saul/Paul. For those pious Muslims can greatly improve their chances of getting asylum by claiming they’ve had an experience similar to Saul’s.

As a bearded chap walks to the Regent’s Park mosque, a blinding light shines, and a voice thunders from heaven: “Ahmed, Ahmed, why deniest thou me?” Or perhaps “Why d’you dis me, mate?” (God has since learned how to talk proper.) At that moment, Ahmed realises that the way to asylum lies through Jesus Christ.

Off to the nearest church he goes, gets baptised and reapplies for residency, saying that, as a devout Christian, he feels unsafe in his homeland. That’s it, Paul is your uncle, Mary is your aunt. The Visas and Immigration Office opens its arms and welcomes the brother in Christ to the fold.

When I first came across such stories, I was incredulous. After all, His Majesty’s Government is more likely to be biased against Christians than for them. Also, one would hope that our public servants can see through such a transparent ruse.

Alas, they can’t. This raises the question of what to do about it. Taking God’s name in vain is one thing, but taking it in bogus applications for asylum is quite another. So how can we identify fake Christians?

A similar problem arose in 15^th century Spain, when their Catholic Majesties Ferdinand and Isabella decided to rid the country of Muslims and, while they were at it, also Jews. Many Jews then went through fake baptism, while continuing to practise Judaism in secret.

They were called Marranos or conversos, the former being devious crypto-Christians, and the latter all new Christians, whether genuine or not. The Holy Inquisition, first instituted in the 12^th century, was given the task of sorting them out, setting a useful precedent for the UK Visas and Immigration office to follow.

However, call me a sceptic and a cynic, but I can’t quite see that venerable department employing priests trained to examine new Christians on the fine points of doctrine. For one thing, I’m not sure how many vicars and priests could themselves pass such tests. And then there’s the stylistic incongruity of a receptionist at a government office telling a visitor: “Father Ignatius will see you now, Ahmed”.

So much more highly should we praise the Rev Matthew Firth for his ingenious solution to the vetting problem. He introduced a more involved and rigorous process for baptising asylum seekers from Syria and Iran, whom I shall call reversos. The vicar insisted that they first had to involve themselves in the life of the church, especially by attending services.

And what do you know, a miracle occurred. According to the vicar, the number of Muslims who had found Christ instantly “fell off a cliff”, and those people just “melted away”. If so, that makes those reversos not only mendacious but also lazy.

Anglican services typically last about an hour, so attending a few wouldn’t be overly onerous for robust young males (the dominant demographic among asylum seekers). They could then share a pint and a bacon sarnie with the vicar, thereby providing further proof of their apostasy from Islam. A few Sundays like that, and the baptismal font awaits.

Those reversos belie the fashionable belief that religion is useless. Unlike most of the indigenous population, they’ve found a definite use for Christianity. That outdated creed can now do what cards do in three-card monte: trick the innocent. That broad category includes HMG and, by association, us all.

A piece of avuncular advice to my fictional Ahmed and other reversos: remember to keep saying “There’s a God other than Allah, and Mohammed isn’t his prophet”. Who knows, you may get not just asylum but full citizenship. British Christians need people like you.