​​For better or worse, meritocracy shapes many of our ideals concerning achievement. On the one hand, as the famed Ibn Khaldūn summarized in his Muqaddimah: The work ethic of a people is strongest when the fruits of their labor are safe from the reach of government usurpation. Simply put, when people believe that hard work results in success, they work hard. This is meritocracy at its commendable best. On the other hand, an overemphasis on meritocracy may have the effect of minimizing the role of providence in success. Moreover, when success, and by extension prosperity, are separated from the Divine prerogative they are no longer embraced as tests and responsibilities. Quite the reverse, in the absence of an intentional acknowledgment of God’s favor, achievement—more than even appearance, talent, or status—can become a great source of delusion and ingratitude. If our individual worthiness, dedication, or ability has secured for us what we have, how do we view those who haven’t achieved as much? Are they definitively less worthy, unintelligent, or lazy? The Prophet (upon him be peace) said: “Whoever has an atom’s weight of arrogance in his/her heart will not enter Paradise.” Upon hearing this, one of the companions asked, “God’s Messenger! But a man may take pride in his appearance; this is an expression of arrogance?” The Prophet (upon him be peace) continued, “Indeed, God is beautiful and He loves beauty. Arrogance, however, is expressed in the wanton rejection of truth and looking at people with contempt.” The spiritual consequences of arrogance are indeed grave. Fortunately, God offers us a very expedient and effective way of reducing our susceptibility to it. Thanks and giving or ash-shukr and aṣ-ṣadaqa: Gratitude and charity are universally cited as foundational for a good life. For Americans and our often naïve beliefs around meritocracy; inundated with rags to riches stories and biographies which capture the heroic journeys of our cultural heroes, the need for these is even more immediate. The Islamic tradition is replete with conceptual frameworks which vivify the ideals of thanks and giving. In consonance with the spirit of the season and Giving Tuesday (which must be the most Islamic of all the days on the American social calendar after Mother’s Day!) we at the American Learning Institute for Muslims (ALIM) wanted to offer a few reflections.

​Ta’ḍhīm ash-Shari’ah or esteem for the law has always defined the Muslim community. Familiarity with the language of the law and its categories among non-specialists is a unique feature of our community. If truth be told, as a student of Shari’ah, I express a quiet joy each time I encounter Muslims who negotiate the realities of day-to-day life through the use of terms like: ḥarām, halāl, makrūh, obligatory, permissible, recommended, etc. Whether we have training in Islamic law or not; deploy the language of the law with precision and clarity or not; simply invoking the law expresses some of our deepest moral commitments. Namely, that the God we serve is concerned about us and has given us guidelines by which to lead good lives. Additionally, a concern with law articulates a faith that is relevant in the lives of believers. 

For some, Imam Muhammad Adeyinka Mendes’s beautifully rendered translation of The Spirits of Black Folk: Sages through the Ages will prompt them to ask: “Why is this necessary?” They would not be out of place to raise such a question. Many Muslims view the current conversation around race in our community with a jaundiced eye. In asking “why”, I do not believe they intend to invalidate the grievances of Black communities. Nor do I assume them to be enthralled to certain manifestations of anti-Blackness that instinctively respond with dismissal to any celebration of Black people. To be honest, I think they are justifiably anxious. It requires only a modicum of imagination and dialectical skill to realize the problematic implications of the way in which race and identity are discussed in our society. “How will such a specific focus on Blackness—itself socially constructed and incidental—alter our understanding of transcendent Truth?” they ask with great concern. And I appreciate this.

ALIF. LĀM. MĪM.  The first verse of Sūrat al-Baqarah and perhaps one of the most well-known of the Qur’ān is simply three seemingly unrelated letters.  The ḥurūf al-muqaṭṭa’āt, the disjoined letter combinations which begin twenty-nine separate chapters of the Qur’ān are considered a mystery by the vast majority of classical authorities.  Although exegetical literature reveals much speculation about these letters, nothing definitive is offered in the Qur’ān nor attributed to the Prophet (upon him be peace). The subtle irony is that this scripture, which contains verses such as: 
 {“We have sent it down as an Arabic Qur’ān so you may understand.” Quran 12:2}
 {“And we have revealed the Book as an explanation of everything.” Qur’ān 16:89}
 {“Those to whom we have given the book (the Qur’ān) study it as it should be studied: they are the ones that believe therein: those who reject faith therein the loss is their own.” Quran 2:121}
starts its address in a register unamenable to knowledge, explanation or study. Authorities as widely varied in their positions as the rationalist Az-Zamakhsharī and the traditionalist Ibn Taymiyyah agree that the opening verse of Sūrat al-Baqarah and others like it throughout the Qur’ān highlight its other-worldly, inimitable, awe-inspiring character. In other words, the Qur’ān does not only intend to be a book of information; but also a book of inspiration.  Our scripture is just as much about feeling something as it is about learning something:
{“Allah has revealed (from time to time), the most beautiful Message in the form of a Book, consistent with itself, (yet) repeating (its teaching in various aspects): the skins of those who fear their Lord tremble thereat; then their skins and hearts soften to the remembrance of Allah…” Qur’ān 39:23}
    As a new Muslim I initially appreciated the soberness of our devotional spaces.  In fact, disaffection with the ecstatic spirituality of the Pentecostal tradition has always been a common theme in the conversion stories of African-American Muslims.  From its earliest days, the appeal of Islam among Black Americans was based on pride, discipline, and proper behavior. The shared esteem for kinetic orality notwithstanding, Sunday service within the temples of the Nation of Islam (NOI) was quite different from its Black Christian equivalent. Gone were the congregational singing, dancing, glossolalia, trances (“catching the Holy Ghost”), etc. All of this was regarded with disdain.  Indeed, they carried with them the stigma of slave religion, which, presumably in the minds of members of the NOI was much ado about nothing.  We could whoop and holler, sing and dance, speak in tongues and catch the Holy Ghost, but do nothing to confront white supremacy—the real enemy to spiritual/self-actualization. Alternative modes of religious assembly which placed a premium on dignity, comportment, and quiet reverence became a hallmark of the NOI.  Interestingly enough, in spite of the fact that the majority of African American Muslims currently identify with some exponent of Sunnism, the spiritual temperament of the NOI remains with us.  This isn’t necessarily bad, but like so many other things we’ve inherited from our forbearers, it demands to be examined.  The famous 15th century Moroccan scholar, Ahmad Zarrūq, wisely noted that in the quest for balance, “An extreme will only lead to its opposite.” A religious past which placed singular emphasis on rapturous experience, then, may be followed by an overly-cerebral, dispassionate, malaise-inducing religious experience if we aren’t careful.  Wallahu `Aalam.
In any event, when the Qur’ān is studied but not enjoyed, argued about but not wept over, interpreted but not wondrously pondered, we do it and ourselves a great disservice. When standing in Tarāwīh gets the wheels turning on all of our Arabic grammar and knowledge of rhetoric but fails to captivate the heart, we are missing an essential aspect of the Qur’ān.  The opening verse of the first Juz’ of the Qur’ān proclaims boldly: This is the Word of God, the self-disclosure of God and some of it has nothing to do with conveying information. Practical guidance is a consideration of God but equally so are beauty, style, and inimitability. ALIF. LĀM. MĪM opens the door to the Qur’ān. Enter and open your heart to the world of revelation. It’s more than listening comprehension.


ue

​

My friends, Imam Dawood Yasin and Imran Malik named the Clubhouse room “Evergreen Soul.” I had recently returned from a family hiking trip in Utah—for which Imam Dawood graciously assisted me with my equipment—and I agreed to share some stories. This trip, organized by my wife Hadiyah and with her careful, meticulous planning, was a first for our family. I entered the room prepared to offer standard fare: Funny anecdotes about my children and the stale bon mot about the gaping mouths and curious glances generated by a Black, Muslim family in rural Utah. What I encountered, however, was a deeply impassioned conversation led by two erudite Muslims who were also experienced outdoorsmen. The spiritual and intellectual vistas that were explored during the session—by the hosts as well as the attendees—prompted a reflection.
    It’s really quite odd. The Qur’an is replete with verses that exhort humanity to gaze contemplatively upon the world. The following verse of Sūrat al-Mulk is a personal favorite: “He is the One ‘Who created seven heavens, one above the other. You will never see any imperfection in the creation of the Most Compassionate. So look again: Do you see any flaws? (3) Then look again and again—your sight will return frustrated and weary. (4) [67: 3-4] In fact, the Qur’ānic Revelation assumes us to have an intentional relationship with the flora and fauna of the natural environment. If not, the verses encouraging devotion through contemplating creation would be unintelligible. And yet, I’ve always felt a certain aversion to being “outdoorsy.” For me, it evokes “bobo” imagery.  The designation “bobo” was introduced by conservative political commentator David Brooks in his book, “Bobos in Paradise: The New Upper Class and How They Got There.” The term, which is a portmanteau for “bourgeois bohemians,” is used to describe a fusion between two distinct social classes: the white collar, capitalist bourgeois and the counter-cultural, hedonistic, and artistic bohemian. For reasons I’ve yet to adequately explore, “outdoorsy” culture coming onto my radar with this particular genealogy always left me feeling slightly ambivalent.       
    Nonetheless, I claim no special authenticity for myself. We all consciously and subconsciously participate in social rituals that announce our class affiliations. Today’s “bobo” is simply yesterday’s “yuppie” or in my specific case, “buppie” (Black urban professional). However, in addition to being as potentially contrived and commercially driven as yuppie, hipster, or foodie culture, the category “outdoorsy” at times appears to carry a repulsive self-righteousness. The preachy, environmentally-conscious, anti-capitalist minimalist who spends thousands of dollars on gear at REI to go “off the grid” is the stuff of sketch-show comedic gold! And yet, if the space within my heart that should be occupied by a desire to commune with the creation of God is instead filled with derisive mocking of “glamping,” who’s more deserving of the label “superficial?”
    Imam Dawood spoke of intentional engagement with nature in a register too profound to be referred to as “outdoorsy.” He wasn’t referencing a pedestrian fascination with being outside of doors or even an urge to make an occasional spiritual pilgrimage to the wilderness for the purpose of interrupting our soul-crushing, mechanized, artificial daily routines. Rather, he spoke of being in regular contact with nature as a source of achieving balance, equilibrium, and most importantly guidance. While sharing an insight of a young woman who participated in an outdoor activity which he led, the Imam mentioned that to enter a natural environment is to enter a place that is without sin, a place in perfect harmony with the Will of God. Viewed against such a grand backdrop, the weightiness of the deputation God has entrusted to men and women—by making us free-choosing, accountable beings—is drawn into sharp relief. “We did indeed offer the Trust to the heavens and the Earth and the Mountains; but they refused to undertake it, being afraid thereof: but the human being undertook it; He was indeed unjust and foolish.” [33:72]. 
Human willingness to undertake the “Trust,” which was initially refused by the natural world, is the thing which qualifies us as the vicegerents of God and thus the potential objects of His love. When we choose submission (Islam) to God, He loves that we have chosen to submit to Him. However, those elements of God’s creation granted no right to choose exude no less the peace, beauty, tranquility, and harmony that results from being in submission to God. 
Whenever, I reflect upon the time our family spent touring the rugged, mountainous canyon lands of Utah, two things occur to me: The first is that the United States of America is a country of breathtaking geological and topographical diversity. The history of this nation represents a whirling vortex. The grave crimes of racial slavery and genocide intersect with the irrepressible humanity expressed in America’s continued quest for social justice and civil rights. And yet the beauty and generosity of the land itself has remained a constant. Secondly, I reflect on the words of the twentieth-century Anglo-American poet, W.H. Auden who wrote. 

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That for all they care, I can go to Hell
But on Earth indifference is the least 
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were the stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be
Let the more loving one be me… 

In these lines, Auden recognizes that the passion he feels for the stars cannot be reciprocated. But he also recognizes that in being the “more loving one” he is satisfied.

Ubaydullah Evans
Chicago  2021  

​

    “Souls are like conscripted soldiers. Those familiar with each other get on easily while those who don’t know each other feel mutual estrangement.” From the very moment Imam Sohaib Sultan and I met we got on with easy familiarity. Something about his posture and demeanor immediately disarmed me. Usually, a kind of ritual “feeling out” takes place when Muslims with public profiles meet.  In addition to the semiotics regularly associated with dress and presentation; the manner in which a person deploys classical Arabic, the scholars they cite, their take on certain contemporary issues, etc. places them in some category or another: Traditional, progressive, Sufi, reformist, liberal, conservative, woke, apolitical…whatever. My encounters with my brother Sohaib were never degraded by the issuance of such litmus tests. We always spoke as friends.
    The qualities of strength and gentleness rest at different points along the same axis but this eludes many men. The Prophet Muhammad (upon him be peace) was simultaneously the most gentle of people and the strongest of them. Concerning gentleness, he (upon him be peace) is reported to have said, “Everything characterized by gentleness is beautified by it and everything devoid of gentleness is marred.” For me, the term “gentleman” has always been a “tongue-in-cheek” designation. A man that hails from a certain class background whose commitment to purposeful, often arcane, manners in dress, speech, and behavior mark him as distinct from the “rabble.” The greatest irony, perhaps, is that there is never anything gentle about an attitude of condescension. Imam Sohaib, on the other hand, was a gentle man. Even in his position as chaplain at Princeton, an institution known for its patrician bearing, I never knew him to look down upon anyone. In my visits with him there, everyone seemed to have the same affinity for him. He was known for many things: his avuncular charm, his intelligent, inquisitive demeanor, his distinct, infectious laugh. However, the thing for which I pray my brother will be best remembered is the great gentleness and compassion with which he engaged his family and students. 
    Princeton was actually one of the first places I lectured after I began my work with the American Learning Institute for Muslims (ALIM). When I landed at Philadelphia International Airport, Sohaib and his beloved wife, Arshe Ahmed, then just a duo, picked me up together. As we rode along the freeway, Sohaib and Arshe went back and forth seamlessly sharing perspectives about pastoral care and advising me of the best ways to connect with students. Arshe’s perspectives were as unique and personal as those offered by Sohaib. When I earnestly questioned, “So you both work at the university?” Imam Sohaib responded, “This is very much a team effort. I currently serve as chaplain but we do this together.” I started lovingly referring to them as “Imam Sohaib and Imama Arshe.” And that openness to collaboration, itself a Prophetic trait, was very much at the heart of the way he led our community. 
    Once, Imam Sohaib phoned me on a Friday morning. His characteristic mellow and warm tenor had given way to a slight urgency. “Some of the students on campus have made suggestions concerning the Friday Prayer,” he said. “Some brothers and sisters,” he continued, “feel that the current seating arrangement, with the sisters seated behind the brothers, inhibits their ability to fully connect with the service. Additionally, many of the sisters have expressed a desire to hear from a greater diversity of khaṭībs (preachers) including women. What do you think?” Reflecting upon our conversation, the thing most telling to me now was that my protective instincts were focused on the tradition whereas his were fixed upon the students. The fact that he also held great respect for the tradition and I also identified with the aim of making Islam accessible to people on campus made for a memorable exchange. I fulminated, “No time is devoid of shifting cultural currents and ours’ is no different. In our time, these shifts tend to be about race, gender, and sexuality and in others they were about epistemology, the nature of divinity and political power. Through it all, the core elements of Islamic practice have, for the most part, resisted being reactionary. Cultural shifts will inevitably take place but they should take place elsewhere.” He simply countered, “But Ustadh Ubaydullah, our goal on campus is simply to meet people where they are. We’re not tasked with making decisions for the entire Ummah! I just want the students on campus to feel comfortable at Jumu’ah. And I don’t want to do anything which contradicts the guidance of our tradition. In sha’ Allah, we will be guided to something that fits within the boundaries of the tradition and meets the needs of our students.” 
    The next time we spoke I asked, “what happened with the Jumu’ah?” He said, “We divided the room in half with lanterns so that the men and women are separate but equidistant from the khaṭīb. And for the khaṭīb, we all agreed that the responsibility of leading the prayer would remain that of the brothers. However, at the conclusion of the prayer, every week one of our sisters will offer a reflection and lead the attendees in du’a.” Caring, brilliant, creative, deeply rooted in knowledge, devout, and unafraid to challenge a prevailing norm if he thought it would help people connect with our vast, beautiful religion, this was Imam Sohaib Sultan.
    The last time my brother and I spent time together was at the Ivy Muslims conference in East Windsor. Sohaib had recently become a father; welcoming his precious Radiyya, and he was incandescent. He probably didn’t notice me watching him as he endearingly gazed upon the child darting about his peaceful home. That morning, we had breakfast with his parents and the omelet that Arshe prepared was so delicious it nearly distracted me from the fine company I was blessed to enjoy. As a parent myself, I thought, how gratifying must it be for Sohaib’s parents to witness their son getting an opportunity to share with Radiyya in parenthood some of the gifts they had shared with Sohaib. And his cancer diagnosis and subsequent passing will not frustrate that legacy. God-willing, Radiyya will one day read the memoirs and listen to the addresses that her father delivered in his final days. Sohaib offered us lifetimes of beauty, reflection, compassion and grace. What a beautiful man he was. May Allah grant him access to Firdaus, the Highest, the company of the Prophets, the martyrs, the righteous and the spiritual ecstasy of gazing upon His (Glorified and Exalted) blessed countenance.

Ubaydullah  Evans
Chicago 2021  

​

​“The Third Resurrection” refers to Blackamerican engagement with the scholarly
tradition of Islam. It is not simply about learning the tradition. To be sure, classical training is an
essential point of departure. However, the Third Res, cannot be realized until we deploy tradition
in ways that are both authentic and relevant. This requires a subtle balance. On the one hand,
tradition places a premium on precedent and on the other, many of the realities confronting
Blackamerican Muslims are unprecedented.
In most cases, authenticity and relevance can be bridged through renewing classical
principles and calibrating them to our circumstances. Even among those that embrace dynamic
approaches, wholesale rejection of the tradition is rare. And yet, tradition contains things which
produce great discomfort among Blackamericans. In particular, re-negotiating or omitting
teachings which connect rank and prestige with lineage might be an instance in which
Blackamerican Muslims would call upon some Third Resurrection interpretive license. Ideas
that many Muslims regard as completely uncontroversial, such as love of the Ahl al-Bayt (The
family of the Prophet [upon him be peace]), afḍalīyyat al-`Arab (the ascendancy of Arabian
lineage), etc. have quietly vexed some Blackamerican Muslims for generations.
In fact, for many, the suggestion of a racial/ethnic hierarchy within Islam is not only
deeply offensive; it undermines the very basis of their conversion. For Black people, achieving
dignity and respect within America’s dominant culture has been elusive—if not intentionally
denied. As such, the notion that there is some biological/historical set of factors that makes
another people their categorical superiors is an anathema. The universalist message of the
Prophet’s (upon him be peace) Last Sermon or the thirteenth verse of Sūrat al-Ḥujurāt is more
consistent with the moral clarity they seek from Islam. Interestingly enough, different iterations
of principles such as the obligation of loving the family of the Prophet (upon him be peace) and
afḍalīyyat al-`Arab have been embraced by non-Arab Muslim communities across time/space.
Those communities—many of the most productive and prolific of whom have been
African—never understood those principles to violate the fundamental equality of human beings
and moral meritocracy. Quite the reverse, they understood these precepts to be an extension of
loving the Messenger of God (upon him be peace). Is this then, for us, an issue of misplaced
sensitivity?
Or perhaps this is an example of “fitnah” being “worse than slaughter.” Feelings of
insecurity and displacement are not inherent responses to special honor which has been conferred
upon someone other than oneself. The secure response is to call to mind the honor that has been
uniquely conferred upon oneself to the exclusion of others. There is surely historical and
contemporaneous trauma within the Black experience which heightens our awareness of the
potential danger of ethnocentrism. Additionally, our community has experienced a corresponding
anti-Blackness which makes it difficult for Blackamerican Muslims to see our own unique God-
given gifts and distinctions.

Earlier this year, I was honored with a request to write a foreword for the recent
publication of The Spirits of Black Folk: Sages through the Ages. This is an abridged translation
of Raf’ Sha’n al-Ḥubshān, an original work of the famed Imam Jalāluddin aṣ-Ṣuyūṭī. This text is
a carefully curated collection of biographical entries of prominent Black spiritual luminaries and
an exposé on some of the metaphysical dimensions of blackness. In bringing it to light, Shaykhs
Adeyinka Mendes and Talut Dawud (may God reward them) have done our entire Muslim
community a tremendous service. For Blackamericans specifically, it serves as a reminder that
people of African descent have no reason to feel insecure concerning where God has placed His
good favor.
We’re engaging the sources of our tradition. We seek to be edified by it as our Salaf were
but we afford to ourselves some license in the manner in which we deploy it. Everything which
contributes to the love of the Messenger of God (upon him be peace) is for our benefit. And
similarly, anything which induces feelings of inadequacy and inferiority is not suited for us.
Imam al-Bukhārī reports that “Umar (may God be pleased with him) came to the
Blackstone, kissed it and said, ‘I know that you are a stone, you do not cause benefit or
harm; and if it were not that I had seen the Messenger of God (upon him be peace) kiss
you, I would have never kissed you.’” I have always found this narration fascinating. Umar
followed the precedent set by the Messenger of God (upon him be peace) by kissing the
Blackstone. This isn’t surprising. Umar is noted for his impassioned adherence to the Prophetic
way. His preamble before hand; the qualification of his action, however, seems uncharacteristic
of him. Kissing the Blackstone produced an uncomfortable memory of idolatry. Umar adheres to
Prophetic practice but not without first making a personal declaration: “I don’t worship idols! I
don’t believe stones can harm or hurt me. I am only adhering to the Prophetic way!” The parallel
here is striking. As Blackamerican Muslims, we too aspire to express love and esteem for Ahl al-
Bayt and those associated with the Messenger of God (upon him be peace) through language or
tribe. However, not without a declaration: “We don’t subscribe to theories about any “master
races.” And we don’t exclusively locate piety, value, or worthiness outside of our own people.
We are only expressing love for the Prophet Muhammad (upon him be peace).”

Ubaydullah Evans
March 2021