The Battle of Badr was a decisive military victory for the early Muslim community. After years of pacifist resistance in Makkah, the battle represented a new willingness on behalf of the community to defend its physical integrity. It was such a watershed moment in the history of the first community that presence at Badr became the greatest signifier of religious commitment. In many ways, it is the Islamic equivalent to the Passion of the Christ (upon him be peace) or the Exodus of the Children of Israel. And while I think it a misnomer to cite Islam as a tradition which sacralizes war, martial combat is rightly viewed as an occasionally necessary evil which exposes the best and worst of humanity.  On the 17th of Ramadan, in the second year following the Prophet’s migration, 313 soldiers prepared to face an opposing force comprised of over 1000. As the battle approached, they were harangued by naysayers who said they would surely meet their demise. In courageous defiance, they offered, “God will suffice us. He is a faithful guardian.” (Hasbunā Allah wa ni’ma al-wakīl). With providence, they won; and the Battle of Badr has since become a part of our sacred history.

Whenever I think about it, I find myself asking: Is there anything as meritorious as that? Is there any test of faith that even comes close to a willingness to sacrifice it all in the face of nearly insurmountable odds? For some companions of the Prophet (upon him be peace) and one in particular, the question of performing an act whose merit rivaled what had taken place at Badr was real. If seeking the pleasure of God is an equal opportunity endeavor, as is maintained by Islamic teachings, battle—which is primarily engaged by people unencumbered with domestic responsibility—cannot contain singular merit. In light of the current crisis, we’re spending more time at home than ever: Homeschooling, settling disputes, performing chores, coordinating activities, planning and preparing meals, working offsite, and STILL trying to retain at least a semblance of the special devotional character of the blessed month of Ramadan—a jihād indeed! The activities unintelligently derided as “women’s work” have become our collective theatre of battle. And for those like me, who benefit from a partner who makes contributions outside the home and inside the home—but who takes on a disproportionate amount of the household responsibility—COVID-19 has been a rude awakening. This isn’t easy. In fact, those who care for their families have the same rank as soldiers striving in the way of God. I cite this brief vignette of the Sīrah (Prophetic biography) mostly for my wife. Hadiyah, this Ramadan has given me a new appreciation for your work and struggle.    
                  
The collection of Imam al-Bukhārī contains a tradition which features Asmā’ bint Yazīd (may God be pleased with her). She is sometimes referred to as Khaṭībat al-`Arab al-Anṣāriyya. A Medinese woman; she was elected by a group of women among the Companions (may God be pleased with them) to address to the Prophet Muhammad (upon him be peace) some of their shared concerns. By all accounts, she spoke brilliantly. When she highlighted the disparity between men and women with respect to accessing educational opportunities, the Prophet (upon him be peace) responded by agreeing to host regular gatherings especially for women. Additionally, owing to the great esteem expressed for the men who had recently fought at Badr, she requested an action that women could do—seeing as though many of them were preoccupied with caring for their families and could not engage in combat—that would be as meritorious as striving (militarily) in the way of God. The Prophet (upon him be peace) assured her that if she “stayed with her family and looked after her children she would be given the reward of one striving in the way of God.” The Prophet (upon him be peace) likened homemaking to fighting in the path of God and some of us have yet to appreciate the profundity of the comparison. 

The Prophet (upon him be peace), “…doesn’t speak from caprice” and while I never doubted the truthfulness of the statement, I think I interpreted it as a kind of hyperbolic consolation. In other words, although no act of sacrifice could really rival risking life and limb in the path of God—as happened at Badr—caring for one’s family is commendable. Suffice it to say, nearly 7 consecutive weeks at home with my children has altered my understanding! In actuality, caring for one’s family and striving militarily for the sake of God involve many shared virtues. The one that comes directly to mind, especially in the month of Ramadan, is exchanging a realization of the spiritual that comes about through enriching experience (Tarāwīḥ, night vigils, recitation of the Qur’ān, etc.) to a realization of the spiritual that comes about through service. Ibn Aṭa’Allah wrote, “…There is no sweetness in jihād there is but the jagged edges of swords. So prosecute the jihād against your passions. This is the greatest jihād.” There is likewise little sweetness in being too fatigued from a long day of child-minding to pray a lengthy, uplifting Ṣalāt al-Tarāwīḥ. However, echoing the great Alexandrian jurist, disciplining the soul isn’t sweet. It’s incredibly difficult but it’s where spiritual elevation lies. How often have we as husbands/fathers bolted from home after iftār, leaving the house (and screaming, un-bathed children) in disarray so we could get to the “real” spiritual activity of praying Tarāwīḥ in the mosque. The prayer contains immense spiritual value; however, so do the dishes and bedtime routine. Asmā bint Yazīd asked the Prophet (upon him be peace) about how the women of the community could attain the spiritual rank of the men who participated at Badr and he directed her to care for her family. “Ustadh Ubaydullah, prayer in congregation and specifically Tarāwīḥ are staples in my Ramadan regiment. Ramadan without the masjid just doesn’t feel the same. I’ve heard all of the fatāwa (legal response) about Tarāwīḥ by satellite and I’m aware that the Prophet (upon him be peace) would often offer Tarāwīḥ at home. I’m clear on that. But is there anything I can do to make up for what I’m missing because of the shut-down?”  The Battle of Badr, one of the greatest events in the history of Islam, was fought in the month of Ramadan. One of the companions (may God be pleased with them) who wasn’t able to participate asked the Prophet (upon him be peace) about an action that could be done as a substitute. I could tell you about it but it might surprise you…

Ubaydullah Evans
Chicago 2020          

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Edward Said, the distinguished literary and cultural critic said, “Exile is the saddest of fates. In premodern times banishment was a particularly dreadful punishment since it not only meant years of aimless wandering away from family and familiar places, but also meant being a permanent outcast, someone who never felt at home, and was always at odds with the environment, inconsolable about the past, bitter about the present and future.”
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Our current predicament of self-quarantine as the result of COVID-19 has not yet reached the level of pre-modern banishment. Nonetheless, the most evocative bit, the flourish, “…someone who never felt at home, and was always at odds with the environment, inconsolable about the past, bitter about the present and future” resonates with me. The quote, culled from the 1993 Reith Lectures, is part of a thesis in which Said maintained that exile or a position “forced out” of a context to which one organically belongs imbues the critical examination of that context with acuteness. The recent outbreak of COVID-19 in the US and abroad has given us a share of that “exilic consciousness.”  The entire world is being forced away from “family and familiar places…” and it’s been cause for introspection. In our current “exile” from normalcy, only with the most intentional hubris can we continue to see our nation as indispensable or impervious to collapse. History has known no such empire. Unfortunately, many of us have assumed attitudes which frustrate a meaningful engagement with history.  By extension, scripture, whose coherence relies on historical memory, struggles to find a modern register in which the full scope of its wisdom can be appreciated: The Qur’ān states:

{“Many were the Ways of Life that have passed away before you: travel through the earth, and see what was the end of those who rejected the Truth”} [3:137]

{“Do they not travel through the earth, and see what was the end of those before them? Allah brought utter destruction on them and similar (fates await) those who reject Allah”} [47:10]

For fear that unimaginative thinking could interpret these verses as justification for religious chauvinism, a point of clarification is necessary. No nation in the Qur’ān was punished because it wanted to establish a society built on justice and pluralism. On the contrary, each destroyed people combined their rejection of the prophetic message with corresponding acts of iniquity: The people of Noah (insolence and mockery of faith), the people of Hūd (unjustifiable arrogance and making the audacious claim “no one is more powerful than us”), the people of Ṣāliḥ (intentional desecration of the signs of God), the people of Lot (sexual anarchy), the people of Shu’ayb (greed and financial exploitation of the vulnerable), Pharaoh and the Egyptians (claiming divinity and the enslavement and attempted genocide of the Children of Israel), etc. We can only speculate about the possible outcome if these communities had heeded the prophetic command to rectify their societal wrongdoing even if they continued to adhere to divergent religious beliefs. To be sure, the theological/philosophical underpinnings of a society and its morality/ethics have a direct relationship. This is undeniable. However, this trying time is forcing us to assess both the fragile nature of our world and our contribution to it. It would be a misguided over-simplification to conclude, “our world could be on the precipice of destruction, we’d better get to work proselytizing.” Formal acceptance of Islam is the best thing we have to offer humanity; it should never be the only thing.                   
We’re unable to say definitively that COVID-19 is a manifestation of punishment. In actuality, we don’t know why this happening. We appeal to the limitless mercy of God. Nevertheless, calamitous times are best faced with self-examination.

{“Fasād has appeared on land and sea because of what the hands of people have earned, that (Allah) may give them a taste of some of their deeds: in order that they may turn back”}[30:41]

 Repentance and the cultivation of personal piety are essential. Yet, when revisiting the concept of retribution in the Qur’ān, we see that reckoning is not predicated solely on personal piety. The communities which faced Divine punishment were guilty of corporate immorality. Put differently, yes; now is the time for us to reflect upon our sins. Each of us should be thinking about our moral inconsistencies and the lapses in our devotion. However, it’s equally important that our inventory transcend personal piety. What do Muslims, as a collective, mean to the larger community?

Al-Nu’mān ibn Bashīr reported: The Prophet (upon him be peace) said: The parable of those who respect the limits of God and those who violate them is that of people who board a ship. After casting lots, some of them reside on the upper deck and some of them below. When those in the lower deck want water they pass by the upper deck and say: If we tear a hole in the bottom of the ship, we will not harm those above us. If those in the upper deck let them do what they want, they will all perish together. If they restrain them they will all be saved together. (Bukhārī)

Our fate and that of our neighbors are inextricably linked. Extending the metaphor of the Prophet (upon him be peace), we are all aboard a single vessel. Together, we will either correct its course or prepare for the inevitable. I realize there will never be uniformity around a vision of Muslim civic-mindedness. Varying histories and priorities certainly produce varying approaches. Nonetheless, looking out from our newly adopted place of exile, our Ghār Hirā’, if the analogy stands, our vision should be sharpened. We must see more for ourselves than, to quote Martiniquais poet, Aimé Césaire, “a place at the rendezvous of victory.” How much of our work to hold the dominant culture accountable could possibly fall into this category? Undoubtedly, much of the denial of our entreé into the elite spaces, places, and privileges presided over by the dominant culture is the result of anti-Muslim bias and bigotry. However, in our fight to gain access, to be “centered”, as it were, might we be forfeiting our responsibility to critically examine or even transform that culture?

Shamar Hemphill, Deputy Director at the Inner-City Muslim Action Network (IMAN) and recipient of the 2019 El-Hibri Community Builder award, captured the sentiment best when he said: “When we begin to see substantive issues like the prison-industrial complex, social devastation in poor communities, and irresponsible American militarism as Islamophobic, then there is some utility in the term. A term denoting hostility to our faith should mean hostility to the values for which we stand.” Otherwise, it just becomes a term which denotes the dominant culture’s failure to validate our religio-cultural specificities.” From the inside looking out…it appears that we should be more interested in offering correction than seeking validation.
 
 
Ubaydullah Evans
Chicago 2020                                          

By now, many have seen the provocatively entitled docu-series, Who Killed Malcolm X?  It was captivating. It was emotional. And like most good documentary film, it was controversial.  The account of events accepted by Abdur-Rahman Muhammad, the brilliant lay historian at the center of the documentary, has been challenged—most notably by Karl Evanzz. The film also initiated fruitful discussion around the religious values of redemption and accountability—What is to be made of someone suspected of wrongdoing who goes to great lengths to change—especially if it appears that someone else might have been punished for their alleged wrongdoing? With the announcement of the Manhattan district attorney’s office that it would consider reopening investigations into Malcolm’s assassination, I expect the intramural conversation to grow in intensity. However, my hope is that the contentious exchange in the periphery doesn’t obscure the unifying force at the center.  The wide range of reaction to the series notwithstanding, I think many of us can agree that witnessing six episodes filled with archival footage, photography, and first-hand accounts of early Blackamerican Muslims was a potent reminder of the depth and intricacy of our history. In many ways, we are only just beginning to appreciate the inimitable confluence of factors: political, cultural, and religious that produced Malcolm and by extension the First Resurrection. As the final episode drew to a close, I, like many others, mulled over the particulars of Malcolm’s assassination. However, what struck me as equally ponderous was: How can Blackamerican Islam have a history so rich and unique and not be a greater source of unity and inspiration for American Muslims?

Throughout the history of Sunni Islam, the embrace of the classical tradition and its distinct interpretive language has always been the litmus test of orthodoxy. By accepting this tradition, Blackamerican Muslims have entered into a trans-historical, multi-contextual conversation about the Will of God. This is good. The classical tradition can ground our practice of faith and serve as a counterpoise through which we can identify and critique the false universals of white supremacy. Yet, an orthodoxy embraced with uncritical zeal and hastily gobbled without being well digested can produce the opposite. With the benefit of hindsight, we recognize that conflating foreignness with authenticity was a mistake. We recognize that embracing the Sunnah didn’t entail substituting a focus on eliminating the factors detrimental to Black life for an ersatz globalism which surreptitiously elevated to the exclusive status of “Islamic” the priorities of other segments of the community. Did our enthusiasm for the doctrines, traditions, and heroes of the classical tradition obstruct our view of the pioneers of early Islam in America? The truth is never inadequate. I take exception to any meta-narrative that makes heterodoxy essential for the early community. Nonetheless, to summarily dismiss that community on account of its theology would mean squandering an opportunity to benefit from both its successes and failures. In a very pronounced sense, Malcolm’s life and death highlight both.

The question is begged: The ethics and institutions of the Lost and Found Nation of Islam that a young Malcolm had found so compelling, why didn’t the newly converted community seek to reconcile those with Islam? As a good friend said to me while musing about the documentary, “If only Imam Mohammed and the Minister (Louis Farrakhan) could have seen eye to eye, I could have been building a nation AND knew who my Lord and His Messenger were!”   Why didn’t they; the answer lies beyond the scope of this editorial. The more pressing question is: Why don’t we?  The American Muslim community is comprised of a greater variety of ethnicities, histories, socio-economic statuses, and modes of religious expression than anything imaginable during Malcolm’s lifetime. If we all shared my religious outlook and civic commitments we would be on the right course! No. Quite the reverse, that level of uniformity is both untenable and spiritually malnourished. What is there to “learn from each other—li ta’ārafū...” if we’re all the same? Be that as it may, for all American Muslims invested in a Prophetic Islam, engagement with Islam’s genesis in this country as an expression of black resistance is essential. I use the term “Prophetic” in conscience; not to discredit any of my brothers and sisters who subscribe to different priorities than I, but to challenge us. It’s difficult to find a template for domestication in the mission of the Prophet Muhammad (upon him be peace). He taught and practiced a religion which emphasized Divine unity and “comforted the disturbed and disturbed the comfortable.” The enduring value of Malcolm, the Nation, and the First Resurrection is that they keep us connected to that legacy of the Prophet (upon him be peace). As such, we must bring the discursive and spiritual tools offered by the classical tradition to bear upon the mission, priorities, and institutional course charted by that community. This is not only an expression of our appreciation for our complete heritage (Abū Ḥanīfah and Mālik and Shāfi’ī and Drew and Clara and Malcolm and Elijah) but more importantly, it symbolizes our embrace of the Prophetic mission. And God and His angels invoke blessings and send salutations of peace upon him.

Watching the sequence of events that led up to Malcolm’s assassination was painstaking. I was aware of J. Edgar Hoover’s counterintelligence measures and the growing tension between Malcolm and the Nation. The tipping point; however, which involved his suspension from the Nation for ill-advised public statements made in the wake of Kennedy’s assassination was covered differently than I had previously learned. Malcolm’s statement wasn’t depicted as a gaffe, faux pas, or unintended slip. On the contrary, Akbar Muhammad, who was serving as an assistant minister to Malcolm that day, said “after he had given an entire address without mentioning anything about the president’s assassination (as he had agreed) a reporter asked him if he had any thoughts about the president’s passing. Malcolm paused, lowered his head, and that minute of silence almost seemed like an hour! He then raised his head…” and made his now infamous remark about “chickens coming home to roost.” Minister Akbar’s recollection makes it clear that Malcolm intentionally broke rank with Elijah Muhammad. In spite of his apparent love and reverence for the man to whom he owed his redemption, his conscience wouldn’t allow him to forfeit an opportunity to make this political statement. It might be tempting to see this as an insubordinate soldier failing to “hear and obey” the command of a superior—and many did in fact see it that way, some even imputed a motive of self-promotion to Malcolm. I see something different though. God said to His Messenger (upon him be peace): “It is by God’s grace that you were gentle with them therefore if you had been harsh and hard-hearted, they would have surely deserted you. So bear with them and pray for forgiveness for them. TAKE COUNSEL FROM THEM IN THE CONDUCT OF AFFAIRS…” [3:159]
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I don’t presume to know the modus operandi of Elijah Muhammad in dealing with his followers. However, in this verse God is protecting the Prophet Muhammad (upon him be peace) from one of the greatest liabilities of leadership: suffocation of those around you and stifling their creativity. The Prophet (upon him be peace) struck the most delicate balance between being completely revered and emulated while also ceding space to his followers in which they could benefit the community through their unique talents and gifts. In Malcolm’s case, his taking issue with where that line was being drawn within the Nation apparently led to his intentional defection. There is a lesson in this for American Muslims. We don’t have anyone within our community believed to be divinely inspired so the stakes are considerably lower. Nonetheless, with the enhanced media capabilities of our age, we have seen the charisma of religious leaders amplified. When used in the service of empowering people, charisma is a significant asset for a leader. However, if perceived as suffocating, charisma may force to the margins the greatest asset any leader can posses: The Malcolms.




Ubaydullah Evans
Chicago 2020                                          

          I usually travel for work so the sound of the wheels screeching against the tarmac at O’Hare is the strange, somehow sonorous, reassuring song of deliverance. “Travel is a kind of torment; it disrupts your routine with regard to nourishment and rest. Therefore, after one of you fulfills the intended purpose of his journey he should return home at once.” This Prophetic tradition has always retained a special place with me. In spite of all the amenities of modern travel, home remains an irreplaceable feeling. For me, located in the Bronzeville section of Chicago, the comfort of home always begins with the ride from the airport.
          This particular Sunday I decided to listen to public radio. NPR was broadcasting Latino USA and the conversation was about language. I expected it to be interesting. About 5 minutes into my ride, the show’s host, Maria Hinojosa, began talking about sexism. She was introducing the neologism “Latinx,” a term, which she mentioned, was gaining currency in some literary circles as an alternative to “Latino” or “Latinos”. The problem with Latino and Latinos, Maria explained, was that as nouns designated for masculine singular or masculine plural usage, using them for generic reference to anyone of Latin heritage was sexist. Conversely, “Latinx” was intentionally neutral.  This had me intrigued on many levels. The dynamism written language (as opposed to colloquial idiom) enjoys in our context is historically unique. I thought to myself: what are the factors at play that make some cultures/eras comfortable altering the established rules of a language’s grammar/spelling whereas others are more deferential to the past? I also thought, Maria’s endorsement of the term highlighted the connection of language to representation and thus to power. Clarity, precision, beauty, historical continuity, heritage, i.e. the various and sundry concerns entailed by the intentional use of language, didn’t seem to be considerations at all. Does such myopic focus on power represent progress or truncation—even for those struggling to access greater power? Mashallah, Maria had me thinking and as the show progressed, her commentary became more wide-ranging. She declared, “Gender in Spanish, the fact that all nouns are either masculine or feminine, is so limiting. It’s such an imposition. It reinforces a gender binary we now know is inadequate in describing reality.” “As a matter of fact,” she continued, “I don’t see any utility for gender in language. Unless, of course, I’m addressing one of my transgender friends, I love saying to them ‘chica’ or ‘bonita…’” My state switched from one of mild intrigue to intense bewilderment. Had I just heard what I thought I heard?
          In spite of its acronym (which is an Arabic term for “scholar”), the American Learning Institute for Muslims (ALIM) does not aspire to produce ‘ulema. Rather, in empowering non-specialists through religious literacy, we endeavor to drive conversation in our community. Maria Hinojosa, the unintended feature of my ride home, articulated one of our community’s greatest challenges. When discussing gender as a distinctive attribute of Spanish, the Latino USA host called it an “imposition” and pointed to its inadequacy. Yet, when discussing transgender friends, Maria expressed her enjoyment at their performance of gender and the otherwise imposition became a source of celebration. How peculiar? In my view, her sentiment reflects an attitude that restricts moral value to unencumbered choice. Extraneous interference with choice; be that of tradition, culture, religion, guilt, language, or even biology may be regarded as an impediment to true self-realization. How will a faith which maintains that peace is found through submission (to the will of God) articulate its vision for human flourishing in a context in which choice alone has been sacralized? To be sure, the Qur’an recognizes the importance of choice, declaring directly after Ayāt al-Kursī: “And there is no compulsion in religion…” [2:256]. Sincere religious commitment only grows from freely enacted choice; however, the moral value of choice is predicated not on its being freely enacted but its reflecting what God wants.
          Abu Umamah reported: A young man came to the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, and he said, “O Messenger of Allah, give me permission to commit adultery.” The people turned to rebuke him, saying, “Quiet! Quiet!” The Prophet said, “Come here.” The young man came close and he told him to sit down. The Prophet said, “Would you like that for your mother?” The man said, “No, by Allah, may I be sacrificed for you.” The Prophet said, “Neither would people like it for their mothers. Would you like that for your daughter?” The man said, “No, by Allah, may I be sacrificed for you.” The Prophet said, “Neither would people like it for their daughters. Would you like that for your sister?” The man said, “No, by Allah, may I be sacrificed for you.” The Prophet said, “Neither would people like it for their sisters. Would you like that for your aunts?” The man said, “No, by Allah, may I be sacrificed for you.” The Prophet said, “Neither would people like it for their aunts.” Then, the Prophet placed his hand on him and he said, “O Allah, forgive his sins, purify his heart, and guard his chastity.” After that, the young man never again inclined to anything sinful.
           A colleague who works as an imam once told me a story. He said that a young man entered his office and asked earnestly: “Why can’t my girlfriend and I have sex? We’re adults and we’re in a committed relationship.” As soon as he heard the young man’s question, the imam thought, this is it—a direct parallel to a situation faced by the Messenger of God! For once, instead of groping in the darkness, trying to find some scriptural guidance for an unprecedented situation, the imam would simply convey the Prophetic wisdom. He began by saying across his desk, “would you mind sitting next to me?” After the young man had moved his chair so that he was next to the imam and ready for a real tete-a-tete, the imam began: “Is this a way you would like anyone to treat your mother?” When the young man responded, matter-of-factly, “yeah, definitely; as long as it’s what my mom wants,” the imam erupted in laughter until he was literally crying tears. When he was able to compose himself, he said to the perplexed looking twenty-something, “you weren’t supposed to say that!”
          When the Prophet (upon him be peace) asked, “Would you like that for your mother?” the implication was that the young man’s sexual practice was morally irresponsible and harmful to women. In fact, upon reflection, it is the clear definition of mutual rights and responsibilities among partners combined with an incontestable foundation for the paternity of children that makes sex morally responsible. When those are absent, whether through neglect or single parenthood, women and children suffer: Hence, the young companion’s response, “No, by Allah…” On the other hand, for the young man sitting in the imam’s office, consent is the only necessary condition for morally responsible sex: Hence, his response “…as long as it’s what my mom wants.”
            Some segments of our community are actively engaged in developing creative ways to introduce young Muslims to scripture (Qur’an and Sunnah). This is immensely commendable, Mashallah. Yet, my fear is that if we introduce them to the text without appraising the assumptions and sensibilities that form the basis of their context, we could be guilty of putting the proverbial “cart before the horse.”
 
 
Ubaydullah Evans
Chicago 2020 

​                The power of charisma is undeniable and often irresistible. Whenever our community witnesses the painful “fall from grace” of a religious figure, there is always a vocal faction calling out “cults of personality” and urging commitment to principle over people. On the one hand, this is appreciable.  The Qur’an and traditions of the Prophet (upon him be peace) are replete with warnings about the injustice that accrues when focus is unduly placed on personalities as opposed to principles. On the other, while the virtue of qiṣṭ (moral commitment to justice) should guide our adjudication, it certainly cannot be said to account for the heartbreak we feel at the knowledge that one of our leaders has morally failed. Imam Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, while occupying an endowed chair at the famed Nizāmiyyah Academy in Baghdad, was one of the most sought-after lecturers of his time. His spellbinding command of Arabic and adroitness as both jurisprudent and theologian dazzled and impressed but failed to move people. After suffering a psychological breakdown due to his own perceived lack of sincerity, Ghazālī eventually left his post.  Yet, after a nearly 10 year sabbatical and rediscovery of sincerity through discipline and experience, the Imam returned. In contradistinction to his earlier high-flown style, it’s mentioned that the spiritually renewed Ghazālī would speak plainly; and at the simple mention of the name of God, people would be moved to tears. When highlighting the connection between sincerity and preaching, I’ve referenced this story many times and I’m willing to bet others have also heard it. We only separate the substance from the shadow when someone who has taught us dīn is caught in an act of apparent immorality.  In fact, quite the reverse, we’re often taught that the spiritual state of the speaker and the impact of their words are inseparable. Consequently, when a religious authority is accused of wrongdoing, many people are given to doubt concerning what they’ve learned from the leader. In earlier writings, I’ve attempted to address this conflict by emphasizing the dynamism of faith, i.e., just because the teacher is alleged to have entered a state of sin, it doesn’t necessarily follow that they were in a state of sin while teaching. This, I mentioned, as an extension of the customary understanding of Ḥusn ad-dhann (having a good opinion of others) and a means of protecting our faith against surreptitious cynicism. Now, however; given that the winds of controversy have touched someone I know and love, I feel compelled to speak more personally and less theoretically about moral failure as it relates to leaders in the Muslim community.
            We are professionals. We are performers. We are professional performers. Inasmuch as the word “performance” connotes artificiality and insincerity, it’s jarring to think of scholars as performers. Actually, I have no such connotation in mind. What I have in mind is more along the lines of one whose standing and credibility rest on the competent performance of specific professional duties. That said, a certain measure of indifference to the highs and lows of one’s own life and faith is entailed in the position. Whether upon a personal spiritual peak or valley, the professional responsibility of the preacher is the same. When we’re presenting, our “dark night of the soul” is in Alaska.  I actually chuckle at the thought of conducting weddings and giving sermons about loving relationships as Hadiyah, my wife (may Allah preserve her) gives me the side eye or refuses to listen! And all because we’re going through the same ups and downs as any other couple. In that moment, she and I probably have the same feelings about marriage: “it’s challenging and my partner gets on my nerves!” The only difference is that I have a microphone and a professional responsibility to say something encouraging. So I perform. I perform like a physician having the worst day of their life struggling to retain impeccable bedside manner or an exhausted recording artist on the 30th leg of a tour manufacturing enthusiasm to perform the same set they’ve done the previous 29 dates. Would you expect any less? This is not justification for a lack of integrity. Findings of gross moral inconsistency on behalf of a scholar could mean removal from their position and public accountability. Nonetheless, the shock and dismay that the person “was never who we thought they were” is always telling. Quite frankly, I’m astonished that we’re astonished. Did we really believe that he or she was only a walking repository of scriptural references, uplifting anecdotes, and witty bon mot? Did we actually believe the healer had no wounds, no scars?
Consider the work of our secular colleagues. A strict code of relationship ethics gives the professional therapist a clear set of boundaries inside which they can serve their clients. Have you seen how your therapist interacts with their spouse? How they respond to their children? How they deal with slights or public embarrassment? This distance aids in the creation of a useful compartmentalization: We are able to benefit from the therapist’s counsel without any presumption that we “know’ them. Religious personnel enjoy no such luxury. We host dinners and respond to invitations. Our children attend the local Islamic school. We frequent the weddings, births, graduations, funerals, etc. of community members. We “do” community and speaking for myself, I absolutely love it. However, when the fallible human being struggling “to submit” is furtively seen, or perhaps in some cases, glaringly seen beneath the robe of public religious performance, what should be our response as a community?

1. Resist the temptation of dichotomizing saint/charlatan language. The relationship between the public performance of professional religious personnel and their private lives is much more complex than that.                                                                                                                                                                                        
   
2. If the act of wrongdoing was committed while the religious leader was acting in the capacity of their position, public accountability is necessary. In such cases, the act of wrongdoing must not simply be viewed as an isolated incident which might have caused harm. On the contrary, it was the betrayal of a public trust in a position that was more than likely funded by the Muslim community. If, on the other hand, the act of wrong doing is a private matter, the religious leader is just as deserving of privacy, good counsel, and the concealment of their sins as any other member of the community.                                                                                                                                                                                  
3. Depending on the severity of the action, both kinds of wrongdoing (public and private) could necessitate termination and even legal action. But how will we do it? As an angry mob, disparaging people that have at least attempted lives of service as charlatans? Or as a community that understands; understands the weightiness of the Prophetic inheritance. In the Shamā’il Muḥammadīyah of Imam at-Tirmidhī, Sayyida Aisha (may God be pleased with her) narrates: “And I never saw the private parts of God’s Messenger (upon him be peace).” Subhanallah. Even the most intimate details of the Prophet’s life have been revealed for our edification. His (upon him be peace) private was public! The Prophetic inheritance enjoyed by scholars entails a similar willingness to be under a microscope and it has proven many men and women unworthy or perhaps unfit. A gallant effort is not discounted by failure. However, the offending religious authority must be removed from the position to prevent them from harming themselves and/or others. If legal action must be taken, the aim must not be character assassination but rather the redress of wrong—which our belief maintains is better in this world than the Hereafter.                                                                                                                                                                                        
4. Lastly, we must actually see our brothers and sisters and see our community. The response to these controversies often reveals where our investment lies. Some are exclusively invested in the public image of their hero. So that even if they understood that public acknowledgement of (public) wrongdoing and facing justice in this world (as opposed to the next) were spiritually healthier and more propitious for their erstwhile hero, they would still be more concerned with protecting their reputation—because of something that reputation offers them. How despicably selfish! Some are clearly invested in anti-clericalism. Their “victim-centeredness” is diaphanous: A thinly veiled attempt to discredit “the scholars.” Some are invested in protecting “the tradition.” Leading them to either lambast the offending party in an effort to disassociate the tradition with them or to explain away the offense in an effort to vindicate the tradition. It’s extremely difficult to view all parties involved as our brothers and sisters in faith for whom we desire justice and salvation. And even more difficult to see their actions as representative of endemic issues and cultures of harm that we may all be tacitly or actively aiding and abetting.

 
Ubaydullah Evans
Chicago, 2019                         

My wife Hadiyah is creative. When she recognized that our eldest daughter Aasiyah was approaching her thirteenth birthday, she started planning a “coming of age” party.  Part debutante ball, part “bat mitzvah”; it’s an original vision. As a new teen, Hadiyah contends, Aasiyah should be introduced to her “village” and celebrated as she assumes responsibility (taklīf) for her religious obligations. I’m fascinated by my wife’s vision: a party that occasions “coming of age”, in which taklīf would be a central theme.  What exactly would we be celebrating?  Seeing as though legal adulthood or majority begins at the age of 18 in most states, does the concept of adolescence militate against an embrace of taklīf? And lastly, with the spotlight recently placed on statutory rape, does our commitment to taklīf dictate any specific intervention we might make in order to prepare our young people?

​When Nelson Mandela described himself as “something of an Anglophile” it relieved some tension. Somehow this celebrated freedom-fighter openly admitting his affinity for English culture made my comparatively mild curiosity a little less damning. And so there I was: A poor student travelling to Cairo via London. Upon arriving at Heathrow, I made my way through the labyrinthine line at the gate until I reached the agent. With an earnestness conveyed by sheer audacity and a pitiful carry-on stuffed to nearly twice its regular capacity, I humbly requested that British Airways rebook my connection the following day so that I could explore London. And to my suprise the agent obliged!

​Listen to this thought provoking podcast on Al-Madina Institute’s IMANwire podcast featuring Ust. Ubaydullah Evans; ALIM’s Scholar in Residence.  Topic: “American Islam: Cultural Imitators or Innovators?”

These are the types of discussions that highlight the ALIM Summer Program.  For more information, see the links below.

For many, husn adh-dhann or having a good opinion of others is amorphous. A simple willingness to offer the benefit of the doubt or a “get out of jail free” card which grants immunity in the face of wrongdoing? In our scandal-laden cultural moment, in which the enhanced ability to share news, warnings, rumors, and outright lies about people–some of whom we’ve never even met–is literally at our fingertips, a cursory glance at husn adh-dhann might be helpful.

As a signifier of commitment to progressive values, the terms “diversity and inclusion” are nearly ubiquitous. The past decade or so has witnessed “diversity and inclusion” move from the Affirmative Action inspired charters of schools and businesses to a vibrant part of our media, art, and vernacular cultures. Put differently, we no longer only expect diversity and inclusion where we work or study; it’s something we’ve come to seek more broadly. Taken at face value, this shift toward plurality should inspire American Muslims with great satisfaction. Our faith affords inter- religious/cultural exchange and ultimately familiarity, spiritual value.  The Qur’ān proclaims,