"Diversity and inclusion" are more than just buzzwords in our contemporary society. They represent a profound shift in how we perceive, engage with, and value differences in an increasingly globalized world. Originating from Affirmative Action policies that sought to redress historical injustices in educational and corporate environments, these terms have evolved to encompass a broader societal ethos. They have transitioned from being mere institutional objectives to becoming deeply ingrained societal values that influence our daily interactions, media representations, and cultural expressions.​

“And never have We sent forth any apostle otherwise than [with a message] in his own people’s tongue” – Quran 14:4.

“England and America are two countries separated by the same language” – George Bernard Shaw.

In twenty-first-century America, speaking the moral language of normative Islam is tricky, to say the least. On the one hand, the current generation of Muslim Americans (in contrast to their immigrant forebearers) have now mastered the various idioms of colloquial American English along with its various cultural references, both high and low. On the other hand, the language of our ethics seems more foreign and garbled to mainstream America than ever. Like a well-meaning but embarrassingly naïve American tourist abroad, we often think that if we just raise our voice, speak slowly, and over-enunciate our words, people will eventually understand us:

“WE BELIEVE IN TRADITIONAL RELIGION. WE BELIEVE THAT OUR SCRIPTURE IS DIVINE SPEECH AND THAT WE MUST CONFORM ALL OF OUR ACTIONS TO THE WILL OF GOD, NOT LEAST OUR SEXUAL MORES.”

​Those fluent in the language of Tradition appreciate the nuanced connotations of such words; those who have grown up speaking a more modern language, however, just stare, half-amused and half-perplexed. But, whereas a generation ago, this socio-linguistic divide between Muslim Americans and mainstream society was taken for granted, the Muslim community itself is now unable to effectively talk to each other. As Shaw noted about England and America, the very fact that we are all ostensibly from the same highly specific background – Muslim and American – means that, while the words streaming forth from our mouths are ostensibly the same language, that very superficial commonality hinders actual communication even more than if we were speaking Chinese and Russian to one another.

“Ustadh, I feel so cheated! I’ve been fasting for the entire month and now I’m not praying on the 27th night of Ramadan.” I was teaching at a mosque a few years ago during Ramadan when a female attendee made the previous statement. I don’t think I had ever heard it put in such stark terms but I was familiar with the sentiment. Many of us think of the month of Ramadan as a time in which we do more for God: The fasting, praying, charity, scriptural readings, night-vigils, service projects, Laylatul-Qadr, etc. The increase in our devotion and worship in the month of Ramadan is undeniable. In fact, I would even go so far to say that for many of us, Ramadan offers glimpses into an ascetic lifestyle. The “even water” running joke among Muslims—which refers to the typical response of people of other faiths (or no faith at all) when informed about Ramadan—is reflective of the real attitudes of many people.

Calibrate: verb/ cal.i.brate/ `ka-lǝ-brāt/to adjust precisely for a particular function. 
​
I don’t use the word kāfir; well, at least not in public. My particular grasp of the term notwithstanding, the risk its user assumes of being regarded a bad neighbor is simply too great for me. Indeed, this word has come to represent much of what both American Muslims and non-Muslims find unsettling about public religion: Intolerance and chauvinism.  

Salvific exclusivism is the idea that the adherents of only one religion will attain salvation in the Hereafter. Although I’ve neither conducted nor read any empirical research on the matter, anecdotally I can reference a number of stories in which Muslims (particularly millennials) expressed strong opposition to Islamic salvific exclusivism. “What about saints like Mother Teresa, freedom fighters like Martin Luther King Jr, and good people like my best friend—how can they go to Hell?” Each time I hear this I’m taken aback by the directness of the question itself. Where does the presumption that an Islamic understanding of exclusivism does, in fact, consign Mother Teresa, Martin King Jr., and their best friend to Hell come from?

​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.