God

When the door closes

My grandmother was one of those extraordinary people able to convince absolutely everybody that they have a special relationship. She was loved by everyone who knew her – even by strangers passing through – and her own reservoir of love was unending.

Her grandchildren had only ever known her in retirement – for the entire duration of our lives, she had been living out her retirement – and yet she remained ceaselessly busy, always offering herself to the service of others. And ceaselessly youthful, never seeming to age, until the last few months. My earliest memories of my grandmother were our trips with her to the park in our summer holidays. We would wander around the boating lake, past the aviary, watching the brave souls taking on the splash boat, enjoying our time with her amidst those beautiful colourful gardens. When she and my grandfather later moved down south, similar delights were in store for us whenever we visited.

Seated at that modest kitchen table that we grew so attached to over the years, she would set out a dainty blue glass bowl of cheesy Wotsits and a plate of sandwiches with the crusts cut off for her grandchildren. In turn, years later, she would do the same for her great grandchildren. But who could forget her rabbit-shaped jellies with sultana eyes or the pink blancmanges of our childhood? And whoever could forget her delicious lemon meringue pie, with its crispy golden brown lid?

She was the eternal friend of the children of the family – always there to offer a smile and a hug, never to get angry or sad, never to utter anything except a kind word. She would make a tent for her grandchildren out of a drying rack and a picnic blanket. A fluffy toy could always be relied upon to emerge from the cupboard under the stairs. There never seemed to be a panic around her best china or fragile furniture. Her house — she somehow managed to convince us – was our house.  As we grew older, so too grew our friendship – it was true of all of us grandchildren, each of us considering ourselves immensely blessed for the special relationship we had with her. She gave and gave without end.

When I moved down to London for University, I began to see much more of her, travelling by train from Marylebone to see her at weekends. She obviously saw to it that I was properly fed to make up for my poor student diet. At the end of my first year at university she sent me some money so that I could treat myself to a celebratory meal to mark the last of my exams. I can picture the scene as if it was yesterday when I invited my friends to join me for a proper slap up meal. They turned me down, telling me that they just intended to get drunk, trying to convince me to do the same. But instead, having just turned my back on the bottle after eight months of excess, I headed out into the city for perhaps the most embarrassing meal I have ever had: I sat in grand surroundings before a brilliant white tablecloth, polished silver cutlery in hand and set about ordering my finest meal of the year, as the remaining customers stared at the eccentric loner in their midst. Yes, it was hideously embarrassing, but at least I could tell her that I had spent her money well.

My grandmother then would have witnessed the period of reform that followed, as I tried to rid my system of a year’s worth of stupidity. In the midst of the summer she accompanied me and my brothers to All Soul’s Langham Place, in Central London, a church she truly loved. We returned again at a later date, and her eager eyes fell upon a room for let on the church noticeboard, helping to secure my accommodation for the year. Yes, perhaps she had seen in my drawn and gaunt appearance the excesses of my first year at university and wished to help set me back on a better path. Under her influence I began attending All Souls week after week, where a sermon and song would feed an agnostic’s soul and a good Sunday lunch would fill his stomach.

My grandmother had a lively, active faith that was apparent to all who met her. Her hymn book on the piano in her living room saw constant service. The prayerful man that watched over us whenever we sat at her kitchen table was a summation of her whole outlook on life: to thank God for his bounties.

Over the years that followed, our Lord seemed to draw us together repeatedly. When I graduated from university, I found myself back in her company, resting my head in her back bedroom as I journeyed to the library day after day to look for a job. After a year in Scotland, I landed a job in the south east and for the first few weeks found myself back in her company, where she would treat me to the full glory of a souffle omelette with poached tomatoes. Years later I looked back on those days with regret, wondering if I had ever said thank you, or if I had taken her hospitality for granted: don’t be silly, she promptly replied: that’s what Grannies are for! And anyway – who would she have discussed the Telegraph Crossword with?

My grandmother was great company and always a generous host. Daily Telegraph induced discussions were always best avoided, but her tales of her adventures in her beautiful garden entertained us for hours. When we became neighbours – we settled in a town twenty minutes away from hers – afternoon tea with her became a regular occurrence. We would become the sounding board for her latest misdemeanor in the garden – digging out a shrub that should have been left to a gardener, scrubbing her patio, moving a heavy planter, defrosting the outside tap with a hair-drier, lifting the lawnmower into the back of her car – which she would accompany with a laugh and a plea that we tell no-one. Once she told us just such a tale in hysterics, after a younger member of the family had told her on hearing it to grow up and act her age.

The laughter of her later days was something I didn’t remember from childhood. Yes, there was her perpetual smile: but this laughter was quite different. Once, after a day trip where she had shown us the first house she owned with my grandfather, we sat in our kitchen drinking tea while she recounted a particularly naughty tale concerning a patient at their Surgery. She laughed so much that our sides split too. Perhaps the trip down memory lane had been a tonic that she could not resist. Later we would visit London to visit her old haunts during the war – and there again those tales of old returned, mixing humorous yarns with stories that could only humble us.

Our grandmother had lived a long life, with so much wisdom and experience to impart to her grandchildren. She was not very impressed by the talk of austerity throughout the recent recession, for she had lived through the war. She had queued up for her ration of butter and sugar for the month; she had had furniture made up from scrap wood. She had lived through good times and bad, and yet her eternal optimism remained.

Whoever could forget her telling us that she would be visiting the old folk one day – seemingly oblivious to the fact that some of them were 20 or 30 years her junior? Who could forget her taking an old dear out to lunch, as if her companion was far more advanced in years? Oh yes: that great optimism of hers, even when visiting our weed-filled garden: she could always make excuses for anyone.

To her great grandchildren, my grandmother was just as much their Grannie. The cheesy puffs were back in the bowl on the kitchen table. The sandwiches with their crusts cut off were waiting for them when they arrived. The fluffy toy dog from the cupboard under the stairs was sitting on the stool to greet them. She was always on the end of the phone. Always ready to accept an invitation to come over for afternoon tea. Ready – even at the age of 92 – to play football with two little characters in the back garden.

At the beginning of November she suddenly suffered a stroke. It was ironic that after months of putting plans in place in case of an emergency, in the event I was unreachable due to a dentist appointment. We make plans, but in the end it is out of our hands. Sadly she passed away later the same day. I miss her dearly, but somehow I am numb more than distraught. Numb, I suppose, because her door is now closed. I went to the hospital shortly after she had died and sat beside her body: strangely unmoved though I loved her so much.  Perhaps because I was prepared for this. When death comes, it is sudden: there is no warning. We have an appointed span of time to live out our lives — and then the door closes. While we are alive we have every opportunity to believe, do good deeds and repent. But when the door closes, so does our book.

To God we belong and to God we shall return.

Hold fast to the rope of Allah

Hold fast to the rope of Allah and never take your faith for granted. These are not empty words.

I have passed through those phases of great despair — despair at my own propensity to overwhelm myself with the same sins over and over — when a voice from within whispers, “There is no hope for you.”

God is Most Merciful insists optimism in one ear. But my sins are too many, too consistent, too repetitive, too foolish, too inexcusable… too much to bear. The pessimistic soul feels them weighing on him too heavily. It is not long before he is contemplating abandoning his soul to destruction, not because he disbelieves in God, but because he disbelieves in himself.

This blog has documented many such troughs in my own life, but I am not alone. A friend’s words were once littered with sentiments such as these, though few noticed at the time, attributing them to modesty or humility instead. “Be who I am not,” they once said, telling us how far we had misjudged them: “From these depths, I see what goodness is, and this is why I want you to aspire to it.”

These were not the words of one who had lost their faith in God, but of one who had lost faith in their own capacity to rise above whatever dragged them down. They saw what faith could do for you, but they had already given up on their own self. Such is the nature of despair.

But who despairs of God’s mercy except one who has gone astray? This verse reverberates in my mind each time I descend into that heavy gloom under the weight of my sins. There remains an intense fear that we take His forgiveness for granted, and that He might withdraw it from us. The fear remains that those sins will come back to haunt us, but hope must prevail for it is the antidote to despair. The ultimate outcome of despair is simply giving up: my sins are too many, too vast, too great, so why bother?

The answer, I have found over recent months, is to make gradual steps towards rectifying one’s condition. For a decade I was unable to read the Qur’an in Arabic, for I told myself that the task of learning it was beyond me, but these past few months I have begun to make progress. For five years my Qur’an teacher instructed us to make a regular habit of reading the Qur’an, but only in the past few months have we begun starting the day with a portion of Ya-Sin and ending it with Surat al-Mulk.

My shortcomings outweigh my progress for sure — and I am not immune to continuing to fail — but it is necessary to put in place an antidote to despair. It is necessary to take small steps now, in order to make greater strides in the future, if the Most Merciful wills. “Certainly,” says our Lord in a Hadith Qudsi reported by al-Tabarani, “I run the affairs of My servants by My knowledge of what is in their hearts.”

In these past few months when our little universe has changed immensely, when great blessings have descended upon us unexpectedly, I have come to appreciate the rope of Allah all the more. In God is the remedy to all of our affairs.

The attractions of home

A thought that occurs to me with reasonable frequency is that I could quite happily make the Anglican Church my home, if I believed in it. When I turned my key in the car ignition this morning, it was Sunday Worship from Blackburn Cathedral that whispered from the radio. I allowed myself to listen to a few brief words and the first few bars of a choral anthem, before I turned it off to drive on in silence. My response to what I heard was not contemptuous dismissal, but instead these thoughts: ‘How beautiful.’

Occasionally I will catch an afternoon service on Radio 3 on my way home from work when my finger mistakenly hits a preset button instead of the off switch, and again similar reflections recur. At lunchtime, on my return from the mosque for the midday prayer, I will often meander along the cobbled pavement through an ancient church yard, skirting a great old church on my way back to the office. There is romance in ancient architecture which blends into our imagining of tradition. But the manners of people speak too; obtaining the times of services for Christian guests from local churches recently I was reminded of the great friendliness of church-going folk.

The tradition rooted firmly in this land, the often quaint buildings, the beautiful music, the feeling of warmth and the friendliness of its people: all of these elements give rise to those reflections, that I would happily make my home in the Anglican tradition, if I believed in it.

If, however, is the crux of the matter. For I do not believe that God has a son, or that God became man, or that the father and the son are one, or that God died for our sins. I believe in one God, the maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible. And I believe that we witness God’s mercy in that moment when we turn to Him in repentance, not in a ransom paid on our behalf.

I have often thought of myself as a reluctant believer. The path that I walk is not an act of rebellion, for I carry a fondness for the tradition that accompanied me from birth. When I first came to believe in Islam, I turned my back on it and began attending an evangelical church, reading every article from the Christian mission to Muslims all the while. There were many compelling reasons to turn my back on the conclusion I had reached, but on the other hand there was the unavoidable reason not to: the fact that I believed in it.

However much we feel attached to a tradition, a place, a culture, a group of people, our families, our comforts, our desires; a choice has to be made. When we come to believe in a way, we have two choices: to accept it or reject it. I was reluctant to act upon what I had come to believe, but the decision is not about our status in the eyes of other people, but about our status before our Lord. The attractions of home are strong, but for the sake of God we become strangers.

One

Up until a week ago I had no idea what Apocalypse Now was, other than the name of a film: I knew nothing of its content. Beyond the basics of scoring goals, I don’t know the rules of football. When I overheard a discussion about Ronnie’s salary, I thought they were talking about the gentleman comedian of a more sedate age of entertainment. I haven’t a clue about cricket.

In my entire life I have only watched half an episode of Eastenders; I have never watched Coronation Street. I am not well read and many a famous song has passed me by. In the world of popular culture there is much I do not know. I do know the names of all the birds in my garden, I can recognise the song of a blackbird and a robin, and I can identify common plants and trees, but what I do not know far outweighs what I do.

I do however know that my Lord is One, that He is the Maker of the heavens and the earth, of all things visible and invisible; that He is the All Wise, the Knower of all things, the Bestower, the Guide, the Generous, the Merciful. Yes, I know all this. When friends and colleagues mock my ignorance, I simply reflect on this. Allah is enough for me.

To honour a solemn oath

You may have forgotten that the day God created our souls He took a solemn oath from us. Have a billion years passed since then? Perhaps; perhaps more. But do we abandon our promises just because time has passed us by? Or because we have forgotten them? I wish I could say I was perfect, that I am a pious believer whose heart is clean and strong. I wish I could. But instead the recurring realisation day and night, even if I do not act upon it, is that I must repent. I have so much for which I must repent, and its time is drawing near.

“Repent and ask your Lord’s forgiveness before you leave this world. Before the world occupies all your time, hurry to do deeds to save yourself.” {Ibn Maja}

We have been here before, but that’s life, isn’t it? Those recurring cycles and phases. Now is the time. And yes I will repeat these words in the future, no doubt. But now is the time. And if I return, then now will be the time again. So we repent over and over, renewing our faith week after week, driving onwards towards the inevitable event. That day when our bodies will not breathe another breath and our souls will hang there waiting – still alive, but unable to put forth any more deeds. Perhaps we will hang there in our graves for another billion years as our bodies become dust, but a day will come. How did we honour that solemn oath of ours back millenia ago?

“Repent and ask your Lord’s forgiveness before you leave this world. Before the world occupies all your time, hurry to do deeds to save yourself.”

Now is the time, and tomorrow will be the time, and a month from now will be the time. Every moment is now.

13.7 billion years

According to contemporary scientists, it is thought that the universe came into being around 13.7 billion years ago. The basic characteristics of the very early universe have been described in the big bang theory, but scientists are still only able to make educated guesses about the details. High energy physics has been used to describe the evolution of the universe in the period that followed, explaining how the first protons, electrons and neutrons formed. They talk of the formation of the first nuclei, then the formation of atoms and of neutral hydrogen. A third period describes the formation of structure: matter coming together to form stars, quasars, galaxies, galaxy clusters and super clusters. I find this structural period fascinating.

Some of the most beautiful images I know are those showing deep space as generated by the Hubble Space Telescope. Those images always warm my soul, reminding me of the grandeur of our Creator, putting everything into perspective. One of the most exciting developments of recent times was the Hubble Ultra Deep Field image, which was derived from data accumulated between September 2003 and January 2004. Although this has been described as covering a small region of space, it is estimated to contain ten thousand galaxies. As the deepest image of the universe ever taken using the visible spectrum, it takes us back in time more than 13 billion years, showing us how the universe looked in the early Stelliferous age.

While the images of deep space in themselves are always heartwarming, their significance is also profoundly felt when one considers the words of the Qur’an about Allah’s creation. Sura 41, ayat 11, fails to provide us with a wooly, open description that the post-enlightenment age has taught us to expect from scripture. Far from it: the Hubble Ultra Deep Field image could be used to illustrate this verse. The non-Muslim, Arthur J. Arberry, translated it as follows in 1964:

Then He lifted Himself to heaven when it was smoke, and said to it and to the earth, “Come willingly, or unwillingly!” They said, “We come willingly.” *

This need not comes as a surprise for the Muslim who believes that the Qur’an is the Word of God. Of course the Creator can describe His creation in truthful terms. From His Throne, He is witness to all things. For the disbeliever who considers the Qur’an to be the fourteen hundred year old work of man, however, it could be nothing but a miracle: it would even have been so had it originated in 1964, twenty-nine years before Hubble was operational. Allah is magnificent.

One of my favorite websites is http://hubblesite.org. For me it is a reminder of what we really mean when we say ‘Allahu Akbar’ – God is Great. In these days of conflict, it is wonderful to remind ourselves of these things. If we set our short lives beside the fourteen billion years of Allah’s creation, it helps put everything into perspective. It reminds us of our place. It reminds us of why we are here and our part in this great scheme of things. It is right that we reflect upon these things, because it is what Allah asked of those us who were not brought up as Muslims. This is how that same Arabist translated sura 21, ayat 30:

Have not the unbelievers then beheld that the heavens and the earth were a mass all sewn up, then We unstitched them and of water fashioned every living thing? Will they not believe?

For my part, I have beheld and thus I am one who witnesses that none has the right to be worshipped except Allah alone without partner and that Muhammad is his Messenger. Allah is magnificent. Visit that site and reflect. It is well worth it. Notice how it strengthens your du’a.

* A. J. Arberry (1964), The Koran Interpreted, Oxford University Press, p.491

Allah, the ever Generous

Allah has always been generous to me. His magnificence never fails to amaze me. His signs, his bounties, his blessings multiply. On Friday evening I decided to bring this weblog to a close and thus I brought it off-line, leaving just a few significant words on the front page for anyone who might pass by. Words worry me. The responsibility we shoulder when we use words is great and so I worried, as I often do, about the existence of this weblog at all. Allah has granted me the ability to write and indeed He has decreed that my writing has developed quite significantly over the last few years. Thus I felt that I should use this gift for the greater good, to His Glory if you like. But still I worry. Is it a gift or is a test? A very dear friend of mine pointed out that all gifts can also be a test. Our spouses are a gift for us, but they are also a test. Still, the concern remains and on Friday night I decided to close The Neurocentric down.

Not for the first time, however – the same happened last time I decided to give up my writing – I received an email that evening, not very long after I wound the weblog down. It was someone I don’t really know telling me that my writing was useful for them. The timing: Allah’s Generosity? Why is it that every time I conclude that my writing should cease somebody has words for me? Is it a sign or is it a test? Allah knows best, but I know that Allah is always generous to me. He never ceases to shower His blessings upon me, despite myself. Allah is Great, magnificient.

Some weeks back I sent a manuscript I am considering publishing through my cottage-industry Press for review to two totally unconnecting individuals. The weeks passed by and I began to wonder whether I would receive any feedback. The author was pressing me for a response, but I had to explain that it was still out for review. But as I say, Allah is ever generous. This weekend without any prompting, without these two individuals, strangers to one another, coming together, one in Arabia, the other in America, I received feedback from both of them, within hours of each other. Alhamdulilah. What can one say, other than all praise is for Allah? Allah showers his blessings.

We say that Allah is the Most High because everything around us bears witness to this. We say He is Great, we say Allahu Akbar, because this evident all around us. I think of His generosity on Friday when He caused my computer to crash when I had finally decided to write a response to a comment left beneath one of my posts. When first read it on Thursday everning, I wrote a response, but while I was doing so I chanced upon those words that I reproduced in my posting ‘Words before the Hour’ – and so I decided not post that response afterall. But a while later – I suppose Shaitan was playing on me – I decided it did indeed warrant a response, and so wrote something else. But then I reflected on those Hadith and those Ayat again, and so I hurriedly deleted them once more.

By Friday evening, however, I decided this time, yes, I would respond. And so I spent maybe an hour writing something down, until the time came when I was ready to publish it. Alhamdulilah, my computer timed out. I tried posting it three times, but it would not go, and so I emailed the text to my Hotmail account, planning to do it later from my home computer. But when I got home, it crashed once more, and just then I recognised Allah’s Generosity. What was to be gained by responding? What was to be gained with those words? I recognised His generosity at last, and so finally I deleted that email, wiped away that text and Alhamdulilah the computer worked once more. Allah’s Generosity. Were matters within my hands, were I able to control such things, were I able to decree anything, I would decree that I land face down in the hell fire. But Allah is ever generous, ever protecting us from ourselves, ever granting us an escape from our own wickedness. He is the ever generous, and this is why we call Him the Most High, the Great.

A few days ago I was feeling sad, and so I returned to my Lord in prayer, making du’a, supplicating to Him who has the power to Grant and Withhold. I was feeling confused, recognising that without His help all of us will go astray. And so I prayed as best I could. What can I say except that Allah is ever generous? Without any effort on my part, He sends aid, He sends Guidance. Yesterday I conceded that it was time I did the painting I have been promising my wife all year, and so I went down to the hardware store to get some paint. Alhamdulilah, a member of staff there told me that the Islamic Studies classes were starting in the mosque at last the following day. He walked with me to the carpark and fetched me a timetable from his car. So this morning my wife and I walked the ten minute trek from our house, across the top of the hill and down through the graveyard to the mosque in that splendid sunshine, for the first class beneath that stunning calligraphy in the dome. The gentle Algerian introduced us to half an hour of tafsir of the Qur’an and half an hour of the biography of the Prophet, peace be upon him.

For half an hour he began to tell us the meaning of Hamd, and for half an hour he decribed to us the appearance of our blessed Prophet, upon whom be peace. What can one say except that Allah is the Most Generous, the Most High? What can one say except that we count the Blessings He showers upons us every day? Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.

We learnt this morning that Allah has said that very few of His servants say Shukr. And so we begin every prayer with Alhamdulilah – a gift from Allah, that we thank Him for those things that we are aware of and those things that we are not. Alhamdulilah. Allah the Most Great saves us from ourselves, gives us the words to say because He knows that we would not say Shukr on our own accord. Alhamdulilah. Allah is the ever generous.

I could go on to talk about all of the bounties which I have felt this weekend, but it would take up too much space and too much time. But Allah has made me aware of His generosity – this is His generosity in itself. I feel humbled and blessed. Allah has granted me so much, despite myself. He has granted me so much, though I am so undeserving. Time after time He protects me from myself. Allah is ever generous. I wish I could repay Him, but I know I never can. I know I never can.

And so all I can say is this: I seek refuge in Allah, the Lord of the Worlds, from myself and I pray that He guides me and does not let me die other than as one who has earned His pleasure. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.

There is no strength except with Allah

It is now two years and a month since I was told that I could never have children. The news was broken by a Locum Doctor while my GP was on her summer holidays – he didn’t know much about the disorder, had to look it up in his medical encyclopaedia, then advised me to read up on it online. What a stupid idea that was; I Googled it, read disturbing descriptions about it and then became exceedingly paranoid. Was all that silence through the years due to this? Was I a bit slow because of this? Was my poor performance at school due to Learning Difficulties? Well no, for the past ten years I have always been honest about this; I was simply very lazy. Nevertheless, the paranoia remains; but it is nothing compared with the emotional pain.

We cancelled our travels that August because of its effect on us. Between us we shed tears; we would sit and read the Qur’an, making the supplications of Zachariah, who cried to his Lord for a child until He answered that prayer. As time went by, however, I began to come to terms with this news and accept it as the absolute truth; while my wife prayed daily, mine became occasional, for the doctors had convinced me of the futility, despite my knowledge that He who created me only needs to say “Be” for new life to come from nothing. Every time my old friends from university announced that they were now a father, my mind told me that I should be happy, but instead I felt sad. With every visit from my niece I had to hold back tears. It is pain like mourning; like losing someone. It is a loss, but others do not understand; life goes on as normal… “How’s the job search going?” “How’s work?” Perhaps these things are not important to me at the moment, perhaps I need some sympathy, some time out to mourn this loss of mine.

It is the pain of knowing that you have reached the end of the line, that you will be an ancestor for no one, that you will never have grandchildren who will ask you about your youth. Surely my family worried that I would raise my children in accordance with my faith, not theirs; but it was a dream of mine that they could trace their Muslim ancestry, that the English Muslim would not forever be viewed as the queer aberration that comes and goes with every conversion and death. Instead there is this pain.

Not long before we received this news I had a dream one night which troubled me. My wife often has what I would call spiritual dreams, but mine are non-descript meanderings of the mind. But this particular dream stood out and bothered me. A huge flood was overcoming me, its waves menacing and fierce, my resting place submerged. Somehow it prepared me for some devastating news and a difficult test. Without a doubt, these two years have been hard, but I have come to terms with it nevertheless.

Things change. From where does one find the strength when he learns that perhaps things are not as clear cut as he was told? In England we were told that the only way to have ‘our own’ children was through donor insemination, a course of action we would never take. But in Turkey where donor insemination is not practiced at all, research has advanced apace to help people in our situation have children of their own – and a good number of men with exactly my condition are now fathers, some to twins and triplets. The strain returns; now there is a possibility that we could have a child, but also the possibility that we will again be disappointed. The treatment running beyond our agreed leave, the strain grows again, the two of us fearing what will happen to our jobs. The financial and emotional burden grows and we wonder from where strength will come.

There have been so many times that I have read the phrase, “There is no strength except with Allah,” but sometimes we have to put advice into practice before we see the truth of something. To rely solely on your Creator is one of the most beautiful aspects of faith. Sleepless for four nights, wandering silently through the streets of Turkey, anxious about all of this, I did not know from where I would find the strength. Like so many times before I lamented that I am not strong enough for this. But instead, finding myself in beautiful mosques, I prayed. Suddenly the situation has altered, relief has come. Our employers were sympathetic, our financial situation okay, the high emotions lessened. It is true: there is no strength except with Allah, the Creator of us all.

Sincerity

Islam teaches that actions are only by intentions and everyone has only that which he intended: ‘Whoever’s emigration is for some worldly gain which he can acquire or a woman he will marry then his emigration is for that which he emigrated.’ Therefore sincerity to God is the key to faith in Islam. Believers are asked to ensure that all acts of worship are done exclusively for God’s pleasure. When actions are only by intentions, it means that deeds are only acceptable and rewarded if the intent behind them is sincere, although sincerity does not change the nature of forbidden actions.

Where a person’s intention is to show off, their acts of worship may be nullified. The greatest action, such as feeding multitudes of the poor, could be reduced to nothing because one’s intention was to earn a good reputation. Yet, at the same time, even the smallest action can be made great by the intention behind it. Good intentions are not spoken for they are matters of the heart of which God is well aware.

THE LAW

is valid until heaven and earth passes away

MUSLIMS BELIEVE that God is very much in control of His creation. This is expressed in the following verse of the Qur’an (ayat al-Kursi):

“God – there is no deity except Him, the Ever-Living, the Sustainer of existence. Neither drowsiness overtakes Him nor sleep. To Him belongs whatever is in the heavens and whatever is on the earth. Who is it that can intercede with Him except by His permission? He knows what is before them and what will be after them, and they encompass not a thing of His knowledge except for what He wills. His chair extends over the heavens and the earth, and their preservation tires Him not. And He is the Most High, the Most Great.” (2:255)

Muslims cannot, therefore, accept an evolutionary view of religion wherein God must step in to change the rules because mankind turned out to be sinful. God created all things. The mountains and trees, oceans and stars are all Muslims because, by nature, they submit to the will of God. In our creation, we were given a trust: freewill. We were given the ability to be righteous or sinful by choice. This was part of God’s plan; it was no accident of creation.

“Verily did We offer the Trust to the heavens and the earth and the mountains, and they refused to bear it and feared it; but man undertook to carry it. Truly was he unjust and ignorant.” (Qur’an 33:72)

Unlike mountains and trees, indeed unlike our cells, blood vessels and lungs, we (the cognitive part of ourselves) must choose whether to worship our Creator or not. A mountain cannot sin because it does not have freewill, but mankind can because God has granted us this trust for a time. This trust, however, was not granted so that we may run riot on the earth doing as we please, whilst the rest of creation worships its Creator. We too are asked to worship our Lord, to be obedient to Him. This is the purpose of our creation. Our creation has purpose.

God proposed a way of life for mankind. The Qur’an holds that every single Prophet of God was a Muslim. This is because, in justice, the religion since the beginning of time has been one. For all people, the way of life ordained by God has been belief in Him, accompanied by righteous action. Simply recognising God is not sufficient. Rather, we are asked to say, “We hear and obey. Forgive us, O our Lord! To You is the final journey’s end.” (Qur’an 2:285) Our recognition of God must be accompanied by submission to His commands and by striving to please Him. This was the message of all the Messengers of God.

Worship is not merely the performance of religious rituals. In fact it refers to obedience to God, when one’s actions and intentions are motivated by a recognition of His greatness. The following account explains this:

Once, ‘Adiyy bin Hatim entered while the Prophet was reciting a verse from the Qur’an: “They took their scholars and monks as lords other than Allah, and [also] the Messiah, Son of Mary. And they were not ordered except to worship one God…” ‘Adiyy (who had been a Christian), said, “O Messenger of Allah, they did not worship them.” The Prophet replied, “Did they not tell them that the prohibited was lawful and that the lawful was prohibited and they followed them in that?” When ‘Adiyy admitted, “Yes,” the Prophet stated, “That was their worship of them.” (Umm Muhammad, 1994, Realities of Faith, p.85)

Our lifetime is minute, if we consider the age of the universe in which we live. We are not here to stay. This is just a passing stage. Often when people talk about the hereafter, it sounds as if it is an afterthought; something granted us to remove the sorrow of death. For the Muslim, however, the hereafter is the aim, the destination he or she is working towards. The Muslim recognises that this period of creation is just a passing stage, in which we are given the opportunity to worship our Lord as He asks us to and to accumulate good deeds. In the Qur’an:

“Blessed is He in whose hand is Dominion, and He has power over all things – the One who has created death and life to test you [as to] which of you is best in deeds.” (67:1-2)

When this life is over, we shall face the Day of Judgement, and we will be judged. The Law remains valid for all people at all times, until the heavens and earth pass away, because by our obedience or disobedience to it we are tested and judged.

Afterthought

I would like to add that, from my own perspective, there is a great blessing and mercy in the Law. It truly grants freedom. I will write something about this later, God willing.

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