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About a year ago, Shaykh Amin had said, “You should think about it.”

He was referring to the word “more” from the Darul Qasim motto, “In the Quest for More Knowledge”.

So I did. And very quickly I plateaued with the usual platitudes: you are never done; you are just getting started; there is no finishing the quest for knowledge, and so on.

These were good, even beneficial. But they told me that if I wanted to do the Shaykh’s advice any justice, I would have to recurse into my thinking with the spirit of “more” and with faith in the idea that the deeper the quest, the more accessible creation becomes to the seeker.

With that in mind, my problem definition became: How should I think about it?

I tried to approach it homeopathically, examining the problem to see if it would offer up a solution from within itself. That opened a door. I realized that Shaykh Amin was trying to show us something. That in turn begged that I look at it. If you think about it, to think about something was really to look at it, albeit with the mind’s eye.

But I couldn’t just look at it in any way I wanted. No. I had to stand beside the man, at his vantage point, I had to look to where he pointed; I had to use the seeing aids he had employed and calibrated.

Said differently, I had to draw on Shaykh Amin’s own insights on the moreness of knowledge. And being an amateur I had to stay within my limited understanding of those insights. So I began. With the first man, Ādam ‘alayhisSalaam.

Ādam

He was taught the names of all things by Allah the Exalted. And his quest for knowledge began in the heavens. But what made his quest intense was that he and his spouse were the only ones from the human species who had to adjust to time and space as adults. The trauma of that change must have been telling. For Ādam and Hawwa ‘alayhimusSalaam, the primary reference for all things, behaviors, etiquette, everything, was heavenly. Their quest for more knowledge paved the way for humanity to live on this planet, to live out lives with slight semblances of their heavenly existence. Some of those lives would be destined for a full blown living experience in heaven. Others would have to make the most of this planet for just a taste of heaven, courtesy Ādam. ‘AlayhisSalaam.

Nūh

His life was over nine hundred years of a quest for more knowledge. A mountain of patience and perseverance, an architectural genius and a master of wood and nail, a botanical, zoological and ecological miracle of a man who understood coexistence like none other. And just as he reaches the peak of his knowledge acquisition, his Lord teaches him his greatest and most shattering life lesson: he sees his rebellious son washed away by a wave. ‘AlayhisSalaam.

Ibrahīm

This is the man who is known as the ummah of one, a nation all in himself. His quest for Divine unity brought him to supplicate Allah to show him how He created. He was instructed to capture a bird, chop it up, mix its remains into a mash, then divide it into four parts and distribute them far and wide across the mountain ranges in the cardinal directions and then finally, to call the bird to himself. I reckon that his journey in each direction must have been months long – these men had meaningful lives that bore fruit as they concurrently embarked upon their many quests. So who knows how many months or how many years later he returned to the very spot whence his supplication rang forth. And from there he looked in all directions and called out to the quadripartite avis. And it came to him. How it came together and how much of the coming-together he witnessed was his exclusive reward, as was the moments of ecstasy that he experienced as his mind and heart connected the inner meanings of what he had seen. And such were the quests of Ibrahīm. ‘AlayhisSalaam.

Mūsa

The oral tradition has it that when the staff of Mūsa was turned into a serpent, Mūsa’s flight was not out of fear but out of ‘adab for the might of Allah. So when Allah commanded him to pick up the serpent, it is reported that Mūsa thrust his hand into its jaws and it returned to him as his faithful staff. Such was the courage of Mūsa. So uncompromising his boldness and so feverish was his pursuit of knowledge that his time with Khidr was cut short by them. ‘AlayhisSalaam.

Isa

His quest for more burns yet and is destined to resume in this world when Allah deems it time for him to return. A sincere quest that will lead him, Isa ibn Maryam, to join the ummah of his brother Muhammad ibn Abdullah SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa Sallam. ‘AlayhimusSalaam.

Muhammad

Did not all prophetic intellect and curiosity culminate in the person of our Habīb Muhammad SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam? So complete and never-ending is his quest that during the mi’rāj, his angel companion stopped at the farthest bounds of space marked by the Lote. How Jibrīl ‘alayhisSalaam must have said, “I cannot go any further.” How then the prophet in all his humility must have stopped his advance. How Jibrīl must then have said, “…but YOU can.” And how the beloved must have been whelmed with rahmah as he stepped forward to come closer to his Beloved. No other from the human species or any other species in all of creation has passed that bounding tree. And how, in that timeless and spaceless moment, everything changed in time and space, including the essence of change itself. All this so that Muhammad, the seal of the prophets, could progress in his quest for more knowledge. SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam.

I suppose what I am trying to say is: when the Shaykh asks you to think about it, you had better think about it.

“It’s HIS ummah, not yours.”

I’ve heard Shaykh Amin say this more than a few times in recent talks. It holds greater meaning the more we think about it. Some thoughts follow:

Avoid reducing “his ummah” to the actions of its individual members. A scratch on the thumb does not distract from a heart that beats strongly, even working to heal that very scratch.

The ummah is more than the sum of Muslims walking the earth at any given time. It includes every soul that has uttered the kalimah with faith after the prophethood of Muhammad SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam. Most significantly the anbiya, the shuhadaa, the siddiqeen, the saaliheen – those we know of and those we don’t know of. They pray for the ummah in their places of rest.

The ummah has as its members the awliyaa (those here and those who have changed their address). As for those still here, the world turns by their dhikr, and angelic wrath is stayed by their dhikr.

The ummah includes the men and women whose taubah is cause for the throne-bearers to beseech Allah for their forgiveness.

The ummah includes the scholars from the time of the companions of the Rasul all the way to the students struggling in their quest for more knowledge. They are the inheritors of the last and final Messenger.

The oral tradition is the greatest gift the ummah gives its individual members. Along with that comes the idea that while we may ask ourselves what we can do for the ummah – HIS ummah – we may each actually benefit more from asking the question: how can I benefit from HIS ummah?

So let’s ask the question. And let’s seek the answer. A great paradox lies in the nature of our attachment to his ummah, in realizing that the less worthy we think ourselves of being a part of his ummah, the more worthy we become of it.

And Allah knows best.

As I write this post, we are in session 3 of the Tafsir of Surah Al-Rahmān with Shaykh Amin at Darul Qasim College. During the first session – that was two Sundays ago – we came upon verse 13, the first instance of the oft-repeated ayah that is a hallmark of this surah:

فَبِأَىِّ ءَالَآءِ رَبِّكُمَا تُكَذِّبَانِ

Then which of your Lord’s favors will you (both) deny?

Shaykh Amin read it out loud, translated it and then proceeded to answer it in English:

“We don’t deny any of Your favors, Ya Rabbi,” he said. I thought to myself, “That’s interesting. The Shaykh answered the question.”

Verse 16 had the second instance of that ayah. Shaykh Amin once again read it out loud and again, he answered it: “We don’t deny any of Your favors, Ya Rabbi,” he said. This time, I confess that in the deepest recesses of my mind, I oh-so-shamelessly thought to myself, “Okay, this is sort of stupid.”

Verse 18. He did it again. “We don’t deny any of Your favors, Ya Rabbi,” he said. And I thought, “Hmm. Maybe I’m the stupid one. I better start listening closer.”

I only said this to myself because the one thing I have come to learn from attending these Tafsir sessions, the first of which I attended twenty-two years ago, is that nothing is accidental or haphazard in the mind of a mufassir. Not one thing. So I started listening… very closely.

The Shaykh did this for every single instance of فَبِأَىِّ ءَالَآءِ رَبِّكُمَا تُكَذِّبَانِ. “We don’t deny any of Your favors, Ya Rabbi,” he would say in response.

You may already have some idea as to why the Shaykh was doing this. I had a faint idea myself. But then, it is one thing to talk about how good a brand of ice cream is, and quite another to eat it. So, bear with me.

Through sessions 1, 2 and 3, which happened today, we waded through the earthly elements in the creation of man, the thaqalān that are mankind and jinnkind, the travels of Ibn Batuta, insights into the industry of mariners, the perpetual supplication of all creation to Allah, moods in the Arabic language, the hard-to-reach meaning of the word Sultān in the classical lughah, and much, much more, each worthy of analysis and reflection by those way more qualified than I. And each time the refrain (if I may loosely call it that) was articulated, the Shaykh said, “We don’t deny any of Your favors, Ya Rabbi.” It had now reached the point that I started to move my lips in sync with his response, much like one does when one hears their favorite song and knows exactly when to come in.

“We don’t deny any of Your favors, Ya Rabbi.”

Finally, the explanation arrived today. It came, as always, when least expected. It was delivered with the trademark nonchalance of the Shaykh, as if he were reminding you to add a pinch of salt to the stew, but it’s okay if you don’t do it. It came upon me like a wave I was waiting for, the one that does not just cool my ankles, but washes the space between my toes clean, so much so that no sand remains, and I can now walk away from the shore, a little.

Shaykh Amin said, and I quote him verbatim.

“Being intimidated is a favor also. That you’re left in awe. It prevents you from being stupid.”

Stupid? He was talking to me now. This was the nugget I was seeking. I understand I may be belaboring the obvious, so I have nothing but apologies to offer to those of you who think so, but for those who find therapy when they stare into the air, stay with me. I have more.

Consider the scenario of a parent who is speaking to their child curled up in their lap. “I bought you that toy. I got you that candy bar. I took you on the carousel. Round we spun. We had such fun. You know I gave you everything you asked for, right? So when I say go to bed, you have to go to bed.”

The child does not bother answering the rhetorical question, “You know I gave you everything you asked for, right?” That is because of the tone of the conversation and the fiber of the relationship at play.

Now, consider the scenario of a King, a sovereign, who is speaking to a soldier from the ranks. Not a general, but a First Lieutenant or maybe a Captain at most. The king is in his chamber, and his servant soldier is in his presence, keenly aware of all the king’s favors upon him.. The king’s back is to his servant. He is looking out a window. And he speaks as such. “I gave you your family, your home, your livelihood, your very rank. Which of my favors will you deny?”

That is a rhetorical question. It needs no answer. The silence of the servant is answer enough. The king will resume his speech shortly. But the one act that would humble the servant more and raise his Lord even more in stature would be to answer although it is not needed, to show one’s haplessness before the master, to expose one’s sillinesses, to be not cool but rather the bumbling servant.

“I don’t deny any of your favors, my Lord.” is not speaking out of turn. It is embracing the apparent silliness with such profundity that it serves to add to the rhetorical dialog. Where the king says, “I am your Lord,” the servant replies, “I am your servant.”

Anyone who has grown up in the east has experienced this dynamic between “maalik” and “khaadim” – master and servant. The rest will have to take my word for it.

Of the two scenarios presented above, the former has a jamāli tone, while the latter has a jalāli tone. (This is also from session 3.) Surah Al-Rahman is predominantly jamāli but has its jalāli qualities. 

“It is (also) part of His Rahmaniyyah that the criminal will be found guilty and the sinner will be punished.”

In the oft-repeated refrain and Shaykh Amin’s reply to it, is a testament to the traditional art of tafsīr. The adab of a mufassir is built into his tafsīr. The purpose of the surah is to humble the reader. We must realize through the reading that each of us – a speck of humanity, shameless sinner, ungrateful servant, basking in worldly comforts we know we don’t deserve – each of us must be humble..

In being intimidated by فَبِأَىِّ ءَالَآءِ رَبِّكُمَا تُكَذِّبَانِ is all the rahmah we need. What better way to manifest that khashyah than unfailingly reply:

“We don’t deny any of Your favors, Ya Rabbi.”

The shuyukh of guidance saw (see) themselves as in perpetual need of Allah’s assistance. Their humility is not fake. But maybe WE should fake it till we make it in the absence of any other plan to save our souls.

May Allah cover our sins and guide us back home to Him where the journey ends and whence life begins.

            There’s a pumpkin seed in my mouth. In fact, there are three.

            There was a time I used to be conscious of hulling them inside my mouth and extracting the coveted kernels using the apparatus of my tongue and teeth. I don’t think about it so much anymore.

            Did I mention I’m driving? I keep my hands on the wheel. I use the tip of my tongue to shelf two of the seeds into what I have come to call the attic, the elastic vestibule between my upper lip and teeth. The basement is empty for now.

            The first seed has been deposited at the center of my tongue. It is sitting there for me to taste, to feel, to get to know a little better. A mad twenty-second sequence is about to begin as I court this pepita. Allow me a brief detour to give you a taste of what I believe is the primary component of our complex apparatus.

            The human tongue. It comprises eight muscles divided into two groups of four each. The intrinsic muscles change the shape of the tongue while the extrinsic alter its position. Seven of these eight muscles are stimulated by the hypoglossal nerve that supplies the tongue with motor control, while only one is innervated by the vagus nerve, which communicates with the heart and stomach. This is a complex nexus of neural activity.

            It follows then that seven eighths of this beautiful musculature are actively employed when we speak, and a smaller fraction when we eat. You may wonder about speaking and eating at the same time. If we think about it, we find that we don’t do that well. Even when we do it well, we’re just doing it concurrently, interleaving moments of articulation and mastication so that at any given time, we’re either talking or eating. When we manage to do them both at the same time, we are said to choke.

            Daunted by the crazy complexities of tongue dynamics during speech, I have instead chosen to present the magnificence of this organ in all its muscular splendor by capturing the mechanics of something with which I am quite familiar: hulling a pumpkin seed. That is, without manual assistance.

            First, I spend a couple seconds tasting the seed. If I encounter the smallest hint of bitterness, which happens one in a hundred times, I jettison the defective seed into my cup of waste with my tongue immediately dislodging number two from the attic. But if it tastes fine, then the next step is to turn the seed over and lap up as much moisture as possible off the genioglossus, the largest fan-shaped muscle that constitutes the bulk of the tongue. Duly marinated, I next test the seed for crackability, first elongating my tongue to press it up against the inside of my teeth, with the longer edges of the seed lined up between my incisors. If I can’t peel off the hull, I shuttle it over to my right molars and lodge it between the jaws to wield even pressure, whatever it takes to engineer that first crack. There are no crunching motions here. Any irresponsible violence and the kernel and its hull will be mashed together into an indecomposable pulp. We don’t want that.

            If it still hasn’t given, then it’s time to swing the seed over to the left molars for the same treatment. All the while my tongue stands by, incessantly expanding, contracting, protruding, retracting through exertions of the superior and inferior longitudinal and transverse muscles. It’s like a live swiss army knife of sorts, switching between pick, press, mallet, scraper, vacuum cleaner, and crane. I run the seed by my incisors again, and this time the hull gives in to the persistent peeling. My tongue collaborates with my gums, squeezing down along the sealed edges to coax the kernel out of the opposite compromised edge, assisted by whichever tooth is down for it. The rest of the seed coat gradually tears away. The green treasure slides out.

            In the interest of efficient garbage disposal, I stash the empty husk in the basement and proceed to mash the kernel, thereby awakening the vagal neural pathways. But my tongue knows no rest. I find that the second seed has been fetched from the attic and deposited at the moist center even as I consume the first one with relish. There is a lot happening behind the scenes. Let us exit this tour now and get some air.

            We work hard in our quest for pleasure, be it in terms of health, wealth or the more rewarding pursuits of knowledge and understanding, the two brightest mile markers on the road to peace. We can’t afford to be rigid and set in our ways. We must be prepared to collaborate, to exercise intrinsic and extrinsic forces, change shape, expand, contract, twist, reach, exert pressure, and lavish love. The soft must work with the hard to produce whatever marvel of physics we may contrive to extract that prized kernel, preferably whole and untainted by husk parts.

            The Arabs call the kernel the lubb. It is the thing worth getting, the thing that matters, the essence that lies at the center. It holds the substance. It is the inner meaning. Men and women urged by the Divine to their highest intellectual calling and their most magnitudinous purpose are addressed as Ulul Albaab, the People of the Kernel.

            I will be on the road for fourteen more minutes. That means there is a pumpkin seed in my mouth. In fact, there are three.

AsSalamu ‘alaykum. I make duaa for you and your family to have a fulfilling, productive Ramadan. 

We’re nearing the middle of this blessed month already. And here I am again asking for a sadaqah of 3 minutes of your precious time to read this message. My thanks in advance.

I wanted to share something I heard from Shaykh Amin quite recently. He talked about Surah Al-Naml, the chapter of The Ant. It was refreshing and energizing as always, and I made a note to myself to spend some time writing down what I heard. But here’s the take-away quote: 

All your power, all your military might, all your strategic thinking, all your planning – all of it – is subordinate to knowledge derived from revelation. 

Sulaymān ‘alayhisSalaam seals his profound observation, in the words of the Quran, with Hadha min Fadli Rabbiy.

This is the brand of knowledge that passes through the halls of Darul Qasim, or as one student observed to me recently, “bounces off its walls like electric charges.” This is a subtle brand of knowledge. Its acquisition is subtle. Its dispensation is subtle. Its custodians are subtle. Yet the vessel that bears it is an enormous ark of scholarship that has endured over time. The planks of this ark are solid timber, cut from giant trees that represent the knowledge of the sahabah. The planks are held together by nails forged from the iron will of the far-sighted tabi’een. And the individuals at the helm are scholars with their himmah as they toil to process their prophetic inheritance. 

This ark is built to weather storms – history bears witness to this. This ark is a blessing to those who give themselves to it, it is a refuge to those who board it, and it is hope for those who grab its lines and follow in its wake. It represents hope for anyone who wants to remain in the ummah of our Sayyid, our Rasūl, Muhammad SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa Sallam.

There are no shortcuts to this knowledge. It must be learned and dispensed with method and care. If our painfully recent history has shown us anything – whether it be the tragedy of the Sepetember 11 attacks with its hamstringing of the American Muslim psyche, or the foulness of the ISIS epidemic with the bodies and souls it shattered – it is that knowledge acquired without method and grounding in strong prerequisites is not only devoid of Nūr but infused with elements of nār. (That’s another Shaykh Amin gem.)

America is thirsty for this brand of knowledge. That may seem like a very pie-in-the-sky thing to say. But we couldn’t be more serious in these grim times. And the way we make this knowledge available is through academic discourse – that is how serious change comes about. We need to empower our institutions to bring real value to mainstream academia. This takes meticulous planning and money.

Whether you are looking to make an endowment, a one-time donation, or a recurring one, you couldn’t do better than to divert your wealth to Darul Qasim. May Allah make us all beneficiaries of his Fadl. May we all have a part in Sulaymān’s wisdom to recognize the source with Hadha min Fadli Rabbiy. This is where the quest begins.

This is an awesome venture. Support this effort by the amazing Aisha Gray Henry and her team at Fons Vitae. I just did!

Here’s a poem I wrote some years back, inspired by a lecture delivered by Shaykh Amin in an Introductory Theology class at Darul Qasim in which he alluded to Imam Ghazali’s ingenious allegory for tauheed (divine unity).

This older post seems relevant during these days of Aashoorah marking the liberation of the Children of Israel from the oppression of a tyrant king.
https://khamuk.com/2014/04/rabb.html