We’re now two classes into our middle school boys’ halaqa. Since these boys are in seventh and eighth grade, I knew in advance that this would be a different kind of semester than the previous. Here’s the short of it: I’d like them to be able to give khutbahs come their senior years (in 2029).
Not just knowing how to give a khutbah. But having the confidence to speak publicly. And understanding the need to.
Last spring, we focused on the obligations and responsibilities of Muslim men. These include leading prayer, which we don’t just talk about. We pray, which requires my instructing them to take turns leading prayers (they don’t all do it, but many of them have). I’m building on that, slowly but surely.
Part of the reason we’re learning Arabic is to demystify the language. So that when they have to, say, read a du‘a out publicly, they’re not panicked.
I appreciate the need for and incredible services played by our imams and scholars. But I’m worried we’ve outsourced far too much of our own responsibility for our faith and communities. When I was growing up, many men—the so-called “uncles” (I’m one now, calm down)—not just led prayers but gave khutbahs on rotating schedules.
I like that model a lot and not just because there’s I believe our faith inclines towards and works best with decentralization. But because that model is good for us as Muslims. It’s good for us as communities. It’s good for boys becoming men. And it is, too, what God wants. We’re made to be Caliphs. (I wrote a book about this.)
Communities are only as capable as their constituents.
Go Forth and Multiply
If you’re planning to see your boys married, after all, won’t they lead prayers in the home? What happens when they invite guests over and it’s sundown? As I previously explored at the American Institute for Boys and Men, Islamic masculinity isn’t about some ridiculous caricature of physical toughness (that too frequently co-presents with ethical awfulness, but that’s another point.)
There’s all kinds of men, but we are all as men compelled to certain individual and shared obligations, like praying together. That our religion asks different men to lead in different circumstances, and leaves us space to choose different prayer leaders, only suggests how much our religion wants us to feel a sense of individual and collective agency in faith. You might even call it profoundly democratic.
But to actually lead a prayer takes a kind of courage, assuredness, and of course knowledge, and all of these are virtues.
How are we cultivating these?
A few months ago, when of our halaqa boys had his ameen, I encouraged his halaqa classmates and friends to share some brief remarks on stage, in front of so much of our community. And they all did. They stood up, took thirty seconds, praised and commended their friend before hundreds, also learning that sharing affection for a brother in faith is good and normal.
None of them declined. The loud ones and the shy ones. From the more outspoken to the more reserved, they all stepped up. Take that as a lesson: Give your kids challenges. Responsibilities to rise to. That evening, they saw that public speaking isn’t nearly as intimidating as they might fear. How else will they advocate for themselves? Find a wife? Get promoted? Call on our elected officials?
But, as I’ll teach them, this ability comes with responsibility.
Halaqa The Hard Way
Our halaqa starts at 7pm. We open with a brief check-in and review. Then we do about twenty minutes on Muslim masculinity. By 7:30 at the latest, we’re on Arabic. They’re enjoying this even more than I thought they would even if way too much time is passed with them calling each other anti. I mean who didn’t see that coming?
Part of the reason we’re learning Arabic is to give them (Muslim) confidence, to feel like learning religion isn’t just necessary but possible, doable, even enjoyable. I’m hardly saying everyone becoming an exegete or a jurisprudent, but a man should know the core concepts and basic grammar of his faith, which includes grammar.
I say that out of personal experience. What it feels like when you hear Qur’an and you know many, even just some, of the words. When it’s not all a mystery. Growing up can be scary for kids. Or it can be empowering: You become a more capable, independent, autonomous person. Even if the road there might be unexpected.
I’ve been giving sermons on and off since I was a nineteen year old student at Middlebury College’s Arabic Language School, forced by my faith into a task I was in fact terrified by. I mean, I was actually the youngest person there. I was deeply socially anxious. (I’m not anxious anymore, but I still love books and quiet.)
But did that matter? I was a man. We had to pray Friday prayers. Someone had to lead. And that someone turned out to be me.
At first, I was upset that older men, with far better Arabic, refused. Let me rephrase that: The actual Arabic professors I asked, who were themselves Muslim, did not step up. They spoke fluent Arabic. They could give a sermon with minimal effort. I hardly knew Arabic then, and I had to speak publicly before folks fluent in the language, in the form of a sermon, and did I mention my nerves—?
Over time, though, I appreciated that I’d been forced into that position, which caused me to grow immensely. To be honest, I began to feel bad for those who felt no sense of responsibility. Some say masculinity is confidence. Maybe it’s stepping up when you can or when you must. And here’s why we must teach our boys to step up: Because if we don’t, it’s not even that no one else will (although sometimes that).
It’s that far worse people might.
We saw that in the rise of vicious extremist groups, who spoke out against injustices that the religious establishment in many Muslim-majority countries would not.
Unfortunately, their response to real injustice was itself injustice. But that’s part of a larger problem, an ailment that systematically afflicts the Muslim world, where governments (often deeply corrupt governments) reserve the right to pronounce on faith; how is that compatible with an uncompromisingly unitarian faith that asks us to share responsibility for our faith?
Giving young Muslims a part to play in faith keeps our community strong. It also keeps our society more meaningfully democratic, more enduringly robust, and far more resilient. Which is why, in the high school halaqas, we’re not just learning how mainstream America talks about Islam, but how they would respond—and in the spirit of the halaqa, that doesn’t just mean abstract arguments.
I’m encouraging them to think deeply about what being American and Muslim means to them and what role they see themselves playing.
More on that soon, I promise.
Come See Me at Indiana University (Bloomington)
On the afternoon of Thursday, October 3rd, I’ll be in Bloomington for a talk on the past, present and future of American Muslims: E Pluribus Unum. Check out the link for more information; I’d love to see readers there and, of course, please share with friends and colleagues who might be interested—the program is free and open to the public. There are also events specifically for undergrads and grads.
RSVPs for the private events are included in the link above.
Hear About the Halaqa on Daraja
Last week, I had a great conversation with a good friend, Umar Carter, for his wonderful podcast Daraja. We talked about leadership in Islam, how we empower leaders, and how we push back against negative narratives. Subscribe to Daraja and give our conversation a listen — I unpack a lot of the lessons and ideas that the weekly halaqas are built on (and seek to inculcate).
Around the Web
Last week I shared a great episode of Hidden Brain, on why we struggle to accept that older people tend to be happier than younger people (and of course why that might so often be the case). Much of the answer seems to lie in the cultivation of meaning. I’m sharing that again because of what I’m sharing next (listen to both!)
Don’t make too much of the reference to psychedelics in the title; in fact, if you replace mushrooms with masjids, you’ll find this Ezra Klein and Jia Tolentino conversation absolutely vital. I’ve not heard anyone else make such a compelling case for why we really care so much about kids and screentime.
A question of meaning yet again. The fact of discomfort, and loneliness, often provokes us to look within—or to look Above. But distractions deny us the deep satisfaction and contentment we get from remembrance of God (dhikr), creating unease and unhappiness.
In fact, as this Atlantic article suggests, the English-speaking world is doing a very good job exporting anxiety around the world. Indeed, a lot of our society seems deeply agitated, even unhappy. Is a generation that’s unhappy and anxious now likely to be unhappier as it grows older?
While we hardly want that for ourselves, it’s good for us to reflect on the quality of our time, even our time off, right now, and how that might affect us. David Brooks argues that too much of our consumption is of the worst kind, and we’re feeling the ill-effects. It’s bad for us. It’s bad for our kids.
But even the way we think about parenting might be bad for us (and bad for the kids.) Right as the U.S. Surgeon General argues parents are taking on far too much, here comes an argument we should all sit with—instead of demanding we entertain our kids, or make sure they’re entertained, why not… ignore them a little?
Work To Be Done
For the second year running, EqualityX has named me among the top 50 most influential Muslims in the Americas. I’m truly grateful that the work I’m a part of, including building youth leadership, creating opportunities for education and community, and bringing history to life, are resonating.
May we have the energy, the drive and the desire to continue that work, to learn from each other, and to do so for His sake alone.
Amazing. May Allah swt continue to enlighten you and your teachings.