For Parents 02: Dying From Embarrassment vs. Actually Just Dying

We're not robots. We're Caliphs.

It might come up suddenly during a car ride home. Something heavy or hard in the news. Or it could be a tough topic I’m struggling to discuss with the kids. Whatever it might be, there’s lots of times people like me wish there were more resources out there to help us.

Which is where For Parents comes in.

This series empowers us with features like interviews with thinkers and doers—the first installment was about praying and piety —alongside me occasionally recommending content I’ve found useful. And believe you might too.

In this second installment of For Parents, I’m recommending Simran Jeet Singh’s latest book, which I’ll explore in greater depth in a future post, plus three other great reads.

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(Why) We Wear More Clothes: Simran Jeet Singh’s Journey of Faith and Difference Can Help Your Teen On Their Journey of Faith and Difference

Why can’t I wear what everyone else is wearing?

Why do I have to wear that?

Why can’t the khateeb speak English?¹

Why do we live in Ohio?

Above: What you probably think Ohio looks like.

I always tell the kids there’s so much more to Ohio than they realize even though this is actually Ohio.

I know there are certain questions some kids probably won’t openly ask, but if I can extrapolate from what it was like growing up in a largely homogenous small town, where I stuck out not just phenotypically but theologically, culturally, socially—and this was before Islam was on anyone’s radar—I can imagine similar concerns remain pretty common (though they’re still often suppressed).

On the other hand, there are lots more Muslims now. So maybe kids don’t feel quite as isolated. Diversity is more common and more commonly embraced.

But that diversity creates new questions and challenges as well.

Like: How come so-and-so gets to do this and I don’t, when her parents go to the masjid, too? For example, this came up when the kids wondered why we didn’t have a Christmas tree even though plenty of other masjid-going Muslim families did. My wife and I held what we felt was our reasonable ground, but still talked it out—and I think they appreciated that.

That we were willing to have a conversation.

That we had reasons, beyond stubborn obstinacy or a burning desire to isolate them in weirdness and exclusion, for why we said no.

Of course, it also helps that the kids are (mostly) bracingly honest. (Mostly... because there are some things say teen girls are not going to tell me, and that’s good, but broadly speaking, they’re always ready to volunteer opinions. If even unsolicited.)² That doesn’t mean, however, that I’m the best vehicle to deliver answers even when the questions are lobbed in the direction of me or my theology.

Who should I turn to then?

Maybe this guy. This guy looks nice, friendly, and helpful.

There are the obvious reasons I’m recommending Simran Jeet Singh’s new book, The Light We Give: How Sikh Wisdom Can Transform Your Life. For one, I want to support a religious writer writing about religion. Especially a religion we hear too little about in most of our conversations—including Muslim ones. (And Sikhism is the world’s fifth largest religion!) But this book is important to me in even more direct ways.

For one thing, Sikhism emerged in the context of Punjabi society, culture, and spirituality—the part of the world my family’s from too. Its sacred language, Punjabi, is my parents’ beautiful, intense, vibrant mother tongue (that they sadly never passed on, restricting us to Urdu—I had to piece Punjabi together myself, which is why I’m quite poor at it, and poorer for it.)

Even more than that, though, is this.

I’ve known Simran for many years now. Not too well, unfortunately, but we intersected when we were at Columbia. I found him to be a genuinely good, seriously funny, and wickedly smart guy, warm, caring, hopeful, and ever thoughtful. Reading his book now, though, I wish I’d spent more time with him. As the title suggests, there are some incredibly thoughtful reflections on how to live a life of faith here.

But critically, that’s a life of faith in the context of America. For a person of color with a visible appearance and a tradition that’s often viewed with undisguised suspicion, engaging what it means to look vs. to be different, the obligations and opportunities a God-conscious worldview creates in us… there’s just so much good stuff here that I don’t know what to say other than to push you to read it and share it.

I don’t know how many mosques are there yet, but Simran would also be a great speaker in Muslim spaces—with his stellar academic background, long experience teaching Islam in academic institutions, and deep respect for and experience with pluralism. He knows how to brings a vital perspective to communities that might be unfamiliar with him and his faith.

Sometimes other teachers are better at communicating what we ourselves can’t. Maybe we do, quietly, in our actions and deeds, but that might only surface later. Probably most teens view their parents with a little distance (and should!): After all, going through adolescence is about establishing who you are as a distinct person, and that means reviewing everything and everyone. Especially those around you.

You have to decide what you want to keep and what you want to discard… even as everyone around you is pushing you in ten million directions, your brain is still coming together, and you’re supercharged with new desires and responsibilities. It’s a challenging time and I’m sure most of us remember how overwhelming and confusing it could be.

It’s always good to know you’re not alone.

Maybe not from your parents though.

In that spirit, I’m gently inviting the girls, F and Z, to read The Light We Give. They’ve also lately re-entered the world of interfaith after some years off (eh, COVID). Seeing how seriously and creatively different faith traditions can take their own traditions might inspire them to want more and better for our communities, not to mention they’re making friends (and I am too).

It’s great. And it’s great timing.

Given Simran’s incredible dedication to social justice, solidarity, and mature spirituality, equal parts compassionate and courageous, this is a book a lot of young and not-so-young adults can learn a lot from. I love his honesty about race and racism, about growing up a visible minority, about what it means to balance being inside and outside America, and how he’s rediscovered his faith in his middle years.

Now, of course, Simran and I won’t see eye-to-eye on every single thing. (On certain matters of gender and sexuality, e.g., I’m more traditionally conservative.) But a person of genuine faith is unafraid of engaging with the world beyond. I hope all parents of faith show kids that being inspired and guided by religion doesn’t mean fearing the world. Or fearing engagement with others.

So check out the book—the link above takes you to my Bookshop store, so your purchase not only supports Simran, a fellow writer and parent, a scholar and activist, and a solid guy all around, but throws in a little bit to help support Sunday Schooled too. (It should be noted: I didn’t actually read Simran’s book. I listened to him narrate the audio edition—and that is very much recommended.)³

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Interrupting to share a prayer allegedly attributed to the late Iranian philosopher Ali Shariati (d. 1977):

“Oh God, grant me nonconformity without immaturity.”

Ameen.

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And Also We Are Going to Die And Be Forgotten: Saving Community, Embracing Pain, and The Beautiful Fact of Mortality

Simran’s was one of my most recent reads. But there’s a few more I’ve gotten through in the last few weeks that I also felt would be worth your time.

Ask Not What Your Country Can Do For You

The first is journalist Timothy P. Carney’s Alienated America: Why Some Places Thrive While Others Collapse. Carney’s investigation into who on the right initially supported Trump (in 2016) is deeply revealing of what America has lost in the past few decades—and why we’ve been so oblivious to it, especially in some more progressive spaces. Probably the most profound and critical conclusion Carney reaches? The simultaneous value and vulnerability of faith-based communities, autonomous of government, capable of providing us with (1) other people, (2) place, and (3) purpose.⁴

Wealth alone can’t do it, in part because wealth is an uncertain foundation.⁵ Traditionally, faith-based networks helped us do things that governments aren’t so great at or maybe shouldn’t be too focused on.

Like: Build families. Create rich social spaces. Look after and uplift each other morally and spiritually. And endowing every life with purpose. I'm not exaggerating when I say I think every faith leader and community activist should read and ponder Carney’s book, especially if your politics and his do not always align.

Some voices hoped the decline of traditional religion would create a more tolerant America. It may instead have opened the door to a hollower and scarier America. As Carney notes, the initial votes for Trump in 2016 came from people who’d become disconnected from faith and community—and though the economics, politics, morality, and racial legacies at play here receive serious attention, the retreat of faith and its fullness often gets short shrift.

Too Much Pleasure is Painful

The second book is Anna Lembke’s fantastic Dopamine Nation: Finding Balance in the Age of Indulgence, which deeply nuanced and enriched what I thought of religious discipline, the value of abstemiousness and asceticism, and convinced me I must spend less time satisfying my needs—even just meditating on them. Especially when America and the West face a mental health crisis of enormous and terrifying proportions, hitting all communities and families, this needs to be talked about.

Now, faith alone doesn’t heal the mind. But if you believe, as I do, that God evolved us to want to know Him, to need to serve Him, and to feel ourselves connected to Him, that this is the very reason our species exists, then it is hard not to imagine that the willful suppression of our most basic religious instincts in the pursuit of an almost perversely obstinate materialism would have some deep effect on us. Not alone, of course—what we eat, how we live, what we face, and all that matters enormously.

But when has that ever been enough?

Lembke’s work—she is a remarkably accomplished scientist and scholar—is both a warning and a source of hope. If we live in societies that make it hard for people to make ends meet, then any shock to the system (say, a pandemic) throws huge numbers of people’s lives into precarious jeopardy. And if we live in a culture that makes it hard for people to see themselves as ends and not means, then any shock to the system (say, a pandemic) throws huge numbers of vulnerable people into despair.

Lembke argues that for basic, elemental and inescapably biological, neurological, and even plain old chemical reasons, the pursuit of pleasure often leads to numbness and then pain, despair and certainly emptiness, while the thoughtful pursuit of meaningful and reasonable hardship—for example, spiritual discipline, sacrificing for loved ones, community and family, exercise and hard work, sustained learning, even allowing ourselves to be bored and stepping away from endless streams of stimulation—actually make us more fulfilled.⁶

Not what a consumerist culture would have you think. But then does consumerist culture actually want you to think?

I’ve tried sharing this with the kids in age-appropriate ways: Something that makes us immediately happy isn’t necessarily bad (note: Graeter’s ice cream). But your parents want you to have rich, full lives and for decades to come, lives in which you have the strength, discipline and confidence to do meaningful things. That can only come if you’re willing to deal with difficulty. So, for example, no phones on short drives. Talk to me or each other or stare out the window.

Sit down with a book every day, even if you’re bored with it. Just try for ten minutes to get through some of it.

And that explains the spiritual discipline, too: We fast, we pray, we wear more clothes, and eat fewer foods, and thoughtfully consider where to put our energy, not just to get closer to God, but to be stronger people, to be more patient and thoughtful, and that, in turn, makes us more able to survive the stuff that’s going to come our way. Something always comes our way.

The kids get this implicitly because they all love sports (baseball, soccer, cross country, etc.) and know that hard work pays off. And it’s actually enjoyable.

Real fun requires challenge. After all, in the abstract, exhausting yourself playing a game in the summer heat doesn’t sound appealing, but it’s actually genuinely awesome, and when you come home, sore and broken, there’s a satisfaction that grows from knowing you played hard, gave it your all, competed with friends and others, pushed yourself, learned something, and even felt fatigue and weakness.

These are, I hope, the foundations of resilience. Of accepting that nothing is guaranteed, but that if we put in an effort, if we have good attitudes and proper effort, we make better outcomes more likely.

After all, as God Himself says in the Qur’an, He does not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves. And as we know from our believing, doing, becoming framework that Islam’s key to changing what is within is changing what is itself without: Take away bad influences. Put in good influences.

We don’t find ourselves. We build who we want to be out of the stuff God gave us.

If you set an alarm, you’re more likely to pray. If you’re more likely to pray, you’re hopefully more likely to think of God in hard times and rely on God in scary moments. And those who remember God, God remembers.

Because everyone else forgets.

Which is why I want to end with Arthur Brooks’ absolutely beautiful From Strength to Strength: Finding Success, Happiness, and Deep Purpose in the Second Half of Life, which my wife recommended to me and I’m so glad she did.

For those who don’t follow Brooks’ writing on aging, on wisdom, and on purpose, well—you’re really missing out.

This is a book that I needed to read in my fifth decade and is one of those books I plan to come back to again and again. While (thank God) I’m still healthy, active, and reasonably fit, while my mind works and (praise God) I’m still learning, working, and enjoying life, I’m still aging. It’s going to be hard, and even miserable at times, assuming I live that long, but death is not just inevitable.

It’s also our means to our ultimate end. A little pain goes a long way.

Physical decline is part of the fullness of life, and I will not cheaply hide it by pretending I’m still twenty or thirty. I’m not proud of the mistakes I made, but I have learned from and through them, and I wouldn’t want to go back. I’d rather know the things I know now than simply have the energy I did a few decades back.

One day I will not be trying to knock out ten pull-ups. (Still working on that, by the way.) One day I will not get ten thousand steps in a day. (Also hard.) One day I will not be able to swim with the kids for hours on a Sunday afternoon. (Okay that was a little hard but who complains about getting tired from a day in a pool?)

One day they’ll have grandkids, God willing, who will have grandkids, and those grandkids will have never known me, and probably won’t even know who I was.

But that’s okay.

Because if I did my job right, they’ll know what matters.

We don’t continue. But our values might.

1. I recently received feedback for a khutbah (sermon) I gave in which I was told that some congregants complained I chose to refer to Allah as God. As in, I used the English word for Allah instead of the Arabic word for God.

That deserves some comment.

My general approach to sermons is what I call “the lowest common denominator.” I try to stay focused on themes, concepts and ideas the largest number of people can make sense of and gain from. In so doing, I’m assuming some have little prior knowledge of the faith.

After all, people who are already deeply connected to our faith probably experience Friday afternoons as only one of their many points of entry to a rich, vibrant, ongoing religious life, with plenty of options for further engagement.

But many who come on Friday afternoons only come on Friday afternoons, and not often even regularly, and some of them might have a superficial, cursory, or just new knowledge of religion (they may, for example, have only recently come—or come back to—the faith.) Given that someone who’s already religiously literate has numerous potential teachers, here comes the lowest common denominator approach—in this case, English and English alone is our common language, we live in America, and no Islam that does not connect broadly to all kinds of Americans is going to survive in America.

2. This is meant to be funny now and certainly will be hilarious in the future and God willing I will remember to resurrect it on choice occasions, like weddings, or when sharing wisdom with potential grandkids.

On certain immediate, right-now occasions, though, we have to explain to very passionately transparent kids that honesty doesn’t require sharing every single thought that crosses your mind. That’s why God invented diaries.

And footnotes.

3. In fact, all my links to books are to my Bookshop store. There you can buy audio, digital, or physical versions easily and conveniently—and chip in some change to keep this project going. Thank you in advance!

4. That’s a frame I’m borrowing from Thomas P. Insel’s Healing: Our Path From Mental Illness to Mental Health. I’ve only just started, but appreciate the read so far (and am otherwise eagerly devouring books on the topic of mind, health, and character, for myself—and for my teaching, preaching, and ongoing writing).

5. That doesn’t, however, excuse us from building more inclusive, generous, and supportive countries through political engagement and civic participation—I believe, for example, that healthcare is a human right and a moral command, although I don’t believe God prescribed how we must realize that.

My faith doesn’t dictate specific policies (broadly speaking). One of the reasons? Because contexts change, resources shift, and technologies evolve. We grow and go with them, keeping our anchors in God and revelation, while learning with and from others to construct the best societies we can, neither imposing on others nor excluding ourselves.

6. What I mean to say is, pursuing comfort alone doesn’t and won’t make us happy. I’m totally and absolutely not saying we just need to go, go, go. We’re Caliphs, not robots. We need to sleep, rest, relax, zone out and have empty time. Maybe that’s the quiet of a walk. Or a silent drive. Or a few minutes after prayer.

For my part, though, I noticed that I was preventing myself even from sleeping, or just resting my mind, by constantly turning to my phone, or YouTube, or what have you, instead of just spending a few minutes in silence. As a result, I was often needlessly and purposelessly busied—I deprived myself of chances to rest and relax, and in a hectic life, even two minutes of silence is vital.

If we are always listening to others, we are not listening to ourselves. And if we can’t listen to ourselves, how can we find our way to God?