Wise Men in a Foolish Time

Who Died and Put the Tesla on Charge?

I wasn’t going to start with the Toronto Raptors. I had actually been planning to get to Kyrie Irving, except a recent Instagram post by NBC’s Aymen Mohyeldin captured a lot of the ground I hope to cover in the next few halaqas. Aymen shares a scene from an NBA game in Canada. (The NBA, the major American professional basketball league, includes one Canadian team—those Toronto Raptors.)

Games open with the American national anthem and the Canadian one, if the Raptors are playing. In this case, though, the Star-Spangled Banner was… booed. One of the marks of a grown-up man is that he abides by the commitments he makes. Trump does not. He threatens to withdraw America from his own commitments with Canada; on flimsy pretexts, he attacks our neighbor’s economy.

Naive people imagine everyone has good intentions. That’s dangerous; there are of course bad people out there. Because countries have enemies as well and should make themselves strong to secure themselves. But countries also have friends and in fact, in the great arc of humanity, few countries have ever had friends like we do. Arguably no one, anywhere, ever, has had alliances like America did.

If it’s foolish to turn friends into foes, what is it to turn world-historically exceptionally alliances into transactional games where promise vanish at the slightest pretext? Americans and Canadians have fought and died together in many wars. What point is there in going down this road? One of the goals of the high school halaqa has been to prepare kids to contribute to our communities.

Yeah, sometimes we need to lead in and for our communities. Sometimes we need to step up. Sometimes, and hopefully only on rare occasions, we have to stand to the side, because we can’t go along. But most of the time, being part of a community means following. How do we do that responsibly? How do we keep our common sense, our conscience, and our commitment to our communities?

A Strong Man, Not A Strongman

It was never my plan to write a self-help Substack, but I’ll make an exception in this case: I’m not sure if it’s a symptom of — or a cause of — depression, but excessive rumination is worrisome. That doesn’t mean you can’t think about yourself. Especially when you’re younger, this can be normal, even healthy: You’re figuring out who you are. You absolutely need resources and experiences that are self-directed.

P.S. Parents: Make sure your kids have chances to explore, make mistakes, and be reasonably autonomous before they hit eighteen and go off to college. They’ll need that reserve of experience, confidence and perspective for their grown-up lives.

When it comes to adulthood, when you get older, and if you still think about yourself all the time, something has gone wrong.

The way out is literally by getting out of your head. 

Mature people, the kind we admire and want to be like, learn early on to direct their focus towards others: Your significant other. Your kids. Your neighborhood. Your community. Your country. And, of course, your Creator. I mentioned my frustration in a recent post: I can’t persuade these kids to read the same texts repeatedly, or even the same texts just once, which had been deeply disappointing. Until I decided this semester’s halaqa would be excessive rumination—about a specific, external topic.

It’s already working, alhamdulillah (praise God).

What I’ve been loving most about this new approach is how much I’m learning, too, because let’s be honest: I don’t get a lot of time to read, either, let alone return to the same texts. With this new pedagogy, I’m forced to come up with something different to share about the same moment each week. That’s such a meaningful, productive, even fun exercise.

In our third class together, we once more we discussed the moment the blessed Prophet (S) passed away, the selection of Abu Bakr, and what that moment says about us, as Muslims, the Sunni tradition specifically, and our present moment. (As a supporting text, I’ve been drawing on Shaykh Abdul-Hakim Murad’s — also known as T. J. Winter — translation of Imam al-Ghazali’s Kitab Dhaka al Mawt wa ma Ba‘dahu, The Remembrance of Death and the Afterlife.)¹

While preparing for this week’s halaqa, right on cue, yet more occurred to me, yet another insight into the same moment, a deeper appreciation for our faith and the heroes of our faith. When ‘Umar ibn al-Khattab makes the case for Abu Bakr’s succession following the death of the Prophet, peace be upon him, ‘Umar was doing something at once entirely obvious, clearly necessary, and yet all too rare.

He was thinking about a future – beyond himself.

Isn’t that the mark of a true leader? ‘Umar was a strong, forceful, intimidating man. He could’ve forced the choice. But he reasoned with the people around him (and, to their credit, the people around him, especially those who initially disagreed, came onboard, because ‘Umar’s argument was that good.)

A strong man isn’t a strongman. Soft power matters.

‘Umar knew he wouldn’t be around forever. He was concerned with what’d work best for the largest number of people, not just in an immature, immediate sense, but over the long haul. I don’t believe we have enough of that in Muslim communities, from how we allocate and direct funding to how we develop strategy. I certainly don’t believe we have enough of that in America today, either.  

Someone’s Gotta Do It, And It’s Not Gonna Be Me

Pardon me while I do a Spark Notes version of the crisis.

After the Prophet Muhammad passed away, peace be upon him, in the year 632, the very young Muslim community centered on Medina struggled to determine who’d be in charge as well (as what being in charge meant).

At the time of the Prophet’s (S) passing, most of the Arabian Peninsula (al-Jazeera) was Muslim, though this hardly meant a homogenous ummah (which is the word Muslims use for our community as a whole; “Christendom” is comparable.) The entirety of the Muslim community was united of course by its loyalty to the last Prophet, Muhammad (S), but his authority was by definition singular, could not be reproduced, and he had just passed from this world.

Of course, the ummah at this time was largely Arab, with a shared language and many shared customs in addition to their shared faith, but if this would suggest an easy path forward, don’t be so sure. The peninsula had never previously been united. Instead, Arabia was split between frequently feuding tribes. The most prominent, Quraysh, were descended from Abraham (S) through his eldest, Ishmael (S). 

They didn’t run the peninsula. But because of their lineage and their control of the Ka‘ba, and their management of the annual hajj pilgrimage, they were the most prestigious on the Peninsula, kind of like first among equals.

Though blessed Prophet Muhammad wasn’t from the most powerful clans within Quraysh, he was nevertheless from Quraysh and esteemed as such even prior to revelation. After receiving revelation and publicly preaching from the year 613 forward, though, Quraysh’s powerful leaders, who dominated their city of Mecca, united against the Prophet and his community.

Within a dozen years, the nascent Muslim community was forced out.

Medina, a city about two hundred plus miles to the north, gave Muhammad and his very small group of followers refuge.² Medina’s polytheistic Arabs converted en masse, and the ummah grew exponentially, from a small band of mostly socially marginal believers into a city-state with a powerful position in western Arabia.  

Still, for several fraught years, it seemed possible the community would not only remain restricted to Medina, it might even disappear entirely—the Quraysh pursued an increasingly eliminationist campaign. How those fortunes turned is a longer story; suffice it to say for now that, by the time the Prophet Muhammad (S) passed away, most of the peninsula had converted, including Mecca, though only in the last four years of Muhammad’s life.

Likely the vast majority of Muslims had never spent much time with the blessed Prophet, if they’d even seen him at all.

That’s the backdrop against which the Muslim community confronted its first crisis.

Who would be in charge now?

Some men from Medina initially argued that power should pass to them. This wasn’t on the face of it a ridiculous, or even unreasonable, proposition. Hadn’t their city given the Prophet (S) and his small, vulnerable, largely Meccan community refuge, lent their strength of arms, risked and lost their lives and their families time and again? Didn’t the Prophet Muhammad (S) choose to remain in Medina even after Mecca embraced Islam?

Except then some Medinese began to wonder which of Medina’s tribes should lead the ummah. Should it be the ‘Aws or the Khazraj? Sensing danger and fearing catastrophe, because a precious, hard-fought unity could be lost forever, a core of the earliest Muslims pushed back. Led by men like ‘Umar, a case was made for Abu Bakr to become the first Caliph or successor to the Prophet (S). That was hardly unreasonable, either.

For religious reasons this made plenty of sense. But it wasn’t crudely religious reasons that decided the matter.

Yes, Abu Bakr, may God be pleased with him, was the best friend and a father-in-law of Muhammad (S). He was also one of the earliest Muslims. Widely considered among the most pious, generous and upstanding of them all, Abu Bakr was also a gray-bearded elder of about sixty-years, meaning he fit traditional Arab expectations of leaders, who should be mature and wise. That part is key. It wasn’t just who Abu Bakr was, individually, though of course that mattered immensely.

It was also what he represented to a growing community.

‘Umar properly acknowledged the debt of all Muslims to Medina, and indeed their great respect for Medina and its status in their faith, but reminded the Medinese that the Muslim community was now far, far bigger than either of their cities. Abu Bakr was from Quraysh, like the Prophet (S); most Arabs simply could not accept a leader from any other tribe. Most Muslims might not have been Muslim for very long, but they’d been Arab for ages and for generations they’d esteemed Quraysh. 

While ‘Umar didn’t say individuals didn’t matter, he also didn’t say that groups, tribes and social realities, norms and expectations didn’t matter, either. While some Medinese might have felt slighted, the vast majority went along, because ‘Umar’s point was obvious. There could only be one chief executive. And it would be unfair to the ummah at large not to select a leader who most people could agree on.

You can imagine how quickly and how easily this moment provides fodder for weeks of classes. Because we should study and know what happened then, yes.

But when you study the past, you can’t help but compare it to the present. When you learn how great Muslims acted, you instinctively compare them to yourself.

Early Muslims had to make a hard decision in a fraught moment, and they chose to balance various considerations to reach a decision that felt best for the ummah, religiously, politically, socially, culturally, economically and even geographically, in the immediate moment, yes, but also for the long-term.

Before he’d died, the Prophet (S) had been forced to call up men to respond to the Romans (Byzantines), who were threatened by Arabia’s newfound unity. Many prominent Muslims had died in one of these encounters (Mu’tah) against one of the world’s great powers. It was one thing for the ummah to remain united within itself.

But ‘Umar also knew that if the Romans (and Persians) Romans sensed disunity, these colossal powers might become emboldened and do what great empires do. False Prophets were simultaneously claiming Muhammad’s mantle. It was a hard, hard situation, for sure. Either they’d stand together—or fall back into their feuds, their new faith vanishing in the chaos of the moment.  

Note, then, that even in this fraught moment, there was no crude proposal along the lines of “hey guys, we’re one ummah!” Even then, even in that difficult, wrenching crisis, there were fault-lines and fissures and, more importantly, these were acknowledged and engaged. If there were then, there certainly are now. So how do we get away with pretending there is sameness where there isn’t?

The present moment we as Muslims find ourselves in is certainly not an easy one, either. I can’t say what the situation will be in ten or twenty years’ time, but I’m hoping that we’re educating our kids to make smart decisions based on a critical appraisal of where they’re at, what constraints they’re operating under, and what strengths they actually possess, all framed by our deepest values and commitments.

That means acknowledging the complexity of the world outside—and inside.

As we explored last week, and will in weeks to come, we can learn even more about this moment in Islamic history by comparing it with the moment we’re in today, as Americans, and asking what’s similar, what’s different… and why.

Diversity, Equity and not Muslims

I’ve run leadership programs for Muslims of different ages. Early next year, from January 3 - 9, I’m leading a leadership program for Muslim college students—in Spain. (You can find out more about Queen City University here.) We’ll tour great sites, we’ll have mentors, speakers and guides with unique perspectives, and we’ll have numerous sessions designed for these 18-22 year-old Muslims, men and women, to challenge themselves, build themselves, and develop the networks that will help them succeed in their lives, religiously, professionally, and personally.

When you build programs like these, you struggle with the reality that the demand is far greater than the supply—we have more need for leadership development programs in Muslim communities than we have actual programs. In this case, we have limited seats. We’ll have an application; nothing too onerous, but to make sure that the people who are applying are qualified, dedicated, ambitious, and understand that this is a chance to learn about the past, present and future through a faithful perspective. We’ll have to focus on candidates who are dedicated to our communities.

But how do we define that dedication?

Of course, we want qualified young leaders. Part of the qualification is the ordinary metrics of seriousness and achievement. But I also need to make sure that the candidates reflect the diversity, complexity and growth of our community, a goal that we will continue to aim for. Why’s that? If this program doesn’t include different perspectives, the students who go through the program would experience blinkered, limited and inaccurate view of their community.

They’d think everyone acts and thinks like them–or experiences the world like them.

Of course, that is not how the world ever works. That’s bad for the students. It’s also bad for the program’s long-term success. If we’re able to find students who can carry their learning back to their specific parts of our broader communities, impacts are amplified. Leadership is a balance between who we are and who we want to be, what’s right and what’s possible, and the logic of leadership requires that we build coalitions to realize sustainable long-term change.

In recent days especially, but for weeks now, we’ve had a fraught conversation about what’s generically called “DEI,” or diversity, equity and inclusion programs (often associated with affirmative action and the like.) In talking about the succession crisis after the death of our beloved Prophet Muhammad (S), I’ve noticed we’ve been picking up on themes that are, or should be, part of our conversation about DEI too—and rightly so. What makes a good leader doesn’t change that much over time.

But I want to make sure I’m read very carefully. I’m not talking about specific approaches to create more diverse and inclusive institutions, communities or societies. Some of these are clearly wasteful.

Some are made to keep powerful people comfortable.

Some seem strangely timed and framed: Are we sure that it’s colleges and universities that should be making these decisions? And some seem to limit definitions of diversity in ways that are ideologically… well, convenient.

In fact, I sympathize with Republicans and conservatives who sense they were excluded from elite sympathies, institutions and conversations–because that did actually happen, often unsubtly. Not to mention that, as a Muslim, I’ve also noticed that while some progressives very excitedly rhetorically welcome Muslims in ways that feel self-congratulatory, substantively we are still very much unwelcome.

Notice how eagerly some campuses talked about diversity, and accommodated Muslim students, until some of these students spoke out about the war on Gaza, and then suddenly all the cheering for free speech subsided.

What does that have to do with ‘Umar, Abu Bakr, and the first Caliphs?

Who Died and Put the Tesla on Charge?

American Muslim communities are remarkably diverse. That poses challenges (and creates unique strengths, too.) When I’ve worked to build institutions in American Muslim contexts, it’s always been vital to keep in mind different forms of access, representation and expertise. We want the best people we can get, even as we want to create openings that seek out more talent, elevate communities more broadly, and balance the individual’s rights with collective realities.

That’s never an easy task, but one of the reasons democracies are so stable — why you don’t need to march on Damascus, as it were — is because no one is (in theory) given too much power and no one is given too little. We must always work to maintain this principle; just as with a life of faith and principle, democracies cannot operate on autopilot. When we go too far in one direction, we must actively ease back. But would it be wise to deny altogether a reality all great leaders have known?

If everyone doesn’t individually feel at least some measure of agency and ownership, then no one is ultimately secure. Conversely, we can’t individually grow and prosper if we don’t feel collectively secure. But individuals live in families, communities, and identities, which aren’t the ultimate arbiters of our worth — God creates and judges us as individuals, after all — but are inseparable from our life experiences.

How do we balance these different forms of belonging? That’s what I hope to explore with my students.

A hypothetical. A debate. A brainstorming session. Maybe it’d go something like this.

If you ran an elite American institution, which supplied many of the country’s future leaders, wouldn’t it be reasonable to want your student body to at least attempt to reflect the diversity of the country (including, but certainly not limited to, demographic composition?) But if you did that, would you be unfair to individuals who have the ambition, talent and discipline to succeed? What’s the right balance here? If we forfeit this conscientiousness altogether, what might result — now, and in a generation, and is that a positive for us or a negative?

If you were a Muslim in Medina in that moment, what would hope to gain in choosing a leader—and what would you hope to avoid?

I’ll share the results of these conversations and debates as they unfold. We’ll talk about Kyrie Irving, about the problem with the problem with DEI, about finding balance in polarizing times—and even why shifting vibes can’t define right or wrong, let alone our responsibility in this moment. We’ll be taking lessons from the last days and hours of the Prophet (S)’s life, the agony and beauty of that moment, and how that shaped the directions Muslims moved in (and how that speaks to our lives.)

With Ramadan right around the corner, I hope this also puts each and all of us into a healthier frame of mind. The students, for sure. But the teacher, too.

Elsewhere in the World

Last week, Shaykh Yasir Fahmy came to our local masjid and gave us an incredible evening, full of insights into Prophetic character. If you’re able to catch his programs, through Prophetic Living, you must—I loved what he had to say. On February 14th, the Islamic Center of Greater Cincinnati will host Stanford University’s Dr. Rania Awaad on Islam and mental health.

If you’re interested in that program, let me know! (Credit to ICGC’s education team, which has been delivering a consistent stream of outstanding programs.)

As soon as Ta-Nehisi Coates’ latest book, The Message, came out, I picked up a copy—it was well worth the read (the audiobook is great, too.) Recently, I picked up Peter Beinart’s latest, Being Jewish After the Destruction of Gaza. Read it for the arguments themselves, which are potent, powerful and haunting.

But read it, too, for a master class in how fidelity to God and our values must always supersede our social context—this is true courage in action. As we know all too well, in Muslim communities and countries too, sadly fellow believers will excuse cruelty, injustice and indecency for all kinds of reasons. These are not and never okay.

Would we have the same kind of courage?

1. If you’re looking for a powerful read for Ramadan, pick up a copy. And try to buy through Fons Vitae: They’re great people who have made invaluable resources available to our communities… not least of all the Ghazali Children’s Project.

2. That’s about the distance between New York City and Boston.