Surviving is Thriving (3)

The Messenger of God (s) had a best friend. Will our sons?

Salam! Welcome to part 3 of Surviving is Thriving.

Catch up with part one if you missed it. When we ended with part two, we were about to explore the crisis of Muslim men, which is where we begin today.

But first I’m sharing: The American Institute for Boys and Men, founded by fellow Substacker Richard Reeves, asked me to write about what it really means to be a Muslim man. Read the full piece, For A Model of Muslim Masculinity, Maybe Don’t Look to the Manosphere, on their website.

The Crisis of (Muslim) Men

A lot of Muslims—and a lot of people—find it hard to believe men aren’t dominating. Because things have been a certain way, though, hardly means they’re going to stay that way. From the broader evidence to everyday experience, it’s clear men are frequently failing to launch, falling behind, too often friendless, sadly isolated, and painfully unsure what their lives are for.

What affects American men as a whole will affect all American Muslim men in particular. Including those of us who are men and maybe also raising men. We should know how Islam might speak to this crisis, which could get much worse.

When I started this series, I wanted to move from what I teach to why the halaqas I teach take the shape and form that they do. It would be easier of course to sit there and talk at middle and high schoolers for the entire class. It’s so much harder to push, prod, and encourage them to work together, to connect mental effort, spiritual reflection, and physical activity.

Harder on me, at least. But it’s also—I pray—better for them. We should do what Tim Carney proposes in his most recent book (hint: he’s my next interview), making societies more family-friendly. But while we work to get society to go along, we should build communally, creating networks that help us get to that goal. (Echoing Umar Lee’s latest, remarkable community can take root almost anywhere.)

That starts with surviving is thriving.

Muscat, Oman. 2013. Picture by the author.

This past Thursday, I opened the middle school boys halaqa with a question. What are things Muslim men have to do that women don’t? (I’ll share the results of that exercise soon, as well as what we’ll discuss the next class: What do those obligations really require? Followed by why do you think men have to do those things?) One of the themes I want them to come back again and again is community, togetherness, brotherhood.

A long time ago—okay, actually, not that long ago—men moved in bands. Even now we know many men prefer to socialize not by talking to each other but by talking with each other while doing something else. Few men have many opportunities to much talking with other men together anymore. As Robert Putnam put it, we bowl alone. We do too much alone. Until Friday comes along and you’ve got to got to jumu‘ah.

As wealthy as you might be, as secure as may feel, as anxious as might become, as uncomfortable as it may get, you still have to sit with other men to pray on Fridays. I’ve read religious opinions that two people is sufficient for a congregational prayer. The smallest jumu’ah I’ve led had been for about a dozen; I can only imagine the incredible awkwardness of talking at one person for even five minutes.

And yet, what’s the excuse on the Day of Judgment? (I’ll also note that talking during jumu’ah is forbidden, as is using your phone. If you are so addicted to your phone that you can’t stop for thirty minutes, not only does your jumu’ah not count, but you’ve got deeper problems.) Add to this that men should pray at the masjid, or at least congregationally, for the five daily prayers where possible.

Of course, I think women and men should pray congregationally as often as possible, in ways true to the sunnah, and we try to do that in our house with maghrib every day. But here I’m focusing on men, not to mention that historically our religion has compelled men to do this, and we hear, obey, and we come to understand through our obedience. Here’s one insight I’ve gleaned.

Ask what such daily togetherness means over years.

We come together to worship. Check up on each other. Develop friendships. I’m not saying that Islam asks men to pray congregationally so that men can have friends. But our Creator is Wise, Generous, and Omniscient; is it any wonder that the forms He would command us to obey Him through are also good for us in myriad other ways, that the spiritual, mental, and physical are connected?

And that’s going to keep reaping rewards. We often hear stories of the sahaba in extraordinary circumstances. But what about the ordinary?

The Prophet (S) Had A Best Friend. Do You?

Imagine how many times a day the blessed Prophet (S) saw Abu Bakr and ‘Umar, may God be pleased with them. How much they liked to see each other. And ask yourself: Do we see each other? Note that, when asked, the Prophet (S) freely admitted his love for Abu Bakr, followed by ‘Umar. If you want to learn about our blessed Prophet (S), learn who our blessed Prophet (S) loved.

So note how these relationships were built. These were men (and, of course, women) who prayed together for years, even in some cases decades. And here’s the unfortunate truth: Some of our communities spend far too little time on this and far too much elsewhere, believing that our vantage point might see something God Himself could not. Are we so sure?

Even though our faith commands us to reflect on nature, to investigate the world, to learn and to think, it simultaneously connects (and subordinates) these inquiries with embodied action—prayer is physical and tangible. In Ramadan, you stand in prayer so long your ankles might hurt. We don’t separate mind, body, and heart, because the idea that we are at odds with our own selves isn’t just rampant—it’s irresponsible.

In contemporary society, we’ve got a kind of mind virus that actively tells us to do things that are bad for us, in ways that seem almost astonishingly self-defeating. And I hope that our living, learning, and teaching Islam doesn’t lose sight of that. Nowhere in Islam are we permitted to Friday Prayer, for example, through Zoom. You’ve got to be there so far as you can be, making a very good-faith effort to attend.

But nowhere in Islam are we tasked with a completely fanciful “self-reliance,” which historically usually meant exploiting or overlooking the people whose work let a privileged few remain so privileged. In Islam, instead, we should collectively empower one another. If it’s hard for someone to make jumu’ah, we should ask what we’re doing to make that easier. (A shout-out to Muhsen for their incredible work in that regard.)

When we design, run, and expand masjids, do we think about the different types of people that worship?

Are we encouraging and making it easier for people at different life stages to attend?

Are we more focused on what the masjid looks like than what it builds for the long-term? That should extend to policies and practices. That should include preaching. A few months ago, at the Islamic Center of Mason, the khateeb shamed the men. There’s a parking lot in front of the masjid, he said, and another across the street. The nearer one is not for men, except those who have a need for it.

If you’re a healthy man, you should be ashamed of yourself for fighting for a close spot. Save it for the elderly, those with kids, those who cannot travel the distance, who have to rush back to work, or your wives and sisters and daughters. You want to be a man and you don’t want to cross a street? It was a brilliant point; I have to admit I was shamed, too. I’m going to worship God but putting my convenience first.

I channel that into my halaqas, asking the students to think about how much they like being together, why it’s good to be together, and what our lives say about what we prioritize. Do we make it easy to get to the masjid? In Ramadan, teens and college kids crowd the masjid, and I’m inspired, envious of, and also incapable of that kind of energy. Different life stages. But think about those, too.

I’d like our young men to see worship as a priority that they should orient their lives around even as they grow up and the ways they get to realize that will change. From chances to be together to how we decide where to live — is a masjid near or far? — and even to how we treat ourselves. As well as what we make of the world around us. Because the obligation never ends when we exit the musalla.

Brothers for Others

Too much of America is struggling with loneliness, poor health, social atomization, a dysfunctional government, and an imbalanced culture. American men in particular are struggling, suffering the consequences of social decisions and individual priorities that have consequences many of us still can’t wrap our heads around. I’m with Aaron Renn when he recently argued we should take on vice again.

If what is good for you is bad for everyone else, then it probably isn’t actually good for you, either. A country where everyone believes that maximizing what they have, and meeting every desire, and following every whim isn’t a happier one. It’s a lonelier, sadder, more uncomfortable, and ultimately but inevitably a more dishonest, more unstable and more violent place.

Instead of some perverse schadenfreude—which is also self-defeating, not to mention undignified, pathetic, and immature—we should feel meaningful obligation.

Then embody it.

Our halaqas shouldn’t just teach but embody rigor, discipline, modesty, perseverance, abstemiousness, frugality, generosity, charity, courage, and dignity, presenting these as genuine virtues, so we see how a life circumscribed, balanced, and focused is a better life. When we’re younger and definitely as we grow older. In fact, without these, we age—often catastrophically.

But we never grow up, which is a tragedy.

For these reasons, in our middle school halaqas we exercise mind, heart, and body. I try to engage them on all the levels of their selves. For the boys’ high school halaqas, we spend time socializing. For the girls’ halaqa, and since that one includes our own girls, we stretch out the time for much longer, hopefully encouraging them to sit and spend time with each other and get to know each other.

I dare say I saw a lot of these friendships blossom further in Ramadan, entirely without me. My parents did that for us as kids. I have to do that for them. They’ll have to do that for their kids, inshallah. They should never believe that faith asks us to partition the different parts of their selves. Just as false dichotomies keep us apart from each other, inadequate pedagogies and communities see us as fragments.

We deserve better. Our neighbors, towns and country deserves better. And Allah and His Messenger compel us to do better. I’m building a curriculum that emphasizes bringing kids together, encouraging them to socialize, pushing them to ask hard questions, and growing beyond their boundaries. They should come out more confident, more social, more connected, and more resilient as a result.

That’s even more so the case for men, who nowadays are too often lacking opportunities to develop socially, to learn what it means to be in a relationship, and to acclimate themselves to living in big families and diverse communities.

Once the wider world taught these lessons, and halaqas might have focused more narrowly on religious law and ritual. Now that we’ve forgotten how to survive, we don’t know what it means to thrive, and we can hardly explain why we’re alive. That might not be our fault, but it is our responsibility—a responsibility we can work backwards to distill the halaqas to their essence.

First, help them understand why they’re alive. (And that’s a good thing.)

Then, let them explore what it would mean to survive. (And that’s a good thing.)

Then, help them follow that from those two comes what they need to thrive. (And that’s a good thing.)

And then let them know these deeper principles will always reign. We can imagine a near future where AI complements (and hopefully doesn’t displace or erase) the rhythms of everyday life (though the broader thrust of this series, Surviving is Thriving, certainly wants us to consider how we just got this so very wrong.) Now think about how my frame applies in the near future.

The Future is (and) a Foreign Country

No matter how much the world is gonna change, no matter how much our circumstances, technologies, and resources transform, you will still have to fast. To put the phone down at jumuah. To stand for prayer, next to your brothers, shoulder to shoulder, foot to foot, day in and day out, to live in communities, to exert, to strive, to translate effort into outcome, because faith is about the road and the destination.

And one more thing. Before I go. This isn’t just about America’s now and tomorrow.

This needs to be heard in the wider world, and especially the Muslim-majority world, right now. Too much of our broader ummah is following certain Western trends as if down a lizard hole, chasing a dangerous mirage and in the process losing genuine good. Look at how many places have thoughtlessly “modernized,” for example, building entire cities premised on beliefs that aren’t just untrue to us, but bad for us.

Cities that assume there’s no need to have mosques in walking distance. That force people to isolate and live apart. That leads to friendlessness, isolation, and consumptive compensation, shopping instead of worshipping, hollowing us out until we bottom us out, celebrating decisions that people in the West actively regret, as if the outcome isn’t known in advance.

That’s a lot of money to spend on something you should know is a mistake. All that glitters is not always good. Or even gold. Which, by the way, was the first thing these middle-schoolers were able to conjure when I’d asked them what men must (not) do: Wear gold. Sometimes you set up a question and the answer you get isn’t what you’d expect. But that’s why teaching is fun. Learning, too.

See you soon. Part four is coming next week—inshallah. In the meantime, please share, subscribe, and let me know what’s resonating. (And if there’s authors or voices you’d like me to interview, let me know.)