Here’s the rough outline of what I’ve arrived at.

Freshman year is dedicated to the life of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ but makes sure to spend major time on the world before revelation. That’s not just because some might suggest there are real parallels between then and now, but because there’s a big piece of the Muslim puzzle that we seem to miss out on: For most of his life, the beloved and blessed Prophet was not the Prophet. Formation is a serious business; it takes a long time and we should spend as much time on character and principles, integrity and decency, as we do on ‘ibadah and fiqh.

Because without the former, the latter are actively harmful. Of course, we’ll cover the arc of his blessed life, including the hijra and the first ummah in Madinah. There is so much there, in fact, that the sirah becomes the anchor for the three years to follow.

For the second year, we turn to the Qur’an and the role it can, should and does play in Muslim life, from how we read it to how we make sense of it, from why it’s important to memorize and understand.

For the final two years, we’ll cover the development of the Islamic tradition, including madhahib, falsafa, great empires, processes of conversion, tasawwuf and its critics, different ways of being Muslim running roughly until the 17th century — and then, thereafter, the development of the modern world and the place of Muslims in that story. Who are American Muslims? What is modernity and secularism? What do we owe the world we live in? How do we make sense of what happened to our ummah? But as different as these questions might be, there are unifying themes.

These themes cut across the curriculum.

For example, each year is framed by a specific adab, such as the etiquettes of study, of reading and understanding Qur’an, of disagreements and differences, of leadership, community and solidarity. Together, inshallah, these track their growing agency and responsibility. That’s why the class size is small, that’s why we run technology-free, that’s why we eat together, talk together, and build each session in a specific way: We say salam to each other, we open with a du’a, we do dhikr together, we close with reflections, we have time for small talk, getting to know each other, hard questions, debates and presentations, difficult questions and open-ended themes.

Every student will have to play a certain role each session, too, so that each of them and all of them feel a sense of responsibility and leadership for the faith. I’m even thinking of a “seminar” for the seniors, alongside a book club supplement, in which about half of us will be reading ’s Why I Am Not an Atheist.

It’s Form and Function, Letter and Spirit

There are deeper, philosophical, epistemological, methodological and pedagogical considerations, informed by years of reflection, that go into this, which I’ll unpack in weeks to come, inshallah. For now, though, let me say that I’ve deliberately elected not to pursue the large-format lecture hall approach, with top-down discussions of fiqh and ritual (which can be valuable, but are also easier to find) and I’ve likewise chosen not to make this a youth fellowship or youth program in the way many masajid offer because, again, those are available elsewhere and I’m not one to reinvent the wheel. I am, however, keen to lean on the study circle, the halaqa itself.

I’ve made this a coed course because it’s very rare that Muslims of this age, or even college age, get to learn and debate and grow together, in a respectful way. I’ve chosen to make the focus of the course Islamic history, because, in their applications, that’s what they said they most wanted to understand, but I made that a bigger story than just what happened (which is the subject of a future post). We take each other seriously. We take ourselves (pretty) seriously. We take the deen seriously. But we acknowledge we’re on a journey, which will last lifetimes.

We’ve got just under two weeks until our first class!

Beyond the Classroom

The Queen City Halaqa is part of a wider ecosystem of work: education, leadership, community. Here’s what’s unfolding outside the halaqa.

Last week, on Avenue M, Joey and I talked about the sharp uptick of Islamophobia in America, what explains its resurgence, why it should matter to all Americans, and how people of faith should respond. You can watch on YouTube, below, keep up with us on Substack, and of course find us on Apple and Spotify.

On Wednesday, September 9th, I’ll be part of Religion News Service’s virtual panel discussion, “The 9/11 Generation: 25 Years Later.” You can register here.

Thanks for reading! If you appreciate Sunday Schooled and are keen to follow my work building an educational platform that inspires and empowers our young Muslims, please join us—Sunday Schooled is intentionally free.

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From my recent essay on iPhones and Soulrot to my most recent posts, you can follow how I’m rebuilding the Queen City Halaqa on the model of our international retreats for young Muslim adults. That means my high schoolers will spend more time in ‘ibadah and with each other; this is the heart of the halaqa.

Since they’ve all turned fourteen, but of course very much still at home, they’re in an intermediate stage, precisely the right time to create a foundation of worship, community, and belonging, because we can build religion on this—but definitely not without this. One day, after all, the guardrails will disappear.

They’ll be on their own. How will they navigate religion then?

More Religion, More Problems

College is often when most of us first go out into the world, relying ever more on ourselves and peers. It’s when we begin to decide what role religion should play in our lives. That role doesn’t just depend on who’s around us, of course, but as much on what we believe ourselves capable of and how we see our place in our communities.

When I was a sophomore at NYU, I started giving khutbahs. That wasn’t an easy decision or a natural one: At nineteen years old, I was significantly younger than a fair number of people in the room. You might think that’s too young and I wouldn’t disagree, not in theory at least. In practice, though, things were painfully messy.

Because, yes, at nineteen, should I have been giving sermons? Conversely, here are actual lowlights from genuine khutbahs we’d had in my first years at NYU:

• One speaker went on for over fifty minutes, though we’d told him we could not use the room for more than thirty minutes, start to finish. This wasn’t just disrespectful to the congregation, but to the Church we rented the room from. (Do you know how expensive Manhattan is? See also, Mamdani won and why.)

• One speaker spent the entire khutbah talking about how dishonest Muslims were. While it’s important to push on a congregation, there’s a big difference between pointing out problems and disparaging an entire ummah. If I’d wanted Islamophobia, I’d just watch that God-awful Elon Musk video.1

  Zeteo

  First Draft: Elon Musk, Islamophobe

  On this day in 1974, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled 8-0 that President Richard Nixon had to hand over the incriminating Watergate tapes, rejecting his claim of absolute executive privilege…

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  a month ago · 167 likes · 19 comments · Mehdi Hasan

• Another khateeb told us he needed to get married (yes, actually), told us how he couldn’t pay attention during the khutbah because he was distracted by the women in our congregation and I don’t even remember what else happened in this khutbah.

• One khateeb cursed during his khutbah, as in he used a four-letter word he shouldn’t have, but because this distressed and unsettled him, he sped up the khutbah and finished on time. That was an inadvertent win or, since we’re just weeks out from the World Cup, I suppose we could call it a draw.

Yet even then, up against all that, it took us years of such occasionally awful khutbahs for us to work up the courage to give our own khutbahs. We so reflexively ceded authority to people who we perceived as religiously authoritative that we couldn’t bring ourselves to make a change even though, I mean, you read what I just wrote.

If, eventually, our core student leadership at the Islamic Center at New York University decided on taking on the responsibility of Friday sermons, it’s because we had a strong sense of responsibility for our deen and a willingness to step up.

For my part, I’m not the kind of person to suffer subpar outcomes; at times, this makes me impatient, though, honestly, I’m not sure why we should be content with religious institutions delivering inferior experiences. A lot of people will however make do or, more likely, eventually quiet quit. Think how many Muslims who maybe didn’t have enough knowledge, or who were already wavering, who might’ve sat through some of those very same khutbahs, concluded that that was in fact the deen, that was all we were capable of, that’s as far as religion could take you, or rather that is what religion would take you back to, and never came back.

Sometimes religion as it’s practiced can be the greatest threat to religion as it is, or should be. We let people who didn’t have seriousness, rigor or compassion speak for us, to us, and therefore define us. I didn’t start giving khutbahs because I wanted to, but because we had a need for me to. Fard kifaya meets fard ‘ayn. But in that process, too, I learned a lot, made mistakes, and learned more. On one occasion, maybe several months into my newfound role as occasional khateeb, I cited a religious figure—I don’t even remember who—and inadvertently ignited a small firestorm. As it turned out, this figure had made some truly unfortunate statements against Shi’a Muslims.

We’d been trying really hard at the Islamic Center at NYU to build a community that welcomed Sunni and Shi’a Muslims, that celebrated Muslims of different backgrounds, that was open to various levels of practice, that offered, as we’d put it, multiple points of entry. I’d even come up with a tagline: “This is what a great Muslim community should feel like.” We built everything on that aspiration. We weren’t going to dilute the faith, but we also weren’t going to pretend we didn’t have a diverse ummah either. At a huge university in a huge city, moreover, we believed very much in a bigger tent than many of us had experienced growing up. We knew New York City had the largest population of Muslims of any city in our hemisphere. How could we not honor and want to build on that?

Several students and community members contacted me in response to my sermon—some upset, a few alarmed, though I’d had no idea that the figure in question had made these sectarian statements. What exactly was I trying to say, a few people asked. Was this a dog whistle? Conversely, some took this as my approval of sectarian polemics, which was even more concerning. I learned that day and going forward that when we are in positions of leadership, when we literally or figuratively have a microphone, we have to think about what we amplify. Sometimes we immediately recognize that mistake, as I did, and apologize. Sometimes it takes years of reflection.

What does that have to do with teaching high schoolers and young adults? As teachers, we have to think carefully about our words, sources and examples, and model that caution out loud with teenagers and young adults, so they can learned a balanced approach to religion, one that is neither dangerously credulous nor reflexively cynical. Otherwise we convey the impression to young Muslims that religiosity itself places some people beyond reproach; a man may have a beard, and a thobe, and the correct Arabic, but that does not make his opinion right. Some of his opinions may be right. Others may not be.

Conversely, cynicism teaches that there is no point pursuing God, worship, or community, because any means to that end is going to let you down. Too often, young people are raised with very reductive approaches to religion; they miss out on the ability to develop a deep reservoir of faith that can survive conflict, difficulty, disappointment, that can give them strength in difficult times, and offer restraint when it is necessary. Sometimes, after all, you’re at the proverbial mic, and other times you’re in the jama‘ah, listening.

If we don’t feel we have a stake in the religion, we won’t push ourselves when we encounter adversity in the community or outside it. We won’t hold onto our faith in hard times. One way to do this is to invite your students to explore a topic, to see (respectfully) how their shared faith and shared values are inflected by experience and inclination, and make them reflect on that. A simple one: Your masjid board gives your youth group a $75,000 grant. What would you spend on? How would you decide?

The answers that emerged when we tried this a few years back were fun because they were politely contentious. A new basketball court? A program for new Muslims? Scholarships? An ‘umrah trip? The gathered students realized that pluralism isn’t a weakness or a failure. It’s inevitable. It’s even healthy. This matters because it teaches them something essential: You can disagree with someone and still respect them. You can also learn from someone and still maintain critical distance from them. (Indeed, if you’re not learning critically, you’re not really learning. )

Though that’s not all a teacher has to do.

Building the Classroom

Each week at Sunday Schooled, I share lessons we can apply to all our classrooms.

There are a few questions that run through every high school class I teach (and that I work into many of the sessions I lead in Spain, for our annual young adults’ trip.)

How do we evaluate expertise and what are we evaluating for? We have to teach our students to look deeper: Does this person know what he’s speaking about? Does she model what she preaches? Do they encourage hard questions or sidestep them? What community are they accountable to?

Who do we go to for guidance and perspective and on what basis do we trust them? Every one of those khateebs had been invited to the minbar. Of course we need qualified teachers and religious scholars. Since most of us are entrusting our formation, or the formation of our kids, or communities, to them, it’s fair to ask how we’re making these selections.

Can we maintain critical thinking about figures and positions we emotionally agree with? Can we poke holes in arguments we want to believe? This is the hardest and maybe the most important. I can’t tell you how many times I blankly nodded when a religious scholar would insist on the importance of religious scholarship, on the need to take knowledge only from people who really knew their stuff, and then, sometimes within the very same speech, issue a strong judgment on a field they couldn’t possibly have any real experience about or expertise in.

The real test of intellectual maturity, and for a faith that will survive the world, is whether it stands up to scrutiny. The real test of a good curriculum, and a strong institution, is whether it admits to diverse perspectives, acknowledges that no one person is sufficient, and encourages hard questions. Because the effect of a perceived religious endorsement on a single person, or institution, isn’t just bad for that person or institution, but everyone under their responsibility.

Students have to be encouraged to develop a healthy skepticism of ideas, not grounded in cynicism but the desire to confirm what it is they’re learning. Can they extend that approach to what they themselves build? To the institutions they seek to be a part of or that request their support? A few weeks back, I shared a program I spoke at, “Husayn Day,” at a local masjid, meant to bring Sunni and Shia Muslims together. I encouraged my students to go there not because I want them to pretend we have no differences (even as we have more in common, to be clear) or because I think there’s a generic Islam that escapes these different orientations. Indeed, I’m open about the fact that I teach from and belong to the Sunni tradition.

But if we don’t remember that there are other perspectives, we can be caught in confirmation bias—in an age of algorithms, I’m pretty sure we can all imagine where that can inevitably lead.

Beyond the Classroom

The Queen City Halaqa is part of a wider ecosystem of work: education, leadership, community. Here’s what’s unfolding.

Queen City University: Building Community, Confidence and Connection

I’m so excited to share that, with the support of generous donors, investors and sponsors from our Muslim community, we’re able to bring the cost of the Queen City University retreat down to $2,000 per person (from an original price of $2,500.) I’m hopeful that this big shift in price will help make the program more accessible.

Over one week in Andalusia, from December 24 - December 31, we’re building faith, leadership, and an alumni community that’ll stretch across the US, Europe and beyond. We’ll see history, experience arts and culture, dive deep into Spain and Spain’s Muslims, and make friendships and connections that’ll last a lifetime inshallah.

If you’re interested, visit Queen City Diwan for more information. Applications are open. However, please note we limit each cohort: seats are limited.

Christopher Nolan’s Odyssey, Ezra Klein’s oddly similar review, and Tucker Carlson too: It’s a new day at Avenue M, mashallah!

At Avenue M, Joey and I are now talking about issues that matter to us in our real lives, from sports to culture to politics, without checking our faiths at the door. That’s something that’s all too rare, unfortunately. I’d argue there’s very few podcasts that bring that kind of perspective.

And so, we’ve had two remarkable recent episodes, from an honest conversation about whether Tucker Carlson has too much influence in religious communities to a very different take on Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey. You can watch these on our YouTube channel, Apple, Spotify or wherever you get your favorite podcasts.

Incidentally, well over a week after we posted our take on The Odyssey, building on my points and Joey’s, Ezra Klein published a review that included very similar conclusions. That just means we’re ahead of the mainstream curve, which means you should prioritize our podcast. Up next, we’re starting a three-part series on conspiracy theories. You can find show notes, links to all our episodes, and plenty more on our Avenue M Substack page.

Who’s Teaching Me

I tell my students that the work of learning never stops. The best teachers are the ones who are still students themselves. In that spirit…

Through Thick and Thin: The Best Substack You’ll Ever Subscribe To

If you love Islamic art, the histories of our cultures, the beauty, the depth, the spirituality of our everyday gestures, traditions and communities, I’ve got just the Substack for you. Some months back, my wife started Thin Places. She’s relaunched as Diwan Archive and has a new post up to mark her return. I promise you’ll love it.

Read, like, and subscribe. You won’t regret it.

Diwan Archive

Things I Find Incredibly *Not* Chic (And Keep Anyway)

For my email subscr…

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a month ago · 8 likes · 4 comments · Samar Kaukab

P.S. Religion is Good for You

I’ve just pointed out the ways religiosity can harm our religious development. Don’t take that to mean religion itself is harmful—it’s how we translate religion in our lives, personally and together, that can strengthen or undermine our ummah. If that subject and that distinction interests you, have you read ? He’s a compelling scholar of American religion; his latest Substack presents a challenge:

If you walked up to the average American and asked them, “Who is more likely to go to church this weekend — a person who earned no more than a high school diploma or someone with a graduate degree?” I bet that the vast majority of those being quizzed would choose the person with less education.

Burge’s essay turns on a key point, which emphasizes why we should teach religion and religiosity; though his emphasis is on secular outcomes, that doesn’t take away from its significance (of course, as Muslims, we do not believe the transcendent and the immanent can be easily disconnected):

After doing data analysis for nearly twenty years, I’m pretty convinced that education really runs on the same causal tracks as being pro-social. Educated folks are just more likely to be engaged in all kinds of social activities. They serve on school boards. They volunteer at their local library. They’ve just built a thicker, more robust social network than those who stopped at high school. I’ve used this phrase a lot — “Dropping out begets dropping out” — and I really believe it’s true.

But after poking around the data a whole bunch for this post, I’m convinced of something very important. If a person at the lower end of the educational spectrum can become a regular churchgoer, it opens a door for them to engage in much more pro-social activities. And it will actually make their lives better and close that “drop out” gap in some very meaningful ways…

Read the rest at Graphs About Religion—

Graphs about Religion

The Socializing Power of the Pew: How Church Closes the Education Gap

If you’ve been around my work at all, you know very well that the relationship between education and religious attendance cuts against the prevailing view. If you walked up to the average American and asked them, “Who is more likely to go to church this weekend — a person who earned no more than a high school diploma or someone with a graduate degree…

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a month ago · 39 likes · 5 comments · Ryan Burge

What We Look For and Look Out For

If you’ve read my last book, Two Billion Caliphs: A Vision of a Muslim Future, you’ll know the important role tasawwuf (Sufism) played at a key time in my life, which approach continues to shape how I practice and teach Islam. But you’ll also know, from that book, why I withdrew from formally participating in a tariqa, some of these reasons echoed in ’s recent Substack, which makes a longer argument. How we relate to this approach to Islam, institutionally, may differ, but the underlying concern is and should be similar.

All of us who are teachers must always be alive to the ways in which the frameworks we advance can cause harm.2 Not necessarily, of course. But often enough that we should always proceed with caution, think about accountability, and ask what checks and balances we practice, internalize, permit, and encourage our students to pursue.

Aamir Khanzada

The Anatomy of Neotraditionalism

There is a strand of Islam operating in the West that most of its followers simply call “the tradition.” Not a tradition. The tradition. As if the question of which tradition, whose tradition, and how it arrived here were already settled. As if the selection were divine rather than historical…

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a month ago · 20 likes · 9 comments · Aamir Khanzada

One Last Thing Before We Teach

Years back, I had a student who was convinced that a troubling statement by her Imam invalidated the religion entirely. I’ve been there, too. But if we snap out of it, it’s because we know none of us is as big as our ummah and that our ummah is still entirely and totally dependent on God. Never forget which way the arrow goes, in other words: hierarchy has value, but hierarchy is ultimately judged by God’s standards, not its own. If that’s hard to understand, put it another way.

I asked her if she believed that God created the universe. She said yes, at which point I asked if she believed the Imam created God or if God created him—and me, and her, and all of us in the room?

When we first announced our next retreat, for young Muslim men and women aged 18-24, the per-person price was $2,500. This number reflects the real costs of the trip, but we knew all the same that that price created barriers and impediments for too many. So we prayed and worked to find the donors, supporters and philanthropists who’d help us make Queen City University more accessible to more young Muslims.

After all, we saw the impact our first retreat made on the students who went with us.

Shouldn’t more young Muslims have that opportunity?

I’m blessed to share that, thanks to a generous community of American Muslim donors, who believe in our vision and who want to see our young leaders empowered, we’re able to lower that per-person cost across the board. By helping us cover logistics, programming and staff support, they’ve made it possible for us to dramatically lower our per-person cost.

The per-person cost is now $2,000. That’s for a full week in Spain, December 24-31, open to Muslim men and women, aged 18-24, who want to grow in deen, perspective, and community, who want to expand their horizons, deepen their faith, and connect with a global ummah. That means more students can see the Alhambra, wander the Mezquita of Córdoba, and change their perspective on themselves and their world.

This is so much more than a tour, of course. There are classes, workshops, mentorship experiences. Best of all, participants share these experiences with young leaders like themselves, who might have different backgrounds, origins, geographies and passions, but who are united by our faith and committed to a better future.

To get a taste of how special our first retreat was, just watch…

Created by our Leadership Fellow, Sadia Malik, this beautiful video captures some of the magic of our first retreat. I build and lead these retreats because I know, from twenty years of experience, how incredibly important these experiences can be. They can literally change the trajectories of our lives. Don’t just take my word for it. Hear it from more of that first cohort of students.

Why I Started Queen City University

There were a lot of experiences a lot of us wished we’d had when we were younger. Be honest with yourself, and you’ll admit to a little regret too. Maybe it was a chance to learn your religion. Maybe it was the opportunity to travel. Maybe you just wished you’d been braver. Something of each of these has been true for me. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized what I missed out on.

If I better understood Islam at a younger age, who might I have been?

If I’d seen more of the world, who might I be today?

And if I’d had more confidence at a young age, what else might I be building now? But most of all, what kept me going, inspired, pushed and motivated me, were the friends I’d made and the mentors who watched over me. In an age of profound volatility, uncertainty, corruption and bigotry, the most important thing our young men and women can have, alongside faith and competency, is real community.

That’s what Queen City University sets out to build. This past January, we had participants who studied in the US and UK, who hailed from parts of the world as far apart as California and Kuwait, who now have friendships that reach beyond what they might have imagined before. For our upcoming retreat, we’ve already gotten applications from the US, of course, but from Bosnia and Australia too.

Imagine what this network can create. You don’t have to only imagine, though. We’re building it. And with fellow Muslims supporting this, American Muslims who’ve been blessed and want to give back, we can do so much more. They’ve seen and believe in what we’re doing, alhamdulillah. Which, ultimately, comes down to a simple motivation: To give young Muslims a head start on their lives.

From the high school halaqas I teach to the college students I mentor and work with, I know how much promise, potential and energy our young Muslims have.

But I also know how many of them can’t access opportunities to pursue their passions, think through their faith, and to meet the friends and build the community who’ll get them there. That was the simple, direct, necessary goal: Empowering our young people. I made myself two promises at the start of this journey: First, that this would never be a one-man show, an operation wholly dependent on me.

And second, that I’d keep dreaming big, of a program that’d reach more and more Muslims, that could one day reach, reflect and uplift all of our ummah, an ummah that invests its future and cares for its youth. All praise is due to Allah, may He be exalted above all, and may we remember Him in all things. If you’re interested in Queen City University’s December 2026 retreat, visit our website.

If you’ve got questions, drop me a line here or visit our contact page. We keep this retreat intentionally small, so that our Leadership Team—including myself (we travel with these young adults from the day they arrive to the day they depart)—gets to spend time with each and every participant. In years to come, inshallah, we’ll realize a remarkable community of Muslims with shared experiences.

Muslims who care about the same causes, dream the same dreams, and hope for the same outcomes. Muslims who trust each other to grow together.

Starting With Ibadah

Congratulations to the Spanish football team. I know many of my students were cheering for Lamin Yamal and Spain. I was, too.

I know lots of us shared the picture of him, the very image of poise and piety, on his knees in du‘a after the match, while chaos erupts around him. This is, indeed, admirable. But do you know what I felt when I saw that picture? Pride, yes. But also concern. Here’s a young man at the pinnacle of his career, with all the eyes of the world on him, and he put prayer first. How many of us actually do that? How many of us, when we are out in the world, would stop, drop everything, and pray, without any concern for what others think? If Lamin Yamal can do it, why can’t we? If we see this, and draw strength from it, and bring prayer into our lives, that’s great.

But if we share this, and that never goes any further, then why might that be? Courage is not the exclusive property of any particular individual. I can’t imagine a more potent confirmation of ‘ibadah, of permission to pray.

So what more do we need? What else are we waiting for? If we’re putting it off now, what’s holding us back?

Every session of last year’s Queen City Halaqa opened with salam and a du’a. Starting in the spring semester, I added a dhikr, the tasbih of Hadrat Fatima (RA), with one student leading and the rest of us following along, quietly. The more I sit with this, the more I believe this is the heart of the class. We have only two hours together on seven Sundays each semester. More of that time should go to ibadah. Learning is valuable, but we must be careful not to reduce that learning to a secular metric. How often, in other words, do our students get to experience Islam as faith? What can help us become men and women who so unselfconsciously and reflexively put God first?

What, in the end, is the heart of Islam if not our devotion to Allah? If we don’t want our deen to become identity, culture, or even community, we must remember and restore our connection with our Creator. The du’a and dhikr are not a warm-up before the “real” class begins. They come first because they ground us in the purpose of our lives. That’s not ‘ibadah in the stale sense ritual is often reduced to, but ‘ibadah as orientation, as a compass, which also reframes what we think of ritual, gives students a chance to engage in dhikr they might not otherwise do, and makes an epistemic point unique to Islam. There is no learning without fidelity to God.

If I skip that, if I rush through it, everything that follows doesn’t land. I’ve come to see this even after only a few sessions. The students might still learn something. But they won’t feel it days later.

After the du’a and dhikr, we have some unstructured time. Chips and salsa. Conversation. No phones, no laptops. This is where relationships form, the kind that make hard intellectual work possible, but that is, additionally, important on its own terms, that cannot be reduced. I’ll definitely keep this.

Then we move into the lesson itself: an interactive exercise, a reading, a debate, or just me teaching. That’s the architecture. But architecture without content is an empty building. And in an age when far too many people build ugly, generic, placeless buildings, don’t. What will I fill this semester with?

What else have I learned?

There’s More I’m Doing Differently

In my second post, I described reflecting on my students’ end-of-year evaluations. One thing they told me: I should answer their questions more fully, in ways that satisfy them. They were referring to how our spring semester had started. I’d asked them what about Islam made them pause, struggle, or doubt, and spent a significant portion of subsequent sessions on those questions. Not enough time, as it turned out.

This year, I’ve changed the questions. The application doesn’t just ask what students struggle with. It also asks

1. What they think a Muslim should know at their age,

2. What they want to accomplish over the course of the halaqa, and

3. What they’re most interested in learning

Don’t get me wrong. “What do you struggle with?” is important. I’m not abandoning it. But it’s deficit-framed. It positions the student as someone with problems the teacher will solve. “What should you know?” and “What do you want to accomplish?” put the onus on them: This is your halaqa too. Seven students have signed up so far. Here are three of the answers I received to that first question, What do you think a Muslim should know about her faith at your age?

At my age I believe a Muslim should know the basics of their faith. Including things like the Five Pillars of Islam, the importance of prayers and what the Qur’an teaches about lifestyle and character. They should also understand why we worship Allah, and why we treat others with kindness and respect, and continue to learn more about Islam as they grow.

They should know how to keep strong to their faith in challenging circumstances.

A Muslim should know the hardships that their fellow brothers and sisters had to go through.

I’ll draw on all of their answers, and those still to come, in designing the fall curriculum. My aim isn’t to flatten those differences into a single lesson plan. It’s to build a semester generous enough to hold all of them.

Of course, I also asked students to pick the focus they’re most interested in. The options included skills and content. Here are our results:

The students are telling me what they want to learn about. My job is to design a year where learning about Islamic history is also learning how to read carefully, think rigorously, and disagree well. The substance is the vehicle for the skills. And students will never ask for the skills directly, which is precisely why the teacher has to be intentional about embedding them.

I can’t pre-build an entire semester, of course. But I can prepare for one. I can make sure the du’a is ready, the space is set, the chips are on the table. I can carry into the room commitments about how I’ll teach: with rigor, with care, with honesty about what I don’t know. But there’s one commitment that sits underneath all the others. It concerns what happens when a teacher amplifies a voice, recommends a thinker, or cites a scholar. The responsibility that comes with that act, and how easily it can go wrong. I learned that the hard way as a young khateeb at NYU.

That story is what’s coming next week.

Building the Classroom

Each week here at Sunday Schooled, I share learnings you can apply to your own classrooms, inshallah.

Start With Worship, Not Content

If your students are going to think hard, disagree openly, and sit with discomfort, they need to be rooted first. Create conditions for stillness before you teach a single lesson. Du’a and dhikr are not formalities. They are the foundation. Everything that follows lands differently when it follows from spiritual grounding.

Reframe the Opening Question

“What do you struggle with?” and “What do you want to accomplish?” are both useful. But they produce different dynamics. The first invites vulnerability. The second invites agency. Consider asking both and notice how the answers differ.

Design for Skills Through Substance

Your students will ask for history, tradition, worship. They might not ask for critical thinking. That’s not a deficiency. It’s a signal about how learning works. Build the skills into the content so thoroughly that students are exercising them before they have a name for what they’re doing.

Beyond the Classroom

The Queen City Halaqa is part of a wider ecosystem of work: education, leadership, community. Here’s what’s unfolding.

Queen City Diwan: Applications Are Open

This is the second year I’m teaching the Queen City Halaqa; I’m building on everything I learned in our first: the trust-building, the student-driven curriculum, the rituals that ground us. The halaqa is open to Cincinnati-area Muslim high schoolers, capped at fourteen students. We meet on Sunday afternoons for two hours: worship, community, and rigorous intellectual engagement, without phones or laptops.

That Halaqa exists alongside a program open to young Muslim leaders, aged 18-24, from across the US, Canada and beyond. That might include your children, students or young professionals you know—and some of my readers. It’s the second annual Queen City University leadership retreat, this December 24–31, 2026, in Spain. Go thank Lamin Yamal in person.

Applications are now open for Muslim college students and recent graduates, ages 18–24, from across the US and beyond. The land package is just $2,500 per person for a week of immersive learning, mentorship, travel, and community. Some scholarship assistance is available. We have limited seats available and have already started receiving applications.

Learn more here!

Husayn Day

How many Ashuras come and go and how many Sunni institutions can’t even bring themselves to note the martyrdom of the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad (ﷺ)?

Husayn ibn Ali (RA) is revered across our traditions. He is an icon of how much we share. He should be a model of courage and faith for every Muslim. But we don’t know how to talk about difference inside the ummah, which has gotten so bad that we can’t even bring ourselves to acknowledge who he is. I’ve been shocked, for example, that there are young Muslims who don’t even know who Husayn (RA) is. That’s painful to read, but it’s important to know.

That’s why, last Friday, I spoke at Dar-e Zehra Islamic Center in West Chester, Ohio, for “Husayn Day,” an evening on the moral legacy of Imam Husayn alongside Dr. Cameron Zargar, a resident scholar at Dar-e Zehra, and Dr. Anas Malik, chair of Xavier’s political science department. Three speakers, three lenses, one shared question: what does Karbala teach us about moral red lines and the cost of standing for what’s right?

The evening was beautiful. A delightful dinner. Short talks. A Q&A session that ran long because the audience wouldn’t stop asking good questions. Families. Young people. The kind of room that reminds you what Muslim community can look like when we stop claiming unity and start building it.

Some of my Queen City Halaqa high school students have Shia family. We teach from the Sunni tradition, yes, because that’s what I know, that’s what I practice and that’s what most of our students are grounded in. But we respect the Shia tradition, not as a sidebar or diplomatic gesture, but because that is part of our ummah, we need to learn how to talk respectfully about difference, learn how to articulate what we choose, and learn how to engage and build across differences.

Of course, I’m not a scholar of Shia thought. I don’t pretend to be. Which is exactly why I invited my students to attend. One of them, alhamdulillah, did.

Queen City University, the program for young Muslim leaders 18-24 years old, operates on a broader model still. We invite diversity, Sunni, Shia, American and European, Middle Eastern, conservative and progressive, because difference inside the ummah is not a problem to be managed. It’s a depth to be explored. Dr. Zargar didn’t invite me despite the fact that I’m not Shia. He invited me because an evening about Husayn’s moral legacy should include the whole community that claims him.

I’m honored to be part of such a program and excited to watch it grow.

Avenue M: Get Rich or Die Tithing

This week on Avenue M, Joey and I went deep on the Prosperity Gospel, the theology that says God wants you to be rich, that if you tithe and believe, the blessing comes back in your bank account, your driveway, your annual physical. The Prosperity Gospel treats faith as transaction: believe correctly, receive accordingly. This is how many of us Muslims come to think about faith, even inadvertently.

We can’t help it, can we? It’s all around us. Joey and I wanted to understand where this theology comes from, what it promises, why it succeeds and where it breaks down. I brought in barakah, the concept that fidelity to God doesn’t promise you more but transforms your relationship with what you have. Joey pushed on whether Prosperity preachers even understand their own Protestant priors.

Watch the full episode on YouTube, or listen on Apple or Spotify.

On Reading History

Before you go, I wanted to share something special. A piece that captured the heart and soul of why it is we must teach our young men and women and why we must learn with them, too. In the New York Times this week, Charles King, a professor at Georgetown and the author of a forthcoming book on Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, wrote:

“Gibbon’s singular insight was that the whole point of reading a history book — or writing one — is not to come away with one big truth. The stealthy purpose of studying history is to get you comfortable with changing your mind.”

All three of my earliest applicants to the Queen City Halaqa asked for more about Islamic history. King goes further:

“Gibbon was skeptical that history had any definitive lessons. Corpses turned out to be terrible tutors. But knowing about the past, he believed, can help place the here and now in the proper light. Among other things, this knowledge improves our ability to live well by keeping us from mismeasuring the present. Praising our own times as a golden age, or mourning them as uniquely bad, are recipes for either disastrous overconfidence or paralyzing despair.”

If the point of studying history is to get comfortable with changing your mind, then what determines how we change our minds? What holds us steady while the ground shifts? The blessed Prophet (ﷺ) said: “Wisdom is the lost item of the believer; he picks it up wherever he finds it.”

Next week: a mistake I made as a young khateeb at NYU, what that error taught me about the weight of every word a teacher speaks, and why being conscious of what we amplify might be the most important thing an educator carries into the classroom.

Thank you for reading, keep sending your questions — they help me shape not only what I write here, but what I teach — and if you haven’t yet subscribed, here’s a great chance to

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That means, of course, that even on the first day of class, I don’t know exactly what the semester’s going to cover. How can that possibly work?

Today, I’m going to use Tucker Carlson as a case study, a stand-in for a student question, and then, over the next few weeks, outline what a potential semester could look like. Most of my high schoolers, so far as I can tell, don’t spend much time with Tucker Carlson. But many Muslim adults do, and the way he’s discussed in our communities is exactly the kind of thing our students should be equipped for.

So let’s pretend a few students brought him up on the first day of the coming semester. How do I create a curriculum out of that?

Supply-Side Theology

As word about the halaqa has spread, more and more parents have asked if their students can join—some virtually, which I don’t permit, but even for those in-person, there’s a necessary cut-off. I can only have so many students. The demand reveals a broader problem: there’s more demand for Islamic education than there is supply. That’s why I started this Substack, to share my approach.

By explaining how I run the Queen City Halaqa, I hope to share insights, experiences and hard-won lessons that can supplement your own teaching.

Now, back to Tucker Carlson. The prominent conservative pundit isn’t just a big deal in America broadly, he’s a big deal among many American Muslims too. Of course, while I have my own opinions about Carlson, the point of the Queen City Halaqa is not for me to think for our students. It’s to help them become better thinkers (which, by the way, helps me improve my own thinking.)1

These students are becoming adults, who will need to arrive at their own answers.

But they’re not quite there yet. My goal is to help them learn how to arrive at better answers. Through the Queen City Halaqa, I’d like for Islam to become the language they speak, the air they breathe, and the consciousness they cultivate. The best way to get there? Through the most inefficient direction possible. The ability to make associations between ideas is necessary to understanding the ideas themselves.

It’s also necessary to understanding when to abandon, improve, or transcend ideas. Such as, for example, the idea that a prominent public voice is on my side. That could be true. That could be false. How do we know? How, in particular, will a student know, early in her life, when she doesn’t have much experience to go on? By anchoring herself in something she cares about, for example.

Get Lost

I have a habit of responding to my students’ questions with what might seem like unrelated points. That’s intentional. I’m encouraging students to develop the ability to reflect and reason their way through unfamiliar questions by drawing on what might be familiar to them. Or, at the least, important to them.

I want them to notice gaps in their arguments (and mine), to see how seemingly disparate things connect, to bridge what’s known and unknown.

When a person makes a judgment about an issue, he should draw on knowledge, of course, as well as experience. He would also bring in his own sense of right and wrong. These are not disconnected, of course. But how can we do this with students? Let’s say a student brings up Tucker Carlson. I’d encourage him to reflect on what he knows. What he’s experienced. What he thinks is right and wrong.

I say this because I’ve been doing this. Indeed, I’ve been thinking about Tucker Carlson’s place in the American Muslim imagination for some time now.

As more and more Muslims around me shared Tucker Carlson videos, reels, and content, I found myself concerned — not so much about Carlson but about how uncritically some of us were embracing him. We’d been recently burned by ostensible allies. We’d been let down by grandiose promises. What should I make of a pundit who seemed to be articulating positions we were eager to hear, but whose past and present associations should, at minimum, give us pause?

Of course, concern isn’t a curriculum. But it’s a good place to start all the same.

If a student asks me about a prominent public figure, it’s not enough to say this person is good or bad. That’s giving her fish. I want to teach her how to fish — how to think about any public figure who seems to line up with causes that matter to her. And that means stepping back from Carlson entirely.

It means talking about Obamacare.

Obamacare, more properly known as the Affordable Care Act (“ACA”), sought to expand healthcare access to more Americans through modifications to the existing private health insurance marketplace.

Now, I personally believe every American should have healthcare.

But while I know certain corners of history, philosophy, and foreign policy—Islam, the Mughals, Iqbal, the Iran war—I don’t know nearly enough about our national healthcare system to pretend I’m an expert.

Like many Americans, I’ve struggled with insurance companies, but irritation isn’t the same as expertise.

What I do have—and what I can build on—is more than experiences. My values matter, too. That’s where I tell my students to start, too. They’re not experts, either, just like I’m not. But we have experiences and we have moral inclinations, and I want them to become conscious of those—without confusing either for expertise, and without believing either leads to only one conclusion.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Of course, if the Queen City Halaqa were to take on Tucker Carlson for a semester, we’d have to talk about who he is, why he matters, and why people inside of and outside of our community pay so much attention to him. We’d ask questions like: Is Tucker Carlson a friend of American Muslims? Should we be turning to him for news, insight, and perspective?

Remember, I wouldn’t want to answer those questions for my students. I’d want them to be able to answer questions like these for themselves, which involves stepping back, and bringing in a big-picture perspective. A lot of times I think we have these conversations rather uncritically, absent a kind of intellectual and conceptual due process. So I’d want to make sure to provoke them into having the most substantive conversation possible.

We’d start there, or, in this case, here:

What are your values? Where do your values lead? Can people with similar values arrive at different conclusions? Of course—that’s called a Muslim community. But here’s the harder question: Can people with different values arrive at similar conclusions?

Consider the set of Americans who oppose the ACA. Are they a coherent group? Some oppose the ACA because it doesn’t go far enough—they want single-payer, universal coverage. Others oppose the ACA because they believe it goes too far—they don’t want government anywhere near healthcare. Some might think such a mandate is unconstitutional, however personally inclined they are toward it. Others might believe the government is simply too unwieldy for such an important task.

And some might oppose the ACA for far more concerning reasons. They might oppose Obamacare because it was Obama’s signature policy—and they might oppose Obama because he’s Black, allegedly Muslim, supposedly foreign—and so on down the rabbit hole. Their starting line is race. Their finishing line might be, too.

An initial convergence might feel meaningful—hey, we’re all opposed to Obamacare—but that convergence can be deceptive. It could be tactical, temporary, or fundamentally contradictory. Now, in this case, we’re talking about the ACA. But what happens if the conversation turns to the genocide in Gaza, the aimless war on Iran, our history of irresponsible, unaffordable foreign interventions?

The ways these have enforced a politics that means billions for bombs and cuts to hospitals and healthcare?

Can we step back and ask hard questions there, too?

Red Pill, Blue Pill, Free Will

I made a point of listening to Carlson’s recent, lengthy New York Times interview, which covers his rising opposition to Israel’s role in American politics, his firm disapproval of the Iran war, his break with President Trump. He mostly spoke capably on Israel, Palestine, and Gaza. But at one point, almost in passing, he said he believes race is “real,” which means, he concluded, that racial differences are real, too.

I’ve seen lots of Carlson videos circulating in Muslim conversations. I haven’t seen many people address or raise that comment. Maybe they haven’t heard it.

Maybe they wouldn’t know what to do with it. What does Carlson mean by race? How does he define race? Who does he include and exclude from these categories? What kinds of differences are we even talking about? I’d encourage my students to spend time here, because these are the tensions that help us come to better conclusions.

Here we have a very prominent public voice, who came out of a politics that has historically (and is often presently) hostile to Muslims, who’s endorsing positions many of us are deeply committed to—positions that have clearly affected the national conversation: on Gaza, most of all.

He also shows a respect for Muslim humanity that, let’s be honest, many mainstream institutions have largely abandoned any pretense to.

But this same prominent public voice also makes appeals to heritage, nationalism, and patriotism in ways that seem to channel and amplify assumptions about race, ethnicity, and ancestry at odds with our own—for reasons that are as theological (Islam opposes racism) as they are practical (most American Muslims are people of color). And then there’s his position on immigration: end it all, now.

What’s motivating that? Who else might line up behind him on that position? Does it make sense for a community—most of whose members are immigrants or descendants of recent immigrants—to be in solidarity with that position?

In Islam, there is no hierarchy of races, no moral division of humanity except by righteousness, piety, and decency. We know this theologically. We know it practically: most American Muslims are people of color; our religion is constantly racialized. Is there then cause for alignment here? What kind of alignment are we talking about? People who want “no more foreign wars” don’t necessarily say it for the same reason.

Don’t misunderstand me: We absolutely should call out foreign policy that betrays our values. Patriotism and piety alike demand we reject genocide, ethnic cleansing, and apartheid. When Carlson says the war on Gaza is a genocide, that Israel holds too much sway over American foreign policy, that a war on Iran is against our interests—I agree. But is that all there is? Algorithms bring to our attention what captivates us.

But algorithms are not our friends. We should, at the very least, agree not to be cheap dates. I’m sure that, if my students actually debated Tucker Carlson (that is, we’d talk about him in class), they’d come up with nuanced positions. I know because I’ve encouraged them to debate with each other, to unpack their ideas, and they often disagree in surprising, meaningful ways. In this case, I’d be glad for it.

Instead of telling them what specifically to think, I might encourage them to appreciate broad principles: Do not confuse convergence with comity. Do not mistake agreement for alliance. Try a little harder. Do some more digging.

But there’s a corollary—and it matters just as much.

If people who seem to agree with us can be pulling in fundamentally different directions, then the reverse might also be true: people who seem to disagree with us can be drawing from the same wellspring of values we are. They arrive at different conclusions, but from a shared starting point. And that shared starting point is more durable, more trustworthy, than any surface agreement.

This is actually why pluralism works—in ways people don’t always expect or know how to make sense of.

This is why ethnonationalists across the West, who believe pluralism is incompatible with democracy, are so wrong. They aren’t capable of anything beyond a superficial analysis; they see visible markers of difference and conclude, out of this, that no stable or prosperous society can be possible. That is, of course, if their motivation is substantive. In some cases, it’s just prejudicial.

But a deeper appreciation of pluralism explains how someone can be a great neighbor to someone whose politics they find bewildering. It explains how a democracy can hold together across deep differences of opinion. The glue isn’t agreement. The glue is something underneath agreement: a compatibility of values, a shared sense of what matters even when we disagree about what to do about it.

That is how, after all, American democracy was capable of great unity of purpose even as it operated on and through contentious, oppositional politics. Maybe we haven’t lost that because it was a fool’s errand.

Maybe we’ve lost the deeper unity, so that all we have left is the opposition.

And maybe then this is where religion and pluralism go hand in hand—not despite each other, but because of each other. A faith that teaches you to reason from values, to hold your conclusions with humility, to recognize that your neighbor’s different answer might come from the same place yours does—that faith doesn’t threaten pluralism. It makes pluralism possible.

Real convergence is two people walking toward the same place for reasons that are, at a minimum, compatible. The other kind only looks like convergence. It’s two people passing in the night. But real community—the kind worth building, the kind I want my students to build—can include people who are walking in different directions, so long as they share the same ground.

Is that ground just where we live? Or where we want to build? The conversation could go on for weeks. Just like the Queen City Halaqa will.

Tucker Carlson isn’t a topic my students have yet asked me about. Most of them don’t spend much time thinking about him. But lots of adults do. I chose him for this post because the conversation around him in Muslim spaces is exactly the kind of conversation that makes me uncomfortable — not because I don’t have opinions, but because having opinions isn’t the same as having done the work.

Teaching a halaqa means being prepared for questions that force you to question things you might not ordinarily question. It means sitting with discomfort instead of shutting it down. If I’m asking my students to do that, I have to be willing to do it myself — publicly, imperfectly, and in front of the people whose trust I’m asking for.

Building the Classroom: Three Learnings

Each week here at Sunday Schooled, I share three learnings that you can apply to your own classrooms, inshallah.

Respond with the Unexpected

When a student asks about a political figure, don’t reach for your answer. Try to understand what the student is motivated by … and try to understand, in turn, what your reflexive response is motivated by. If you can navigate those, together, with your students, you’re a great teacher. You’re taking them seriously even as you’re demanding they take themselves seriously.

When I respond to “What about Tucker Carlson?” with “What about the Affordable Care Act?” — I’m not dodging. I’m teaching them to follow reasoning across domains, to see patterns, to build connections their own thinking hasn’t made yet. The skill of making unexpected connections is, in many ways, the essence of critical thinking. It’s also a proof of and source of creativity.

In fact, when you don’t understand something, try this for yourself. Find an analogy to something you care about. Can that open a new kind of understanding?

Teach from Values, Not Authority

It’s tempting for a teacher to settle a question with expertise. But most of us aren’t experts on most things—and our students certainly aren’t… yet. What we do have is experience and values. Teach your students to identify their experiences and their moral inclinations, to become conscious of these, and to reason from them.

But teach them, too, that values don’t dictate a single conclusion. Two people with the same values can disagree. That’s not a failure of faith.

That’s the richness of a thinking community.

Push Past Surface Agreement

The most dangerous moment in any classroom conversation is when everyone seems to agree. That’s where the real work begins. Push your students to ask why they agree—and whether the people they seem to agree with share the same reasons. Agreement on outcomes can mask deep disagreement on principles. Train your students to notice the difference. It’s a skill they’ll need far beyond your classroom.

Beyond the Classroom

The Queen City Halaqa refuses to separate our Islam from our reality, our communities from our country. Here’s what’s unfolding in that wider world and how these connect back to the educational platform and leadership programs I’m building.

Queen City Diwan: Building Muslim Leaders

Three big updates on the second annual Queen City University leadership retreat.

First, we have dates: December 24–31, 2026—a full week over winter break, across the south of Spain!

Second, the retreat is now for college students and recent graduates, ages 18 to 24—expanding our focus to include young professionals who are still in the formative years of their careers and commitments. This trip is open to young men and women from across the United States, with a number of seats reserved on each trip for students from Canada, Europe, Australia and beyond.

Third, the price: $2,500 per person for a week of immersive learning, mentorship, travel, and community in Spain.

Applications open next week!

This retreat is what the Queen City Halaqa builds for and points toward—not just thinking clearly in a classroom, but leading thoughtfully in the world. If you know a college student or recent graduate who should be part of this, stay tuned. Visit our website for more or drop me a line here with questions.

Avenue M: Who’s On Our Side and Who’s Just Offside?

This week’s post asks whether agreement is enough to build an alliance. On the Avenue M podcast, Joey and I were asking a version of this same question, except we made it about the World Cup. Of course, if you’re like me, you fell for Morocco in 2022. As amazing as that World Cup was, though, this year’s has somehow meant more to me, including Muslim players prostrating on the pitch, bringing all of themselves to the world’s biggest stage—it’s been remarkable, joyful, needed.

But Joey pushed me on something I hadn’t questioned: Have we confused God asking us for devotion with us asking Him for His cooperation?

Is there something cringe, as he put it, about praying to win a match?

Has faith become spectacle, transaction, or tribal talisman?

Who we cheer for, who we align with, even who we call “our people”—in sports as in politics, these loyalties deserve examination. The World Cup lets us see ourselves in all our beauty and error. You can watch the episode on our YouTube channel or anywhere you get your favorite podcasts.

New episodes drop weekly on YouTube, Apple, and Spotify.

This week, I asked us to examine who we align with. Next week, I’m turning that question on myself—and on anyone in a position to teach, lead, or influence. It’s one thing to ask what we teach. But we can’t do that without acknowledging the responsibility of teaching. I do so, in this case, from a convergence of experience and ethics.

What happens when we amplify a voice we agree with on one thing, but which also carries baggage we didn’t mean to include in our broadcast? I’ll share a mistake I made as a young khateeb at NYU, what it taught me about the weight of public responsibility, and how that feeds into the Queen City Halaqa, semester after semester.

Sunday Schooled is a free resource. I appreciate your comments, learn from your questions, and I’d love it if you’d

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While I was teaching the AP Halaqa locally, I was building Queen City University, an annual retreat for Muslim college students in Spain. Some of my halaqa alumni even joined our inaugural Queen City University retreat this past winter, learning with and building friendships with students from around the world. That wasn’t coincidental. The two programs have always been intentionally linked.

That’s why I’m renaming the AP Halaqa. From here on forward, it’s the Queen City Halaqa, which will live under the umbrella of Queen City Diwan, the academy I’ve been creating to realize my vision for Muslim leadership and education.

The Queen City Halaqa: Intentionally Local—and Global

Cincinnati’s nickname is “the Queen City.” We’ve put that into our name: Our values are universal. Our aspirations are global. But that begins and comes back to the homes we have, the relationships we live in, the communities we are a part of. Only rooted initiatives can be genuinely collaborative, responsive, and alive. That’s at the heart of everything I’m building: I’m not just teaching my students.

I’m learning with them. Teachers who don’t learn from their students, who aren’t responsible to their students, always fail. That’s the real story of this post.

Building on the Prophetic Model (ﷺ)

According to the blessed Prophet Muhammad (ﷺ), childhood consists of three stages. From birth to age seven, the Messenger (ﷺ) recommended we play with our kids—have fun, build trust, be silly. From seven to fourteen, we teach and instruct. From age fourteen onwards, as our kids enter their moral maturity, we have to try to become like guides, friends, mentors. In the American context, a good coach comes to mind.

Of course, whether it’s the high school halaqa or the college leadership retreat, my students are fourteen and up. In the case of the Queen City Halaqa, this means that, while they’re not yet adults, they’re hardly kids, either. They face big questions every day. They have increasing autonomy. Soon they’ll be building their own lives. Shouldn’t that affect how I teach and what I teach?

Most Muslim teens I know stop going to masjid Sunday school once they hit high school. That should give us pause. But if they have a point of contact with their community, if they’re close with family or have good friends, their faith can keep growing. It just won’t happen through institutional programming alone. And certainly not through a screen.

Given that reality, I build the Queen City Halaqa’s curriculum with the intent of involving, engaging, and learning from my students. They’re morally responsible, Islamically speaking. They’re on the verge of autonomy and independence. If I don’t treat them accordingly, what is my teaching even good for? So let me be clearer, to explain why there’s no standard curriculum here.

I don’t build the Queen City Halaqa curriculum for my students, or even around my students. I build it with them. That requires trust on both sides. I have to trust them enough to participate and lead—which is why I keep the halaqa intentionally small, capped at fourteen. And they have to trust me enough to open up, to ask hard questions, to be honest about what they’re struggling with.

Of course, each year, we have a different curriculum. How this year concluded points to what the 2026-2027 curriculum could look like.

How I Learn From Them: The End-of-Year Evaluation

At the end of the year, I asked my class three questions—I told them their answers would meaningfully influence next year’s course:

1. What was missing from the halaqa?

2. What was your favorite part of the halaqa?

3. What do you think a Muslim should know when she graduates high school?

Why ask these questions? Because teachers should be willing to be evaluated. I needed to know what was and wasn’t working. But there’s something deeper here. By asking them the third question—what should a Muslim know graduating high school?—I’m showing them I take them seriously. I’m asking them to think about themselves seriously. I’m asking them to consider their impact on those coming after them.

Over tortilla chips and cake, they worked on their answers.

What struck me most was that none of them answered with platitudes. They spoke from their actual experience of a year spent thinking seriously about Islam, community, and ummah. That’s what happens when you treat young people seriously, when you create space for them to think, when you don’t shy away from hard questions. Below, I share some of their answers to the first question.

What was missing?

Those answers surprised me. One made me laugh. Another made me rueful. Together, they gave me enough to start on a new, 2026-2027 syllabus.

Building the Classroom: Three Learnings

Each week here at Sunday Schooled, I’ll share three learnings that you can apply to your own classrooms, inshallah. In this case, the learnings are directly from their own answers.

Have Fun

Asked what the Queen City Halaqa should have included, one group wrote: “basketball.” I laughed, but I didn’t take it as a joke.

We can’t actually play basketball for obvious reasons—it’s a coed class, we teach over the school year when it’s often cold or raining, and not all the kids play. So, to be clear: I’m not starting a Queen City Halaqa rec league. (Yet.)

But there’s an answer beneath their answer. These students don’t have to be here. If they associate their time together with a sense of fun, that’s good. But fun is not frivolous, not necessarily. Think about the World Cup. Is it just a game? Think about how much goes into making the World Cup possible—the sophistication, the discipline, the years of effort and commitment. To the point, sports are fun because they’re hard. They tire us. They’re competitive. They push us out of our comfort zone.

Why can’t education be both fun and hard? Why can’t it involve teams, collaboration, development, and discipline? Why can’t education challenge us, drain us, and transform us? Students intuitively understand we need to grow physically. We should own that and extend it. Are we also growing spiritually, intellectually, socially? Are we content with where we are, or are we always keen to do better?

When you reflect on these questions, do you change how you think about teaching and learning?

Meet Them in Their Actual Lives

Asked what the Queen City Halaqa should have included, one group wrote they wanted real-world examples of how to be Muslim—how to handle tough situations and keep your values intact.

Of course, that’s hard to teach. Can you learn how to play basketball through a class? Islam is meant to be lived in the world. It’s a lifelong journey, a practice, a discipline. Good friends can help, a supportive community, and a sense of confidence and conviction. But above all else, thoughtful, sincere and dedicated mentors are invaluable. Preferably at least some of them are local, people who know and get you.

In this case, a high school teacher should play the role of a kind of mentor, someone who can walk with them as they try to translate what they’re learning into the world. That would require me to know what their world is like. So I’ll have to learn from them in order to teach them. But what would I teach and how would I teach it?

For that to come together, I had to draw on their third answer.

They’re Driving

Asked what the Queen City Halaqa should have included, one group said I should answer all the questions they asked. Answer their questions, in other words, in ways that satisfy them, not just me. This requires admitting that an answer sufficient for me might not suffice for them. This is the crucial insight. It means taking the time to really understand what they’re going through. It means inviting them to introduce me to their lived context so I can help them think through their lives.

Last spring, I asked my students what questions they had about Islam that were going unanswered, or what issues they struggled with. That was a meaningful and valuable exercise, which shaped subsequent months of our course. But it wasn’t sufficient, either. Here’s why: I asked them mid-semester, and then we wove those questions in as the year progressed. That left us less time than I would’ve liked.

The Shift: From Mid-Year to Beginning-of-Year

These Year 1 evaluations taught me something structural. This year, I’m adjusting the sequence. I’ll collect their questions at the beginning of the year—before we do anything else. Then I’ll build a course in a way that includes what I want to teach, what I’ve learned from years past, and their own questions. That way, their input will be part of the foundational design of the Queen City Halaqa.

That’s why there is no fixed syllabus for the Queen City Halaqa. There simply can’t be. Each year is different because each cohort is different. The questions they bring, the struggles they name, the contexts they live in—those shape what we study, how we study it, and what intellectual work matters most. The course is responsive. It’s collaborative. It’s alive. I can’t copy and paste a syllabus. Each year looks different.

And that’s exactly how it should be.

Beyond the Classroom

The Queen City Halaqa refuses to separate our Islam from our reality, our communities from our country. Here’s what’s unfolding in that wider world and how these connect back to the educational platform and leadership programs I’m building.

College on Our Terms: A Leadership Journey

Starting this year and continuing annually, I’m leading the Queen City University leadership retreat. Unlike the Queen City Halaqa, this retreat is open to applicants from across the US and beyond. It’s designed for undergraduates and recent college graduates, focused on Americans but open to Canadians, Europeans, Australians, and beyond. We spend a remarkable week together in Spain—immersive, creative, challenging, rigorous—meant to connect faith, purpose, and potential.

They travel through Spain experiencing faith, walking through history, absorbing arts, and living culture; above all else, they get dedicated mentorship: they’re learning from remarkable Muslims who are building, who care about their future, who want them to reach their full potential. By learning with like-minded young men and women from around the country and beyond, selected participants build a network of friends invested in each other’s long-term success. In years to come, that will mean joining a growing, diverse alumni community they can turn to, inshallah, for guidance, support, collaboration, partnership, faith and friendship.

If you’re interested in Queen City University, visit our website or contact us. You can also drop me a line here!

To Wemby or Not to Wemby

This week on , Joey and I talked to Reed Frerichs—an actor, then an executive at Intel, now a narrative intelligence expert and executive coach at MIT. We talked basketball (Reed’s a Spurs fan, though we won’t hold that against him) and why the Spurs season ended differently than expected. Reed talked about how the stories we tell ourselves about who we are shape not just how far we reach, but how likely we are to recover from hardship and difficulty.

Of course, the podcast is fun on its own. But I’m not just learning for myself. I take what I learn from people like Reed and give that back to my students—whether that’s the high schoolers I see every few weeks here in Cincinnati, or the annual college retreats we lead in Spain. That’s the same principle operating in the halaqa: we learn together. We keep learning. Just because you teach a course doesn’t mean you can’t keep learning. Indeed, that’s all the more reason to!

We’re everywhere you get your favorite podcasts, including YouTube, Substack and Spotify (with links below!)

Avenue M

What Story Do the Spurs Tell Now?

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2 months ago · 1 like · Haroon Moghul

On Reading the World

When I was growing up, our small and passionate Muslim communities struggled with underdeveloped educational programs. Even today, despite lots of growth, there’s a supply deficit: plenty of need for Muslim learning. But too few compelling options.

Certainly a disconnect between supply and demand.

My generation, many of whom now have kids, surely remember the New Atheists, who took the Western world by storm and dominated conversations about (our) religion for years. For my part, I contested their ideas in print and on TV—I was on FOX News once, pitted against Ayaan Hirsi Ali. But as much as we pushed back against their misleading, selective, and flimsy arguments, there was more.

Kasurian

The Rise and Fall of New Atheism

In June 2011, at the Alexander Hotel in Dublin, Ireland, the World Atheist Convention was underway. Tickets were sold out, and the stage hosted some of the most prominent atheist voices of the time: Richard Dawkins, PZ Myers, Dan Barker, and Maryam Namazie, among others. Dawkins sat in his olive-green coat and crocodile-duck-imprinted tie, making the ca…

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2 months ago · 79 likes · Kasurian

We didn’t pay as much attention to where this movement came from, how it sustained itself, and how movements generally are allocated resources, benefit from networks, and advance in public conversations. It’s one thing to understand how influence and institutions are deployed and leveraged to realize certain outcomes. It’s another thing to know how to do that for our values and commitments.

I’d recommend reading the above to understand what it is the Queen City Halaqa and Queen City University retreats are trying to do.

Not just learn abstractly. But realize better outcomes, individually and collectively—for ourselves, our communities, and our country.

Can our high schoolers analyze structures of power, examine how they’re sustained, and understand how they can be engaged, contested, challenged and improved? Can our college students build relationships that help them realize more than what they could individually—can they begin to build power, realize influence, contribute to institutions and create better outcomes?

The good news: we’re in a far different moment than we were a few decades back. There are far more resources available now—intellectual, community-based, spiritual—to help young Muslims understand and push back against bigotry and bias, war-mongering and injustice. But who’s intervening in the lives of young Muslims, reaching them when they come of age, showing them what they’re capable of? That’s what Queen City Diwan models. That’s what the Queen City Halaqa practices.

What’s Coming Next Week

Next week, I’m going to dive deeper into my unique approach to designing syllabi, through a conservative pundit who’s made remarkable inroads into Muslim conversations—and the American Muslim consciousness.

Tucker Carlson.

The Queen City Halaqa approach isn’t about answering questions for my students. It’s about helping them learn how to ask better questions, analyze answers, and build on those answers—not just intellectually, but substantively. If we know there are movements dedicated to artificially amplifying bigoted ideas, for example, what is our response? What’s the right response? What’s an effective response?

If we know there’s a thinker who’s shaping Muslim public opinion, how do we engage that thinker? In next week’s post, I’ll use Tucker Carlson to help you better understand how to build a syllabus that can inspire and engage. In coming weeks, I’ll share more, including how I break up our two hours together, what I’m trying to achieve—you can take my word for it … but also

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I’m proud of them for moving on. I’m glad to have had this time with them. And I’m keen to share what I’ve learned, some of it unexpected, all of it meaningful, beginning with this post. While I’ll spend the summer developing the 2026-2027 AP Halaqa, I’m planning to simultaneously start seriously posting about the AP Halaqa here, sharing what I’ve learned, how I built the AP Halaqa, and how it’s growing.

But first, the obvious. What even is the AP Halaqa?

We Teach the Sunday School We Wish We Had

ARC Magazine just published my essay about the AP Halaqa, Islam, iPhones and Soul Rot—I’m grateful to the team, and , for the opportunity to tell this story in detail. I’d encourage you to read that essay, because it outlines where the AP Halaqa comes from and how it’s grown.

Arc Magazine

Islam, iPhones, and Soul Rot

This opinion essay by Haroon Moghul was originally published on Tuesday June 23, in ARC Magazine…

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2 months ago · 1 like · Arc Magazine

During the AP Halaqa, we meet without phones or laptops. We take time for food and conversation, not just curriculum. The class is intentionally co-educational though, as my ARC essay explains, why that is and how that manifests in the halaqa itself has changed significantly. During each Sunday afternoon session, we explore the questions the students themselves volunteered. That’s important to know: They’re driving the direction of the class, helping me decide what we cover, focus on, and even how much time we spend on different topics.

Their questions are big questions, too.

• Does the concept of God make sense?

• How can God predestine everything but we also have free will?

• What does Islam say about dating, about mental health, about doubt?

• What about dating, marriage, and divorce?

As the ARC essay makes clear, the AP Halaqa didn’t come together all at once. There was trial and error. When the AP Halaqa launched last fall, I’d already been teaching many of these students for two or three years. Over this AP Halaqa year, I watched them deepen that growth, thinking more rigorously about religion, more openly debating with one another, and getting to know each another.

They were young people I came to know and care for deeply. And now five of them are moving on. I’ll have at least six or seven new students in the fall; our youngest among them. That means the AP Halaqa continues, but not this AP Halaqa, and that is bittersweet. When a group comes together—when you can feel it click, when they start going out for ice cream after class without you, when they genuinely enjoy thinking alongside each other—you know you’ve got something special.

You also know it’s fragile. Was that a kind of serendipity, impossible to reproduce? Did they need those years together? What happens when you lose so many seniors, all at once—who sets the tone? What helps the younger students aspire to more sophisticated conversations? I can’t know for sure, of course, until the fall semester, the second year, of the AP Halaqa commences.

An Educator’s Guess

I don’t think the trust that built this year was luck. It was design. Many Muslim educational institutions I’ve experienced, seen, or heard about make a crucial set of curricular choices that I’ve consciously eschewed. A lot of our institutions focus on what is being taught, not whether the students want to learn.

They try to force a set of outcomes or realizations, designing around simple metrics—how many surahs have they memorized? Can they name the five pillars?—instead of seeking to cultivate a deeper orientation. It’s far more important that your seventeen year-old be curious about Islam, feel attached to the faith, and learn how to think critically through faith — than that she know a lot about Islam.

Now, I want them to know a lot about Islam, of course, but let’s remember they’re at the start of their life journeys.

It’s better to cultivate an appreciation for faith and a love for it first. That requires tawakkul, of a kind—not just trusting in Allah’s guidance, but trusting your students and trusting the process instead of forcing outcomes. We rely on Allah’s guidance, His Mercy and Compassion, to do the rest, inshallah. Your students have to trust you and you have to trust your students, though that’s easier said than done.

There’s a rubric I try to follow here. Before and after the class. Do the students feel seen and heard? Do they feel noticed? Do their questions get responses? Are they intellectually challenged in ways that show their teacher is taking them seriously? Answers like, “that’s just how it is,” or “Muslims don’t need explanations,” are far too common in our religious spaces and deeply disrespectful.

We talk a lot about adab. Failing to take young Muslims seriously is bad adab, too. When I was young, that dismissive approach left me deeply frustrated. In my case, I was the kind of person who insisted on learning for himself. I had the luxury of being stubborn enough to teach myself. But many students won’t have that resilience or access to the same resources.

They need teachers who take them seriously, or they give up. There’s only so much discouragement any of us can take. Now that I’ve become the teacher, though, I find myself filled with questions. Questions like: Am I offering them the religion class they need? Am I putting enough effort into each session? Are my expectations too high—or too low? Do they trust me and do I trust them?

Was I The Teacher They Needed?

The AP Halaqa format is new. I arrived at this approach only a year ago. It took months to find its footing, to develop a rhythm, to figure out how to actually teach this way. The first semester was rough in places. I was still discovering the shape of the class as we went. These students were, in a sense, my guinea pigs. They took the risk of showing up to something I was still building.

Between the first and second semester, over winter break, I led the first Queen City University retreat, for Muslim college students, in Spain. This was a remarkable experience, one that condensed the challenges of the AP Halaqa into one week. I had about a dozen students, from the US, UK and GCC, many of whom didn’t know each other. How would we get them to open to each other, to themselves, to our leadership team, and to the faith they are inheriting?

That meant designing the week by keeping an overarching question in mind: Do these students feel like they are in a space where they can bring their questions, curiosities and concerns? Too many Muslim educational programs, for high school and college students, focus on the transmission of book knowledge, of rote memorization, of the grammar of faith. These are vitally important, of course, but hardly sufficient.

With the right foundation, though, students will go on to (want to) learn for years to come. With the wrong foundation, we’ve set in place something brittle, probably readily discarded. In Spain, this was a little easier than in Cincinnati; for one, the students are older and more educationally accomplished. They’re also in a novel, beautiful and provocative setting, that forces them out of their comfort zones.

But in the AP Halaqa, too, especially over the spring semester, we found our rhythm by inviting the students into each session, leading with their questions, and encouraging them to spend time with each other, even if it wasn’t formal learning — sitting down over chips and salsa, talking about the week ahead, matters.

Some days, our class went way over time and the students happily stayed. On one day, a few stuck around to play basketball. On two separate occasions, they went out for ice cream (correction: frozen yogurt. The distinction is apparently a serious one—I’m learning, too.) Sometimes I’d sit a class session out and just let them talk and debate without me directing anything.

They would, too—they’d really engage each other, test ideas, challenge each other’s thinking. There’s a kind of ease between them now. They already knew each other, or at least many of them did. I made community integral by building in time for them to be together without technology. Think about what the best Muslim Student Associations aim to accomplish: they build genuine community.

That’s what we were doing here, intentionally, as part of the curriculum. Especially for young Muslims, who are often navigating identity, faith, and purpose in spaces that don’t always hold those together, community is generative, restorative, and indispensable.

Graduate at Graduation

It’s been a year of graduations in our house: first the eldest, then her younger sister. I’ve sat through plenty of high school graduations, whether the formal ceremonies or the family functions to celebrate these. At Xavier University, of course, we had graduations galore. (For those who don’t know me, I’m also the Muslim Chaplain at Xavier University, a Jesuit, Catholic institution here in Cincinnati.)

So I understand the importance of such moments. And I knew, too, that too many Muslim spaces make these experiences an afterthought. We need rituals that mark passage, clarify purpose, and convey trust.

On our last day together—in early June, after I’d postponed the final class to give them space before exams and graduations—I gave each of the graduating students a gift. It was a framed postcard, two-sided. On one side, I printed the du’a that we open every single one of our classes with—the supplication we recite together before the dhikr we do together before we dive in. That du’a holds our intention.

On the other side of this postcard, though, I wrote something specific to each student: a reference from the Qur’an, or a saying from a scholar, or a hadith—something that spoke to their particular gifts, the way they showed up in the classroom and how I pray they’ll keep showing up in their lives. Those messages stay between our class. But I want to tell readers here why I chose this gift.

Because I wanted to name something true about each of them. I wanted them to leave with something that said, I see you. You’re not mutually interchangeable. That’s part of what a teacher owes students, especially at moments of transition. Here’s a shot of the shared side of this diploma, which I had framed in double-sided glass (as best I could; I’m learning how to teach—and craft. A special thank you to my wife and the staff at Michael’s who, incidentally, share an appreciation for Islamic art. Who knew?)

You Can AP Halaqa, Too

Here’s what I want to say to my Substack readers. The first, quite simply, is that I’m sorry. I’d started this Substack to share the halaqa but found myself so consumed by the process of building, iterating, accommodating, and carrying this into college leadership retreats — some of last year’s halaqa alumni even went on that trip to Spain (again, see more below) — that this Substack languished.

I’m committing here to rectifying that. I’ll be posting regularly, reflecting on the year gone by, what I’ve learned, what you can take from this, and what comes next.

I’m committing to a new format: regular, coherent posts about what’s happening in the AP Halaqa, week to week and semester to semester. I’ve been building and leading the halaqa for years. Now I’m ready to share it. To make visible not just the curriculum, but the experience—the pedagogy, the tone, the intellectual life that happens in that room.

And here’s what I want to start: Yes, I’m sad. Yes, it’s heavy. Yes, it’s hard. If you can’t accept that, then don’t do this work. But if you can accept that, and you want the challenge, then you can and must teach. All of it is worth it because there are few things in life as meaningful, clarifying and necessary as finding yourself a link in a chain (and you know, of course, that a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.)

I don’t know if next year’s cohort will be exactly like this one. But I know why I’m doing this. I know what’s possible. And that motivates me to keep building.

If you’d like to follow that journey, please

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Building the Classroom

The insights from the AP Halaqa aren't just for parents watching from the sidelines—they're principles that any educator can apply to their own classroom or community space. Three principles emerge from this week’s post that you can apply to your own classroom.

Trust Before Content

The AP Halaqa’s first semester was rough in places. I was still discovering the shape of the class as we went. But between semesters, something shifted: I opened space for them to open up. Only then did the real learning accelerate. The point isn’t to neglect curriculum—it’s to remember that students won’t genuinely engage with difficult ideas until they trust you and each other. Create the conditions for that trust first. Extended time together, shared meals, moments without an agenda. Then teach the lesson. Content will land differently.

There’s a foundational Islamic commitment at work here: The blessed Prophet (SAWS) spent forty years in Mecca before he received revelation. He could not be heard until he was trusted. Even then, many couldn’t or wouldn’t hear, not right away at least, but that trust was eventually too strong, and too real, to be denied.

See Each Student Specifically

On our final day, I gave each graduating student a framed postcard with a Qur’anic verse, hadith, or scholar’s saying chosen specifically for them—something that reflected their particular gifts and how they showed up in the room. The gesture mattered because it named something true. Your students need to know they’re not interchangeable. They need to hear, specifically, what you see in them. That’s part of what a teacher owes. Find the language—a word, a reference, a story—that reflects back who each of them is becoming and what each of them has to offer.

We know from our tradition that the sahabi, may Allah be pleased with them, had specific strengths and unique personalities, which were gifts by which Islam was strengthened. The gift isn’t a gift. It’s a reminder of their own gift.

Time Together Is Part of the Curriculum

Many afternoons after class, the students would head out for ice cream together. Sometimes I’d sit a session out and let them debate without me directing anything. These moments weren’t supplementary to the halaqa; they were central to it. Emotional, spiritual, and intellectual bonds are formed in informal space—over food, in transitions, in the breathing room between formal teaching. If you want your classroom to be a genuine community, build in time for that. It’s not a luxury. It’s foundational. You can’t be a good teacher, or a good leader, if you don’t accept that you are mortal, that one day you’ll be gone, that one day the people after you will have to be able to do it without you. Teaching is an exercise in phased obsolescence.

That, by the way, is a lesson many of the world’s leaders need to remember, too.

Beyond the Classroom

By definition, the AP Halaqa cannot and must not exist in isolation. It’s part of a wider ecosystem of work around Muslim leadership, intellectual formation, democratic citizenship, and community-building.

Here’s what’s unfolding in that landscape and how it connects to the AP Halaqa.

Giving Gifts: A Fresh Take on American Political Philosophy

On Avenue M this week, Joey and I sat down with , who introduces potentialism—a philosophy about our rights and responsibilities. Daniel argues that each of us has a gift we have both the right to develop and the responsibility to contribute to the world. It’s special and meaningful when you find a thinker who’s working on questions you find yourself focused on, too.

We closed this year of the AP Halaqa, after all, with literal gifts. But we spent this year with the gifts we’ve been given. Is that potentialism in practice? At the very least, it’s an argument for building Islamic education that leans into the intellectual resources everywhere around us, echoing the blessed Prophet who said ‘wisdom is the lost item of the believer.’

You can watch the full episode below (on our YouTube channel) or check us out on Apple, Spotify or on our dedicated Substack.

The AP Halaqa in Andalus

I’m excited to announce that this coming winter break, I’ll be leading the second cohort of Queen City University, an immersive leadership retreat for current Muslim undergraduates and recent college graduates. In the next weeks, we’ll announce dates and open applications—selected students will spend a week in Spain building faith, community, and lifelong bonds.

Queen City University is an opportunity for young Muslim men and women to grow with mentors who share their values, care about their futures, and bring decades of experience teaching and coaching. But true to the vision of the AP Halaqa, this experience leans heavily on building a lifelong community of fellow Muslims who share our values, hopes, and ambitions.

I’m not only leading and designing the retreat, but I travel and teach with a team of remarkable mentors, accompanying these students every day. If this is something you’d like to explore for your student, let me know. The Queen City University leadership retreat isn’t separate from the AP Halaqa: It’s the natural extension of it, the logical next step, where the thinking and belonging that high school-age Muslims develop meets the wider world, right as they’re beginning to have the most important conversations about themselves, their potential, their trajectories, and who they want to build their lives with (and for).

In the next post, I’ll dig into the shift that happened between the first and second semester of the AP Halaqa—I learned an important difference between building a classroom and unleashing one. We’ll hear from students about questions that kept them up at night, questions about faith, relationships, doubt and purpose, and why those questions mattered more than any answer I could have given.

But this post isn’t about why the Knicks have won me over, though they have.

I mean, how can you not root for a team capable of that kind of comeback? How can you not root for a city with this story? My mayor Muslim, my bagel Jewish. By now, everybody knows the Knicks haven’t won a title in at least fifty-three years. That Zohran is the city’s first South Asian and Muslim mayor. But what you might not know at all is how deep the American Muslim story goes.

Let’s basketball it.

Name That Flag

The Knicks wear blue and orange because the colors of New York City are blue and orange, but the colors of New York City are blue and orange because those are the colors of the New York City flag, which is pretty much the original Dutch flag on its side. The Dutch, of course, founded New York City as New Amsterdam, but the Dutch wouldn’t have been able to do that had they not won their independence from Spain. Except the Dutch would not have won their independence from Spain had it not been for an unexpected unlikely alliance that brought together North Africans, Ottomans, Dutch and other Protestants, in a contest that reached from Manila to Manhattan.

It’s a story so wild, you can’t even make it up. Like last night’s comeback.

We all know Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1492. He did so with money Ferdinand and Isabella took from the forced exile and religious cleansing of Spain’s entirely indigenous Jewish and Muslim communities. Yes, indigenous. The Reconquista was hardly a recovery: It was a civil war that pulled in outside powers. The Spanish monarchs, too, ruled over what became the Netherlands and later Belgium, too. During that complex war, with its myriad battles for independence, autonomy and empire, Dutch “pirates” pillaged Spanish and allied Portuguese ships traversing the Atlantic, trying to make a dent in Spain’s rising imperial wealth.

One of these pirates was Jan Janszoom, or Murad Reis, who converted to Islam and came to be elected ruler of Salé, which we now consider Rabat, Morocco.

The story gets stranger.

Jan’s son, Anthony Janszoom (“van Salée”), was only half-Dutch. Anthony’s mom was a Spanish Muslim of allegedly royal descent. Anthony ended up settling in New Amsterdam, playing a critical role in the development of its economy and global stature; though he was Dutch, and therefore welcome in New Amsterdam, his Islam was a little more inconvenient, which led to an awkward compromise: Anthony left Manhattan and founded Gravesend and Coney Island, Brooklyn.

Anthony’s children did well, too. His descendants married into the Vanderbilts and other prominent American families—one of his descendants is very likely our own former President, Warren G. Harding. His Qur’an remained in his family’s possession for some centuries more, before being lost to history. Anthony himself was buried in lower Manhattan, though the location of his grave has been likewise lost to history.

But the story survived. And that’s what I’ve built my teaching around—excavating these interconnections and overlaps, because once you know and understand them, your perspective on the world—and yourself—changes. Quite simply, American Islam is not a new religion. We are a younger community, yes, by age, but we are an old community by roots. The first Muslims in the Americas well predate the independence of our country. There were Muslims in New York City before it was New York City, too. We belong here. Heck, the Garden is Mecca.

Don’t Call It A Comeback

Last night, the Knicks came back against what almost everyone I know considered impossible odds. I mean, nearly thirty points down at the start of the third? But they came back. A Knicks fan, though, would tell you that though the team was off in the first half, they were capable of storming back. They deserved to be in the Finals, after all. They belong on basketball’s biggest stage. But you could apply the same to American Islam—and Western Islam.

I want you to read these next few sentences very carefully. There have been European Muslims longer than there have been European Protestants. If the latter belong, why don’t the former? Islam has been in the Americas for at least as long as Christianity and Judaism. Some people, including some prominent people who fall asleep in Finals games, see us as interlopers. Mamdani is thusly presented as, at best, a cipher of a changing demographics, which, more radical voices propose, should be halted, if not reversed. Yet is this really a change?

It’s just harder to deny, these days, what’s always been the case.

How our stories are told matters. When people have a strong sense of themselves, a feeling of belonging and rootedness, they can aspire to more. That’s why I’m sharing this history. Yes, all four games so far have been almost ludicrously entertaining. I’m not a Knicks fan, but figured I’d be on the same side of history as Lisan al-Ghaib.

Yet there is even more to this epic basketball showdown, which is why I’m writing. For the past several years, I’ve been teaching Muslim history in at least two ways.

One is through my halaqas here in Ohio—working with students week in, week out, building their understanding of who they are in America, where we come from, and what they can become with assists from uncles like myself.

But the deeper work happens in Spain.

Every year, I lead a cohort of Muslim college students in an immersive retreat, one week in Granada, Córdoba, Sevilla and beyond. We don’t just go to Spain because it’s beautiful, because of its thriving Muslim communities, or its delightful history, architecture and food, though that certainly doesn’t hurt. We go to Spain because you can’t tell the American story, or the American Muslim story, without Spain’s stories.

Queen City University is leading the second such annual retreat in January 2027, once again over one week, during winter break. We’re open to remarkable Muslim undergrads from across the US and the world who want to think bigger, who want to experience the past, build the future, deepen their faith, create strong and even global networks and friendships, and cultivate skills that’ll sustain them for decades to come.

If you’d like to join our next cohort, drop me a line here, reply to the email (for Substack subscribers), or visit Queen City Diwan’s website. Applications open very soon, and I’ll be updating here with all the details, too, so

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P.S. I still remember the day I told my middle school halaqa boys, all of them good Ohio football fanatics, that “right now, in a house very much like this one, a few states over, there are boys just like you, from families not that different from your own, who are cheering for the Kansas City Chiefs, and they are your brothers in faith.”

The halaqa sounded like the Garden at halftime.

P.P.S. I’m sure San Antonio is special too. I visited there once. It was nice. Good weather, food, company. Spurs fans, may Allah give you success generally, but just not in these Finals specifically.

Once upon a time, Islam was two billion, and yet what could they do? The story of the last few generations of Muslims has been a hard one. When I was growing up, Palestine was occupied, Lebanon was a battleground, Kashmir was suffocated, Chechnya was carpet-bombed, Bosnia was ethnically cleansed; many of the conflicts that rage today were raging then, too.

We are told that this is the safest time to be alive, that we live in the best of all possible worlds, yet many of us experience deep dislocation, inherited catastrophe, or hold onto faith like so many burning embers. This Eid, in our corner of Cincinnati, we went from celebration to graduation and back, but there was one underlying sentiment routinely repeated: How can we be happy when there’s so much grief?

That is a vital question. But last night, and yes, after the three days of Eid were over, a different realization washed over me. I want to share that with you.

Because it’s given me a new perspective on a sentiment I too have been struggling with: How can we balance the warmth we might feel in our everyday lives with the awful, relentless terrors we see all around us?

This Eid, we honor Hajar (‘alayha as-salam), the mother of our ummah, the matriarch of monotheism. Once upon a time, she too was alone, for all intents and purposes abandoned in the desert with an infant boy, her son, the future Prophet Isma’il. Then, too, Islam was just two. Islam was also her husband though, peace be upon him, Isma’il’s father, Ibrahim, who’d been commanded to deposit them and return.

His part in this story eventually recedes into the background. We talk about Hajar a lot and we should. But I’ve not heard many sermons talk about what Ibrahim (AS) must’ve felt. To be a husband and a father is to be constantly on guard. Where is my wife? Where are the kids? Is there gas in the car? Is there money on the card? Do they have what they need? Did they remember to charge their phones?

The nature of the concern shifts. The category does not. God asked Abraham, again and again, to go against his very nature. Why did she have to live this chapter on her own then? That, too, is against nature. It’s not just him and her, after all, but them. In Arabic, there’s a form called the dual, a twain, not singular, not plural, but a couple.

While Abraham retreated back north, God watched as Hajar did what any parent would: Run. She dashed, like any mother should, like any human must, to the highest ground, seeking some sign, some indication of what she was supposed to do next. From the hills of Safa and Marwa and back again, seven times, a desperate, exhausting scramble, a mother’s sprints in the hottest weather, when she herself didn’t have anything to drink or eat. If that’s jarring, wait for this pivot.

Spurs, Knicks, Kurtas, Qurbanis

Last night, we watched the Spurs outlast and oust the Thunder at a friend’s house in the town next door. It was four dads and many of their sons. We had plenty of food, great company, and the second half of a game we won’t soon forget.

For those who don’t know, the San Antonio Spurs and Oklahoma City Thunder topped the NBA’s Western Conference and had been competing, over seven games, for a place in North America’s basketball championship. Since the Spurs won in last night’s game, the seventh in a roiling series, they’ll go on to face the Eastern Conference champion, the New York Knicks, for the title.

I’ve no strong feelings about the Thunder, really, but as a Lakers fan, I wouldn’t have ever imagined cheering for the Spurs—one of Los Angeles’ great rivals. But I was rooting for Wemby specifically, a different kind of GOAT: He’s immensely interesting. He’s serious and thoughtful. He’s built different, not just physically but intellectually. He reminds me of a young Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

When my dad came to America, with my mom—there were just two of them then—he found himself intrigued by Kareem and so soon enough we became Lakers fans. I see this less as a betrayal of my loyalties than the fulfillment of them. Wemby, for those who don’t know, might be the next greatest player in NBA history. He showed up to Thursday’s game dressed thusly

As you can imagine, many of us watching and plenty of Muslims besides cheered his choice of a clearly custom-made fit. Was it a thobe? Was it a kurta? I don’t care. Are we planning to die on that hill, after all? Wemby even explained that his choice of outfit was for Eid. Wemby, as far as we know, isn’t Muslim, but still honored Eid; the very same day, Mamdani wore a likewise bespoke Arsenal Kurta at Eid prayers as so

Both of them, in their own way, were honoring Hazrat Hajar (AS), who had run that short, brutal distance, in the unrelenting heat, unimaginable centuries ago, well before there was a New York, a San Antonio, a France, a United States. Some prayers take a long time to get answered.

Some stories last that much longer.

Two Billion Hajars

Last night, watching the game, many of us remarked on both kurtas. We talked about how much had changed. But I refuse the simple, reductive, and in fact dangerous conceit that things have changed because this specific younger generation is different. That’s not, after all, how change works: It’s generational. It builds. It takes time. Pressure rises until the surface is changed.

Eventually, you become tired of being tired. But you also see what happens when small actions accumulate. A century of drizzle can erode a cliff. A lifetime of commitment creates new kinds of life. That’s not only more interesting, more helpful, but more accurate. No generation exists in isolation. But all stories do start somewhere. Ours started somewhere, too.

Keep that in mind as you keep this in mind.

Islam has entered the global zeitgeist in a profound way. This isn’t new, not entirely at least, but there’s a degree of prominence, a kind of ubiquity, an energy and an optimism, that lands differently now. That was something else many of us talked about at the many Eid parties we attended. Wemby’s clothes. Mamdani’s “tough” fit. That Eid has become a holiday at all. Is this a superficial shift?

Or is something deeper happening under the surface?

I’m used to prominent Muslim athletes, to Muslims in the public conversation, but I still think something bigger has changed, fundamentally and meaningfully. As odd as this might sound, this is a lesson I’m taking away from Eid, a khutbah after-the-fact I hope you gain from. In my lifetime, many Muslims ran to rigid ideological formulations, to power, to performances of piety. Many of these failed to empower Muslims, often divided us amongst ourselves, and were entirely unsuited to the realities we lived in. There was more to them, though, that added up to less. We continued to suffer and to lose. We ended up exhausted and no closer to where we hoped to be. I have a thought for why that might be.

There was a kind of insecurity, a fearfulness, a timidity to these approaches, even when they were aggressive and zealous; they felt inhabited less by faith than by fear. Because they were rigid. They were uncreative. They tried to do too much and ended up doing hardly anything. They operated in the categories of the time, sure, but they also believed that the sacred must, too, that we could force the depths of faith into the measurements our materialism could imagine. That’s a lesson from this Eid, one that, for my part at least, didn’t become evident until now.

Specifically, on Saturday night, at a friend’s house, watching Game 7 of the Spurs and the Thunder, a small band of middle-aged men and many of their sons, yelling and screaming, laughing and ribbing one another. If the practice is fearful, then it will fail. If the practice is cold, it will crack. But if the practice is principled, its ordinariness should not be dismissed. Our job in this world is to trust in God and run for the hills.

We do not die on hills. We do not believe in dying on them. Geography is a means, not an end. Place is a context, and a commitment: It is not, itself, the conviction. Could Hajar have known, peace be upon her, that she was where Adam and Eve had met, that once more it was just two, alone, in a wild and overwhelming world? Once I would’ve imagined she hadn’t had the time.

There were more important things in mind.

But the farther I’ve gone on the journey of faith, the more I realized this: Once tawheed enters into you, it never leaves. The deeper it goes, the more prominently you feel it. Was Hajar really running out of fear alone? Or did she run with fear and with trust, did she act and endure, this was peril and conviction, yes, but I cannot imagine it was ever panic, not even anxiety.

The believer is imperturbable. But a strong faith does not meet one’s legs cease to work, one’s feet cease to move.

Hajar, may Allah be pleased with her, ran from one promontory to the next, back-and-forth, cycling, like we do in tawaf, the invocation of repetition. But what was the solution? The well of Zamzam, which soon after gushed forth, coming up in the valley, at the lowest possible point, entirely on the other end of her expectations, perhaps.

The well of Zamzam is on the low ground, after all, the most apparently vulnerable, and isn’t this the truth of all our experiences? Purported great men march triumphantly into disaster, the casino pharaohs of our age and beyond, believing that they have the high ground, before they are drowned.

The lessons are simple—they are formative, but they are not conclusive. We know to expect the unexpected. Our material frameworks are insufficient. Trust in God, because the tides will turn. Security is not in elevation at all but in prostration. Progress comes from trust. A person who is fearful is not trustful.

So while we might think we know this story, we might not realize this part, this most crucial element—that Hajar’s actions, as brave as they were, made sense within what she could perceive, while the real answer lay outside her knowledge. The solution was quite literally under her feet, though how could she have known that? Yet she trusted. She did what she could. God handled the rest.

That’s contentment, confidence, presence. A Muslim moves with conviction. But a Muslim still moves, looking. The story of our ummah is a story of motion. It unfolds over generations. Stop expecting immediate transformations.

You will effect world-historical transformations.

Hajar’s descendant, the blessed Prophet Muhammad (SA), said heaven, with its springs and rivers, its perfect zamzams, is under the feet of our mothers. Maybe our answer, the answer to our maladies, the way we point ourselves in the right direction, the way we put an end to this genocide, how we heal our ummah, how we empower each other, wasn’t ever by seizing the high ground. Maybe it’s at our feet, too.

It’s not about skyscrapers or towers, resorts or tourist strategies, but a deep sense of faith, which means we run to do what we must, and reject, at all costs, what He condemns. Maybe God rewards us for trying, for the effort, and does the rest. Maybe we need to trust in Him that much more and believe in ourselves that much less. It’s a counterintuitive lesson, for sure, but it’s hardly the point of Islam to feed our biases.

Then comes the part of the story I never learned growing up.

The part that proves my point.

Springtime in the End Times

When the well of Zamzam first erupted to the surface, yes, Hajar and her baby Prophet, peace be upon them, could now drink and delay their doom. This was at best a short-term solution, though. I mean, they were still in the desert, alone. There was no food, no shelter. Yet human life is not the only life. There’s what’s under your feet, that you can’t see.

There’s what’s up in the sky, beyond where you can reach.

At that very moment, a flock of birds overhead sensed the water and started circling, an avian tawaf. Not far from the valley of Mecca, but too far for Hajar to have known and for them to have known, an Arab tribe, the Bani Jurhum, was making its way through the desert. They knew enough about the ways of this wilderness that the sight of so many birds meant something—and possibly something vital.

Imagine their shock, their awe, their amazement, at finding a foreign woman, her child, no apparent means of transportation, no food, but a burbling fountain, gushing cold water unceasing. If they did not then believe in God, how could they not after? Once Islam was two and then it was a tribe. Once we were billions and we were lost. But in our daily devotions, in the work of building families and communities, we set something in motion, we see something happening, and I cannot imagine what it will add up to or point to, but I can tell you this much.

The way forward might not be where we’re tempted to look.

The way forward may take longer than we think.

Maybe God brought the Jurhum to Hajar, and Hajar to Jurhum, for more, still. A world emerged where none could be imagined. Thus can God bring something out of nothing. Kun fa-yakun. Be and it is! A well and then a city, a city and then a civilization.

Today, it’s said Hajar and Isma’il, alayhimas-salam, are buried in the enclosure beside the Ka’aba, in the very low ground where their salvation sprang from the depths under the desert to the sand above. They must hear, too, the sound of Zamzam, coursing through pipes, slaking the thirst of countless believers, though perhaps this can’t be distinguished from the rivers of paradise, the garden they’re in.

Resting there, Hajar and Isma’il must hear, every day, the rhythm of tens of millions of feet, whispered prayers and fervent dhikr, many of these in the language of Jurhum, the one Isma’il and his mother were adopted into. Because the Jurhum did. Because Hajar held her ground.

Because she said the water was hers. Because she negotiated an outcome that secured her progeny and the Jurhum’s prosperity. Isn’t that Islam, too? She didn’t think in terms of nations or tribes, but synthesis, collaboration, fusion, and growth. We made out of enemies, strangers, and neighbors, a brotherhood.

There was nothing like this spirit in the world before or the world since. This is what the world needs now more than ever. What Hajar understood. Even in crisis, she was thinking of a better future. Maybe that’s our answer, too, in this moment of despair and difficulty, to be ready for when the tides turn, should He so will.

Eid Mubarak!

But slogans take us only so far.

I’m a little skeptical of how quickly Muslim discourse jumps to align itself with American politics; politics are important, of course, but religion must stand behind and at a distance from politics—the intermingling of the two can be dangerous. In this case, let me tell you what a religious perspective brings to what we might call economic populism and democratic socialism that these cannot, alone.

We hear politicians, including Muslim politicians, make the case for taxing the rich, for why we can’t have billionaires, for the fundamental inequities of our society. It’s not that I disagree—not entirely, at least. To be clear, this is not a post about policy. That’s not my wheelhouse. For weeks now, I thought about Ken Griffin’s response to Zohran Mamdani’s proposal to tax certain types of second homes.

For weeks now, I’ve felt there’s something missing on the left. For weeks now, I was really bothered by Ken Griffin’s counter-proposal, so to speak, to move more business to Miami. But I couldn’t put my finger on why. Then I took another tack: If I were to talk about this with my high schoolers, what approach would I take? If I approached this moment through the unasked questions, what would I find?

Many times I think Islam is somewhere between, across, and above the conversations we’re having in our politics—and in this case, that’s true, too.

Here’s what I found about Ken Griffin’s response to be so, well, embarrassing.

In the Muslim tradition, we are all khulafa. We are Caliphs or stewards of God on Earth. This is the central conceit of my last book, Two Billion Caliphs. God gives each of us specific abilities, resources, and potential, which we are on the hook for. We have individual agency and therefore individual accountability. Not all of us can do the same things, but most of us can do some things.

But in Islam, there is not only the fard ‘ayn, but the fard kifaya. We have individual and collective agency. We also have individual and collective accountability.

Politics is how we reconcile these in responsible ways. The challenge on the left is that it is hard for us to talk about individual agency, and even individual accountability; we tend to speak about collective agency and collective accountability. The right is in worse shape: There are hardly any conversations about individual accountability, but plenty of conversations about individual agency.

As for the collective? Sure, there’s nationalism, but it tends towards the parochial if not the prejudicial.

To pull these apart is, ultimately, not only dangerous, but distasteful. Hence the cringe.

To be unable to morally and meaningfully unite these, though, is incoherent.

Now, from this perspective, had Ken Griffin believed in individual agency and individual accountability, he might have responded to Zohran’s proposal with a counter-proposal: “I disagree with your proposed tax; in fact, here is a better way to raise revenue to help our city and country.”

Here’s a different route to what I mean by this: We can hopefully all agree that housing has become absurdly expensive in America. But how do we lower costs? Someone might come along and say, “let’s freeze rent!” Another person could come along and say, “no, let’s make it easier to build!” And a third could come up with another proposal. This would be a policy conversation in which we agree on shared goals and responsibilities, we just disagree about how best to get there.

What’s embarrassing about American elites today is that they so often act like—well, what’s the opposite of an elite? Yesterday, we had a graduation party for our younger daughter, mashallah. We prayed maghrib on the lawn. Afterwards, a few of the young men in attendance walked over and offered to carry the thick prayer rugs back inside. It’s pretty obvious all of them workout and good for them. They’re young men, they absolutely should. But when they recognized their strength could be useful, they did the appropriate thing and showed up. In the case of too many American elites, they run away from any kind of collective responsibility.

If we had behaved like them, growing up, our parents would’ve been ashamed of us. If they wonder why we, as Americans, are so angry, it’s because we feel deeply let down.

Imagine that someone comes along and says, “look, housing is too expensive, people are struggling, we need to find ways to fix this”—and the response is, “if you tax me, I’m leaving!” We’d call this juvenile or adolescent except that’s deeply disrespectful of juveniles and adolescents. It’s called not acting your age or standing at your station. A country isn’t a family, no. But a nation is a community. A strong community is strengthened by its elites. They should know who they are, what they’re capable of, and, as such, what they owe.

May God never let us forget our strengths. May we always put those to work to the benefit of each other and ourselves.

May Allah grant them jannah.

This past Friday, at the Islamic Center of Mason, my khutbah was devoted to how we make sense of that kind of violence—titled “From San Diego to Cincinnati,” I take it as a given that Islamophobia is real, that it’s dangerous, and that many of our elites don’t just refuse to acknowledge it, but actively encourage it. (That isn’t a partisan statement, either.) But how do we, as Muslims, respond? How should we make sense of this violence? How is it that we feel more vulnerable and also more capable?

You can watch the entire sermon on ICM’s YouTube channel:

A Bite-Sized AP Halaqa Update

We were supposed to have our final class in mid-May, but that was impossible—they’ve got too much going on.

I hope that we’ll have a final session in June and, over the summer, I hope to continue to meet with the students who’ve asked to read Christopher Beha’s Why I Am Not An Atheist: Confessions of a Skeptical Believer with me. If you’re looking for something good to read, Beha’s book is a good one.

But might I also recommend Dr. Ilyasah Shabazz’s new book, Malcolm in the Desert: Wisdom from the Spiritual Transformation of Malcolm X, which I talk about in the khutbah above, too? I’m about halfway through and genuinely engrossed.

Coyote vs. Acme vs. Loki

When Joey and I started our podcast, , we wanted to have conversations about faith, masculinity and meaning. We wanted to explore the issues that drive us and shape us. We wanted to cast that net wide. On Joey’s recommendation, last week we hosted Dan Flores, an incredible author, self-described biological historian, and former professor, who’s written a number of remarkable books about America’s lost landscapes and remarkable ecology.

Flores’ most famous book might be Coyote America: A Natural and Supernatural History, which seeks to understand how coyotes not only overcame determined efforts to destroy them—literally, to make them extinct—in the 19th and 20th centuries, but thrive. They might be one of North America’s most successful mammals, because, as Flores argues, they’re a lot like another very successful mammal: Us. A claim like that deserves hearing. The episode does, too.

I’ll get you that Tucker Carlson post soon, inshallah.

In the meantime, Eid Mubarak to all who are celebrating! May Allah make the day blessed for us, meaningful for us, and joyful for us.

May He protect us from harm, give us closeness to Him and each other, and give us the leadership, guidance and wisdom we need.

I’m not a doctor, after all. But what am I? Every once in a while, I bring up experiences that throw them for a loop. They often don’t understand how the guy, in front of them in suburban Cincinnati, didn’t pursue the life his twenties seemed to be leading him towards. When I explain to them that, while I don’t regret that chapter in my life, I also don’t want to relive it, they often appear vexed. I get it, though. It’s normal for a teenager to want to escape home.

Who’d want to live in Cincinnati? But then, that’s because I escaped home. I went big. Then I made a new home. Now I’m more than good. I got it out of my system. I figured out who I wanted to be. I’m very happy now, thank you very much.

What’s Your Beef With Aymen Mohyeldin?

I’m pretty sure my last TV hit was with Aymen Mohyeldin, maybe just a few years after that TEDx talk. Now, I’ve got nothing against Aymen; the segment went poorly because my heart just wasn’t in it anymore.

That’s unfortunate, because I admire Aymen. He’s done great work and continues to. But after years of such appearances, mostly but not always on CNN, there was nothing left in my tank. Not because I mind debates, hard questions, or difficult topics. I just dislike zero-sum conversations. I can’t do the overall tenor of too much of media, which is permanent emergency, frenetic urgency, or overflowing anxiety.

It’s frenetic. It’s the opposite of what I love, which is teaching. A good teacher knows he gains as much as he gives, if not more. I love the back-and-forth of a classroom or a live audience that’s in it with you. I love getting questions that unsettle, surprise, and challenge me. I agree to give khutbahs for this very reason, at least when I’m at the minbar in a masjid I know, where there’s genuine community.

I like embodied engagement. I dislike the virtual and the abstract. I especially dislike the virtual and the abstract when it specifically discourages reflection.

If there’s one part of that life I miss, though, it’s the great people I got to know. Like Murtaza Hussain, who you definitely (should) know from and beyond. Except I know more of Murtaza than that, which is why I was excited we had him on our most recent episode of Avenue M — and in fact, that’s why I’m so passionate about Avenue M. Because, through Avenue M, we can continue the work of speaking to great people. Of learning. Except this isn’t an either-or.

Which is why this conversation with Murtaza might surprise you.

Go Big, Then Go Home

I’d been selected for TEDx Columbia College well before we knew how hard Hurricane Sandy would slam America’s East Coast. At the time, I was living in Arlington, Virginia, working in D.C. Sandy had knocked out gas stations across the Northeast, especially in New Jersey and New York; I messaged the organizers and asked if the conference was still on since, you know, there were close to zero hotel rooms available and a shortage of fuel. They told me point-blank that, since I was the only speaker who didn’t live in New York City, I could take the safe option and back out of the opportunity or be a man and take some risks.1

Well, 346,000 views later, I’m glad I chose the latter. I always did. For decades, I’d made a conscious choice to overcome my natural introversion and hesitation. From badly snowboarding (but keeping at it) to traveling with minimal preparation.

I planned my drive, and zealously monitored my speed, so that I could fill up at the last station in Delaware (everything in Jersey and north was closed or should’ve been presumed closed) and make it back to Delaware on the same tank. I found the only hotel that wasn’t the Mandarin Oriental — either I could have a room there for $1,400 for the night, or at an Upper West Side human rights violation that still somehow priced out at nearly $300; guess what this grad student chose. P.S. I did actually make it back to Delaware the next day on my Camry’s reserve tank.

To quote the President, alhamdulillah.

Now, the reason I left that life behind was, in part, because I didn’t like what media was becoming, but also because I found that the work I genuinely enjoy is in-person, local, sustained, and grounding. I’ve nothing against the good people who’ve stayed, who’ve done vital work. I’m grateful that I had these experiences in my twenties (and, in this case, very early thirties.) I’m happy I took risks, made leaps, put myself in uncomfortable situations. I genuinely can’t understand young men who want comfortable, easy lives, who don’t have a desire to push themselves, who lack for courage, who do not aspire to make their mark.

Had I not done so, I’m sure I’d have been filled with regrets. When my students ask why I left that life behind, I make sure to tell them that and especially the young men.

Be a little bold. Be a little brave. Be free. Explore. Come back stronger.

The reason I started with my friend Joey Taylor — he’s at — was because we could build on our work in media, and our desire to speak to and explore pressing issues, but do so in a way that’s in-person (ish), local, sustained, and grounding. These aren’t one-offs. They’re not thirty seconds hit in which a CNN host asks me to explain why the Iraq War was a bad idea because, yeah, that probably actually happened, time and time again. But that past life, that earlier iteration of Haroon with hair, can still draw on the world he left behind. So, for example, you’ve definitely heard of . But have you heard this Murtaza Hussain?

We had on this week’s episode, “Opium is the Religion of the People.” We spend some time on foreign policy. On national security. But we spend a lot more time on dhikr and resistance, tasawwuf and the algorithmic apocalypse, what faith is meant to do, whether New York’s changed under Mamdani, and what makes Murtaza so incredible is that he can apply the patient rigor a discrete story deserves to the biggest questions of faith or the trends we don’t even realize are taking shape.

He has a way of stepping back, looking at the big picture, and changing everything you think you know. Like when he said that America’s declared a kind of Opium War against itself, deploying addictive tech, from gambling to porn, “a digital narcotic haze,” that’s caused us to decline more rapidly than anyone could’ve imagined, and somehow we find the space in there for Ibn Khaldun, for Francis Fukuyama, for the late Dr. Fazlur Rahman, for Ibn ‘Arabi and the last Chinese Muslim.

You can watch the episode on our YouTube channel, on Apple, Spotify, of course on our Substack, or just watch right here.

To Quote Anne Hathaway, Inshallah

Next Thursday, April 30th, I’m at Mason Public Library to present Who Broke the News: The Crisis of American Media. If you can read two meanings into that, good on you. Space is intentionally limited. Registration is required. If you’re interested, let me know and I’ll connect you to the good people on Reading Road.

Then, on May 22nd, I’m giving a khutbah at the Islamic Center of Mason. But this won’t just be a stand-alone sermon. This is a chance for me to reconcile my deep desire to learn, to teach, and to build community, with the restrictions our busy lives place on all of us.

This May 22nd, I’m giving the first in what will be at least a six-part series on the shahada, the Muslim testimony of faith, the declaration we all make as Muslims, or to become Muslims: La ilaha illa Allah, Muhammadun Rasul Allah. There is no god but God, the one and only God, and Muhammad is His Messenger (SAW).

We all know it. We say it, over and over. But do we realize how incredibly transformative, subversive, nourishing, empowering, beautiful and surprising the implications of these seven words are? This will be a deep dive into our wonderful faith. Here’s the logic of why I’m doing this through salat al-jumuahs2:

Last year, I kicked off a course at this same Islamic Center of Mason, one that explored connections between Muslim history in Spain and Portugal, Central Asia and America. On the whole, it went well, but unevenly. Admittedly, it’s hard to organize a consistent schedule. Still, for one class, only two people showed up. But on Christmas Day, we had nearly 100 people come out to learn about the deep history of Muslim America, going back to the late 1400s.

Most days were a few dozen. How do the organizers plan for that? How do we make sure there’s enough food and coffee, dessert and tea? How do I, as the teacher, plan for that—I mean, what happens if people miss a session — do we schedule makeup sessions? It’s all tremendously confusing. I came across Abdul-Malik Merchant’s recent posts, which amplified a conversation I’ve been having with leaders from the nearby Islamic Center of Greater Cincinnati.

It’s great to have speakers come from far away, they noted, and bring us new perspectives. But how do we create consistent, sustained programs? Doesn’t it make more sense to grow us, as a community, together, locally? Then it hit me.

Every so often, I give the third khutbah at the Mason Masjid. What if the khutbah is the class, part of a course, with a common thread, a sustained theme; people will come out because, of course, jumuah is (broadly speaking) a fard (for men and, by some scholars, the same for women too). Since it’s a 4pm jumuah, it’s accessible to students who can get a ride after school.

So here I am now, planning out an arc of khutab, a series of khutbahs, at least six now (inspired, in part, by our eldest, though she may not be in town for the specific khutbah she inspired in this series.)

Beginning May 22, and over coming months, I’m going to explore the shahada, the Muslim testimonial of faith, from my own reading and learning, from the perspective of my students and their questions, and from the questions I’ve gotten from folks who aren’t Muslim. YouTube makes this easier, mashallah. Because each khutbah is recorded, folks who miss out can catch up very easily, and no special accommodations have to be made (khutab are ordinarily recorded).

Further, and credit where credit is due, as a good friend pointed out, I can invite people to leave questions in the comments, which I can scan and incorporate into subsequent khutbahs, since of course the khutbah itself is a unidirectional conversation. This helps us to pursue the reciprocal, interactive, communal element, which I’m so fond of. There’s a broader wisdom here too. Instead of making more work for ourselves, why not lean into the structures of our faith, the strengths of our communities, and the limitations of our busy lives…?

Of course, I’ll share the series here, as it drops.

For those in Cincy or nearby, the first in the series will be at 4p on Friday, May 22nd, at the Islamic Center of Mason.

Fear Neither Men Nor Hurricanes

Now that I sit here typing, I might have to work some of this TEDx talk into my khutbah series. So then that’s seven sermons. Mashallah. When we stop learning, we stop growing. When we stop teaching, we stop gaining.

Like I always tell my students, when you come across a position that doesn’t sit right, break it down. Here’s my attempt at so doing.

Read to the end and you’ll also understand why gas is so expensive.

You’ll also learn about great resources and about a few upcoming talks, which I’m keen to share with readers here, and hope to see you at — in Boston and Cincy.

Stop the Islamsplaining

First off, most of the people demanding American Muslims “assimilate” have clearly never spent any significant amount of time with American Muslims, would not want to, and don’t even know how to. They have actually zero sense of the communities they’re talking about, don’t care to engage them, and still opine on our existential worth. A long time ago, I labeled this ‘Islamsplaining,’ echoing mansplaining, because it’s just as odious, ridiculous and dangerous.

Islamsplaining: People who don’t know Muslims telling Muslims who we really are. I’m serious, too: When I used to do CNN, MSNBC, even once in a while FOX News, I’d get people explaining to me, a Muslim, who studies Islam, and lives Islam, descended from a family of religious scholars, what Islam “actually is.” Remember Graeme Wood’s awful Atlantic essay (no I am not linking to it) claiming ISIS was actually Islamic? He cited three sources (!!!), in the course of a magazine essay, from which he concluded that ISIS was in fact concordant with Islam.

Imagine the level of gall and gumption required to so pronounce on an entire civilization, the faith of hundreds of millions, most of whose victims were Muslim, which in the end was put down mostly by Muslim fighters of various and different ideologies, ethnicities and sects. It would be like me telling the Pope what Catholicism really is. Yeah, exactly. In other words, there’s a very short line from that ignorance to today. A lot of hubris goes a long way in a condensed time. (Incidentally, the word ‘Islamic’ doesn’t actually exist in the Islamic [sic] tradition.)1

Second, the debate assumes there is a single America to assimilate to, which also makes no sense. Anyone who’s traveled around America knows New York is not like California is not like Michigan is not like Alabama. Maybe before meeting American Muslims, just meet any Americans. Which America exactly should Muslims be assimilating to? And, in that case, should all Americans assimilate to this single American standard? Who gets to pick what that is? Does that part of America have to freeze in place forever, so we always know what to assimilate to?

Third, the debate assumes America is static. America is not. A few weeks ago, in the Sunday school I teach, the topic of marriage came up. We talked about same-sex marriage. One of the students was genuinely shocked to learn that same-sex marriage wasn’t always legal, and that it wasn’t legal during the Obama administration.

He had no idea America had recently been so different. (To be clear, he was born in 2012.) Just so you also know: A lot of young people his age, across faiths, don’t know this, because we don’t teach recent history well, in part because of the politics of polarization, which only reinforces my larger point, but more on that later.

Now, most Muslims I know do not accept same-sex marriage from a religious point of view. However, exactly zero of them have ever proposed it should be banned, forbidden, proscribed or what have you. Their attitude is rather that, while they don’t want to be made to endorse positions at odds with their faith, they don’t in turn believe others need to live by their faith, either. But, of course, if that’s the measure of American democracy (and that is, sincerely, a good place for us as Americans to be — Shadi writes capably and passionately on this), then American Muslims are just fine.

In fact, some of these folks could learn from us.

Fourth, the debate assumes American Muslims are a kind of fifth column, incipiently if not actually, though last time I checked, the great threats to American democracy, checks and balances and institutional norms do not come from American Muslims. On January 6th, every Muslim I know was sitting at home, glued to their TV, despondent. In our halaqa, my own students, who come from pretty similar backgrounds, and know each other well, had active, open-ended debates on questions like ‘how do we as American Muslims push back against the Gaza genocide?’

They all agreed, however, that democratic engagement was vital, even if we didn’t agree on how that would translate. That’s not just inevitable, I believe that’s intentional. I wrote a whole book about why Islam and democracy are deeply compatible, based on a deep reading of Muslim texts and our earliest history.2

Or maybe there’s a faster way to respond to this charge. When someone says American Muslims need to assimilate, I’d ask: Does Zohran Mamdani need to assimilate? I mean, what does that even mean? All of those folks going on and on about the crisis of manhood might want to look to him for inspiration instead. He’s smart, ambitious, confident, takes faith seriously, takes himself seriously, clearly has his life together, is married, talks to all different kinds of people, and has dreams. Like, isn’t that what we’ve been looking for?

Fifth, the assimilation narrative is weird because America is not an ethno-state but an aspirational, moral project that was also an ethno-state (rooted, yes, in a historic people that has changed over time, but I don’t know anyone who’d seriously argue America is not animated by universal, even cosmic ideals, no matter how poorly we’ve done at reaching them sometimes, which helps to explain why America changed so much.) Even if you want to freeze America in 1783, with the Treaty of Paris, you’d have a problem: Clearly Massachusetts and Georgia didn’t agree on some big questions. That’s why our constitution is a pretty durable compromise.

Which of these Americas should American Muslims alive in the 1780s have aspired to assimilate to? (That’s not an entirely absurd query; keep reading.)

America was born in revolution, against monarchy and for democracy, seeking always to balance inalienable rights with popular preferences, inching towards “a more perfect union,” and you cannot assimilate to a process, except that you play by the rules of the process, by which metric, American Muslims are doing solidly overall, and at no point did we launch insurrections except if you count the times American Muslims joined other Americans to rise up… against slavery, across what became the United States and well beyond, which is the awkwardest part of this pseudo-debate, which no one ever raises, because it gets really uncomfortable for them, really fast.

In fact, the greatest attempt to undo America came over the “question” of slavery — no American Muslims, so far as I know, were involved in that epic enormity of insurrection and outrage — and it’s further worth noting that between ten to thirty percent of the enslaved Africans kidnapped and brought here were Muslim, were punished for practicing Islam, were forcibly converted to a twisted form of Christianity used to justify their ownership and oppression, and maybe we can ask what the debate about assimilation has to say here, since there were mass forced conversions in American history—of Muslims. Out of Islam. The first revolt of enslaved Africans in the Americas featured many prominent Muslims among them, taking place on Christmas Day in the 1520s at Diego Columbus’ Caribbean plantation. So, on that metric too, there have been Muslims in the US longer than there has been a US. How then can a population whose history precedes the country in question be expected to forcibly assimilate to a country?

To participate in its development, on the other hand, is another matter entirely; just consider the role of great Muslims like Malcolm X, Ella Collins and Muhammad Ali in the development of our democracy.

That’s our own picture.

Louisville, Kentucky, is just a few hours from our home. The city is home to the very house the future Muhammad Ali was born in. It’s where he’s laid to rest. There is an entire Muhammad Ali Center in that city, too, worth visiting. The absurd suggestion that American Muslims need to “assimilate” doesn’t know what to do with this fact and studiously avoids it, if it even knows of it. It’s certainly curious to claim American Muslims need to assimilate, against the fact that some of the most influential Americans of the 20th century, or really ever, like Muhammad Ali (and Malcolm X) were proudly Muslim… or that some of the most influential Muslims of our times, like Muhammad Ali and Malcolm X, were undeniably Americans and had massive, transformative impacts on America.

TL;DR—should Muhammad Ali have assimilated? No, wait, it was his taking a stand that inspired and uplifted our country, which we mostly came around to, and foreign policy quagmires are bad, the polling continues to confirm, whether then or now.

Sixth, the inability to actually sit and understand, appreciate and engage those different from us is a persistent feature of many American elites and their fellow travelers, which explains why these frequently endorse or fall into such horrific crimes and policies, make such epic foreign policy mistakes, and find themselves booted unceremoniously out of power, alienated from the people they claimed to champion. Because they treat people around them as means towards their own selfish ends, whether that’s taking advantage of the people around them, or turning entire countries into collateral damage.

This doesn’t mean American Muslim communities don’t have issues, challenges, or problems. We have plenty. We have responsibilities, too. That’s why I have a halaqa in the first place, to help educate and empower young people. But that’s very different from saying a population as a whole needs to do something that, worse still, hasn’t even been defined, can’t be defined, and won’t be defined. A cautionary tale: We should never speak about communities, traditions or civilizations in such ways.

The Muslim Education Our Kids Deserve: Haroon’s On Tour

When I started the halaqa, I did so with the intention of keeping our classes resolutely local, building out deliberately, and creating a community within our larger community. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to and don’t intend to share with the wider public. There’s two opportunities for you to hear my vision, learn about my experiences, and ask questions—in Boston and in Cincy.

Tomorrow evening, I’m sharing a Muslim perspective on AI — on how we should approach technology, gender, and the end of the world in our education. Yes, really. The talk will place in Hingham, Mass., on Thursday evening, April 16th. Find out more here, including how to register. The event is free.

Then, on Sunday—this Sunday, April 19th—I’ll be in conversation with Reverend Adam Fronczek at Knox Presbyterian Church in Hyde Park, speaking about faith, formation, the crisis of loneliness, and growing up religion.3 I’ll be part of the 9a and 11a services, then I’ll teach a fresh take on Islam (call it Islam 101) at noon.

The event is, of course, free. Knox is a beautiful church in a wonderful part of our city.

There’s more on their website:

Haroon Moghul and Adam Fronczek will lead a dialogue at both the 9:00 a.m. and 11:00 a.m. services on April 19th. Haroon will then lead our next Lunch & Learn at noon.

Haroon is the Muslim Chaplain at Xavier University. He’s studied Islam, philosophy and history at Columbia University, NYU and in Egypt and Pakistan. An author and a journalist, he’s currently co-host of the Avenue M podcast, which explores faith and meaning in the Midwest and across the world.

Haroon also leads a class for Muslim teens where they explore faith amid important issues of the day. We will learn more about this work and through dialogue we might just be inspired to reimagine how we approach faith formation of young people.

During the Lunch & Learn program at 12 noon, Haroon will present the basics of Islam.

I hope to see you on Thursday or Sunday! If I see you on both, though, then I might be concerned.

If you’re a student at Xavier, Professor Kayla Wheeler’s teaching this incredible course next fall.

Dr. Wheeler has produced incredible research into Islam, American Muslim cultures, Black fashion, and so much more, including the Black Islam syllabus, which I’m sharing here because every single Muslim institution should draw on this kind of resource to share the full history of American Islam. If that’s a topic you’re interested in learning more about, reach out—our Muslim communities have been in the Americas since the 15th century, including on Columbus’ voyages over, and have made signal contributions to the Americas across the centuries. We have helped build this country, fought for democracy, lived faith, and so much more.

These debates aren’t just silly. They’re inaccurate and, as all falsehoods go, they are therefore actively harmful. This past fall, I led an entire class on these subjects at the Islamic Center of Mason. To bring these conversations to your communities, reach out! To hear about more upcoming talks and programs,

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Asked if he had an Easter message, the response he gave was genuinely beautiful and heartfelt. I shared it with my halaqa students, who’ve asked lots of questions about Islam, belief, science and the unknown.

An appropriate introduction to the topic of today’s post, too, in more ways than one.

The same day, here on Earth, our President delivered a message to Iran that included a threat to commit war crimes, an obscenity and then, as if these were not enough, closed with a sarcastic translation of a commonplace Muslim invocation. Here’s the original message and no, I’m not making this up. The f-bomb caught a lot of people. But those four words before his sign-off caught me, too.

‘Praise be to Allah,’ the President wrote, a workable translation of Alhamdulillah. It is possible to correctly translate a term and still entirely, wholly miss the point. Because, yes, this is deeply disrespectful to the many Americans who believe our country should honor international law. It’s deeply disrespectful to many American Muslims. It’s also, certainly, deeply disrespectful to the far more Americans who are Christians; after all, Sunday was Easter—one of the holiest days on their calendar. But that is hardly the only reason we should be alarmed.

How we pursue our objectives matters; our objectives, too, matter. In this case, the President knows the war is going badly, he would rather threaten and potentially commit war crimes than admit he’s made a mistake, his ego is more important than the lives of millions, and we have found ourselves here because we have made a series of choices that might’ve seemed small in the moment but which produce enormous outcomes—many people are describing a strategic, world-historical change, a shift in power from the West to the East, the decline of America, and so on.

But this is not a post about geopolitical outcomes. This is a post about beauty and about the manifest obviousness of its absence. This is a post about how what we say reveals who we really are. When people crudely mock Muslims by attempting to appropriate our sacred language, they often imagine us to be benighted, backwards people, barely removed from the very stone age we must allegedly be consigned or returned to. Except Islam is a beautiful faith, whose majesty can be appreciated not just by what words mean, but how they are used.

‘Praise be to Allah’ manages to correctly translate the term while entirely missing the point of it.

If you want to know what Muslims believe, pay attention to how we invoke faith in our lives.

Ask a Muslim how he is doing and he will probably tell you alhamdulillah, which tells you nothing and everything, all at once. The beauty of Islam is here.

Yesterday afternoon, we attended a funeral service at our local masjid for a remarkable woman (may God give her paradise) who was taken in her middle age, whose impact even then was such that a very large mosque was full of mourners. I often joke about the perils of a parking lot that can hardly fit our community; in this case, what I sometimes say teasingly I observed instead in awe: Would that any of us could leave this world and have so many pray for us, because of the good we have done. The quiet dignity, the deep pain, and the intense piety of that moment is something that cannot be conjured.

For when I greeted her (many) clearly devastated family members, they all said some variation of the same: Alhamdulillah. Whether life is hard or easy, the praise is God’s.

Whatever comes our way, the praise is God’s.

When we are able to reconcile ourselves to an order that transcends us, when we reduce and so elevate ourselves by lining ourselves up, not just before God in prayer but before God in all things, then we are beautiful—because we do not praise ourselves. We praise God. We praise God, Who sends what He wishes our way. Yet do not misunderstand this, either. Sometimes this might be resignation: I accept that I will not have a life I imagined. I will not violate God’s law and the sacred dignity of His creation by throwing a world-historical temper tantrum, complete with metaphorical fists and actual violence. I accept His decree instead.

I might not have the wealth others had. I will accept this—and the proof of the acceptance is in the response, in the life we live. I might not have the health others had—and the proof of acceptance is in the response, in the way we carry ourselves. Beauty is found first in character and then in craft.

But this cuts the other way, too, which no one should forget.

My mother died of cancer when I was in my 20s. She hadn’t reached 60 years of age. This is young, of course, especially in her family; her own father lived nearly to 90, and even in his eighties was mentally sharp, deeply faithful, and quite physically active—I know he often walked to the masjid five times a day for prayer, well into old age. Though I met him only so many times—I grew up in New England; he lived in Pakistan; there were no smartphones or easy ways to maintain connection. I can tell what kind of man he was from the way he’s spoken of still, the way he raised my mother, the way she fiercely loved her faith, the way Islam ennobled and empowered her, the way she wanted it to ennoble and empower me.

We used to watch Star Trek together, religiously. She insisted I learned Arabic. She never told me I had to marry a Pakistani, or become a doctor, or live a narrow life, except that I honor God and take myself seriously. It’s taken me decades to see that. I don’t think I ever mourned her because, at the time of her passing, I was too shellshocked to make sense of what had happened. I might’ve been more overwhelmed yesterday, at the masjid, than I was almost exactly twenty years ago, because now I see my life backwards and forwards, I see what this means, and I saw, in the woman who passed an echo of my own mother’s life and so I found myself unexpectedly overcome by the gravity of the moment.

Its pain, yes. But also, in a way I can’t quite convey, it’s painful beauty.

I can’t imagine what it’s like to know you’re dying. But I know one of my mom’s last acts in the world—in fact, apparently her very last, was to try to pray. It was such a habit in her that, no matter the circumstance, she had to. I think she told the EMS crew over and over to “let me go,” albeit in Urdu, which either meant let her out of the ambulance, or let her pray, or let her leave this life. When she passed, the mourners came with numbers I didn’t expect. One of my friends, a religious Catholic, came too, though I don’t believe he’d ever been to a mosque. He didn’t ask for an accommodation and likely had no idea what was happening.

But he had deep faith and that deep faith meant he knew he had to come, and knew what the moment asked of him, and he smiled when he saw me, stepped aside, and we only spoke days later. Who must his parents have been to have raised him so?

He was one from so many people, from so many parts of the world, all of whom asked us how we were doing and even though we were crushed, we said alhamdulillah. We said it because we knew this was right and proper. I said it because I believed it too, yes, but I also whispered it like a prayer, a condition I aspired to—I wanted to be like her, I wanted to be like my grandfather, I wanted that and understood that if these words were on my lips then one day they might, just might, be in my heart. Because some people are more alive in death than some people are alive in life.

They mock what they do not understand. Because alhamdulillah is not about resignation. It is about reconciliation.

Aligning our will with God’s. It is not just a response. It is a promise.

Even as I accepted that my mother had passed, that this was what God decreed, still I understood that God desired for us collectively to continue to seek cures, to develop new medicine, to make such outcomes less and less likely, to use what He had given us for good. Sometimes alhamdulillah is not about standing down—it is about standing up. I might wish these days I could enjoy a quiet, suburban life, without being dragged down by the wider world, but this would be an ugliness of its own, a callous indifference to the fates and possibilities of the wider world, because there is work to be done. A people of faith cannot close their minds to the world. Their hearts to injustice. Their eyes to beauty. A people of faith praise God and pursue good.

They accept that they can and must course correct. That some things are too sacred to be contravened. We do not turn others into means. We do not take what we inherit and squander it. If we make these choices, again and again, we build out a certain life. When we see people who exceed us, we do not reduce them, but acknowledge their virtue and hope that we too might share in it.

The words we say do not become marks of derision, sarcasm and desperation, but they etch into us, the sounds work on us, they turn us from physical to spiritual, they help us ascend, they ennoble us and empower us, so that when we leave the world, whenever we leave the world, those who see us go wish that they, too, might one day be that way. Alhamdulillah, we say. Praise Him who put us here.

May all those who came before us be elevated into His company. May we be in the life to come with those who loved God, those who are loved by God, and with those we loved and those who loved us.

A Reminder

This Thursday, April 9th, at 6:30pm, I’m joining a panel of faith leaders, scientists and historians to talk about religion, life and pluralism at Xavier.

This Friday, April 10th, we’re hosting Mecca + Mocha: A Yemeni coffee and tea flight! We’ve invited Cincinnati’s Yemeni coffee shops to share their favorite drinks, on the house. There’ll be plenty to drink, of course, plus good people, a chance to learn about some history, and experience the connection between faith, culture and caffeine.

The event goes from 4p to 6p and is open to the public. If you’d like to join us for jumuah beforehand, we hold salat al-jumuah (Friday prayers) on campus at 2:15pm.

If you’d like to attend any of these, please drop me a line here or at the email above.

On Thursday, April 16th, I’m speaking on AI, religion and education at Glastonbury Abbey in the Boston, Mass., area. Find out more here, including how to register.

On Friday, May 22nd, I’ll be leading the third salat-al-jumuah at the Islamic Center of Mason (4pm). For this, I’m inaugurating a series on the shahada, the Muslim profession of faith, exploring how another four words — la ilaha illa Allah, ‘there is no god but God’ — mean more than we might imagine.

Last semester, I asked my students to write down a question about Islam they haven’t been able to answer (or get answered) or a particular part of their faith they’re struggling with. I let them know their answers would be anonymous but, if they were open to my so doing, I’d share their questions with the rest of the class so we could discuss. After all, maybe someone else had the very same concerns.

The questions I got were remarkably candid, honest, and meaningful, from

• Why can’t we talk about depression?

• How come I don’t feel anything in prayer?

• How can Allah control everything and yet somehow we have free will too?

There were more questions, about modesty and social expectations, about praying on time and finding focus, and actually a few more about Allah, qadr and accountability. I’ve decided to find time every time we meet to address at least one of these.

This Sunday, I picked the question above, about gender, about social norms, and marriage. I decided I wanted to say three things to my students, who are all high schoolers and mostly juniors and seniors, but there was one I didn’t.

Brother Right

I didn’t point out that the AP Halaqa is very intentionally co-ed. I didn’t point out that, after a semester of learning together, young men and young women, I now assign them to coed groups for shared in-class activities and presentations. But more and more, I think that’s necessary and healthy. Some years back, I wrote a book called Two Billion Caliphs: A Vision of a Muslim Future.

Part of the book seeks to explain why political Islam so often fails. I also explored why I joined and then left a Sufi tariqah. I even tried to venture an answer as to why so many well-intentioned efforts to empower our ummah seem to bring about the opposite. But above all else, this was an attempt to explain Islam through a reckoning with questions too few Muslim educational institutions spend sufficient time with.

Who are we — as human beings — meant to be? Like, why are we even here? Why are we the way we are? (And what conclusions and approaches should we draw from there?) I argue that, notwithstanding the occasional obsession with states, with empires, and with monarchic Caliphates, we are each created to be khulafa Allah, Caliphs of God on Earth.

That is why we are here. What does this have to do with marriage?

Well, Allah (SWT) intended us to be khulafa Allah, from Adam and Eve, may Allah’s peace and blessings be upon them, till the end of time, and He wishes — cue Adam and Eve — for more of us to come into the world through marriage, through families, and so marriage isn’t just an incidental afterthought, the cherry on the ice cream sundae that is grad school, residency, or what have you.

It might well be the most important commitment most of us ever make. So what are we doing to help our kids get there?

I’ve made the AP Halaqa intentionally coeducational because our young men and women need spaces where they get to practice socializing with each other, they learn how to talk substantively across gender, they develop a healthy respect and regard for each other as complicated, unique, ambitious Muslims, men and women. They learn to see each other as fellow Muslims on the same journey.

Over time, that helps them to become more mature, confident and responsible. They might also, I hope and pray, understand the need for inclusive communities.

I find that Muslims who grow up in strictly segregated environments, who don’t have social networks and circles, often end up struggling for many similar reasons. Many of these men never learn how to talk to women, in responsible ways (hint: this is also necessary for being in the world.) Equally, such an upbringing often means we make or pursue commitments without an appreciation for, say, red flags.

Just because he prays five times a day, or claims to, does not mean he is a good person, let alone a good person for you. We have to see people in their whole selves. Is he resourceful? Thoughtful? Who are his friends? How does he approach different kinds of situations? How does he talk to people, about people, and with people? Does he know what it’s like to live in the world, with people like and unlike himself?

My hope is that, through the AP halaqa, they become more purposeful; I also hope they develop a circle of peers who, one day, when the time is right, they might lean on or turn to — to help them find someone or advise them about someone.

But when is the time right? That gets to the first thing I actually said.

Isn’t It Too Early To Talk About This?

I (over)hear a lot of young Muslims, from high school to college, through the programs I lead, often say things like, “I’m not going to start thinking about marriage until I’m done with grad school.” I know where they’re coming from, responding to sometimes untoward or obtuse pressure about marriage.

So, far be it from me to tell a person when to start looking. But I am also responsible in these two hours to pass on what should benefit them, including reflections from my own life, my peers, my friends, my family.

So the first thing I told them was that, just as many of them plan years ahead for careers in medicine, or law, or business, they should not to be afraid to plan for life: Don’t approach marriage with “I’ll get married when I’m ready,” I said. Better to think this way: “I want to think about what it would take to get ready to be married.”

Because it’s hard to find matches. I know. I can’t tell you how many parents tell me how hard it is. So wouldn’t it be better to raise young men and women to develop the maturity and the skills such that, should the right person come along, but they’re perhaps not as far along educationally or professionally as they like, still they might pursue the possibility — because they’ve got their head and heart in the right place?

Because I believe education and career are generally stand-ins for deeper virtues: Maturity, conscientiousness, seriousness, dedication, discipline, ambition, creativity, courage. A willingness and readiness to go out into the world. A belief that you must. The confidence that you can.

So I told them, just like some of you are seventeen or eighteen, and already actively planning for a career, even as you know that career will take years to come together, even if plans change, think of marriage and family that way. What will it take to be a husband or wife? Start thinking about that now.

So that, as your life comes together, you’re coming together, too. I gave them a few questions to think about. I told them these questions will take years to answer. But they should still be broached now.

What kind of person am I? What kind of person would help me grow? What kind of person would I be compatible with? And, perhaps just as importantly, who do I want to become? Who would help me become that person? Of course, I wasn’t going to ask them to answer those right now. What I did, instead, was to share two ways to think about who to marry.

Two questions, really, that required them to think about themselves—that also turned the question of marriage from the overwhelmingly abstract to the individual.

Must I Marry Muslim?

I told them that marriage requires effort, that marriage across cultures and ethnicities is certainly entirely fine, but to make such a partnership thrive, we must have a mature appreciation of how we’re raised, our particular families, and our individual and mutual expectations. Just because two people are Muslim doesn’t mean they have the same assumptions or approaches. That’s important to understand in advance, which begins by appreciating the role culture, ethnicity and background play in your own life — and what you’d like them to, in the future.

You might’ve been raised very desi, but don’t want to raise your kids that way. Good thing to know. But what about marrying across religious differences? Interfaith marriage presents a particular challenge, and here’s how I explained it. In a marriage, you want your life partner to be on the same team. It’s good to look for someone who complements you and vice versa. But underlying that, you need a shared set of values.

How do you know you have a shared set of values?

How would it feel if you felt compelled to choose between your parents? That’s painful. That generally shouldn’t happen. What follows is less here from the granular perspective of fiqh and more an attempt to explain why certain religious prohibitions and discouragements exist. The reason behind the ruling.

In a world where marriage has become more egalitarian, I believe it’s more important than ever that both parents on the same team. In my experience, some interfaith marriages manage just fine. But many interfaith marriages end with the children growing up spiritually confused and unaffiliated.

Many more interfaith couples struggle—and, actually, at least one spouse will admit it’s a lot harder and heavier than they anticipated. At the very least, then, we should let our kids understand what an interfaith marriage involves or might mean; the decision is, ultimately, theirs. Better to go in with eyes wide open all the same.

Speaking broadly, and this is statistically backed up, interfaith marriage often means kids who have lukewarm religious commitments. Because their parents have effectively asked them to pick a parent, even if that’s not what they intend. Alternatively, if their kids do grow up and choose a particular faith affiliation, they might struggle to explain that. Even if they don’t, their parents might.

Marriage matters insofar as it affects kids, yeah. But marriage also matters insofar as it affects the married.

Many spouses in interfaith marriages often feel, directly or indirectly, or rather come to feel, that they’ve been sidelined, that they can’t be their whole selves, that an alternative to asking kids to pick between parental traditions is to effectively exit many faith communities, because that’s a kind of picking between parents, too. (In fairness, also, a lot of Muslim communities don’t handle interfaith well, either!)

In some cases, one or both spouses make so many incremental compromises, almost unconsciously, the necessary stuff of everyday life, that they wake up one day shocked to find how far they are from their faith and community—that they’ve basically opted out or selected out of faith, because faith communities make lots of demands, and those demands are hard where the differences are really big.

So I told my students: You have to decide this for yourself, first. When you think about who to marry, establish first what it means to be on the same team.

The same existential page. Then and only then you can grow your life together.

Til Death Do You Part?

Marry someone, I said, who you’d trust to take care of your kids if, God forbid, something happened to you. Become someone, I continued, who someone else would trust with that kind of responsibility.

Go To Parties

Finally, I said, ask yourself who you want to be. What your hopes for your future are. Let’s say you want to be a teacher but you really want to become a high school principal. That requires not only that you’re good at your job, but that you build relationships with people around you to get you there. You’ll have to go to fundraisers and galas. Marry someone who you could take to these functions, who’d know how to support you or just literally be at your side, who makes sense for you now and later.

Become someone who can do that for someone else. The more you are able to talk about this in years to come, the better off you are. For our next class, I’ll have us come back to this. I’ll talk about how this connects with modesty (I’m going to ask them to think beyond the categories they’re used to), self-respect, and your larger sense of self and your place in the world. Because there’s so much there.

Maybe I’ll ask them to write down questions… anonymously. To see if it’s landing. To see if it makes sense.

Who Killed Ohio?

Joey and I have a new conversation—this time around, we sit down with journalist Brian Alexander, who’s got an actually heartrending, incredible book, Glass House: The 1% Economy and the Shattering of the All-American Town, the story of how private equity, de-industrialization, NAFTA, coastal elites, and fentanyl destroyed one Ohio town, told with the intimacy only a child of that very same town could.

Because Alexander grew up in Lancaster, Ohio. He watched it fall. He knows the people who have to life in that aftermath. It’s a story that’s deeply emotional and so damn resonant right now, when once again we can find billions to spend destroying someone else’s country, even as we’re supposed to be cutting back here at home. Watch us on YouTube or wherever you get your favorite podcast!

To Cincinnati and Beyond

We had a great turnout at last night’s Take It On event at Xavier University: “Iran 101: What Just Happened—And Why It Matters.” P.S. If you’re interested in bringing this deep dive into the Iran War to your campus or community, please reach out.

On Friday, April 10th, at Xavier University, we’re hosting a coffee flight! That Friday afternoon from 4p to 6p, we’ve got Mecca + Mocha, an afternoon dedicated to sampling delicious Yemeni coffees from local Cincinnati coffee shops (like Moka & Co.), learning about the connection between Islam and caffeine (yes, really) … which is also a beautiful chance to make friends and meet friends over fantastic, free drinks.

The event is free but we ask for folks to register so there’s ample coffee. You can register with the QR code below. Musketeers can also register through EngageXU.

On Thursday, April 16th, I’m speaking at Glastonbury Abbey in Hingham, Mass., near Boston: “What’ll We Teach Our Kids When We Know Everything?”

I’ll be unpacking the AP Halaqa, offering a deep dive into how Islam shapes my curriculum and educational philosophy, how I think about AI in (religious) education, what unique insights faith has to offer in the present moment, and what I’ve learned over the past year. It’s a program designed for parents, people of faith, educators and serious citizens of all backgrounds.

You can find out more here, including how to register for this free event.

We also host salat al-jumu‘ah (Friday Prayers) on Xavier campus every Friday during the semester. The khutbah begins at 2:15pm inshallah. If you’re in or around the area, please join us; the invitation includes our wider community, not just Xavier students and staff — we’ve got a beautiful community that’s growing! On May 22nd, I’ll also be giving the third (4pm) khutbah (sermon) at the Islamic Center of Mason.

Read!

I’ve finished Christopher Beha’s outstanding intellectual biography, a journey out of and back to faith; I’m going to be reading this (again) with some of my AP Halaqa students, which was their idea (the kind of news every teacher lives for!) But that’s hardly all I’m reading.

At the moment, I’ve got Shaolin Spirit: The Way to Self-Mastery on my bedside table, what I need after Ramadan, plus Cory Doctorow’s Enshittification, about how and why everything on the internet turns to… I’m also keen to pick up this new CFR book, a deep dive into the mind of the scientist behind DeepMind.

provokes strong opinions, and I’m sure his new book will, too, which is partly why I’m pre-ordering Kakistocracy: Why Populism Ends in Disaster. We cannot be serious thinkers, we cannot be great educators, and we cannot be the citizens our country needs if we cannot engage ideas that stretch us beyond what we’re used to.

Around the corner, there’s a delightful one I’m particularly keen to pick up: Ilyasah Shabazz, daughter of Malcolm X, has penned what promises to be an incredible book: Malcolm in the Desert: Spiritual Wisdom from the Transformation of Malcolm X. Pre-order your copy now: The book drops on May 19th.

Iran Again

It’s important to read The New York Times, even if they’re regularly two weeks’ behind reality (or sometimes flat-out decades in the wrong). I’m not joking: sometimes the Times takes days to catch up to what Instagram feeds show, but I’m hardly recommending relying on a feed that’s algorithmically designed to addict you, encourages bubbles, possibly causes depression, and has no editorial oversight.

But the Times’ failures are instructive: What happens when the editorial oversight is skewed by bias and bigotry? What are people around us reading? We should know what’s out there. We should be able to challenge our own perspectives (and sharpen them thereby). But we need to also actually know what’s happening. There are plenty of great sources for understanding this epic disaster, so I’ll just offer a few:

and , of course. at the Quincy Institute. New Lines Magazine. has offered some helpful deep dives into policy, especially on economic impacts. Jon Stewart’s had some good episodes and interviews on The Daily Show. The indefatigable . This only catches some of what’s out there, though. In weeks to come, I’ll share more resources and analyses.

DD Mubarak

Here’s this year’s digital Moghul Eid al-Fitr card. I’m sharing because I haven’t properly wished my readers Eid Mubarak and because I’m inordinately proud of this one (each Eid, I try to outdo myself.) Now, remember, I grew up in New England, which is home to a certain franchise, but I’ll just leave it at that.

If the regime survives, and if it can maintain control over its territory (both of these are big ifs), it’s not clear how the Islamic Republic would hope to recover. From the severe economic harm that’s likely to last for years to a population that’s far more alienated and angry than even before, the costs of this war are steep. In other words, Iran’s lost a lot. But we’ve lost, too. In the past three weeks, we’ve done more damage to ourselves than Iran ever could have. I think we all know that.

That’s been our American Muslim Ramadan.

I’m hardly comparing our Ramadan to what it’s like in the hardest-hit parts of the world (I haven’t even said anything about Lebanon yet, where nearly a million people have been displaced, or Sudan, or South Asia.) But it’s still real. It’s still our Ramadan. This is the country we live in, which our kids will inherit. Over the last three weeks, a catastrophic image of America has been cemented in the minds of our allies and opponents alike: We can’t articulate our objectives because we don’t have objectives.

Maybe vibes, at best, but vibes did not sustain superpower primacy.

We aren’t just irresponsible, dangerous and self-defeating — we’re unserious. We might see lots of play-acting by middle-tier powers keen to placate us. We’ll never be trusted again, though, for a long time. We’re not going to be there for our allies and might well stab them in the back, for reasons we can’t explain. We might just bomb countries while negotiating with them. We can tank the global economy and then blame everyone else for it. We can ruin many things. We can hardly fix any of them.

We went from struggling to repair bridges to actively burning the bridges we ourselves built. There’s perhaps no more embarrassing — and revealing — image of our country right now than our asking the Chinese navy to secure the Strait of Hormuz. An America that needs no one, a fiction and a worrisome one, becomes a different kind of reality: An America that has no one to rely on. It turns out that actions have consequences. That character matters.

That we cannot act out and not, as it were, find out.

Last week, on an episode of Avenue M, I shared my fear that the consequences of the Iran War would really and truly be felt only in the long-term, that we might be tempted to forget about the long haul because of immediate, selective metrics. One day, we’d wake up to find our allies had disappeared on us. That’s happened so much faster than I suspected. That one day is today: Canada, Poland, the UK, Germany, Italy — nobody wants to fight alongside us.

One year of transactional foreign policy has eviscerated our alliances. Who could possibly bring them back? It would take years, maybe decades, to repair these relationships because — and here’s the thing — our principal alliances were never transactional. The reason Europe, Canada, and Australia became so dependent on us is because they really believed we’d be there for them. Maybe that’s naïve or unfair, but there’s no world in which this new state of affairs is preferable.

I’d rather our country have real friends with global heft, prestige and potential — who yes, also need to build up some strength — than transactional allies of convenience who just want to pretend for us until they find the off-ramp from our prior partnerships. Even if Iran “unconditionally surrenders,” or we find some exit from this self-imposed act of self-harm, it frankly doesn’t matter so much. Ever heard of a pyrrhic victory? We’ve already lost more than Iran could’ve cost us.

All of this lands in the final days of Ramadan. Which is, depending on your disposition, either very bad timing or very clarifying timing. We feel it at the pump. We feel it in the pits of our stomachs. We reveal our anxieties in prostration. We wonder what’s happening to the world, to us, to our futures.

Staying in the Room

These are supposed to be the most luminous ten days of the year. The nights of power. The home stretch. And they are arriving, as they sometimes do, not in the glow of everything going well but under the weight of everything that isn’t. A war most of us didn’t want. A world rearranging itself in ways we can’t fully see. A season that asks us to be spiritually present while the news is doing everything it can to hollow us out.

What do you do when the going gets this grueling? That’s not a rhetorical question. It’s the one I’ve been sitting with — and, as it happens, it’s the question at the center of the most recent episode of Avenue M, “Why We Keep Returning (Even When It’s Not Working).” Episode 17 arrives in the final days of Ramadan and the middle of Lent — two sacred seasons, one conversation. Joey and I don’t ask whether faith is worth having. We ask something harder: what do you do when faith isn’t working?

When the rituals feel empty, when the opportunities to worship feel like burdens and obligations, when the God you’re supposed to be close to feels far away? To be clear, we started off expecting we’d explore the common conceit that there’s religion on the one side and spirituality on the other, but very quickly the conversation took on a momentum of its own. Joey brought up the concept of “returning,” which animates and sustains his Lenten practice, with deep and rich echoes of “tawbah.”

What we ended up with was more cathartic than we realized it’d be, an exploration of what faith is for … especially when we’re not sure what we’re called to, what both our traditions say about the person who keeps showing up even when showing up is hard. We push on the idea that struggle is a sign of failure. In both our traditions, the wrestling itself, we propose, is the piety itself. There’s a moment in the episode I’ve been sitting with myself, which appears to have revealed more than I intended.

It’s when I introduce the “mihrab,” the prayer-niche many mosques feature, built for the imam to stand in, as he leads prayer, designed to indicate the direction of Mecca and to amplify his voice. Very likely, you’ve seen the mihrab — you know it marks the qiblah. It’s one of the most recognizable features of Islamic sacred architecture.

Most people, understandably, assume the word means something that describes its basic function.

Mihrab actually means the place of struggle, the direction of the real battle, the contest against our egoes and vanities, our supremacisms and selfishness, our insecurities and anxieties, the place we come back to — to find serenity and trust. Physical, kinetic wars ruin the world. In these spaces, though, Muslims adorned and ornamented the structure, making the place of worship a place of coolness, contemplation, undeniable beauty and stunning transcendence.

I’m reminded of dojos, where the mind, the heart, and the body are disciplined.

We need such places more than ever. Maybe just being there, more than ever. That etymology becomes, I think, the animating idea of the whole episode: that religion was never meant to be easy, and that its difficulty might be precisely the point. The direction we face when we pray isn’t toward comfort. It’s toward the struggle.

Which reframes something, for me at least, about this particular moment.

The grief over what’s happening in the world — to innocent people, to struggling families, to American credibility, to the alliances we spent decades building — that grief is not a detour from faith. The frustration of watching our country act against its own interests and values while the world watches: that’s not a distraction from worship. The insistence on naming what’s wrong clearly, on imagining what better looks like, on refusing to look away. But what happens next?

We’d face the direction that’s calling us. We’d stay in the room. We’d return. Avenue M’s answer to those who’ve sat through a prayer and felt nothing — who’ve wondered if that meant something was wrong with them or with their faith — is neither simple nor cheap. It’s an invitation to remain. To stand up. To bow down. To continue. To be responsible to one another. To make sure our faith isn’t escapist, contrived, or transactional. To model what it is we’re called to be.

If this resonated, share it with someone who needs it. And if you’re not already subscribed to Avenue M — find us on Apple, Spotify, YouTube or the Avenue M Substack…

Avenue M

Why We Keep Returning (Even When It's Not Working)

We planned to have a conversation about religion vs. spirituality, the pluses and minuses of ancient tradition’s venerable wisdom set against do-it-yourself theology, the great gulf in American faith communities between organized religion and individual preference. This episode didn’t turn out the way we’d planned. Of course, faith often doesn’t go our …

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6 months ago · Avenue M

But it’s more important to understand how bias, ignorance and hubris have led us into this perilous war, these moral flaws compounding like demented riba’, leading us from grave missteps and miscalculations to, now, lacking an exit strategy altogether. Most Americans know that this war is unnecessary, that it’s not in our interest, and that it’s unlikely to end well. But many Americans can’t always articulate exactly why.

If they were to better understand how privilege, parochialism and prejudice underscores this, and so many of our endless wars, they’d be better placed to ask for more, demand accountability, and expect transparency. That’s why, last week, Joey and I hosted a special live episode of Avenue M, about the Iran War. This was an important conversation, sure.

But still, we got more questions than we expected, from listeners the world over keen to know what’s happening and what they can do about it. So yesterday we posted our first ever ask-us-anything, a special live episode dedicated to many of your questions. But instead of just rebutting bad (faith) framing, here’s where Avenue M is different: We’re here to help you make sense of what doesn’t seem to make sense.

To navigate complexity without abdicating our responsibility, a common-sense and courageous approach that’s interested in helping us move forward as men, as believers, as parents, as citizens. Consider it faith plus facts.

What kinds of questions? What kinds of insights?

Yesterday’s episode includes an extended discussion of Israel’s original sin, which is absent from nearly all of our media, though it’s impossible to understand this war without understanding how Israel’s done more than refuse to acknowledge this original sin — it has now decided that the only way to pursue security is by pursuing the very same policies that created the predicament it finds itself in.

The clip above includes that point. The full episode connects these dots—and then some. Of course, you can always find our episodes on Apple, Spotify and the Substack, too.

Finding the Purpose in the Peril

As Michelle Goldberg recently reported in The New York Times, more Americans now sympathize with Palestinians than Israelis. Likewise with the Iran War; almost two weeks in, and unlike with almost any other war in modern American history—this one was underwater before it even began. Americans don’t want this war, while our government doesn’t know what it wants, except just not what most Americans want.

In fact, see the results from a recent + poll (both are excellent sources for day-to-day coverage and deeper analysis of the conflict)

This is a hard and heavy moment. Trump is endangering America. Netanyahu appears to be pursuing a strategy that is devastating the region (and profoundly, and perhaps permanently, undermining his own country.) Iran’s authoritarian leaders, whose actions belie their claims to religious and moral authority, have caused great harm and grief across the region, perhaps most of all in Syria, where they shamelessly sided against popular Syrian sentiment and supported Assad’s enormities.

As hard as it might seem, in this moment, with all the heaviness, hurt and hatefulness around us, that deep discrepancy, though, we are called to something. For Americans, the deep discrepancy between what we want and what our government delivers opens space for us to do more than point to the democratic deficit. We must articulate what we wish to see instead.

For my part, I’d like to see American Muslims begin to think through how we can contribute to a more responsive, democratic, principled and mature American foreign policy, where faith and patriotism can mutually reinforce each other, without compromising the openness and pluralism that is true of America, yes, but also necessary for America. If we know what’s wrong, we should name it. But we should do the harder work of imagining what a better America would look like, too.

Maybe that’s the direction our next Avenue M episode needs to go…

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Many years back, presenting on Islam very far from home, I referenced the high regard we Muslims have for ‘Isa ibn Maryam, Jesus the son of Mary: not only a Prophet, but also the miraculous word and spirit of God, born by God’s decree, without a father, the very Messiah who will return at the end of time to fill an unjust world with justice.

May the peace and blessings of God be on ‘Isa and his mother.

I’m not sure if one of the attendees asked this, or I inferred this from a question asked of me, but I found myself explaining why I believed the Prophet Jesus (peace be upon him) was coming back to Earth at all. Two caveats: First, this was my educated conjecture. Second, in faith, many things will have multiple possible explanations. In this instance, as I often do, I foregrounded my response with a lighthearted comment.

When people smile, even laugh, they’re at ease and when they’re at ease, their minds open to unexpected possibilities. In this instance, I said something along the lines of, ‘well, given that the three Abrahamic religions strongly disagree on who Jesus is, perhaps he’s returning to settle the matter.’ Many chuckled and took it as just that — but some, I could tell, understood my deeper meaning.

That his existence mattered. That while all great events, truths and teachings have multiple effects and implications, this one was worth sitting with: God is invested in whether or not we properly understand Him. But God is invested in us as individuals first and foremost. When the blessed Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham) was cast into the fire for his monotheism, God intervened to adjust the course of the entire human future.

Allah not only saved Ibrahim (AS) but changed the direction of all history, down to today. Out of His love for Ibrahim (AS), His regard for him — Ibrahim (AS) is His friend, khalīl Allah — Allah remade the world. When Hajar (R) beseeched God for help, panicked, running between the hills of Safa and Marwa, His mercy came down to her. There would be no Mecca without her.

And without Mecca? We receive descriptions from the blessed Prophet Muhammad (SA) of the Day of Judgment.

We know that even so great and esteemed a man as Prophet ‘Isa (Jesus, peace be upon him) will be anxious over his fate, worried that he’ll be taken to task for what people ascribed to him. Could it be the case that one of the reasons Allah (SWT) sends ‘Isa back is to clear his name, out of love for him, out of regard for the depth of his faith, for the status of his mother, but also, out of His love for His ummah?

What We Talk About When We Talk About the End Times

It’s not just Muslims who are wondering whether we’re at the end of all things. You can’t scroll through ten reels without happening upon some intimation that the apocalypse is upon us. Sometimes they’re presented in the form of a joke, but I don’t think people are actually laughing. I think, deep down, people are horrified, suspecting that the so-called adults in the room have no idea what they’re doing.

In times such as these, people often return to their deepest sources of meaning. In advance of our halaqa’s special classes on Iran — see my earlier post — I suspect I’ll get questions on the end times. Let’s be honest. It can’t have been easy growing up the last ten or fifteen years. It’s been overwhelming, exhausting, infuriating, depressing, from the brain rotting phones we’re all addicted to …

• COVID

• Civil unrest

• Mass shootings

• Escalating wars

• Yemen Sudan and Libya

• The genocide in Gaza

• AI and the singularity

• Looksmaxxing

• The invasion of Ukraine

• The Epstein scandal

• Climate change…

I could go on and on. If you don’t even know where to begin, in other words, you’re not alone — and not alone in wondering if it is not the end. So how do we, as Muslims, address such moments? We could wonder if it’s almost all over, but that hardly leaves us with any meaningful direction on its own. In our last halaqa, before Ramadan, the subject of free will vs. predestination came in.

What if we’re looking at this all wrong, though? What if predetermined realities determine the contours of our free will? What if our free will, in turn, predetermines history? Prophet Ibrahim (AS) chose to believe in God. He chose to confront his people. The world we live in is indelibly affected by those choices. The two are not opposites, but operate simultaneously and interdependently.

The level of complexity required to even begin to understand this would be lost on humans, because we cannot think beyond dimensional categories. But if we can acknowledge that we can’t, we can understand what it means when Allah tells us what is to come, not so that we collapse into paralysis, but so that we make more informed choices, better choices, the right choices.

By knowing what’ll happen, in other words, we don’t become more predetermined. We become, paradoxically but actually, more free.

A Theory of the Mahdi

Islam has a tradition of eschatology, of texts and traditions that reveal what the latter days of humanity might actually be like. Sometimes we circulate these for less than the best of reasons—or just the standard reasons: there’s a common, compulsive human fascination with our own destinies. In actual ages of unrest, though, these might be ways to make sense of worlds that otherwise do not make sense.

Now, let me restate that caveat.

There are always multiple reasons for different practices, rituals and traditions.

So don’t read what I have to say here as conclusive or comprehensive. These are merely reflections in advance of an important conversation with students and parents who (like me honestly) are wrestling with some overwhelming realities. I will share with them three reasons our Creator has given us a description of the latter-days, three-reasons I’d like to share with my students (and with you all here.)

First, these are intentionally ambiguous. The barefoot men who compete in building tall towers? Well, sure, that could mean what we think it means, but then again, how tall is tall? One of the reasons I believe we’ve been provided such ambiguity is to create space for freedom of thought, reflection and action. Another is to force us to constantly second-guess ourselves. A people who do not reflect on their choices and decisions are a people who become self-satisfied, smug, supremacist and, inevitably, dangerous. But a people who also learn how to question themselves, and question the world around them, become more curious, creative and critical.

How often, in history, have people been doomed by their rigidity? And how often, in turn, have people in the hardest of circumstances been rescued by their ability to think beyond the categories imposed on them? That’s one of the reasons I teach the AP Halaqa: So these students know how to learn, how to think, and how to build, individually and collectively. This is the way forward. I don’t know if it’s the only way forward, but it’s hard to imagine how it can’t be part of the solution.

Second, as a mercy. So that, should we find ourselves in dark and difficult times, or any kind of dark and difficult times, we know or we are reminded that there is a direction to what is happening, that our Lord and Creator, our Master and Sustainer, is still keeping watch. Many ages in human history are painful and perilous. But that doesn’t take away from our reason for being here, that there is still a reason for being where we are, who we are, and when we are, that Allah is Merciful, Wise, All-Knowing and All-Powerful, so that, instead of just asking who the Mahdi will be, when will he come, and why will he come, we also ask these questions of ourselves. There is a reason Allah intended us to be where we are, when we are… even who we are.

That, in turn, speaks to our potential and our purpose. It is reassurance in hard times. But that is not only it.

Third, to return to free will and predestination. What, after all, if the Mahdi is the answer to the prayers of the oppressed? What if, so many are so oppressed, and begging His aid—should the aid not come? And who are we to say why it will come and what form it will take? But perhaps we might, in sitting with these questions, push ourselves out of our own self-imposed boundaries and boxes.

How often in history have people suffered great harm because they’ve been unable to learn from their mistakes? And how often, in turn, have people found their way out of crisis by abandoning preconceived notions, errant assumptions, or clearly irrelevant and even self-defeating modes of thinking? Faith and creativity aren’t incompatible. They stand shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot.

But so too should our ummah in times of crisis, not by expecting all of us to think the same, act the same, or agree on every question. We should, rather, hold each other in regard, respect each other’s dignity, and care for each other’s worth. In terms of our great Muslim divergence, the division between Sunni and Shi’a — this began to take shape almost immediately after the death of the Prophet SA.

What we already agreed on, like Qur’an, ritual practice, and core theology, remains shared. What happened after, though, we often and sometimes often bitterly disagreed. Yet it seems there can be no addressing our ummah’s pains and ailments except with some new model for thinking better of each other and learning how to ethically, responsibly and meaningfully work together?

Ways that reflect our agency, our individual dignity, and our collective distinctions.

But then there is the figure of the Mahdi, may Allah be pleased with him, a historical figure from the future, whose importance is shared across the greatest of Islam’s grave fractures; indeed, he may not only be the person whose importance across traditions is enough to re-connect those traditions but, with Jesus, peace be upon him, these two figures are mutually revered across so much of the Muslim tradition.

Had the Mahdi not been promised before the passing of the Prophet Muhammad (SA)—indeed, such a statement would itself not make sense—who else would bring us together? And what if the answer to the prayer, the call of the oppressed, or whatever reasons are for Allah and Allah alone to make, also took the form of healing His ummah, that just as He holds individuals in regard, so too His people?

Islam teaches that when we move towards Him, He moves towards us. If we move towards Him in spirit, because our material options are limited, then perhaps His moving towards us might take the form of spirit outside the bounds of ordinary history, though for that to happen, the ummah must be open, aware, and ready to accept what comes, able to discern what is happening.

The Mahdi isn’t just a confirmation that He knows, but a confirmation that He cares. The process is simultaneous and instantaneous, though for us perhaps centuries pass and what do we know?

This, at least: that He foresaw, riven as we would be, that there is a need for reconnection, for the ummah to converge with itself, to ask itself what the price of difference should be, and where else does that commence except where it all commenced, where Adam and Eve built, where Hajar and Ismail were alone but not alone, there and only there.

Which is to say He didn’t just know what would happen, of course, but He is invested in all that does.

In the end, I cannot know. We cannot know. If we knew too much, we would have no agency. If we knew too little, we might altogether despair. We need enough guidance to keep going in difficult times. But we need enough space so that we are free to make choices, to pursue our responsibilities, and to learn — including from our mistakes, for that is what it means to be a person and a Muslim.

Parting Shots

I will share reflections on our special session of the halaqa soon.

In the meantime, I’m again sharing ’s second live episode, “The Iran Episode,” which introduces some of these questions.

We’re recording a follow-up episode this coming week, which will stream live, and then be made available on YouTube, Apple and Spotify. We’re taking questions, during the episode, but also collecting questions beforehand.

If there’s something you’d like to see us talk about, let us know: you can drop questions in comments or message us directly.

What kind of threat could Iran pose to the United States if we could wipe out its senior leadership so easily, quickly and comprehensively?

If Iran posed an imminent threat to the United States, why didn’t we invoke Article V and bring the NATO powers together for joint action?

If we have no money to help Americans pay for healthcare, education, housing or costs of living, where’s the money for this coming from?

And how exactly are we to believe that an administration that’s advocated banning Muslims suddenly cares so much about the plight of ordinary Iranians?

Epic Distraction

When I woke up to the news on Saturday, just returned from ‘umrah, I won’t deny it: I felt a keen sense of despair, overwhelming exhaustion, deep sadness and intense frustration. As if the last three years weren’t enough, now this. I might’ve felt it even worse than many other Americans because, long ago, in another life, I worked on making the case for an Iran deal, believing — and arguing, over and over — that war with Iran would be an epic mistake.

Operation Iraqi Freedom had created appalling outcomes. A war on Iran would do far worse. This wasn’t just a feeling. This was a conclusion drawn from ample analysis. And now here we are, making that epic mistake. But over the course of the day, I realized, there is nothing as shameless as doomscrolling. If I am a believer, and a parent, and a citizen, and an adult, then I’m not called to collapse in on myself. I could doom scroll, in other words, or I could do something.

Given my knowledge, experiences, and resources, I have a specific responsibility in this moment. That started with my AP Halaqa students.

I asked who would like to join a special conversation on Iran, on the current crisis, and especially our civic and religious obligations as Americans and Muslims. I shared my intentions with the parents; quickly, a few asked if they could join. Given the stakes, I said yes, of course. Some of us met this weekend. We’ll have a second session next week. Just deciding to sit with them changed how I felt.

I’m no less aggrieved by what’s happening, of course. But I can’t tolerate the idea of just losing myself in the news. Our kids deserve better.

See, when we think thoughts to ourselves, we cannot know how many might share them. Even internet memes and social media content go only so far. To see and hear real people sharing my concerns focused my mind: As awful as this moment is, as bad as it is for America, for the Middle East, and the wider world, there’s been a sea change across America. As Michelle Goldberg noted in a recent Times op-ed, “How Israel Lost Americans”:

It’s been obvious for some time that Americans are souring on Israel, but a Gallup poll that came out on Friday marks a turning point. For the first time in the poll’s 25-year history, it found, more Americans sympathize with the Palestinians than with the Israelis. The shift wasn’t just among Democrats, whose opinion of Israel has been in free fall in recent years. According to Gallup, only 30 percent of independents now sympathize with Israel; 41 percent sympathize with the Palestinians. Among adults under 35, support for Israel has fallen to a record low of 23 percent. With numbers like this, bipartisan backing for Israel, long a constant in American politics, will in time become unsustainable.

Of course, we cannot just expect an outcome: We must ensure we make the most of a necessary and positive shift. Here, too, the same pertains.

Nearly 60% of Americans disapprove of this war. In a country as polarized as ours, that’s stunning.

Unfortunately, we suffer a yawning democratic deficit, a disconnect between what the people want and what policies we see, but we still have a democracy, elections still matter, and instead of retreating, we must recommit to public conversations. We must make the case that America can only prosper, in ways that benefit all Americans, if our American foreign policy is responsible, republican and restrained. This isn’t a left- or right- thing, either.

There’s plenty of Democrats who’ve amply demonstrated their furious irrelevance, and key Republicans who’ve spoken out and taken stands.

Watching high schoolers on the verge of voting process these ideas, and think through their consequences, was deeply moving. And shamed me, if I’m honest. Who was I to turn inwards when there are so many Americans who’ve been let down, time and time again, not least our own young men and women?

We Deserve Answers

Today, at , Joey and I recorded a special live episode about Iran, intended for parents, for educators, and for Americans more generally who can sense that the Iran war is bad news — but might not be able to articulate why. You can listen on Apple, Spotify, or of course on YouTube:

In the special session of the AP Halaqa, I focused on three topics:

First, I wanted the students to better understand Twelver Shi’a Islam and the specific, unique and contentious ways in which Iran’s government has repurposed that tradition to serve very specific political ends.

We were candid about what Iran’s government has actually been like for many in the region and for Iranians themselves — while refusing to reduce our conversation to a good Muslim, bad Muslim frame.

In the AP Halaqa, I teach the Sunni tradition which I (choose to) belong to, but our students should be able to articulate their beliefs without putting anyone else’s down. That’s not least because our ummah includes Sunni and Shia Muslims, our communities do, and in the case of at least two students, their families do, too.

Second, I wanted the students to understand that the present moment cannot be understood separately from a context that goes back decades. A broader appreciation of history, I’ve found, prevents people from collapsing into crude narratives, dangerous supremacism, or helpless pessimism.

And third, we talked about our obligations as Americans, as Muslims, and as American Muslims. This third topic surfaces in the podcast: Many of the things they’ve talked about, pointed towards, or led me to became a part of my conversation with Joey. I hope you give it a listen.

May we be guided to what is right.

May we never be oppressed and may we never become oppressors.

May we have the courage to stand up for what is right, for what is good, and for what is best.

We’re now in our second semester of the AP Halaqa. This post kicks off a series that will share what’s changed between the fall and spring semesters of the AP Halaqa and then offer a summary of each session, designed for parents, educators, community leaders and students.

As always, I close with resource of interest!

Last fall, I introduced the AP Halaqa, which replaced the two separate high school halaqas I’d been hosting at our home for a few years—one for young men and one for young women. The concept was simple: to create a rich space where Muslim teenagers could grapple with sophisticated questions of faith, community, and future priorities while building academic skills.

There wasn’t much pushback; while some parents were a little concerned about the coed format, I’ve built up enough trust to make the case.

Unfortunately, some students were put off by the “AP” designation, assuming it meant an actual Advanced Placement course with corresponding workload and stress. Now, it’s true: The AP Halaqa is demanding, and more sophisticated than most high school courses, I emphasize academic rigor as a kind of screen, filtering not by grades or metrics but by ambition and aspiration.

Who wants to be here? Who’s willing to wrestle with difficult questions? I want students who want to be challenged; I’m less concerned with grades—in fact, I don’t give grades and, even if I did, who would care? We had fourteen students to start the fall semester. From August to December 2025, we met six times, for a course anchored by a select chapter of ‘Allama Iqbal’s Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam.1

We didn’t only read one chapter over six sessions. We got through maybe three pages.

That first semester taught me as much as it taught them. Here’s the most important thing I learned. The students turned out to be hungry—not just for knowledge, but for meaningful challenge, the chance to wrestle with ideas, the chance to be with friends, and permission to ask questions they’d been silently carrying. But not everything worked out as planned.

So, this spring, I went back to the drawing board.

This post explains some of the structural and pedagogical changes I’ve made for Spring 2026, then provides you a detailed outline of our first class—which I invite you to borrow, engage with, build from, learn with, and provide feedback on. If you’re working with young Muslims (or any young people navigating complex questions of identity, faith, and intellectual formation), I hope what follows proves useful.

Once More Our Caravan Measures the Road

The AP Halaqa started with the intention of serving three interconnected purposes:

• to help students grow into mature Muslims who can give back to and grow their communities;

• to create space for authentic friendship and connection rooted in shared faith;

• and to develop the academic, intellectual, and religious confidence these young people will need to navigate an increasingly complex and fraught world.

Beginning with the fall semester, I set out to help these students appreciate our tradition as more than an abstract texts or remote history, but as living inheritance, meant to be realized in the world. I wanted them to recognize the richness of a life lived with faith, scholarship, and with people who share those values. And I wanted them to know that asking difficult questions, exploring tough topics, and sitting with uncertainty are not threats to but essential components of mature belief.

These students are set to head for college campuses where their beliefs, identities and commitments won’t just occasionally be derided, but will frequently be dismissed and even undermined. That’s why I want them to have more than rote ritual. I want—and we, as parents, need—them to be able to think critically under pressure, to articulate complexity with clarity, and to have a faith that can challenge and console them.

But after one semester, I realized I’d missed a big part of the puzzle. Quite simply, if I want this halaqa to help them grow into adults who can lead communities through difficult times, they need to be able to link their religious, academic, professional and personal development. Can a halaqa meeting just seven times a semester do that? Well, probably not. Though here’s the thing.

I don’t see many other institutions invested in doing that in ways consonant with our faith and dedicated to our values.

Spring Forward

During the fall semester, we emphasized close reading—spending substantial time working through primary sources together in class. I put a lot of energy and attention on close reading, because I worried that, with the advent of AI, they’d lose the ability to read closely, the capacity to develop arguments, and even the desire to pursue reading on their own. These are all important.

But then I realized: Instead of framing the AP Halaqa around the threats that we face to our human flourishing, the ways in which deep education, learning and contemplation are undermined, all of which are of course not good things, why not lean into the strengths of our community? I often talk about how rarely we as Muslims celebrate our strengths.

So let me, you know, actually take a dose of my own medicine, and model the confidence I claim we should exhibit.

So I restructured the course in anticipation of spring 2026.

One of the great things about our local communities is their vibrancy, dynamism, and youthful energy. If you don’t believe me, just arrive forty-five minutes early to taraweeh (or else you won’t get parking) and you’ll know what I mean. There’s something deeply, almost epically wrong with societies that have lost the will to reproduce themselves, that no longer believe enough in themselves to want to keep going.

Our ummah has been knocked about for decades for its supposed backwardness and benightedness, but we’re still going. We’re still here. We don’t have active debates, as of yet, about whether or not we’ll still be here in a hundred years. That’s a good thing and, so, instead of leaning into what’s not working (and plenty isn’t), maybe a better approach is to celebrate what we’re spectacularly good at.

Got that? We are, in fact, not always getting it wrong.

So this time around, I give them more leeway to shape the curriculum—asking them what they want to explore, what troubles them, what they need. This approach has proven surprisingly helpful, engaging, and meaningful for me as well. I’m learning alongside them, which feels appropriate. If I’m asking them to grow, I should be growing too. But there’s another dimension to this shift.

I love the warmth, energy and connectedness they feel; yes, it’s hard for me to focus at a masjid which is full of loud tweens and teens making the hour before taraweeh almost overwhelming—I joked to a friend that if I wanted to do ‘umrah, I’d just go to Makkah—but stop here and note: They’re at the masjid. The AP Halaqa is a slice from a far, far bigger pie, but all the same, cut from the same cloth. The apple, the tree.

I want them to deepen connections, community, and friendships rooted in faith, where their appreciation or at least adjacency to one another opens the door to more. Growing up means growing into whole people, and that wholeness includes being able to engage peers—across gender, across perspectives—on questions that matter deeply, in ways that are both intellectually rigorous and spiritually grounded.

In the fall, I had tried to get them to grow religiously, and academically, but realized, over those months, that the halaqa could do more good by linking not just religious literacy, and academic rigor, but community, openness, and ummah. Has it worked? Well, in a subsequent post, I’m going to share solid evidence that that’s the case, just two classes in, but I haven’t gotten to the first spring semester class yet!

Let me leave it here: If they want to be at the masjid, that’s a good thing. Do we also realize they want to know their faith? See, a lot of young Muslims aren’t alienated from their faith because they don’t believe it’s true. They do. They’re alienated by spaces that don’t welcome and empower them, that don’t challenge and invest in them, that don’t orient themselves around the future.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. In the next section, I’m outlining how the class itself is structured.

What’s Changed Between Fall and Spring

The Spring 2026 cohort meets for two hours rather than the previous 90 minutes. The extended time allows for a fundamentally different pedagogical approach.

The first hour of our new class combines what I call “acquisition time”—reading, memorizing vocabulary, learning and reciting duas, completing short-answer comprehension questions—with direct instruction only when necessary. This isn’t filler content, though! I hate busywork. This first hour establishes a foundation of knowledge, terminology, mutual support and recall, especially because they often work in groups, developing a robust foundation upon which we can layer on critical thinking, debate and discussion, and intellectual collaboration.

The goal is deserved confidence: In order to join the AP Halaqa, students have to register, and pick three from the following:

Here, incidentally, is how they voted:

So I threw it back to them (and this tells you what I mean by teaching collaboratively): If you want to advocate for Islam and Muslims, you need a solid foundation of knowledge. You need to know where to find answers. You need to be able to connect people to institutions and resources. You need to be able to speak confidently, think on your feet, and step back, evaluate approaches, be meaningfully, responsibly critical, and, well, you get my drift.

After the first hour, we pick up snacks and drinks and pivot to a very different second hour. Students then work in bigger groups—sometimes organized by gender for particular discussions, always with me present and circulating—where they facilitate their own debates, challenge each other’s thinking, answer each other’s questions, and synthesize what they’ve learned. I’m there as a resource, but increasingly I’m not the primary voice in the room. This is intentional.

They need to be able to hold space for difficult conversations, disagree respectfully with peers of different genders, articulate complex ideas under pressure, and think collaboratively when I’m not there to moderate. These skills don’t develop through observation. They can only develop through practice, failure, adjustment, and repetition. By our second class, for example, I asked them to recite a du‘a we’d been memorizing (see below)—out loud, in front of each other. Over two-thirds of the class was able to do so. Why should they be pushed to do this?

When they have families, inshallah, they should be able to lead salat, teach du‘as, and explain the importance of ‘ibadah by practicing what they preach and teach. More importantly, they need to own faith not as an identity but a commitment.

I’m certain that reciting in a coed environment is challenging, but it’s also precisely the kind of experience they need—especially the young women, who are often not asked or permitted to take vocal leadership in too many religious spaces, and young men, who need to appreciate that they share this responsibility (and will share so much more) with the other half of their community.

If you can intuit why else that matters, well, we are on the same page.

We the People

In the past, I’d kept the snacks for the end but noticed that, once snacks came out, some students socialized, while others turned immediately to their phones. They were losing a precious, rare chance to talk to and with Muslims older or different than themselves. That half-hour started to feel optional, which was never the point! I want them to learn the grit that comes from being forced to interact with people you might secretly be terrified by. How do seniors appear to freshmen, after all? An eighteen-year-old young woman to a fourteen-year-old boy?

Conversely, older students need to learn to talk to younger ones, to make space for less experienced voices, to mentor rather than dominate.

As a result: no phones during class. Not during the academic work, not during snacks, not during group discussions. This is not a punishment. This is a gift. Most people hate how compelled they are by addictive technology. But the way you fight an addiction is the way our Prophet SAWS did, by gradually rolling it back and investing in shared community. We’re an ummah after all. That ummah should cherish spaces of learning, ‘ibadah, and tafakkur, and be willing to commit to shared expectations. Stop acting like we and our kids aren’t capable of more.

I’m tired of pedagogical approaches that all but admit to defeat, that communicate insecurity, anxiety, and what is talking about here.

The kind of class I’m asking these students to commit to requires presence—deep, sustained attention that cannot coexist with the fragmented awareness that smartphones produce. They need to learn that they can survive two hours without checking notifications. More than survive: they can think more clearly, connect more authentically, and engage more fully when they’re not constantly half-elsewhere. The resistance was minimal. I believe they recognize, on some level, that they need this kind of space. And as I tell them, I need it, too.

Brothers and Sisters

The other significant shift involves more intentional coed learning. In the fall, we defaulted to single-gender discussions for most substantive conversations. But these students are heading to college campuses where life won’t be segregated by gender. They need to learn—now, in a structured and supervised environment—how to engage each other on difficult questions with respect, clarity, and confidence.

We do separate into single-gender groups for certain discussions. But increasingly, we’re creating mixed groups and I’m watching them develop the skills and intervening where necessary (do they know how to speak respectfully to each other?): how to make space for each other, how to challenge an idea without challenging a person, how to listen generously when someone’s experience of faith differs fundamentally from your own. I’m always present, always circulating.

But I’m deliberately stepping back, watching them learn to facilitate these conversations themselves. Because that’s what they’ll need to do when they leave.

In the next section, I’m going to walk you through exactly what we did in our first class—the structure, the prompts, the reasoning behind each element. Consider this a curricular resource you can adapt for your own context. If you’re interested, I can send you this as a PDF handout; just reach out!

The Madhhab of Cat Stevens

The first class began with a dua we’ll memorize and recite together at the opening of every subsequent session (as such, yes, they start knowing there’s homework):

اللَّهُمَّ إِنِّي أَسْأَلُكَ حُبَّكَ، وَحُبَّ مَنْ يُحِبُّكَ، وَالعَمَلَ الَّذِي يُبَلِّغُنِي حُبَّكَ

اللَّهُمَّ اجْعَلْ حُبَّكَ أَحَبَّ إِلَيَّ مِنْ نَفْسِي وَأَهْلِي، وَمِنَ المَاءِ البَارِدِ

“O Allah, I ask You for Your love, and the love of those who love You, and the actions that will bring me closer to Your love. O Allah, make Your love more beloved to me than myself, my family, and cold water.”2

Then they were given a list of vocabulary terms: fitra, iman, islam, madhab, and taklif, complemented by these terms from the Western tradition, natural law, volition, denominationalism, moral agency, covenant. In pairs, they would try to define each term and, if they could not, this would be their homework between classes. Then I asked them, individually, to think on how they identify as Muslim.

With a certain madhhab? Community? Approach? Or perhaps they don’t choose to affiliate any further.

Here’s why I asked—because once they were done with the above, got some snacks and drinks, I had them take out their notebooks and write out an answer to the following. I let them know I’d collect and return these the following class, and that their answers would help shape the second class, too.

“We’ve got two cats, Lolo and Lili. They’re Muslims. But are they Sunni or Shi’a Muslims? If they’re Sunni, what madhhab do they belong to? Explain your answer.”

Thirty minutes. Silence except for pens on paper.

What I received was extraordinary.

Some students argued that animals operate purely on fitra—natural submission—and therefore cannot hold sectarian identities that require conscious choice and moral agency. Others wrestled with whether islam (lowercase, meaning submission to natural law) is the same thing as Islam (uppercase, meaning the religion with its schools, traditions, and historical divisions). Several effectively asked whether the question itself constituted what some of us call a category error—applying human theological frameworks to creatures that exist in a fundamentally different relationship to the Divine.

One jokingly noted that the cats were Maliki or Ja‘fari because they can’t fold their paws. One even pointed out that they were whatever madhhab my family was, since most people, and presumably most pets, follow the orientation of the home they live in. The sophistication was remarkable. More importantly, the willingness to sit with ambiguity, to write “I’m not sure, but here’s how I’m thinking about it”—that intellectual humility combined with analytical courage is precisely what we’re cultivating.

Why This Structure Works: Connecting Pedagogy to Purpose

The first class wasn’t randomly constructed. Each element connects to the larger pedagogical shifts I’ve made and the foundational skills I’m trying to establish.

The du‘a memorization does multiple things simultaneously: it builds religious literacy (many students stop memorizing Arabic prayers beyond what they learned as children), creates a shared ritual that marks our time together as distinct from ordinary academic space, and gives them practice speaking Arabic aloud in a mixed-gender setting. By week seven, this will — inshallah! — be automatic. That’s the point.

The vocabulary work in pairs forces immediate interaction.

They can’t passively receive terms from me; they have to negotiate meaning with a peer, explain their understanding, ask clarifying questions. The pairing of terms is deliberate: these students will encounter secular academic frameworks that presume Western philosophical categories as universal. They need to be able to translate between systems, to see where concepts overlap and where they diverge, to articulate Muslim ideas in language Western interlocutors can engage without losing precision.

Lastly, the Lolo prompt is designed to be simultaneously absurd and profound. The absurdity lowers the stakes—no one’s going to be offended by your take on feline sectarianism—which amusingly allows students to engage more seriously with the underlying theological questions. Does submission require consciousness? Is there a difference between instinctive obedience to natural law and covenantal relationship with God? What role does human choice play in religious identity?

These aren’t trivial questions. They’re foundational to understanding what Islam is. And by starting with cats, we create space for students to make mistakes, ask “silly” questions, and develop arguments without the weight of feeling like they’re challenging something sacred.

The thirty minutes of silent writing is also essential. In our discussion-heavy fall format, I noticed that certain voices dominated while others remained quiet. Silent writing equalizes. Everyone has to think. Everyone has to articulate. Everyone produces something. When we move to discussion, every student has already done intellectual work; they’re not starting from zero.

This structure—du‘a, vocabulary, absurd-but-serious prompt, silent writing, discussion—becomes the template for the semester. Students will know what to expect. That predictability creates safety, which is meant to enable risk-taking. When the format is stable, students can venture into uncomfortable intellectual territory because the ground beneath them feels solid.

The Practical Questions: How This Actually Works

On reading assignments: I’ll address this in depth in a separate post, but I was surprised after our second class—in the best possible way—by how enthusiastically they’ve approached some topics and requested additional material. Still, as of now, I’m not asking them to do a lot beyond memorizing certain du‘as and vocabulary, occasionally listening to podcasts or infrequently reading articles.

On pushback and the “AP” problem: Calling it the AP Halaqa is, admittedly, sometimes an own goal. I definitely lost students who I think would add a lot to the class—because they assume it’s basically an AP course. That does give me pause, but on balance I really love the students I have, I’m grateful for their dedication, and I believe scaling up is not always the best approach.

Given how much trust is required to build a program like this, I don’t have the range of students by background that would be ideal for these students to learn with. But there’s not really an easy way to correct for that. I’m not running a school, don’t have an administrative support system, and I know their parents. In this case, less is more: Not to mention, we can more easily build trust and open up with each other.

I’m not going to lie, about half of them graduate from high school in May and I’m really going to miss them. The class has been tethered to our own kids’ progress through school which means that, in four more years, there won’t be an AP Halaqa—at least, not like this, not one in our home, which feels like an extended family, and I’m sad about that.

On assessment: I don’t grade. I tell them they can get really great feedback and grow intellectually without the kinds of consequences that show up on transcripts. It’s like they can prepare for college before college—with all the rigor but none of the anxiety.

On class size: Twelve students, from freshmen to seniors—about an equal number of women and men. That’s ideal. There’s diversity of perspective, to a degree, but it’s small enough that I can pay attention to all of them. I’m not just teaching them narrowly; I’m also attempting to give them space to socialize, become friends, and learn how to create an intellectual and religious community for themselves. In that perspective, size matters. Too big is destined to fail.

On logistics: We meet in our home, to keep it casual. We’ve set up a room that’s centrally located, brightly lit, with a variety of chairs and cushions for them to get comfortable. They’re next to the kitchen as well, so they can grab snacks and drinks without disrupting the flow. It’s so centrally located that Lolo and Lili frequently stroll through, stop by, issue demands or share their opinions.

On materials: If you’d like a PDF of the handout I gave these students for the first class, feel free to reach out. I’m happy to share.

On sustainability: I definitely want this to continue. Our youngest enters high school in the fall and therefore the AP Halaqa, which means at least four more years. I’m always open to recruiting new students, if they fit the bill. And of course I’d love to be in touch with people who want to replicate this model.

What’s Coming Next

That was our first class, in January. Our second, earlier in February, asks them to identify one Islamic rule or practice they genuinely struggle with and articulate their doubt with precision. Our second class went over its scheduled time by nearly 45 minutes—many students were thus with me for nearly three hours. Can you imagine? To me, that’s a sign that the model’s working, that they’re hungry for more, but that conversely there aren’t spaces for that more.

We’re building a semester where doubt is not the enemy of faith but possibly its necessary companion. Where ritual is examined for what it accomplishes, not just what it symbolizes. Where students learn to differentiate between “Islam” as theological ideal and “Muslims” as imperfect practitioners—and still defend the tradition’s validity and purpose. This is delicate work. It requires trust, intellectual humility, and a willingness to sit with questions that don’t resolve neatly.

But I believe these students are ready for it.

This work also raises questions for us, as adults: Is it really the right idea to preference masjids that get ever bigger, more anonymous, and more challenging to connect around? Should we, perhaps, seek a balance between big spaces and small spaces? I’ll say this much: We rank colleges by their class sizes. We tend to prefer spaces where we get noticed and where our names are known.

These past few years have changed how I think about community, too. But that’s all on the AP Halaqa for now. In coming weeks, inshallah, I’ll share more. In the meantime…

The Teacher Becomes the Student

We’re on hiatus during Ramadan. We also missed one class due to the massive late January snowstorm that blanketed much of Ohio.

This Ramadan is particularly meaningful for me personally: I’m fasting for the first time in years. There’s something profound about returning to this practice while simultaneously asking students to examine their relationship to ritual. The questions we’re exploring in the halaqa aren’t abstract. They’re lived.

While I prepare for our next session, I’m reading Richard Holmes’s The Boundless Deep—a biography of young Tennyson wrestling with doubt and scientific discovery in Victorian England. I’m also reading ’s excellent Why I Am Not An Atheist, rooted in a Catholic perspective.

Beha’s book doesn’t just intersect with and directly speak to questions that came up in halaqa two, but seven of my twelve students have ordered copies and asked to set up a separate time to meet and discuss the book together. I’ll share more on that with the subsequent post, including a wonderful surprise.

But let me just say—if it sounds unlikely to you that Muslim students in a Muslim space would volunteer to read a challenging book by a Catholic writer who left and returned to his faith (trust me, read the book), well, let me say this: When we trust our students with serious questions and give them the tools to pursue answers, they become insatiable.

If you’re doing similar work with young people—building spaces where they can think honestly about their faith, learn to articulate complexity, and develop the courage to ask hard questions—I’d love to hear from you. This work is better done in community than in isolation.

Finally, I really hope you listen to the latest episode of . Joey and I started the podcast months ago because we loved talking to each other about religion. This past week, we finally got around to actually talking to each other—about what Ramadan, Lent, life and death mean to us. This is the direction we’d love to take the podcast in: We hope you give us a listen (Apple, Spotify, Substack—you decide!)

Or you can just watch on YouTube…