Leave it to Dr. Seuss

Growing up, Friday prayers have always been associated with the men in our family. My dad took my brother. Or all my cousins would go with my grandpa. I was never really involved in them. The only thing I did (with the help of my sis) was ask my little brother as soon as he's home what the sermon was about. He always gave us the same blank look- which we took as a sign that he had dozed off during it, and enjoyed teasing him for hours!

So when I visited Boston a few months back, and my sis told me to get ready for Friday prayer at MIT's musalla, my first reaction was: "Huh? Why?". I did end up going eventually, and boy am I glad I did. Apparently, Friday prayer is like a weekly mini-reunion, where you get to meet all the "sisters" and "brothers" whom you wouldn't otherwise see what with the hectic college life. As we found ourselves a comfortable corner to snuggle in, I watched as the small musalla room filled up to its full capacity. Then the sermon began. It was amazing. It was short and concise, yet its effect was great. All the while you could tell that the Imam had a message to send and he was doing just that. It was delivered so eloquently and in a manner that is unassuming and easy to relate to. He wanted each and every one of us to leave and remember that message, as we walked or cycled or road the subway home. I left feeling cleansed, serene and with something to think about.

I thought to myself "hmm.. that's nice. How come I don't go to Friday prayers back home? I really should".
And that's how I ended up in the Grand Mosque a couple of weeks ago. I sat in the spacious room, alongside the other ladies. Some were reading Qoran, some were greeting each other, and others were attending to their infants or toddlers, fruitlessly trying to shush them (oh but that's a can of worms on its own). Soon the call for prayer announced the beginning of the sermon.

I really don't know where to start. No seriously, I'm in shock. I don't know what to make of it.
But there I was; a twenty-something and fairly-intelligent (I like to think) girl listening to a respected Shaykh and yet feeling incredibly stupid and thick. I mean it was unbelievable. I understood each and every word he said on its own, but as a whole unit, his sentences made no sense to me. To further help you understand how I felt, imagine an Arab attempting to read an Urdu text. Even though he's able to recognize each and every letter seperately, it does nothing to aid him in making sense of the foreign blends that are in fact Urdu words.

The Imam seemed to have put all his energy into ornamenting his sentences, delivering easy on the ear and quite enjoyable rhyming words, with a nice ring to them. It had an artistic outer shell that might elicit initial admiration, and yet sooner or later the shocking reality of it's hollow body will look you straight in the eye.
Try as I might to pinpoint the message behind his multitude of words, I could not. I tried, honestly and heartily, to figure out where he's heading with this, but to no avail. I was literally forcing myself to concentrate, but eventually had no choice but to give up and totally zone out. Just then I remembered my (back then) 8-year-old brother. If the sermons he used to attend were anything like this one, I pitty the poor kid.

My initial shock and anger didn't last long, and as I left the breathtakingly designed Grand Mosque, only sadness was left in my heart. How could this be happening? Since when did Imams become more concerned with the musical effect their sermons possess, than with their actual content.
And what's even worse is that it's not like we are in no need for those sermons. In fact, I don't think our need for guidance has ever been greater. Has the Imam not seen the state of us? The state of our countries? Does he not see the lying, the cheating, the stealing that takes place all the time. Did he not hear about the reckless teenagers that roam the streets like maniacs with their daddy-bought-it-for-me convertables and end up killing not only themselves but an entire unsuspecting family? Doesn't he have anything to say to that employee who wastes hour upon hour in his job and ditches work whenever he wants and gets a fake sick leave. What about the doctor who actually gives fake sick leaves in return for immediate gain? Does the Imam choose to ignore our gossip and back-biting-infested societies? Does he not feel the need to reassure that repenting sinner that God is all merciful and forgiving? It's always good when someone reminds us of that... Why doesn't he notice and talk to the young boys between the crowds? Why not make them feel noticed and not overshadowed by grownups they accompany for a change. Does the Imam not hear the news? Does he not sip his coffee over the morning paper? Does he really think our state of things is so ideal that he can afford the leisure of entertaining our senses with artistic and almost poetic sermons that are devoid of any meaning?

Don't get me wrong. I do realise that this was one Imam, one Friday, in one mosque at one tiny corner in the world. I'm sure there are billions of amazing people, muslims and non-muslims alike, who are doing their part of making this world a better place. Just now as I type this, I can overhear the Friday sermon coming from the direction of the mosque near us. I wasn't really following it word for word, but there seems to be a theme. Which is good.

I don't want to fall into the pit of only highlighting the negative and turning a blind eye on the positive. I mean, just the fact that there are people like Shaykh Hamza Yusuf still around us, is reason enough to keep the hope very much alive.

And so I remain hopeful.