The Perplexing Subject of Faith
22/7/2016
It is yet another Friday, and here I am again, frontline in the mosque, seated squarely before the pulpit, bracing myself for the weekly barrage from the Imam. The words from his mouth—though meant for all—feel like they’re aimed directly at my soul. Personal. Surgical.
As a non-practicing Muslim, or rather, one who does not fulfill the full checklist—five daily prayers included—his sermon felt like a public execution of my conscience. The topic: Tawakkul. Faith. Trust in God.
A concept I’m no stranger to.
And yet, one I wrestle with more than I care to admit.
Because on many days, especially of late, I find myself doubting—not the existence of God, but the fairness of His plan. The suffering I see around me, the exhaustion of the poor, the quiet despair of the good—it all seems too much, too random, too cruel.
Surely, there must be a caring God who won’t let this world unravel into ruin. Surely.
I’ve tried, truly, to right myself. To see the world through the “quiet mind” that spiritual teachings advocate. I’ve gone inward. Sat still. Dug deep.
But strangely, the deeper I look within, the darker the outside becomes.
Buddhism speaks of detachment from the Dharma realm—the realm of fleeting phenomena. But detachment, I find, is not easier with age. It becomes heavier. Like a muscle grown stiff with time. There’s more to let go of. More to love. More to fear.
And so I ask myself:
What am I leaving behind?
When my days end, what legacy will the next generation inherit from people like me?
The Imam, meanwhile, continues his sermon with conviction, warning of Hell, calling out the young for abandoning God in favor of Selena Gomez concerts and racing their motorbikes to the grave.
He may not be wrong. But he speaks as if all of us are guilty by default. And maybe we are. Maybe I am.
Tawakkul (تَوَكُّل)—trust in God.
Wikipedia (yes, even I consult it) describes three levels of this trust:
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The trust of the believers—to live one day at a time, not worrying about tomorrow.
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The trust of the select—to trust without motive, casting aside all desires.
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And the trust of the select—to surrender entirely, until God's will becomes your own.
Beautiful. Terrifying. Nearly impossible.
Because in reality, most of us are still somewhere between cautious hope and quiet despair. We believe, but we also bargain. We pray, but we also panic. We submit, but never completely.
Faith in Buddhism speaks of something similar:
“This Law [Dharma] is inexpressible, beyond the realm of terms…
None can apprehend it except the bodhisattvas
Who are firm in the power of faith.”
It seems that, across traditions, faith is not blind.
It’s a power. A refinement.
Something cultivated, not inherited.
Not just a belief in God, but in the possibility that God believes in us.
So what is faith, then, with wisdom and understanding?
It is not blind obedience.
It is not a ritual alone.
It is not terror dressed as piety.
True faith, I suspect, is a kind of surrender that includes your doubts, not denies them. It is not the absence of questions, but the willingness to live inside the mystery without resentment.
Islam, at its heart, is not a religion of blind faith.
It is a path of consciousness. Of becoming.
Of struggle—jihad not of war, but of the soul.
And so I sit in the mosque.
Exposed. Flawed. Listening.
Still here.
Still searching.
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