I am not a muslim. I'm not even religious. But I suppose I have slowly come to realize that old books have some wisdom in them. If anything, just the sheer size of the literature alone, both in terms of the divinely inspired or revealed texts themselves, as well as the various exegesis and philosophies written afterwards, some of it is bound to be insightful. And as such, in recent years I've started to take a more charitable approach towards religion, and while islam doesn't particularly appeal to me, there was a while when, in my second year of college, I'd read the Quran out of a semi-academic interest and I'd try to pick up on some arabic words. The book did seem eloquent, always telling old stories, revealing bits of wisdom, establishing rules and regulations and so on, all through constant verse and rhyme, something which people tend to find less exhausting than the storytelling style of the Bible. As far as arabic itself goes, it was a nice feeling to make out a new word every now and then, like learning to read all over again and seeing things start to fall into place.
In many ways, all religions appear to have the same recurring theme – a kind of stoic acceptance of the divine will. As such many prophets or otherwise exalted figures in religion are heroes of stoicism, they are commended on their strength and resilience to accept God's will as it is. Because to change it would be a fool's errand. In religion and in stoicism, God and fate are almost one and the same, which means that true happiness is merely to accept things as they are. But where does prayer fit into that? We'll find out, won't we?
I distinctly remember discovering the answer to that question, or at least a glimpse of an answer, on a summer afternoon as I waited for my friends at the university's pathway, leaning back against the wall, relaxing under the shade of the trees, and reading random bits of the Quran when one particular verse struck me, and that verse was 19:4.
Similarly to the gospel of Luke, chapter nineteen of the Quran, eloquently titled Maryam, the arabic version of the name Mary, opens with the story of Zachariah, a devout man who in his time of need called to Allah in a private supplication. That supplication was concerning his fear that his wife, being barren up to that point, would be unable to conceive, and thus Zachariah would die having left no descendant to carry on the remembrance of Allah. Lest the next generations fall into disbelief without a guiding force, Zachariah desperately needed an heir. Ibn Kathir even notes that the need for an heir is precisely Zachariah's concern for the future of the believers, and not material concerns regarding inheritance, which would be beneath the lofty status of a prophet. And so, because Zachariah's request is honorable, Allah grants him a son who will be named John. As a sign of Allah's promise, Zachariah was made mute for three nights and so, having his prayer answered, he exalted Allah through gestures. Then John was born and became a devout believer, thereby fulfilling Zachariah's plea.
That is the story of the chapter as it relates to Zachariah, which spans verses two to fifteen, but, in my summary of it, I conveniently left out my favorite verse. And that is because what strikes me about it isn't that Zachariah prayed and Allah answered his prayer. What strikes me is the way in which, in verse four, Zachariah prefaces his prayer – he calls to Allah in total humility, recognizing his situation as hopeless and that no one else can help, no one except Allah. There's no one else or no thing he can turn to, so he just humbles himself. He acknowledges his own physical state, very frail and old, his bones are weak and becoming weaker still, his hairs have flared white, his youth has fled from him... He is weak and old, and the angel of death, which awaits us all, is drawing nearer. Zachariah feels death approaching and yet, instead of asking Allah to grant him youth or relief from pain, he asks instead for a son to continue the natural way of life and worship, as decreed since the time of Adam.
And most striking of all, despite Zachariah's weak condition, he ends the preface by saying that, in all his life and in all his prayers, he has never been unhappy with Allah's answer. Zachariah seems to embody a powerful stoic ideal, he willingly accepts the natural order of things, he accepts the way his life is in all its human frailty and as such, instead of asking Allah for a relief from it, he maintains submission to his own nature which is in itself an extension of Allah's will. I think the lesson here is that while our lives can be difficult, while we can suffer from sickness and old age, while we all have some measure of a fear of death, while confusion and suffering can at times overwhelm our lives, while all that may well be true, our supplications to the divine should never strive to change the divine. An honorable prayer for the fear of death isn't to ask for immortality, an honorable prayer for the pains of old age isn't to ask for youth. An honorable prayer is to accept what can't be changed and ask only for what is in accordance with the divine plan.
And that is exactly what Zachariah does, and not only that, it's what he did throughout his whole life. All his prayers to Allah seem to have been either fully answered, or if they haven't, then it was because Allah's plan was superior to what Zachariah had asked for all along. Because in religious stoicism, sometimes we have to suffer in a way that seems senseless to us but that, somewhere along the line, it will all make sense. And in a way, that is the most human definition of faith.
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