Intellectual understanding in the strict sense is found at the highest pinnacle of human selfhood, what the philosophers call the “actual intellect.” When such understanding leaves the realm of pure intelligence and descends to the level of thought and language, we are dealing with its expression, which will always be inadequate. To begin with, expression is simply transmitted knowledge, not actual understanding. Nonetheless, we can still appreciate that a distinction has always been drawn between these two sorts of knowledge in Islam and other traditions. It is this distinction that I need to clarify at the outset. Then I will suggest how ignorance of the foundational importance of intellectual understanding has contributed to the crises faced not only by Muslims, but also by the human community in general.
The intellectual tradition in Islam has addressed four basic topics: God, the cosmos, the human soul, and interpersonal relationships. The first three are foundational constituents of reality as we perceive it, and the fourth applies the insights gained from studying the first three to the realm of human activity. One can of course read about all these topics in the authoritative sources of transmitted knowledge, such as the Qur’an and the Hadith, but knowing them for oneself is another matter altogether. For the intellectual tradition, transmitted knowledge plays the role of pointers toward an understanding that must be actualized and realized by the seeker.
Perhaps the best way to understand the difference between transmitted and intellectual knowledge is to reflect upon the difference between “imitation” or “following authority” (taqlīd) and “realization” or “verification” (taḥqīq), terms that designate the two basic paths of acquiring knowledge. In order to be a member of any religion, culture, society, or group, one needs to learn from those who are already members, and this process of learning goes on by way of “imitation.” This is how we learn language and culture, not to mention scripture, ritual, and law. In the Islamic context, those who have assumed the responsibility of preserving this transmitted heritage are called the ulama, that is, the “knowers” of the tradition.
In transmitted knowledge, the question of “why” is pushed into the background. When someone asks the ulama why one must accept such-and-such a dogma or why one must pray or fast, the basic answer is “because God said so,” which is to say that we have the knowledge on the authority of the Qur’an and the Sunnah. In the same way, parents correct their children’s speech by calling on the authority of usage or the rules of grammar.
Intellectual knowledge is altogether different. If one accepts it on the basis of hearsay, one has not understood it. Mathematics is a science that does not depend on the authorities. Rather, it needs to be awakened in one’s awareness. In learning it, students must understand why, or else they will simply be imitating others. It makes no sense to say that two plus two equals four because my teacher said so. Either you understand it, or you don’t. You must discover its truth within yourself. The Muslim intellectuals held that to imitate others in intellectual issues is the status of a beginner or a student, not a master, but to imitate the Qur’an and the Prophet in transmitted matters is to follow the right path.
In short, there are two basic sorts of knowledge, and each has methods proper to it. Taqlīd or imitation is proper to the transmitted sciences, and taḥqīq or realization is proper to the intellectual sciences.
The word taqlīd is often discussed in the writings of modern-day Muslim thinkers, who typically describe it as the bane of Islamic society. These discussions, however, do not focus on taqlīd as the opposite of taḥqīq, but rather as the opposite of ijtihād. Given the prominence of this issue among contemporary Muslim writers, I need to make clear at the outset that I am talking about something else.
Ijtihād means the achievement of sufficient mastery in the discipline of jurisprudence (fiqh) to exercise independent judgment in deriving the Shariah (Islamic law). Someone who reaches this rank is called a mujtahid. Such a person does not need to follow the authority of other jurists in matters of the Shariah. Nonetheless, his or her mastery remains on the level of transmitted knowledge, which is to say that it is still based on the Qur’an, the Hadith, and reports from the forefathers and the masters of the discipline. Given the qualifications needed to become a mujtahid, most Sunni Muslims over the past few centuries have held that the gate of ijtihād is closed. Shi’ites, in contrast, consider it always open.
From the point of view of jurisprudence, a person who is not himself a mujtahid must imitate someone who is – whether the mujtahid be alive (as in Shi’ism) or long dead (as in Sunnism). One follows a mujtahid because one can only learn the Shariah from someone who already knows it. This is not the situation in the intellectual sciences, however. A mujtahid, with all his or her mastery of the transmitted science of jurisprudence, is by no means a muḥaqqiq, one who has achieved taḥqīq or realization in intellectual knowledge. To begin with, intellectual knowledge does not depend upon transmission. A muḥaqqiq can, in principle, grasp all the intellectual sciences without the help of past generations or divine revelation. You do not need a prophet to tell you that two plus two equals four or that God is one. The knowledge itself, once known, is self-evident, which is to say that it carries its own proof in the very act of understanding it.
The ulama of the Shariah implicitly recognize the differing nature of intellectual knowledge when they tell us, as they often do, that faith (īmān) on the basis of imitation is unacceptable to God. A Muslim cannot be true to his tradition if he says, “I have faith in God because my parents told me to.” Someone like this would be saying that if he had been told not to believe in God, he would not, so his faith would be empty words.
Although in theory we can distinguish between transmitted and intellectual knowledge, in practice the two have always been closely intertwined, and the intellectual sciences have always built on the transmitted sciences. One cannot speak properly without grammar, and one cannot understand specifically Islamic teachings without the Qur’an and the Hadith. However, the fact that people may have an excellent knowledge of the transmitted sciences does not mean that they know anything at all about the intellectual sciences. Nor does the ability to recount the metaphysical and cosmological theories of the great Muslim intellectuals prove that a person has any understanding of what the theories mean.
Both the transmitted and the intellectual sciences are essential to the survival of any religion, but both are now being lost. By and large, however, transmitted sciences are better preserved than intellectual sciences, and the reason is obvious. Anyone can memorize Qur’an and Hadith, but few can truly understand what God and the Prophet are talking about. One can only understand in one’s own measure, and fewer and fewer people undertake the training necessary to develop their talents and capacities.
It is obvious that one cannot understand mathematics (or any other science) without both native ability and training. Even if one happens to have a great aptitude, one will never get very far without years of study. If this is true of sciences like mathematics or grammar, which deal with realities that are relatively near at hand, it is much more true of metaphysics, which deals with the deepest realities, the furthest from our everyday experience.
It is important to stress that no religion can survive, much less flourish, without a living intellectual tradition. This becomes clear as soon as we ask ourselves the questions: What was the intellectual tradition for? What function did it play in society? What was its goal? In other words: Why should people think? Why shouldn’t they just blindly accept whatever they’re told? The basic Muslim answer is that people should think because they must think, because they are thinking beings. They have no choice but to think, because God has given them minds and intelligence. Not only that, but in numerous Qur’anic verses God has commanded them to think and to employ their intelligence. To think properly a person must actually think, which is to say that conclusions must be reached by one’s own intellectual struggle, not by someone else’s. Any experienced teacher knows this perfectly well.
No doubt, this does not mean that God requires everyone to enter into the sophisticated sort of study and reflection that went on in the intellectual sciences, because not everyone has the requisite talents, capacities, and circumstances. Nonetheless, people have the moral and religious obligation to use the minds that God has given them. As the Qur’an puts it, “God burdens a soul only to its capacity” (2:286). If people’s capacity includes thinking, then they have the duty to think. But God does not tell them what to think, because that would be to make imitation and hearsay incumbent in intellectual matters. It would defeat the very purpose of human intelligence, which is for us to understand for ourselves.
No doubt many if not most people are unreflective and never even ask themselves why they should bother thinking about things. They simply go about their daily routine and imagine that they understand their situation. Observant Muslims of this sort seem to assume that God wants nothing more from them than following the Shariah. But this is no argument for those who have the ability to think. Anyone who has the capacity and talent to reflect upon God, the universe, and the human soul has the duty to do so. Not to do so is to betray one’s own nature and to disobey God’s instructions to ponder the signs.
Given that some Muslims have no choice but to think, learning how to think correctly must be an important area of Muslim effort. But what defines “correct” thinking? How do we tell the difference between right thinking and wrong thinking? Does the fact that people have no choice but to think mean that they are free to think whatever they want? The Islamic answer to these sorts of question has always been that the way people think is far from indifferent. Some modes of thinking are encouraged by the Qur’an and the Sunnah, and some are discouraged. Islamically, it is incumbent upon those who think to employ their minds in ways that coincide with the goals of the Qur’an and the Sunnah. In other words, the goal of the Islamic intellectual tradition needs to coincide with the goal of Islam, or else it is not Islamic intellectuality.
So, what is the goal of Islam? In general terms, Islam’s goal is to bring people into harmony with the way things actually are. In other words, it is to bring them back into the presence of God, from which they emerged in the first place. However, everyone is going back into God’s presence in any case, so the issue is not going back per se, but how one gets there. Through the Qur’an and the Sunnah, God guides people back to him in a manner that will ensure their permanent happiness. If they want to follow a “straight path” (ṣirāṭ mustaqīm), one that will lead to balance and happiness and not to disequilibrium and misery, they need to employ their minds, awareness, and thinking in ways that harmonize with God himself, the true Reality. If they occupy themselves with illusion and unreality, they will follow a crooked path and most likely not end up where they would like to go.
The history of Islamic intellectual expression is embodied in the various forms that Muslims have adopted over time in attempting to think rightly and correctly. The intellectual tradition was robust and lively, so disagreements about the best way to express its findings were common. Nonetheless, in all the different schools of thought that have appeared over Islamic history – whether they dealt with intellectual or transmitted learning – one principle has always been agreed upon: God is one, and he is the only source of truth and reality. He is the origin of all things, and all things return to him. This is tawḥīd, “asserting the unity of God.” It is expressed most succinctly in the first half of the Shahadah, the testimony of faith: “There is no god but God.” This statement is commonly known as kalimat al-tawḥīd, “the words asserting unity.” To think Islamically is to recognize God’s unity and to draw the proper consequences. Differences of opinion arise concerning the proper consequences, not the fact that God is one.
The consequences that people draw from tawḥīd depend largely on their understanding of God. Typically, Muslims have sought to understand God by meditating on the implications of God’s names and attributes as expressed in the Qur’an and the Sunnah. If God is understood as a lawgiver, people will draw conclusions having to do with the proper observance of the Shariah. If he is understood as wrathful, they will conclude that they must avoid his wrath. If he is understood as merciful, they will think that they must seek out his mercy. If he is understood as beautiful, they will find him lovable.
God, of course, has “ninety-nine names” – at least – and every name throws a different light on what exactly God is, what exactly he is not, and how exactly people should understand him and relate to him. Naturally, thoughtful Muslims have always understood God in many ways, and they have drawn diverse conclusions on the basis of each way of understanding. This diversity of understanding in the midst of tawḥīd is prefigured in the Prophet’s prayer, “O God, I seek refuge in Your mercy from Your wrath, I seek refuge in Your good pleasure from Your anger, I seek refuge in You from You.”
I said that the Islamic intellectual tradition has largely, though not completely, disappeared. This is obvious to those who have studied the history of Islamic civilization. Scholars often discuss its disappearance in terms of the “golden age” of classical Islam and the gradual decline of science and learning. Given that almost everyone agrees that Islamic scholarship in its various forms does not match up to its greatness in the past, there is little to be gained by trying to prove the point, or by mapping out the history of the decline, or by suggesting what may or may not have gone wrong.
Instead, I want to assume that the intellectual tradition is not what it used to be, and that it still has something to offer. What this something is, however, cannot be rediscovered or resuscitated as long as intellectual knowledge is treated as another form of transmitted knowledge, as is normally done by modern scholarship. We have numerous experts in Islamic philosophy and Sufism, among both Muslims and non-Muslims, who have made tremendous contributions to textual and historical studies but who deal with their subject as a repository of historical information, not as a living tradition whose raison d’être is the transformation of the human soul. As one of my old and now deceased professors at Tehran University once remarked about his young colleagues, they know everything one can possibly know about a text, except what it says.
Despite the definition of “intellectual” provided earlier, some people will claim that the Muslim community has a vibrant intellectual life and that the intellectual tradition is not in fact disappearing. But this would be to fall back on current meanings of the word intellectual. No doubt there are tens of thousands of Muslim intellectuals in the ordinary sense – that is, writers, professors, doctors, lawyers, and scientists who are concerned with current affairs and express themselves vocally or in writing. But I have serious doubts as to whether any more than a tiny fraction of such people are intellectuals in the technical sense in which I am defining the term. Yes, there are many thoughtful and sophisticated people who were born as Muslims and who may indeed practice their religion carefully. But do they think Islamically? Is it possible to be both a scientist in the modern sense and a Muslim who understands the cosmos and the soul as the Qur’an and the Sunnah explain them? Is it possible to be a sociologist and at the same time to think in terms of tawḥīd?
As soon as we have an idea of the nature of the intellectual tradition in the sense of the word that I have in mind, then it will appear highly likely that the thought processes of most Muslim thinkers today are not in fact determined by Islamic principles and Islamic understanding. Rather, they are shaped and molded by habits of mind learned unconsciously in grammar and high school and then confirmed and solidified by university and professional training. Such people may pray and fast like Muslims, but they think like doctors, engineers, sociologists, and political scientists.
It is naive to imagine that one can learn how to think Islamically simply by attending lectures once a week or by reading a few books written by contemporary Muslim leaders, or by studying the Qur’an, or by saying one’s prayers and having “firm faith.” In the premodern Islamic world, the Islamic ethos was everywhere, but great thinkers and intellectuals still spent their whole lives searching for deeper knowledge of God, the cosmos, and the soul. As far as they were concerned, the search for understanding was a never-ending task.
The heritage left by those intellectuals is extraordinarily rich. They wrote many thousands of books, even if most of the important books have never been printed, much less translated. And, those that have been published are rarely read by modern-day Muslims. I do not mean to imply that it would be necessary to read all the great books of the intellectual tradition in their original languages in order to think Islamically. If modern-day Muslims could read one of the important books, even in translation, and understand it, their thinking would be deeply affected. However, the only way to understand such books is to prepare oneself for understanding, and that demands study and training. This cannot be done on the basis of a modern university education, unless, perhaps, one has devoted it to the Islamic tradition (I say “perhaps” because many Muslims and non-Muslims with Ph.D.’s in Islamic Studies cannot read and understand the great books of the intellectual heritage).
Given that modern schooling is rooted in topics and modes of thought that are not harmonious with traditional Islamic learning, it is profoundly difficult for any thinking and practicing Muslim to harmonize the domain of thought and theory with the realm of faith and practice. One cannot study for many years and then be untouched by what one has studied. There is no escape from picking up mental habits from the material to which one devotes one’s life. It is most likely, and almost, but not quite, inevitable for modern thinkers with religious faith to have compartmentalized minds. One compartment of the mind will encompass the professional, rational domain, and the other the domain of personal piety and practice. More generally, this is the case with most people who grew up in a traditional ambience and were then educated in the modern style. The Iranian thinker Daryoush Shayegan, who writes eloquently as a philosopher and social critic while expressing his own personal struggle with this phenomenon, calls it “cultural schizophrenia.”1
Believers of a thoughtful bent who are caught up in cultural schizophrenia may try to rationalize the relationship between their religious practice and their professional training, but they will do so in terms of the worldview determined by the rational side of the mind. The traditional Islamic worldview, established by the Qur’an and passed down by generations of Muslims, will be closed to them, and hence they will draw their categories and ways of thinking from the ever-shifting Zeitgeist that is embodied in contemporary cultural trends and popularized through television and other forms of mass indoctrination.
Many Muslim scientists tell us that modern science helps them see the wonders of God’s creation, and this is certainly an argument for preferring the natural sciences over the social sciences. But is it necessary to study physics or biochemistry to see the signs of God in all his creatures? The Qur’an keeps on telling Muslims, “Will you not reflect, will you not ponder, will you not think?” About what? About the signs, which are found, as over two hundred Qur’anic verses remind us, in everything, especially natural phenomena. It does not take a great scientist, or any scientist at all, to understand that the world speaks loudly of the majesty of its Creator. Any fool knows this. This is what the Prophet called the “religion of old women” (dīn al-‘ajā‘iz), and no one needs any professional training to understand it.
It is true that a basic understanding of the signs of God may provide sufficient knowledge for salvation. After all, the Prophet said, “Most people of paradise are fools.” However, the foolishness that leads to paradise demands foolishness in the affairs of this world, and nowadays that is not easy to come by. It is certainly not often found among Muslim thinkers, who are already far too clever, which helps explain why they are such successful doctors and engineers.
Perhaps the best way to demonstrate that the habits of mind imparted by modernity are seldom congruent with Islamic learning is to reflect on the characteristics of modernity – by which I mean the thinking and norms of the “global culture” in which we live today. It should be obvious that whatever characterizes modernity, it is not tawḥīd, the first principle of Islamic thinking. Rather, it is fair to say that modernity is characterized by the opposite of tawḥīd. One could call this shirk or “associating others with God,” but for most Muslims, this word is too emotionally charged to be of much help in the discussion. So, let me call the characteristic trait of modernity takthīr, which is the literal opposite of tawḥīd. Tawḥīd means to make things one, and, in the religious context, it means asserting that God is one. Takthīr means to make things many, and, as I understand it here, it means asserting that the gods are many.
Modern times and modern thought lack a single center, a single orientation, a single goal, any single purpose at all. In other words, there is no single “god.” A god is what gives meaning and orientation to life, and the modern world derives meaning from many, many gods. Through an ever-intensifying process of takthīr, the gods have been multiplied beyond count, and people worship whatever gods appeal to them.
The process of increasing takthīr becomes clear when we compare the general course of Islamic thought over history with that of European civilization. Up until recent times, Islamic thought was characterized by a tendency toward unity, harmony, integration, and synthesis. The great Muslim thinkers were masters of many disciplines, but they looked upon them as branches of the single tree of tawḥīd. There was never any contradiction between astronomy and zoology, or physics and ethics, or mathematics and law, or mysticism and logic. Everything was governed by the same principles, because everything fell under God’s all-encompassing reality.
The history of European thought is characterized by the opposite trend. Although there was a great deal of unitarian thinking in the medieval period, from that time onward dispersion and multiplicity have constantly increased. “Renaissance men” could know a great deal about all the sciences and at the same time have a unifying vision. But nowadays, everyone is an expert in some tiny field of specialization, and information increases exponentially. The result is mutual incomprehension and universal disharmony. It is impossible to establish any unity of understanding, and no real communication takes place among specialists in different disciplines. Since people have no unifying principles, the result is an ever-increasing multiplicity of goals and gods, an ever-intensifying chaos.
Everyone worships some god or another. No one can survive in an absolute vacuum, with no goal, no significance, no meaning, no orientation. The gods that people worship are those points of reference that give meaning and context to their lives. The difference between traditional objects of worship and modern objects of worship is that in modernity, it is almost impossible to subordinate all the minor gods to a supreme god, and, when this is done, the supreme god has been manufactured by ideologies. It is certainly not the God of tawḥīd, who is the absolute and supreme reality, next to whom nothing else is real. However, it may well be an imitation of the God of tawḥīd, especially when religion enters the field of politics.
The gods in a world of takthīr are legion. To mention some of the more important ones would be to list the defining myths and ideologies of our times – freedom, equality, evolution, progress, science, medicine, nationalism, socialism, democracy, Marxism. But perhaps the most dangerous of the gods are those that are the most difficult to recognize. They have innocuous names like care, communication, consumption, development, education, information, standard of living, management, model, planning, production, project, resource, service, system, welfare.
Those who do not think that these words play the role of gods should take a look at Plastic Words by Uwe Poerksen. The book’s subtitle is more instructive: The Tyranny of a Modular Language. Poerksen explains that the modern use of language – a use that achieved dominance after World War II – has produced a group of words that have turned into the most destructive tyrants the world has ever seen. He does not call them “gods,” for he writes as a linguist and has no apparent interest in theology. Nonetheless, he does give them the label “tyrant,” and this is a good translation for the Qur’anic divine name jabbār. When this name is applied to God, it means that God has absolute controlling power over creation. “Tyranny” becomes a bad thing when it is claimed by creatures, for it indicates that they have tried to usurp God’s power and authority. In the case of the plastic words, power has been usurped by words that shape discussion of societal goals.
As Poerksen points out, these tyrannical words have at least thirty common characteristics. The most important is that they have no definition, though they do have an aura of goodness and beneficence about them. In linguistic terms, this is to say that they have many connotations but no denotation. There is no such thing as “care” or “welfare” or “standard of living,” but the words suggest many good things to most people. They are abstract terms that seem to be scientific, so they carry an aura of authority in a world in which science is one of the most important gods. Each of them turns something indefinable into a limitless ideal and awakens endless needs. Once the needs are awakened, they seem to be self-evident and quickly turn into necessities. The Qur’an says that God is rich, and people are poor and needy toward God. Nowadays, people feel poor and needy toward these little tyrants.
Those who speak on behalf of the plastic words gain power and prestige, for they represent science, freedom, and progress. As a result, dissenting voices are ignored and marginalized, since, we imagine, only a complete idiot would object to care and development. Everyone must follow those whose only concern is to care for us and to help us develop.
The ulama who speak for these mini-gods are the “experts”. Each of the plastic words sets up an ideal and encourages us to think that only the experts can show us how to achieve it, so we must entrust our lives to them. We must imitate the scientific ulama, who lay down shariahs for our health, welfare, and education. People treat the pronouncements of experts as fatwas (legally binding opinions on points of law). If the experts reach consensus (ijmā‘) that we must destroy a community as a sacrificial offering to development, then we have no choice but to follow their authority. The ulama know best.
Each of the plastic words makes other words appear backward and out-of-date. We can be proud of worshiping these gods, and all of our friends and colleagues will consider us enlightened whenever we recite the proper litanies in praise of them. Those who still take the old God seriously can hide this embarrassing fact by worshiping the new gods along with the old. And obviously, many people who continue to claim that they are worshiping the old God will twist his teachings so that he also seems to be telling us to serve the new gods.
Understanding the nature of false gods has always been central to the intellectual sciences, but it cannot be the concern of the transmitted sciences. One cannot accept tawḥīd simply on the basis of imitation, which is to say that it stands outside the domain of transmitted learning. Tawḥīd must be understood if people are to have faith in it, even if their understanding is far from perfect. Much of the intellectual tradition has been concerned with explaining tawḥīd and the manner in which it clarifies the objects of faith – God, angels, scriptures, prophets, the Last Day, and “the measuring out, the good of it and the evil of it.” How are Muslims to understand these objects? Why should they have faith in them? True faith can never be blind belief, but rather commitment to what one actually knows to be true.
In discussing God and the other objects of faith in the light of tawḥīd, it is important to explain not only what they are, but also what they are not. When people do not know what God is, it is easy for them to fall into the habit of worshiping false gods, and that leaves them with no protection against the takthīr of the modern world, the multiplicity of gods that modern ways of thinking demand that they serve.
What is striking about contemporary Islam’s encounter with modernity is that Muslims lack the intellectual preparation to deal with the situation. Muslim thinkers – with a few honorable exceptions – do not question the legitimacy of the modern gods. Rather, they debate over the best way to serve them. In other words, they think that Islamic society must be modified and adapted to achieve the ideals represented by the gods of modernity, and especially those designated by the plastic words. This is to say that innumerable modern-day Muslims are forever looking for the best ways to bring their society into conformity with the rejection of tawḥīd.
Many Muslims today recognize that the West has paid too high a price for modernization and secularization. They see that various social crises have arisen in all modernized societies, and they understand that these crises are somehow connected with the loss of religious traditions, the ultimate meaninglessness of modern life, and the devaluation of ethical and moral guidelines. But many of these same people tell us that Islam is different. Islam can adopt the technology and the know-how – the progress, development, and expertise – while preserving its own moral and spiritual strength and avoiding the social disintegration of the West. In other words, they think, Muslims can forget tawḥīd, embark on a course of takthīr, and suffer no negative consequences.
Especially surprising here is the extent to which contemporary Muslims seem to think that an Islamic order can be imposed by modern states, with their historically unprecedented ability to indoctrinate and coerce. The actual attempts to do so demonstrate clearly that an “Islamic” society can easily be turned into another version of the monstrous totalitarianisms that have been all too characteristic of the modern world. The pervasiveness of bureaucracy, technology, and the worldview of takthīr and their steady encroachment on all human relationships mean that more and more of the world is dehumanized, reified, and opened up to manipulation. Traditional moral constraints carry little weight in face of the institutions of modernity, especially at the time of crisis – and when has there not been a crisis?
The fact that so many people think that Islam can flourish and simultaneously adopt the gods of modernity shows that they have lost the vision of tawḥīd that used to give life to Islamic thinking. They cannot see that everything is interrelated, and they fail to understand that the worship of false gods necessarily entails the dissolution of every sort of order – the corruption not only of individuals and society, but also of the natural world. In other words, when people refuse to serve God as reality itself demands that they serve him, they cannot fulfill their human functions. When people refuse to live in harmony with the transcendent principles that determine the way things actually are, they bring about chaos and disorder in the natural and social environments. The Qur’an sums up the process in the verse, “Corruption has appeared in the land and the sea because of what the hands of people have earned” (30:41). “Corruption” (fasād) is defined as the lack of “wholesomeness” (ṣalāḥ), and wholesomeness is wholeness, health, balance, harmony, coherence, order, integration, and unity on the individual, social, and cosmic levels. It can be established only through tawḥīd or “making things one.”
Major obstacles prevent the recovery of the intellectual heritage. These can be discerned on the societal level in the diverse beliefs and attitudes that have been adopted by modern-day Muslims as a result of their loss of intellectual independence and their blind imitation of the norms embodied in the ideals, institutions, and structures of the modern world. Among these obstacles are politicization of the community, monolithic interpretations of Islamic teachings, and unthinking acquiescence to the ideological preaching of Muslim leaders. Perhaps the deepest and most pernicious of these obstacles, however, is the general trend to reject all but the most superficial trappings of the Islamic tradition.
Like other religions, Islam is built on tradition, by which I mean the sum total of the transmitted and intellectual heritages. Nonetheless, many Muslims see no contradiction between believing in the gods of modernity and accepting the authority of the Qur’an and the Sunnah. In order to do this, they need to ignore thirteen hundred years of Islamic intellectual history and pretend that no one needs the help of the great thinkers of the past to understand and interpret the Qur’an and the Sunnah.
We need to keep in mind that the only universally accepted dogma in the modern world is the rejection of tradition. The great prophets of modernity – Descartes, Rousseau, Marx, Freud – followed a variety of gods, but they all agreed that the old gods were no longer of any use. In the Islamic view, God’s prophets share tawḥīd. The prophets of modernity share takthīr. One can only reject God’s unity by inventing other gods to replace him.
In Islamic theology, God is qadīm, “ancient” or “eternal.” He has always been and always will be. In modernity, the gods are new. To stay new, they have to be changed or modified frequently. The new is always to be preferred over the old, which is “outmoded” and “backward.” Science is always making new discoveries, and technology is constantly offering new inventions that quickly become necessities. Anything that is not in the process of renewal is thought to be dead.
One name for this god of newness is “originality.” He rules by ordaining new styles and models, and his priests are found everywhere, especially in advertising and mass indoctrination. The fashion mujtahids tell women what to wear, but they change their fatwas every year. The world of art blatantly and openly worships Originality as the highest god. Or take the modern university, where professors often adopt the latest theories as soon as they arrive from Paris.
The greatest danger of the hostility toward tradition that is so common among modern-day Muslims is that they have accepted the god of newness – like so many others – without giving any thought to what they are doing. As far as they are concerned, Muslim thinkers and intellectuals have had nothing to say for thirteen hundred years. They would like to retain their Muslim identity, but they imagine that in order to do this, it is sufficient to keep their allegiance to the Qur’an and the Sunnah and ignore its great interpreters.
For such people, the ruling gods are progress, science, and development. They imagine that we know so much more about the world than those people of olden times, because “we” have science. Of course, they themselves do not have science, they have simply heard and believed that scientific knowledge is real knowledge. They know little about the goals and methods of science, and nothing about the Islamic intellectual tradition. They are blind imitators in intellectual issues, that is, on the level where they should be striving for their own understanding. What is worse, this is a selective imitation, since they only accept the authority of the “scientists” and the “experts,” not that of the great Muslim thinkers of the past. If Einstein said it, it must be true, but if al-Ghazālī or Mullā Ṣadrā said it, then it can’t be true, because it isn’t scientific.
Finally, let me suggest that the most basic problem of modern Islam, a problem present in every religion, is that believers suffer from what has traditionally been called “compound ignorance” ( jahl murakkab). “Ignorance” is not to know. “Compound ignorance” is not to know that you do not know. Too many Muslims do not know what the Islamic tradition is, they do not know how to think Islamically, and they do not know that they do not know. The first step in curing ignorance is to recognize that you do not know. Once people recognize their own ignorance, they can go off in “search of knowledge” (ṭalab al-‘ilm) – a search which, as the Prophet said, “is incumbent on every Muslim,” and indeed, one would think, on every human being.
No recovery of the intellectual tradition will be possible until individuals take steps for themselves. The tradition can never be recovered by imitation or by community action, only by individual dedication and personal realization. Governments and committees cannot begin to solve the problem. Understanding cannot be imposed or legislated, it can only grow up in the heart.