Qmosque khutbahs
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First and foremost, I would like to thank our organizers, our partners at Union Church and every single one of you who is in community with us tonight. Everything we do at Queer Muslims of Boston and now, at QMOSQUE, is for our siblings here in Boston and around the world. We build spaces such as these for our community, so that we can thrive together in this life and honor those who are not able to join us. The memory of our siblings lost to violence, war, and suffering is a guiding light to us in times of hardship and in times of joy.
Tonight, we experience many firsts. The first QMOSQUE event ever and the first time many of you are in this room, praying together. This is my first time delivering a Khutbah in such a setting, and it is the first Jummah I have helped organize in community. Our community is on the precipice of many firsts as well. The visibility of queer, trans, and gender non-conforming Muslims is at an all time high. So too are the systems and methods used to silence us.
The joy of being in community with each other is contrasted by the gravity of our choice to congregate. Our continual commitment to remember Allah together is a thorn in the side of what hopes to eradicate us. When we pray, laugh, and stand together, we signal that we will always move forward, against all that wishes to stop us.
While we experience many firsts tonight, we are also writing the next chapter in the long and dynamic history of queer, revolutionary Islam. Even now, we congregate in the historic South End, where organized Islam first found a foothold in Boston. Queer Muslims of Boston also has a long history, started eleven years ago by Kaamila Mohamed, Nabil Khan and Thouheen Alam. Union Square Halaqa, founded by Magda Mohamed, celebrates its ten year anniversary as well. A diverse and electric Muslim history stretches out behind us, today we add to this heritage, as we have always been an invaluable part of the Islamic tradition.
Those who hold on to ignorance and prejudice have admonished many of you into believing that queerness and Islam are incongruent, that your identity as a Muslim must be defined against your expression of gender, sexuality, and community. This could not be farther from the truth. Queer Muslims have always existed, and we have always found one and other, just like we have in this room. Each and every one of us represent what is truly glorious in the Islamic tradition. We steward the broader Ummah to stretch their imaginations regarding concepts of self, divinity, and society. We are the diversity of Allah’s noble Creation.
In the words of Islamic Scholar Dr. Scott Siraj Al-Haqq Kugle, “our human diversity is often cause for exclusion and violence, but it is actually God's way of challenging us to rise up to the demands of justice beyond the limitation of our individual egoism and communal chauvinism. Justice is not served until comfortable concepts like "tolerance" are stretched to the point where they almost break.”
In this room, and in every room we congregate, we present an invitation to break obsolete, prejudicial, and conflicting notions of tolerance and justice that many of know so well. However, it can be difficult to locate an ethic of justice that can nourish us during visceral, unending times of violence. Everyday we must interrogate ideas of justice, and everyday we must be creative in our approach to a just world. The Quran and its scholars offer us a millennia of resources, but how do we interpret them for our purposes?
Citing Islamic ethicist Dr. Yasien Mohamed, “justice is a result of aman, safeness, and to have amānah, trustworthiness. The prerequisite for justice is trustworthiness. That is why the Prophet Muḥammad, peace be upon him, was first and foremost recognized as trustworthy. Only then was he trusted to work towards justice for all.”
True justice is born when we work to trust one and other with our collective safety. When we inevitably grind up against the structures that wish to subjectate us, when our loved ones are victimized by these structures in front of our eyes, the question we often ask is “how do we stand for justice?” We can go a step further than this and ask “how do we keep us safe?” If we can trust our community members to keep us safe, if we can build an ethic of justice surrounding aman and amānah, we are one step closer to the justice many of us seek.
We all have the ability to keep eac hother safe. We can all make choices that better the safety of our friends, families, lovers, neighbors, and community members. We all have the agency to place our trust in each other, and to follow through on our commitment to safety. The safety we build is multifaceted. It is the spiritual safety, physical safety, material safety, and emotional safety. We can succeed in bettering every dimension of safety through the smallest actions, as long as these actions are intentional, as long as these actions are urgent.
And these actions must be intentional, they must be urgent. Now, more than ever, our ability to keep eachother safe is integral to our survival. We have the immense privilege of gathering here today while many of our siblings suffer immeasurable violence at the hands of imperialists, zionists, and capitalists.
We have the privilege to gather here on the 365th day of Israel’s current genocide in Palestine. We have the privilege to gather here while war rages in Lebanon, while we mourn our brother Khaliifah Williams, murdered by the state just two weeks ago. The work we have achieved here today is eclipsed by the work we still need to do, to free our people from the chains that bind them, to build, brick by brick, a road to their safety, to their aman.
Allah has tasked all of us with the responsibility of building this collective safety. We all are imbued with the responsibility to engineer aman for those who need us. Dr. Kugle writes “the story of the Prophet is the narrative of those who hear the speech of God because their ears are opened by suffering and oppression, and [they struggle] against it with endurance and patience. It is also [a narrative of sacrificing] one's own well-being to protect the poor, the vulnerable, the strangers, and those who suffer, without which worship is incomplete, or hypercritical.”
Without us, without our siblings in Sudan, Palestine, Congo, Kashmir, Tigray, Cox Bazar, and many, many other places, the prayers of the collective Ummah are incomplete. As we practice a revolutionary Islam, as we partake in building a true and just future of ourselves, we also steward’s Islam into a brighter future. A future where we trust one and other, a future where we keep each other safe. In this future, we are the active principle that cements justice by intentional, urgent action. We are what completes Islam. We are what gives it life. We are what keeps us safe. We are what allows for the most robust form of Allah’s creation. Without each and every one of you in this room, the practice of Islam, globally, is incomplete.
As we pray together tonight, and as each of your return to lives outside of this holy ground, ask yourselves “how do I trust? How do I keep what is dear to me, safe? How do I contribute to an Islamic future, built on aman and amānah?” The answers to these questions are not easy. But with the help of those in this room and beyond, we can begin to find our footing as we traverse this path, together.
I speak on behalf of our organizers when I say we are so grateful for your faith in us. Thank you for trusting us to keep you all safe tonight. We look forward to tending to this space with each of you in the future. Ameen.
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Assalamu alaikum everyone,
Thank you for being here on this frigid evening. At the last QMosque, I raised my hand to share that I was interested in giving a khutbah. I was encouraged to give this khutbah. I am not nervous to speak but I was nervous right up until I started writing this. As a new convert I thought “Am I Muslim enough? Pious enough?” Slowly I started to rid myself of these suffocating questions because the only answer was to believe in Islam, Allah, and learn the teachings of Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him) so that I may be better equipped to live the rest of my life. I will get right to it and share that I will be discussing the blessings of Friendship(s) and the untapped potential of Friendship within our communities.
I believe I am here today, both in this spot and in existence, by the grace of Allah, and by the love of my friends. I am talking quite plainly about how important it is to have friends, to be a friend, to be friendly. I grew up in a single parent household, with one stable source of income. As a familial unit we had plenty of love for each other, but not a ton of money. Friends of my family and my own friends kept us fed, entertained, and warm.
In meeting new friends both in college and when I moved to Boston almost a decade ago, I discovered my queerness. Through my queer, religious friends I came back to religion. And through queer muslims, i rediscovered Islam, this time for myself.
One beyond the propagandized form I was fed for years. Because speaking as an American, I always knew something was off about how Muslims were discussed in popular culture, especially at an age when I didn’t even know what Catholicism was (especially around 2003); a religion I was very much forced to practice. I can see now it wasn’t just about maintaining an enemy for the sake of war profits, but also to obscure its root teachings; I am learning that it is centered so much around community and assembly.
When we move and assemble publicly we learn about one another. Whether it is on the bus, at work, or in the present moment, our existences are linked and we depend on each other to keep each other safe, for one stop or a lifetime.
We cannot all be besties; and those that like to be alone should not be expected to suddenly become an extrovert. Quite the opposite; friendship is about respecting these differences in how much socialization we are up for; but in any case love, respect, and provide what you can offer. I believe that people choosing to use their resources on you, monetary, time, physical, emotional, are all examples of Allah’s blessing. Yes, these are also nice gestures but the world we live in is not cheap and it is taxing. Anything you can share can feel like a bounty to someone else who needs it.
I agree with a popular observation that there is a loneliness epidemic. On a personal level it can be difficult to navigate life without close relationships, especially one not tied to our jobs and institutions that often drive us to want to be with these close friends. Across our social networks there are people waiting to be pulled back into the thick of it all; having been pushed to the sidelines by sickness, losses, and climate catastrophes. On our city streets there are those who sleep on the ground, hopeful that today you will look them in the eye with a smile, at the very least. And what is one to expect when the public is constantly privatized? And our privacy at the mercy of a few platforms or unaffordable housing.
If I can leave you with one thing this evening, a quest even, is to strengthen your current friendships and make room for a new friend that may need you more right now than you need them, for now.
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To write a khutba about beginnings, the first khutba of the new year, it turns out you have to actually write the beginning of that khutba. And, as it turns out, I struggle with beginnings. So, naturally, I am going to belabor this point by sharing with you a few other beginnings that I considered for this khutba. Bear with me:
One: “Believing in God is difficult.” This one is straightforward. It meets the demand to immediately capture the audience’s attention. It’s provocative. It cuts to the heart of the question of faith. If believing in God is difficult, does Jordan even believe in God?
Two: “I must admit, I have never finished the Qur’an.” This one is a little risky. It admits to you all upfront that I may not be qualified to give this khutba. Starting things off with one of my biggest religious insecurities, especially as a student of religion, is pretty bold. But—relatability! What Muslim, let alone a Muslim that attends QMosque, has not struggled with the Qur’an?
Three: “New years—even strangely manufactured Julian calendar new years—are always a time of deep reflection for me.” Okay, this one is just way too safe and cliché. This one exposes the central conceit of the whole endeavor of a New Year khutba. Come on Jordan, you’re a poet! What about the road less traveled?
Four: “As long as I can remember, I have obsessed over beginnings.” Well, isn’t that the truth. We have gone so meta that here, within a khutba about beginnings, I have listed multiple beginnings including this beginning about…obsessing over beginnings. You know what, at least it’s honest. Especially with my plan to follow that line with relatable anecdotes about blank journals and new Pokémon save files—you all might have liked that one.
And, Five: “Bismillahir Rahmaanir Raheem. In the Name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful.” Yeah, I’m breathing a sigh of relief, too. This is the beginning. The first verse of the first surah of the Qur’an. Surah al-Fatiha. The surah that frames all of our prayers. The surah we call on in times of comfort, in times of longing, in times of stress, even in times of disbelief.
Many Quranic commentaries suggest that the Fatihah contains all of the Qur’an. Hazrat Ali is believed to have said, “The whole of the Qur’an is contained in the Fatihah, the whole of the Fatihah in the basmalah, the whole of the basmalah in the ba, the whole of the ba in the diacritical point under the ba.” In other words, this is a beginning worth obsessing over. In my broken Midwestern Arabic, I’ll recite:
Bismillaahir Rahmaanir Raheem
In the Name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful.
Alhamdu lillaahi Rabbil ‘aalameen
Praise be to God, Lord of the worlds,
Ar-Rahmaanir-Raheem
the Compassionate, the Merciful,
Maaliki Yawmid-Deen
Master of the Day of Judgment.
Iyyaka na’budu wa iyyaaka nasta’een
Thee we worship and from Thee we seek help.
Ihdinas-Siraatal-Mustaqeem
Guide us upon the straight path,
Siraatal-lazeena an’amata ‘alaihim ghayril-maghdoobi ‘alaihim wa lad-daaaleen
the path of those whom Thou has blessed,
not of those who incur wrath, nor of those who are astray.
So, yes. I have never finished the Qur’an. I spent my life believing that the Qur’an is difficult to read, that it’s difficult to read because I’m a bad Muslim, and that, being a bad Muslim, I might as well not do anything about it. But now, I can’t help but find comfort in this surah. When was the first time you heard or recited these words? Who were you? How have you and the world changed since then—whether over years or over the last moments since I clumsily recited them. How many millions of people have read and recited these words across time, and in how many languages? How many of those people also questioned religion, questioned Islam, questioned God, questioned their role in this cosmodrama?
Believing in God is difficult. For a long time I struggled to even say or write the words God or Allah without wincing. I defaulted to “The Divine, “The Beloved,” “The Universe”—anything to avoid saying God. But here I am: God! God! God! Allah! Allah! Allah. Somewhere, somewhen, little Jordan is cheering for this small big success.
It would be easy to argue that the last few years have not made it any easier to believe in God. Where are we supposed to find God? Among the mounting ruins of Gaza? In the flooded fields of North Carolina? In the shadows of violent narcissists and abusers who run countries and plunder the earth’s resources for Monopoly money?
And, what are we to make of this straight path? How can we follow a God that is unimaginable, all-encompassing, and beyond belief? How do we make sense of a world on fire—a world that loudly echoes the apocalyptic fears of our grandmothers?
I can only answer these questions from where I stand.
Lately, I have surrendered any thought that I might see or encounter the ultimate unknowable nature of God. God probably won’t come down with the voice of James Earl Jones to talk to me about everything the light touches. But maybe, by letting go of the sometimes terrifying unimaginable totality of God, I might settle and celebrate God as God shows up in what is near, in what is close, in what is intimate, in what is cherished.
I do not always know if I believe in God, but I often sense God’s voice in the languages I speak: the languages of sweaty dancefloors and dance studios and Persian poetry; the languages of Virginia Woolf and Kaveh Akbar; the languages of my grandmothers faces lighting up with the presence of their grandchildren; the languages of a perfect Thai iced tea, a puppet show, a long hug from my partner; the languages of birdsong and burning incense; the languages of a well-worn sweatshirt, a well-loved pair of ill-fitting glasses, a frigid winter wind; the languages of good music, of roller skates, of hand-written letters; the languages of QMOB and QMosque, of a clumsy khutba given by a good bad Muslim who believes, at least right now, in the possibilities of a new year. Who believes that new beginnings are necessarily imperfect, that God is never found or seen, and instead only encountered in the act of seeking, by, moment to moment, cultivating the presence, humility, and curiosity that makes life worth living.
Inshallah, I look forward to spending this new year with you all. In this new year, may Allah accept our questions, our prayers, our dreams, and our doubts. May we not exchange our disbelief for belief. May we hold them both, tuck them into our pockets and backpacks and Notes apps as we continue our hike toward meaning, toward purpose, toward comfort, toward beauty, and maybe, toward God.
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“Ramadan is a time for forgiveness”
Last year, my mother sends me an email with that as the subject line and I dread opening it. I know what kind of forgiveness she is talking about and I am tired of it. I am tired of the narrative of forgiveness being a simple thing, of my anger and grief being useless to hold onto, that I am too stubborn to be truly pious. I became estranged from my family at the beginning of Ramadan in 2023. And, in the same month of that year, I also found QMoB. Allah has provided in beautiful ways, alhamdulilah.
In this khutbah today, in the month before Ramadan, under a new presidency, with a fragile and volatile ceasefire in G(h)aza, I want to talk about Tawbah with you all. Forgiveness, repentance, remorse. None of these should truly be easy processes, on both sides of forgiving and asking for it. Tawbah, or repentance in Islam, also means to return. To turn back, to change course, and come back to Allah. To wander and return… may our lives be a migration back to Allah.
Consider the beauty of our faith when, so often in life, forgiveness and remorse are not substantial, are not restorative, and are not commitments against doing harm but merely acknowledgements that harm happened without a guarantee for future behavior. Tawbah asks us to imagine what a world would be like without hollow performances of regret and instead with implemented ways to restore what was harmed (in material, emotional, relational ways).
Hazrat Ali was asked as to what is tawba, and he replied that tawba consists of six elements:
to regret one's past evil deeds;
to carry out Divine duties that were missed;
to return the rights/properties of others that were usurped unjustly;
to ask forgiveness of a person who has been wronged by oneself
to make a firm resolve of avoiding the sin in future; and
to employ oneself in Allah's obedience, as one previously employed oneself in Allah's disobedience.
So we see that forgiveness is more than just an exchange of “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you”.
[Step 1]: to regret
There is power in feeling remorse. There is discomfort in feeling regret, in wishing that you acted differently. And on the other side, there is grief in wishing that someone else acted differently. These are powerful emotions, these are messengers of our own innate understandings of right and wrong. It is a beautiful thing to still be able to regret. To be aware of your own misdoings, and for that feeling of discomfort to be strong enough to propel you to move, to change, to return.
[Step 2]: divine duties
Hazrat Ali’s description asks us to carry out one’s Divine duties that we have missed– justice is our divine duty. There is a hadith that I love about encountering evil: “Whosoever of you sees an evil, let him change it with his hand; and if he is not able to do so, then [let him change it] with his tongue; and if he is not able to do so, then with his heart — and that is the weakest of faith.”
Here, there is a clear chain of priority in how we as Muslims ought to engage with evil. It is a measure of our faith, duty even, to intervene against harm bodily, verbally, and then internally. An alternative way to frame this hadith: love is action.
[Steps 3 and 4]: return the rights and ask forgiveness
Of all of the steps of Tawbah, what I love about it is that so many of them are internal processes. Like the formula for how a season emerges gradually and completely, Tawbah desires a private process of reflection and action. Of the six steps Hazrat Ali enumerates, only two of them (3 and 4) require interaction with the person harmed. The other two thirds of the process of repentance are internal, quiet growing.
[Steps 5 and 6]: resolve to be better and to be in Allah’s obedience
Because Tawbah is a process that one can undertake directly with Allah, there is a weight to the promise of avoiding the sin in the future. There is a difference between a mistake and a sin. In Islam, we distinguish a sin as something wrong that we’ve done with the knowledge that it was wrong. There is a self-awareness that we are committing to doing something harmful and that we are doing it anyways. A mistake is done without the knowledge of it being wrong. Once we learn, however, the same action is no longer a mistake but it is a sin. Intention matters significantly in Islam. But what about when we intend one thing and end up harming in an unexpected way? How should we proceed? We still have caused harm. Once we know that harm has been done, it is not possible to return to a state of unknowing. And what we do with the knowledge matters.
All that I’m talking about today is repairing harm. How do we repair systemic harm? What are the ways in which we can seek restorative– or even transformative– justice for our communities and others? How can we learn and apply the lessons of Tawbah to a good life? The concept offers us a pathway to expanding our lens of healing.
When we are looking for justice, remember that Islam asks us to think of the steps of Tawbah, remember the strength of what an apology is and what it could be. I invite all of you to look for the ways we can strengthen our relationships with each other, with ourselves, and with Allah through our understanding of what it means to forgive. Do not abandon yourself, for Allah has not abandoned you. By practicing Tawbah in all of the ways we can, we continue to claim ourselves, care for our needs, and protect our communities.
Inevitably, when my family reminds me about forgiveness, I will be reminding them about Tawbah. When I doubt my own story about the harm that has been done to me, when I think to myself, “maybe it would be easier to forgive them the way they are asking. Maybe it would be better for me to let go of the past and compromise”, I remember my emotions as my messengers, I remember my love as my action, I remember the complexity of pain and the fitting complexity of healing. When they ask about forgiveness, I will be asking for meaningful change.
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For many of us, Ramadan is a time of deep spiritual reflection. It is a time when we not only cleanse our souls, but also our hearts and minds. It’s a month of renewal, where we set our niyyah (intention) for the year ahead, in order to become closer to Allah and more aligned with our true selves. This month, I’ve found myself asking the question of how I can come to Allah sincerely while struggling with the fullness of myself. Suppressing authenticity out of fear- of others, of judgement, or even of self, makes me wonder if I am able to worship with a full heart. As a result, I have felt called to reflect on the meaning of ibadah (worship) beyond ritual. To me, worship is not just fasting, prayer, or charity- it’s also an act of honoring Allah’s creation by acknowledging that He has given each of us distinct and meaningful experiences:
“Indeed, We have created everything in perfect measure”
Quran 54:49
Through this lens, ibadah requires us to live truthfully, rejecting the fear that holds us back, and embracing the mercy that Allah has placed in us as Al-Raheem (the merciful).
Each of us experiences life through a unique perspective – our own “cup”-- but the essence of life itself, the “water”, is shared by us all. Trying to force someone to see through a differently colored cup is not only impossible, it also prevents us from appreciating Allah’s diverse creation. Attempting to change others’ cups by scratching its surface or by attempting to mix our “color” with theirs does not achieve the intended outcome; rather, it leaves one feeling invalid and unheard.
As humans, we are prone to judging each other for not having the same colored water. But only Allah is Al-Hakam (the ultimate judge). As such, our focus should be on the li(fe)quid we all share, in accordance with the unity that He desires for mankind:
“Hold firmly together to the rope of Allah, and do not be divided”
Quran 3:103
Here, we can see His command to us to support each other in our differences, and to nurture each other in our unique experiences of the life we hold.
As Muslims, we believe that everything exists by Allah’s will and decree. He chose to place each of us here, in this moment, for a reason:
“Know that if the entire creation were to gather together to do something to benefit you- you would never get any benefit except that Allah had written for you. And if they were to gather to do something to harm you- you would never be harmed except that Allah had written for you. The pens are lifted and the pages are dried.”
Hadith Al-Tirmidhi 2516
This Ramadan, let’s reflect:
What does it mean that Allah has willed us to exist as we are?
How do we honor the life He has given us?
Jihad: Struggle from a place of love instead of fear. Imagine your cup is yellow, but you are told your water is wrong because it isn’t blue. You spend your life trying to change it by scrubbing your glass in hopes that the color will fade or change. Maybe you even try to add other cups’ colors to your own to no avail, only to miss the truth that your water- like everyone else’s- was always clear. This breeds self-judgement and inevitably makes us fear what is naturally within us.
Ramadan is a time of jihad- the process of confronting our inner struggles in order to connect with our creator. The jihad of trusting that we know who Allah made us to be is a difficult, often lifelong journey. However, without engaging in this internal conflict, we are unable to face the fear of authenticity and cannot come to Him in our truest form. If we cannot do that, we risk missing out on the connection He has always held with us, even when we turn away:
“Whoever comes to Me walking, I will come to him running.”
Sahih Muslim 2687
True worship requires us to set niyyah (pure intention), which includes presenting ourselves to Allah honestly and in vulnerability. Grounding in this truth quiets the mind, which allows us to access the humility needed to connect with Him.
Socialization as shirk. How can we show up to Allah authentically when we live in fear of Him? Fear puts us in a dysregulared state of flight or fight, one where we cannot be fully present with the Divine. Allah states:
“I have not created jinn and humankind except to worship Me”
Quran 51:56
In other words, worship requires us to love ourselves and each other for His sake. When we place more weight on human judgement than on Allah’s plan, we unintentionally engage in associating others with Him, when he is Al-Wali (the sole governor):
“Those whom they call upon beside Allah have created nothing; rather, they themselves were created”
Quran 16:20
Queer people of faith often feel forced to hide our true selves in order to please others, not realizing that the tendency to place others’ opinions of us bleeds into our relationship with Allah. We begin to project the conditional love we receive from people onto the Divine. The difference is that Allah’s love is unconditional as he is Al-Wadud (the most loving). Trusting in His love means trusting that we are worthy of it because of who we are, not despite it.
Honoring the life of Imam Hendricks. A beacon for those of us who hold both faith and identity close, Imam Hendricks was an inspiration in the ways in which he embodied Allah’s characteristics of Al-Haqq (the absolute truth), and is remembered for his work in teaching others about the power of living with honesty and integrity, no matter the consequence:
“The need to be authentic is greater than the fear to die”
Imam Muhsin Hendricks (1967-2025)
How do we continue his legacy? Rumi writes:
“Opening up to Allah can only be done by looking to Him through out hearts authentically”
Mathnawi VI, 3095-97
This is how we can embody truth through worship – to show how Islam informs our queerness, and how queerness, in turn, informs our Islam. To model a world in which worship is not defined by fear, but by sincerity and love. It means being good khulafa’ (stewards) of the bodies He has given us, and spreading His love into the world He created for us. To leave this world better than we found it:
“He is the One who has placed you as successors on earth”
Quran 35:39
This Ramadan, let us set our intentions:
To live authentically as Allah SWT created us
To trust that He has placed us here for a reason
To love ourselves and others for His sake
To worship with hope over fear
Inshallah we live in the fillness of our truth, for the sake of the One who made us.
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Bismallah alrahman alraheem
When the prophet Musa was tasked with facing his oppressor pharaoh head-on, in front of a large audience, he was struck by uncertainty and fear.
He never saw himself as the one who could stand up in front of crowds and compel them to change.
Musa had lisp since childhood, when God compelled him to choose hot coal instead of milk which burnt his tongue leaving him to develop a lifelong speech impediment.
Yet, as he stood in front of the pharaoh and his supporters facing their judgment and scorn
Facing unknown retribution harassment and imprisonment
He looked to Allah subhanota3ala for support because he knew that what he was fighting for was right and that he had to be the voice of the oppressed.
Neither pharaohs threats, nor his speech impediment stopped him.
He prayed to Allah with the following Dua:
رَبِّ اشْرَحْ لِي صَدْرِي* وَيَسِّرْ لِي أَمْرِي* وَاحْلُلْ عُقْدَةً مِّن لِّسَانِي * يَفْقَهُوا قَوْلِي
“Oh My Lord! Uplift my heart for me,
and make my task easy,
and remove the impediment from my tongue
so people may understand my speech,1
Now more than ever I remember the prophet Musa.
Whenever I fear retribution for my words or I am faced with zionists who scorn my very existence I remember that Allah is with me and I pray to him to loosen the knot from my tongue and grant me self-confidence contentment and boldness to speak truth to power even if in the prophetic tradition of Musa I stumble through my words.
This leads me to the topic of my Khutabeh
Sabr: Sabar
Sabr a juicy fruit that’s sharp thorns that can prickle hands that are not cautious and lips that are too eager.
We often translate Sabr into the English word patience.
Yet some might not know In Arabic Sabr is also the word for cactus. The hard-shelled plant which is made to withstand harsh desert climate, endowed with sharp spiked blades that can draw blood when prodded.
And yet beneath the guarded exterior of sabr lies a sweet fruit that one must patiently pluck and carefully peel to reach the sweet fruit.
One could easily say the connection between sabr (cactus) and our understanding of sabr (patience) is the time and patience it takes to receive our reward
The way I see it, the real connection between the two is the cactuses hardened exterior that puts up a fight aganist its harsh environment and potential predators.
Our Sabr is not easygoing and complacent towards the harshness of the world
Because to me, Sabr extends far beyond our ideas of patience.
Sabr is our endurance and reward, in both internal and external sense
Our external spikes of action and protectiveness
And our internal softness and sweetness to each other
But perhaps what I want to emphasize the most is that Sabr is not compliance,
not silence and not actionless endurance of injustice.
Sabr is often used to depoliticize and delegitimize the actions of marginalized people.
We are often encouraged to have Sabr when allah has decided to give us a burden.
Perhaps some believe we must have sabr to deal with our perceived burden of Queerness,
To thank god, have shukr for what we have and move on.
They claim that being Queer is a test from god therefore we cannot challenge it.
I think the true sabr in our Queerness is the sweet warmth of queer joy, the loud prickle of unapologetic protest and the resilience and survival in our Queer mosque today.
having sabr and shukr means enduring and resisting the harshness of white supremacy, Zionism and Christian centricism and thanking allah for the strength he gives us to survive along the way.
Which brings me to the second word of today: summod, or plural verb samidin (those who are steadfast) those who struggle daily and yt remain standing strong.
I think Palestinians have taught us the true meaning of this word, through their ability to find joy in hardship, to stand for their principles and land in the face of genocide, and to speak the word of god regardless of the cost.
Being Palestinian has taught me to always care for my plants to stay rooted in the land, to be steadfast in my beliefs, and have an unending love for my people.
To survive in whatever form that might look like on a day to day basis
Sabr and summoud is Mahmoud Khalil and Rumeysa Ozturk, is what i hear from you all on a daily basis about the ways in which you resist despite all odds
There is this hadith that discusses wheen sabr really manifests itself:
قَالَ سَمِعْتُ أَنَسًا ـ رضى الله عنه ـ عَنِ النَّبِيِّ صلى الله عليه وسلم قَالَ " الصَّبْرُ عِنْدَ الصَّدْمَةِ الأُولَى ".
Narrated Anas: The Prophet (peace be upon him) said, “The real patience is at the first stroke of a calamity.” Sahih Al-Bukhari – Book 23 Hadith 389
Our ability to have Sabr is not manifested until we have something to push up against and to resist.
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But Sabr is also about keeping ourselves aware of the ways in which we mess up
With others but also with ourselves
We often forget to have sabr within our hearts and minds
The world is deserving of your patience but so are you
The most difficult form of sabr is being patient and kind with yourself
Whether it is realizing the physical limitations of your body or setting boundaries on your emotional capacity
Our Sabr is having the patience, faith and self love to believe in our ability to create our own spaces where they don’t exist.
This of course comes from a long Islamic tradition in which Sabr and the creation of space are inextricably intertwined.
Here, I am thinking of the Sabr of the prophet salllah allah 3alehi o salam, as he endured the abuse of his Meccan tribe.
His hijra migration to medina was all about endurance: both the physical endurance of the desert trip
but also his endurance in leaving his home, being shunned from his community and starting a new because of his belief in the word of god.
The prophet created a space of community, worship and prayer upon reaching Medina.
The mosque of medina was built bit by bit in hardship and struggle.
Taken from the physical surroundings of medina
from its palm trees and cactus fruit, to being patched together by many muddy hands
the mosque was built up by communal sabr and love.
So Sabr as resistance and creation is also prophetic tradition.
A prophetic tradition that Qmosque embodies, from our search for space, to our potluck iftars, our beach towel prayer rugs and our many hands and hearts coming together in prayer.
Sabr as a form of resistance fills the pages of the Quran:
Sabr is the ways in which Maryam endured the judgement of her qoum when she had the prophet Issa but did not budge from allahs commands to stay silent
And sabr is the ways in which sabhiyat like Summiya were not willing to back down from the truth even if it mean they endured undescribably torture by their own community
The legacy of sabr IN islam is one that is painful, but centers resistance against great odds.
So may allah let us live in the legacy of Musa and speak truth even when afraid
Embody the legacy of Mohammad and create spaces for those have been turned away
May we honor the legacy of maryam and Sumaya Sabr by standing with what we believe
and may they grant us the summoned of our Palestinian community while granting them ease from hardship.
Ameen
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Beloved Siblings,
I want to start with a refusal.
I refuse to worship the state, the dollar, or even my own fears and anxieties.
Because lā ilāha illā Allāh, there is no god but Allah.
Today I want to unpack that refusal, and the kind of community it demands.
It is my hope that these words can remind me just as much as they remind you. That Tawḥīd is not just a belief we carry in our heads, or a phrase we recite on our tongues, lā ilāha illā Allāh. There is no god but God. It is a way of living. A way of relating to each other. A claim that we make with our whole selves.
To affirm Tawḥīd is to say: “I will not bow to anything other than Allah.”
Not to the boss, the tyrant, the settler, the institution, or the ego.
It’s stitched into the fabric of our proclaimed community values here in this masjid: I will not bow to cis-hetero-patriarchy,
Not to whiteness. And perhaps most importantly,
Not to fear.
(slow) For I fear nothing but Allah. And it is in Allah that I seek refuge.
In the Surah al-Baqarah, God says
(slow) “So whoever rejects false gods and believes in God has grasped the firmest handhold, one that will never break.”
That “firmest handhold,” al-‘urwat al-wuthqā, is our grip on Allah alone.
Not on presidents, prisons, or empires.
Not on police, borders, or billionaires.
Not on the logic of extraction, domination, or accumulation.
Only on the One who is Just, the One who is Merciful, the One who liberates.
As Mohamed Abdou writes in Islam and Anarchism, Tawḥīd is “a fundamental premise and pillar,” a rejection of any deification of the state, of tribalism, of material wealth, or human rulers. Allah reminds us that to accept Allah’s oneness is to refuse to give our allegiance to oppression, wherever it may manifest.
We cannot say “lā ilāha illā Allāh” and then obey or participate in an unjust system that cages children, extracts from the poor, silences the weak, or criminalizes our kin.
We cannot speak of the oneness of the Creator and then uphold the violent hierarchy of class, nation, or caste. This is why we are taught that to say lā ilāha illā Allāh is to make a shahāda, a bearing of witness, a testimony, a stand. It’s not a passive idea or fact. It’s telling the truth. It’s an active refusal to participate in the lie of domination.
The Prophet ﷺ did not speak of Tawḥīd and then go along with the Meccan elite’s economic and social order. He disrupted it.
Tawḥīd, when truly embraced, means that we live in opposition to all the false gods of this world, the systems that demand our attention, our obedience and loyalty, when we know they contradict what we know to be just, merciful, and sacred.
But Tawḥīd is not only vertical.
It does not just teach us how to relate to Allah, it guides us in how to relate to each other.
To live the oneness of God is to recognize the sacred interconnectedness of creation.
To reject false gods is not only to say no to domination, it is to say yes to each other. To build trust, to share power, to walk with humility.
Mohamed Abdou reminds us that the earliest period of Islamic life after the Prophet ﷺ was rooted not in hierarchy but in three “revolutionary anti-authoritarian struggles” of 1) mutual consultation (shūrā), 2) consensus (ijmāʿ), and 3) collective welfare through mutual aid (maṣlaḥa). These three terms are not abstract ideals, they were practices that emerged from within a people struggling to live justly, together, in submission to Allah.
First: SHURA, or mutual consultation
It is easy to speak of our beloved Prophet Muhammad (PBUH), as someone who held perfect knowledge of every situation. This is not true. He engaged the minds of others. He worked in a world in which knowledge about what was good and right was being obscured by those who exerted political and economic domination. He sought consultation. From his wife, Khadijah, on the very first day of revelation. He listened to his companions — and not just men or the elders or the wealthy, but the youth, the poor, the enslaved.
He didn’t consult for show. He consulted because truth lives in community. Finding truth isn’t a lone activity, but an ongoing process of struggle with others.
Second: After shūrā, mutual consultation, comes ijmāʿ: arriving at community consensus.
Ijmāʿ is not simply majority rule. It’s not parliamentary procedure. It’s not a popularity contest.
It is the slow, sacred work of arriving at collective clarity for what is just, together.
It’s the practice of seeking shared truth through compassionate, open-hearted debate and experimentation. One can only do this when you’ve built a space, a container to hold it. This is what we have been attempting and experimenting here at QMOSQUE, making room for those of us who have had no formal claim to authority and knowledge to try out our ideas, to share with others, to try again. We draw on a rich tradition in doing so.
We currently sit in the neighborhood of the South End, historically Black, Puerto Rican, and Syrian. This neighborhood, and this street in particular, used to be home to a thriving scene of dozens of jazz bars and clubs, late night restaurants and lounges, the only places listed for Boston in The Green Book: a Negro Travelers Guide, marking the places safe from white violence, for Black travelers to stay if we were on a road trip.
Though Islam has a long history among the first enslaved Black people kidnapped from West Africa and brought here to work. The first organized Muslim life in Boston sprouted right here, when Black Ahmadiyya and Nation of Islam members used the infrastructure of the jazz clubs to engage their neighbors spiritually, inviting people to Islam. These organizers were ingenious in creating space for recognizing the oneness of Allah. Space for coming together was needed to affirm the truth: that they were indeed Muslims and part of a global ummah and that they needed to routinely gather to resist the white supremacist landscape they were living in. The first Boston mosque was down the street near the corner of Columbus and Mass Ave in the back of a Black woman-owned chicken restaurant.
We, in this masjid, inherit this legacy, the legacy of being at the margins of our ummah, or sometimes considered not part of the ummah at all. The legacy of having to use space creatively to bring us to each other. This legacy of claiming a deen that is ours.
If trans and queer folks can’t speak, it’s not ijmāʿ. If women aren’t in leadership and generating knowledge, it’s not ijmāʿ. If working-class folks are invisible, it’s not ijmāʿ. If those most harmed by the system aren’t in the room, then what we have is not consensus. It’s convenience.
We have this masjid so that we may struggle towards this. So that we can do ijmāʿ, so that we can consult one another, generate knowledge with one another, and arrive at truth together.
Which brings me to my third point: we affirm the oneness of Allah and our role as stewards of a shared Earth when we engage in mutual aid for collective welfare (maṣlaḥa)
THIRD: Maslaha
Maṣlaḥa, collective welfare, the public good, mutual aid. Maṣlaḥa doesn’t mean charity. It’s not about giving from above. It’s about sustaining each other. Building structures so we don’t get swallowed up by the systems of extraction. So we don’t leave our people behind.
In this moment, when our siblings are under the foot of settler colonial dominance, here in the so-called Americas and beyond, under the tyranny of drones, of AI, of genocide, in this moment when we might give in to our fear of raids, of being surveilled, detained, or disappeared again, we must remember that our safety does not lie in compliance, it does not lie in being isolated and quiet. Our safety lies in each other. In a world that threatens our lives and dignity, we fear nothing but Allah and we hold to this through the ways we commit to gather and treat each other justly.
What are we building that will hold us when the walls come down again? Who do we show up for now, before they’re gone? Where are the networks of love and defense that will make sure our queer, trans, undocumented, disabled, Black Muslim kin are not left behind?
Maṣlaḥa is a call to action. Not only to feel kinship, but to turn that into an infrastructure of commitment to each other.
The Prophet ﷺ said, “Whoever relieves a believer’s distress in this world, Allah will relieve their distress in the next.” That’s not just something to quote, that is something with which to build. We must be kind to each other in our building, kind through misunderstandings, open to correction, patient with our limits, open to the messiness and incompleteness, the burnouts, experimentation and failures in our pursuits.
This, this is where Tawḥīd, our acknowledgement of the oneness of God and God’s will for creation, lives. Not in abstraction. Not in theory. But in what we build for each other.
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SECOND KHUTBAH
Beloved siblings, we return now to Tawḥīd.
After all that has been said, the refusal, the consultation and consensus, the collective care, these are all concepts indigenous to our vast, diverse tradition. And these grim times call us to remember this.
To say lā ilāha illā Allāh is to say:
There is no god but God.
I do not worship fear. Fear does not deserve my obedience.
I do not worship wealth. Wealth does not command my loyalty.
I do not worship whiteness, or gender, or borders, or the state. These constructs cannot guide me to what is just.
I worship Allah, the One, the Just, the Merciful.
In this worship, I struggle towards consultation, consensus, and the mutual aid of my peers. Each of you.
That is the rope that cannot break.
That is the root from which our ethics grow.
That is what frees us from domination, and commits us to one another.
Let us return to it. Let us live in it. Let us tell the truth. And through these times, let us protect each other in the name of Allah (SWT).
I wish to make duaa.
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CLOSING DUAA
O Allah, al-Latīf (the Gentle), who knows the trembling of our hearts
Courage can feel foolish when we’ve seen the world in all its terror.
Protect us from life lived in perpetual vigilance.
Keep fear from monopolizing our relationships, our desires, our motivations, so that we can act without rehearsing the worst of our imaginations.
Help us dismantle and abolish our idols with haste, and treat ourselves and each other with kindness and mercy.
There are times when we feel small and exhausted.
Harness our courage.
Grant us contentment in our limits, and community in our battles.
Send others who tremble alongside us, who will speak truth with calmness.
Show us we need not be giants if we have good friends.
O Allah, al-Muntaqim (the Avenger), the One who reclaims what was stolen and restores what was denied…
We have known what it is to feel helpless.
To have our agency stripped and voices snuffed out.
We are grateful to those who have shown us that on the other side of our trauma, abuse, and grief, there can be power magnified.
Bind the will of our oppressors and abusers.
We remember our commitments to the vulnerable, poor, marginalized, and immigrant, to raise us up in honor and lead us from captivity.
Keep us from punishing ourselves for what has been withheld from us.
It is not our fault.
We reclaim what’s ours.
O Allah, al-Karīm (the Most Generous), the One who invites us to Your abundant table…
We are made of gratitude today.
That we can gather in chosen community is a rare gift that is not lost on us.
We thank you for every face before us and those who could not be with us.
We ask that you watch over the paths of all of those in this room and all those beyond this room who we bring here in our hearts. We ask that you watch over those who woke up not feeling good this morning.
Use this time to knit us together, weaving disparate parts back toward a shared origin.
Help us to see the beauty in this belonging.
Āmīn.
Aqimū ṣ‑ṣalāh
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Assalamualaikum. Thank you all for attending another installation of QMOSQUE.
To start off with a simple salutation: Eid Mubarak.
Within the breath of the Islamic tradition, there are numerous events that can be called an Eid, or celebration. In the typical mainstream Sunni fashion, Eid al Fitr and Eid al Adha have the most theological prominence, with Eid al Fitr in particular maintaining a cultural hegemony on how Muslims order and live their lives. We often utilize Eid al Fitr as a cumulative event, a day after all the fasting, praying, and planning that helps members of the ummah re-engage their faith. We even, jokingly, call it a “Muslim Christmas.”
Ironically, it is on Eid al Adha, the Eid we celebrate today, that we are able to go back in deep time and find syncretism with our Abrahamic cousins of Christian and Jewish traditions. While we often focus our religious energies on Ramadan and Eid al Fitr, Eid al Adha presents an exciting opportunity to turn many of the recognizable attributes of our faith into substantial calls to action.
Many of you know there are key differences between the Biblical and Quranic accounts of what we are actually celebrating here today, a qurban, or sacrifice. In the Christian Sunday schools and Muslim Saturday schools of the world, the most shallow interpretation on this difference rests on the prophet Abraham and his progeny. This is, of course, where traditions begin to argue.
Between Genesis 22 and Surah As-Saffat, we get two very different renditions of a singular event. For those who have read the Biblical version, you will notice it is all about the drama. To quote academic John Kaltner, "The Genesis description of Abraham cutting the wood, loading the donkey, bringing his servants and wielding the knife over his son all contribute to the power of the biblical account but are not found” in the Quran.
In the Bible, Issac does not know he is the sacrifice, instead he asks “where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” to which Abraham replies “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.” Thus, Issac is bound and replaced with a lamb and everyone goes home happy.
The Quranic rendition of what takes place on Mount Moriah is not only much shorter, with far less pomp and circumstance, it also includes a dream, and ironically, does not include a lamb! Here, Abraham tells his son, who is not named, that he had a dream that he would sacrifice him, and asks his son what he thinks about that. The son says “If Allah commands, you will find me patient.” And that’s it. The divine test has been passed, and the Quran moves on to other things.
Your Saturday school teacher might have harped on the fact that Muslims are considered the descendants of Ismail, Abraham’s son through Hajjar and the eventual progenitor of the Zamzam Well. Thus, we should operate under the assumption that the Quran is talking about Ismail, and not Issac, who is named in the Bible. However, Muslim scholars have discoursed for centuries over this fact, and many of them actually believe that Issac is the son in question.
The Quran then leaves us with an intentionally vague passage on purpose. This passage is not about the sacrifice or the son’s identity, it is instead about Abraham, and his ability to become the physical manifestation of submission and monotheism.
The Arabic word used to describe someone who adopts pure monotheism is hanif, a term that is found twelve times in the Quran, eight of these occurrences are used for Abraham. He is the only individual who is ever explicitly designated as such in the entire Quran. Thus, Abraham was an individual of high moral and spiritual quality which enabled him to have a special relationship with Allah. He is a "friend of Allah," another title that is unique to Abraham in the Quran.
According to the Quran, Islam is not a religion that began in 7th century Arabia with the coming of the prophet Muhammad. Its roots can be found in deep time with Abraham. Abraham is the prototypical Muslim. Here, “muslim” is not a religious identity but a theological action. It is a term used commonly in describing Abraham and other pre-Islamic figures because they possessed the quality of submission, or “Islam,” to the will of Allah which is essential for true belief.
Abraham is the ideal believer who should be emulated by anyone wishing to enjoy divine rewards. This includes the Prophet Muhammad, who is instructed in the Quran to imitate Abraham by following his religion and being an upright person, or hanif, just as he was.
For Abraham, Islam is not a thing you belong to, Muslim is not an identity. It is an action that climaxes at the most intense times of one's life. It is the action of having faith among an infinite amount of unknowns. It is the action of harboring belief so pure, so brazen in the face of external obstacles, that you trust in Allah beyond rational comprehension.
The story of Abraham on Mount Moriah and of Eid al Adha is not that of the identity of the son or the grief of a would-be sacrificed. It is a story that pushes us to collapse our own reliance on identity and identity markers, it asks us to replace our dependency on modern constructs of selfhood with ventures that represent our shared morals and values. Eid al Adha is here to teach us how to act as Muslims, instead of allowing us to stop at simply being Muslim.
We are lucky that this Eid falls at the beginning of Pride, because this lesson extends beyond the context of Islam and into our lives as queer, gay, and trans Muslims.
These words I just used are not just nouns. They are not enamel pins we keep on our bags, hashtags we use in our social media bios, or monocurs for the parties we attend. These words are verbs that extend beyond who we have sex with and who we fall in love with. They are verbs that must dictate the very actions that define how we spend the rest of our lives.
What does it mean to be a gay Muslim? If we look at Abraham on the mountain, it would mean we strive to transform our religious affiliations into modes of operation. If we look at our queer and trans siblings imprisoned, damned and murdered by the state, it would mean we transform our identities into the behaviors that build a more just future. We cannot allow the shallow veneer of pink washing or conditional neoliberal acceptance to cascade us into lives of moral apathy, or worse, moral compromise.
On this Eid al Adha and Pride, may we all find the ability to turn words such as Queer, Islam, Trans, Muslim and Gay into the actions that feed our hungry, cure our sick, house our poor, empower our downtrodden, and obliterate our oppressors. Like Abraham on Mount Moriah, we are currently faced with a divine test. Together, we have the opportunity to choose collective action, instead of individualism. By the grace of Allah, may all choose to act out the values of our faith as we strive to be true hanifs in our practice.
Eid Mubarak, Ameen.