The - Routledge Companion To - The Quran 2022

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION
TO THE QUR’AN
The Routledge Companion to the Qur’an offers an impressive and comprehensive overview of the
formative scripture of Islam. Including a wide number of scholarly approaches to the Qur’an by both
established authorities and emergent voices, the 40 chapters in this volume represent the latest word
on the academic understanding of the Muslim scripture.
The Qur’an is spoken of in scholarship across disciplines; it is the beating heart of a living
community of believers; it is a work of beauty and a basis for art and culture; it is a profoundly
significant historical artifact; and it is a mysterious survivor from the Late Ancient Arabic-speaking
world. This Handbook accompanies the reader into the many worlds that the Qur’an lives in, from
its ancient settings, to its internal drama, and through the 1,400 years of discussion and debate about
its meaning.
Bringing diverse approaches to the Qur’an together in one volume The Routledge Companion to
the Qur’an represents the vibrancy of the field of Qur’anic Studies today. This Handbook is essential
reading for students and researchers in religious studies and Islamic studies. It will also be very useful
for those in related fields, such as area studies, sociology, anthropology, and history.
George Archer is Assistant Professor of Religious Studies at Iowa State University in Ames, Iowa.
Maria M. Dakake is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at George Mason University in

Fairfax, Virginia.
Daniel A. Madigan is Associate Professor and Jeanette W. and Otto J. Ruesch Family Distinguished
Jesuit Scholar at Georgetown University, Washington, D.C.
ROUTLEDGE RELIGION COMPANIONS
THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO THE STUDY OF RELIGION, 2ND

EDITION
Edited by John Hinnells
THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO EARLY CHRISTIAN THOUGHT

Edited by D. Jeffrey Bingham
THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO THE CHRISTIAN CHURCH

Edited by Gerard Mannion and Lewis S. Mudge
THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO RELIGION AND FILM

Edited by John Lyden
THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO THEISM

Edited by Charles Taliaferro, Victoria S. Harrison, and Stewart Goetz
THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO MODERN CHRISTIAN THOUGHT

Edited by Chad Meister, and James Beilby
THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO RELIGION AND SCIENCE

Edited by James W. Haag, Gregory R. Peterson, and Michael L. Spezio
THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO RELIGION AND POPULAR CULTURE

Edited by John C. Lyden and Eric M. Mazur
THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO THE PRACTICE OF CHRISTIAN

THEOLOGY
Edited by Mike Higton and Jim Fodor
THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO CHRISTIANITY IN AFRICA

Edited by Elias Bongmba
THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO DEATH AND DYING

Edited by Christopher Moreman
THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO THE QUR’AN

Edited by George Archer, Maria M. Dakake, and Daniel A. Madigan
THE ROUTLEDGE
COMPANION TO THE
QUR’AN
Edited by George Archer, Maria M. Dakake,

and Daniel A. Madigan
First published 2022
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

© 2022 selection and editorial matter, George Archer, Maria M. Dakake
and Daniel A. Madigan; individual chapters, the contributors
The right of George Archer, Maria M. Dakake and Daniel A. Madigan to
be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for
their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77
and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or
utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now
known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in
any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or
registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation
without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
A catalog record for this book has been requested
ISBN: 978-0-415-70950-7 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-032-07245-6 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-315-88536-0 (ebk)
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360
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CONTENTS
Conventionsix
Authorsxiii
Acknowledgmentsxx
Editors’ Introduction: The Qur’an’s Three Worlds xxi
George Archer, Maria M. Dakake, and Daniel A. Madigan
PART I
The World Before the Qur’an 1
1 Late Antiquity and the Religious Milieu of the Qur’an’s Origins 3

Sidney H. Griffith
2 Arabia: Ripe for Revelation 13

Gordon D. Newby
3 Mecca and Medina: The Sacred Geography of Qur’anic Revelation 23

Maria M. Dakake
PART II
The World of the Qur’an 43
4 God the Speaker: The Many-Named One 45

Tim Winter
5 Humanity in Covenant With God 58

Joseph E.B. Lumbard
v
Contents
6 Qur’anic Eschatology 69
Mohammed Rustom
7 Abraham and His Family 80

Halla Attallah and George Archer
8 Biblical Prophets: Moses, Joseph, Jonah, and Job 89

Roberto Tottoli
9 John, Jesus, and Mary in the Qur’an 96

George Archer
10 Muhammad in the Qur’an 105

Joseph E.B. Lumbard
11 The Praiseworthy 115

Feryal Salem
12 The People of Scripture (Ahl al-Kitāb)121

Michael Pregill
13 Qur’anic Creation: Anthropocentric Readings and

Ecocentric Possibilities 135
Sarra Tlili
14 Jinn in the Qur’an 145

Ali A. Olomi
15 Style in the Qur’an 152

Devin J. Stewart
16 Structure and Organization of the Qur’an 165

Nevin Reda
17 Qur’anic Kerygma: Epic, Apocalypse, and Typological Figuration 177

Todd Lawson
18 Metaphor, Symbol, and Parable in the Qur’an 191

Caner Dagli
19 The Relationship Between the Oral and the Written 200

Lauren E. Osborne
vi
Contents
PART III
The World in Front of the Qur’an 209
20 Asbāb al-Nuzūl: The (Good) Occasions of Revelation 211

Ahmed Ragab
21 The Early Commentators of the Qur’an 223

S.R. Burge
22 Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī Seen Through His Great Commentary on the Qur’an235
Michel Lagarde
23 Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr: A Window Onto Medieval Islam and a Guide to the
Development of Modern Islamic Orthodoxy 245
Younus Y. Mirza
24 The Formative Development of Shiʿi Qur’anic Exegesis 253

Maria M. Dakake
25 Methodological Observations in al-ʿAllāma al-T

․abāt․abāʾī’s Qur’an
Commentary: Al-Mīzān270
Abdulaziz Sachedina
26 The Qur’an in the Thought of Ibn ʿArabī282

William C. Chittick
27 Sufi Tafsīr 291

Lahouari R. Taleb
28 Shiʿi Ismaili Approaches to the Qur’an: From Revelation to Exegesis 303

Khalil Andani
29 Women’s Contemporary Readings of the Qur’an 319

Hadia Mubarak
30 War and Peace in the Qur’an 334

Rumee Ahmed
31 Muh. ammad ʿAbduh and Sayyid Qut․b: The Qur’an as a Tool

of Transformation 346
Massimo Campanini
vii
Contents
32 Readings of the Qur’an From Outside the Tradition 356

Emran El-Badawi
33 Translation 364
Johanna Pink
34 The Qur’an and Material Culture 377

Travis Zadeh
35 The Qur’an and the Internet 384

Gary R. Bunt
36 The Qur’an in Contemporary Mass and Popular Culture 394

N.A. Mansour
37 The Qur’an and Kalām402

David Thomas
38 The Impact of the Qur’an on Islamic Philosophy 412

Gholamreza Aavani
39 Political Theology and the Qur’an 422

Paul L. Heck
40 The Qur’an and Medicine 433

Elaine van Dalen
Bibliography442
Index474
viii
CONVENTIONS
The editors of The Routledge Companion to the Qur’an would like this volume to be accessible to
any educated English reader, and not necessarily just a reader educated in the study of the Qur’an
or Islam. Yet simultaneously, the editors would like to reflect the diversity of styles and approaches
taken by the authors appearing herein. To that end, the editors have imposed some standards when
needed for a wider readership and have allowed for some diversity of approach as per the given
author’s wont.
Languages and Transliteration

The only language assumed of the audience of The Routledge Companion to the Qur’an is English.
Whenever possible, English has been given priority for the ease of the reader. However, in instances
in which a single English translation is not adequate, a definition is contested, or the specifics of
another language are needed to understand a point, terms have been transliterated but not translated.
For clarity, non-English terms will be subjected to the grammatical norms of English (e.g., plu-
ralizing by adding an -s, using -ism to describe a worldview or movement). This rule will not be
applied in cases where non-English grammar is commonly applied in English (e.g., āya is pluralized
as āyāt, but tafsīr is pluralized in English as tafsīrs, not the Arabic tafāsīr).
For alphabets in which there is no capitalization, capitalization will not be added in transliteration
save in the cases of proper names (e.g., Rābiʿa al-ʿAdawiyya; al-Fust․āt․) and titles (e.g., Sūrāt al-Aʿrāf,
ʿArāʾis al-majālis fī qis.as. al-anbiyāʾ). It has also become common for English authors to use capitali-
zation as honorifics, although this use does not follow typical rules of English usage elsewhere. As
such, it has been left to each author’s discretion to capitalize divine names, attributes, or pronouns
as they see fit, although Allah/Allāh will always be capitalized in following English standards for a
monotheist’s “God.”
Names, places, and titles will be provided in the form most common in English literature (e.g.,
Mecca, not Makka; the Jāmiʿ of al-T ․abarī, not the Collection or Summa; but In the Shade of the Quran
by Sayyid Qut․b not fī Z ․ ilāl al-Qurʾān).
Although The Routledge Companion to the Qur’an is in English, a great deal of vocabulary from
languages that employ the Arabic alphabet (or variations of it) appears throughout its chapters. The
transliteration of these languages approximately follows the format set forth by The International
ix
Conventions
Journal of Middle Eastern Studies. Modern Turkish will not follow this system but rather conventional
spellings.
‫ ء‬ ʾ (the glottal stop, unmarked in transliteration when the first letter of a term)
‫ ب‬b
‫ پ‬p
‫ ت‬t
‫ ث‬th (in Persian, transliterated as s)
‫ ج‬ j (in modern Egyptian Arabic, transliterated as g)
‫ چ‬ ch (in Ottoman Turkish, transliterated as ç)
‫ ح‬ h.
‫ خ‬kh
‫ د‬d
‫ ذ‬ dh (in Persian, Ottoman Turkish, and Urdu. transliterated as z)
‫ ر‬r
‫ ز‬z
‫ ژ‬ zh (in Ottoman Turkish, transliterated as j)
‫ س‬s
‫ ش‬sh (in Ottoman Turkish, transliterated as ş)
‫ ص‬s.
‫ ض‬d. (in Persian, Ottoman Turkish, and Urdu, transliterated as z)
‫․ ط‬t
‫ ظ‬ z․
‫ ع‬ ʿ (the letter ʿayn; in Arabic, a sound from the base of the tongue with a slight vibra-
tion of the vocal cords)
‫ غ‬ gh (in Ottoman Turkish, transliterated as ğ)
‫ ف‬f
‫ ق‬ q (in Ottoman Turkish, transliterated as k)
‫ ك‬k
‫ گ‬g
‫ ل‬l
‫ م‬m
‫ ن‬n
‫ ه‬h
‫ و‬ w or ū (in Persian or Ottoman Turkish, transliterated as v in consonantal usage)
‫ ي‬ y or ī
‫ ة‬ a (the feminine marker, which appears only as the last letter of a term)
‫ ال‬al- (the definite marker; always transliterated thus regardless of pronunciation)
‫ى‬/‫ ا‬ā
ٰ
‫ ي‬ī
ٍ ِ‫ي‬ ّ iyy (in the final form transliterated as ī)
ُّ
‫ و‬ uww (in the final form transliterated as ū; in Ottoman Turkish marked as uvv)
َ‫ و‬ aw (in Ottoman Turkish, transliterated as ev)
َ‫ ى‬ ay (in Ottoman Turkish, transliterated as ey)
َ a (in Ottoman Turkish, transliterated as either a or e)
ُ u (in Ottoman Turkish, transliterated as either ü or ö)
ِ i (in Ottoman Turkish, transliterated as either i or ı)
x
Conventions
All Syriac alphabets will be simplified into the following transliteration (with voweling used at the
author’s discretion):
‫ ܐ‬ʾ (the glottal stop; unmarked in transliteration when the first letter of a term)
‫ ܒ‬b
‫ ܓ‬g
‫ ܕ‬d
‫ ܗ‬h
‫ ܘ‬ w or ū
‫ ܙ‬z
‫ ܚ‬h.
‫․ ܛ‬t
‫ ܝ‬ y or ī
‫ ܟ‬k
‫ ܠ‬l
‫ ܡ‬m
‫ ܢ‬n
‫ ܣ‬s
‫ ܥ‬ʿ (the letter ʿē; a sound from the base of the tongue with a slight vibration of the
vocal cords)
‫ ܦ‬p
‫ ܨ‬s.
‫ ܩ‬q
‫ ܪ‬r
‫ ܫ‬sh
‫ ܬ‬t
The Greek alphabet will be translated following the Society of Biblical Literature Handbook of Style.
α a
β b
γ g (or as n when accompanied by γ, κ, ξ, or χ)
δ d
ε e
ζ z
η ē
θ th
ι i
κ k
λ l
μ m
ν n
ξ x
ο o
π p
ρ r
ῥ rh
σ/ς s
xi
Conventions
τ t
υ y (or as u in diphthongs)
φ ph
χ ch
ψ ps
ω ō
‘ h (when preceding a vowel)
Other alphabets that appear less frequently in this volume will be transliterated at the given author’s
preference (e.g., Geʾez, Hebrew, Aramaic, Devanāgarī, and its variants). All transliteration systems
will be disregarded in the cases of words fully naturalized into English (e.g., caliph not khalīfa; muez
zin not muëzzin or muʾadhdhin). The text that is the subject matter of this volume shall always be
given in English as Qur’an.
The names of modern people with Muslim names will be transliterated as the individuals them-
selves write their own names in the English/Latin alphabet (e.g., Fatima Mernissi, not Fāt․ima
Mirnīsī).
Citations
The Routledge Companion to the Qur’an will use Chicago-style citation throughout, save in the cases
of classical literatures, which have no standard in The Chicago Manual of Style.
Authors will indicate which translations of the Qur’an are used in the respective notes or indicate
whether the translations are their own. The Qur’an will be cited as “Q sura number: āya(t) number”
(e.g., Q 65:1–3).
Tafsīrs will follow the style of Qur’anic citation with the addition of the name of the commenta-
tor (e.g., al-Rāzī on Q 2:36; Qummī on Q 9:1–5).
Although the hadiths’ numbers are not standardized, the editors would like to provide the reader
enough context to locate the source material regardless of which edition is being consulted. The
hadiths found in the canonical collections of both Sunnis and Shiʾis will be cited as “compiler,
kitāb/bāb: Arabic reference number” (e.g., Ibn Mājāh, al-T ․ ibb: 3562).
Dating
All dating in The Routledge Companion to the Qur’an will include at minimum the date according to
the Gregorian calendar (denoted as ce, the so-called Common Era, or more precisely, the Christian
Era). For authors who wish to provide dates according to the Islamic Hijri calendar, this date will be
noted first, followed by the Gregorian dating after a slash (e.g., H.asan al-Bas. rī d. circa 110/728; the
Delhi Sultanate was founded in 602/1206).
Standardization
The authors of The Routledge Companion to the Qur’an come from a wide variety backgrounds and
disciplines, and each author has her or his own norms of writing, style, and format. Although we,
the editors, have attempted to apply a single standard throughout, considerable leniency has been
granted to the individual authors to write in forms typical of their fields and cultures. All spelling is
provided in American English, save in quotations.
xii
AUTHORS
Gholamreza Aavani
Dr. Aavani is Shahid Beheshti University’s Professor Emeritus of Philosophy, as well as the Kenan
Rifai Distinguished Professor of Islamic Studies at Beijing University. He is the author of Rumi:
A Philosophical Study (Kazi, 2016), as well as the translator of Exiled in the West: The Mystical Narration
of Shihab al-Din Suhrawardi’s Recital of Occidental Exile (with Laleh Bakhtiar, Kazi, 2019) and Nasir-i
Khusraw: 40 Poems from the Divan (with Peter Lamborn Wilson, Shambala, 1998).
Rumee Ahmed
Dr. Ahmed is Professor of Islamic Law at the University of British Columbia. His research and
writing span religion, law, theology, social theory, philosophy, and hermeneutics. He is the author
of Sharia Compliant: A User’s Guide to Hacking Islamic Law (Stanford University Press, 2018) and Nar-
ratives of Islamic Legal Theory (Oxford University Press, 2012) and is co-editor of The Oxford Handbook
of Islamic Law (Oxford University Press, 2018) and The Objectives of Islamic Law (Lexington Books,
2018).
Khalil Andani
Dr. Andani is Assistant Professor of Religion at Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois, and
specializes in Quranic Studies, Islamic Intellectual History, and Ismailism. He was awarded his PhD
from Harvard University’s Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, which won
Best PhD Dissertation of the Year from the Foundation for Iranian Studies for 2019–2020. His first
manuscript on different perspectives on revelation in Islam is forthcoming.
George Archer
Dr. Archer is Assistant Professor of religious studies at Iowa State University in the United States. He
is the author of A Place Between Two Places: The Qurʾanic Barzakh (Gorgias, 2017), which won the
World Award for Book of the Year of the Islamic Republic of Iran in 2019. Besides Quranic Stud-
ies and early Islamic eschatology, Dr. Archer is a specialist in orality and oral cultures, which is the
subject of his second monograph, A Quranic Mind. Dr. Archer is also an associate editor for Brill’s
The Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān Online.
xiii
Authors
Halla Attallah
Halla Attallah is a doctoral candidate at Georgetown University’s Department of Theology and
Religious Studies. After advanced study in Middle Eastern and Islamic Cultures at the American
University of Paris, she turned to the study of narrative in the Qur’an and the Hebrew Bible. She
is also the author of “Dabru Emet and the Politics of Shared Texts in Interfaith Dialogue” (American
Religion, 2021).
Gary R. Bunt
Professor Gary R. Bunt is a specialist in Islam’s relationship to the Internet at the University of Wales
Trinity Saint David. He is the author of Virtually Islamic: Computer-mediated Communication and Cyber-
Islamic Environments (University of Wales Press, 2000), Islam in the Digital Age: E-Jihad, Online Fatwas
and Cyber-Islamic Environments (Pluto Books, 2003), iMuslims: Rewiring the House of Islam (University
of North Carolina Press, 2009), and Hashtag Islam: How Cyber-Islamic Environments Are Transforming
Religious Authority (University of North Carolina Press, 2018). Website: virtuallyislamic.com
S.R. Burge
Dr. Burge is a Senior Research Associate at the Institute of Ismaili Studies, London. He has published
two monographs, Angels in Islam (Routledge, 2012) and The Prophet Muhammad (I.B. Tauris, 2020),
and two edited volumes, The Meaning of the Word: Lexicology and Qur’an Exegesis (Oxford, 2015) and,
with Asma Hilali, The Making of Religious Texts in Islam (Gerlach, 2019), as well as a number of articles
on tafsīr, h.adīth studies, comparative religion, and angels in Islam. He is also Islam editor on the Ency-
clopaedia of the Bible and Its Reception and the Biblical Reception Series of SBL Press.
Massimo Campanini
Dr. Campanini was Professor of Islamic Studies at the Universities of Urbino, Naples, and Trento.
He was the author of many books, including Al-Ghazali and the Divine (Routledge, 2018), The
Qur’an: Modern Muslim Interpretations (Routledge, 2011), The Qur’an: Modern Muslim Interpretations
(Routledge, 2010), and Maometto: L’inviato di Dio (Salerno Editrice, 2020). Dr. Campanini passed
away October 9, 2020.
William C. Chittick
Dr. Chittck is the Distinguished Professor in the Department of Asian and Asian American Stud-
ies at Stony Brook University, Stony Brook, New York. He is the author of more than 30 books
on Islam, Sufism, and Persian literature, including Divine Love: Islamic Literature and the Path to God
(Yale University Press, 2013), In Search of the Lost Heart: Explorations in Islamic Thought (SUNY Press,
2012), Science of the Cosmos, Science of the Soul (Oneworld, 2007), Me & Rumi: The Autobiography of
Shams-i Tabrizi (FonsVitae, 2004), and The Self-Disclosure of God: Principles of Ibn al-’Arabî’s Cosmology
(SUNY Press, 1998).
Caner Dagli
Dr. Dagli is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at the College of the Holy Cross in Massa-
chusetts. He specializes in the study of the Qur’an and was one of the editors for The Study Quran
(HarperCollins, 2015).
Maria M. Dakake
Dr. Dakake is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at George Mason University in Fairfax, Vir-
ginia. She researches and teaches in the areas of Islamic intellectual history, Qur’anic Studies, and
Shiʾi and Sufi traditions, and women’s religious experiences. She is associate editor and coauthor
xiv
Authors
of The Study Quran (2015) and author of The Charismatic Community: Shiʾite Identity in Early Islam
(SUNY Press, 2008).
Emran El-Badawi
Dr. El-Badawi is Associate Professor of Middle Eastern Studies, and Chair of the Department of
Modern and Classical Languages at the University of Houston, Texas. He is co-founder of the Inter-
national Qur’anic Studies Association (IQSA). His publications include The Qur’an and the Aramaic
Gospel Traditions (Routledge, 2013), “Intellectual freedom and the study of the Qur’an,” Oasis: Chris-
tians and Muslims in the Global World 26 (2018), and Communities of the Qur’an: Dialogue, Debate and
Diversity in the 21st Century (co-edited with Paula Sanders, OneWorld, 2019). His current project is
on female power in late antique Arabia.
Sidney H. Griffith
Dr. Griffith is Emeritus Professor in the Department of Semitic and Egyptian Languages and Lit-
eratures at the Catholic University of America in Washington, D.C. A specialist in Arab and Syriac
Christianity, as well as interreligious dialogue, Dr. Griffith is the author of many works. These
include The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam (Princeton
University Press, 2010) and The Bible in Arabic: The Scriptures of the “People of the Book” in the Language
of Islam (Princeton University Press, 2015).
Paul L. Heck
Dr. Heck, Department of Theology and Religious Studies, Georgetown University, pursues research
on the history of religious ideas with focus on the mystical, the skeptical, and the political. Publica-
tions worth mentioning include “Jihad Revisited,” Journal of Religious Ethics (2004), “Signs of Skepti-
cism in Early Abbasid Literature,” Journal of Abbasid Studies (2015), and “Mawardi and Augustine on
Governance: How to Restrain the Restrainer?” Studies in Christian Ethics (2016).
Michel Lagarde
Dr. Lagarde was Professor of Arabic and Islam at the Pontifical Institute of Arabic and Islamic Studies,
Rome. He works broadly in Muslim/Christian relations and Qur’anic exegesis. His works include
Index Du Grand Commentaire de Fahr al-Din al-Razi (Brill, 1997) and Le Parfait Manuel des Sciences
Coraniques al-Itqān fī ʿUlūm al-Qurʾān de Ğalāl ad-Dīn as-Suyūt․ī (849/1445–911/1505) (Brill, 2017).
Todd Lawson
Dr. Lawson is Emeritus Associate Professor of Islamic Thought in the Department of Near and
Middle Eastern Civilizations at the University of Toronto, St. George. He is the author of many
articles on Islamic, Babi, and Baha’i religions, most recently Being Human: Baha’i Perspectives on Islam,
Modernity, and Peace (Kalimat Press, 2021). Dr. Lawson received his PhD from McGill University.
Joseph E.B. Lumbard
Dr. Lumbard is Associate Professor of Qur’anic Studies in the College of Islamic Studies at Hamad
Bin Khalifa University, Doha. He is specialized in the study of the Qur’an, Sufism, and interreligious
dialogue. He is also one of the general editors of The Study Quran (HarperOne, 2015). His other
works include Ah.mad al-Ghazālī, Remembrance, and the Metaphysics of Love (SUNY Press, 2016) and
Submission, Faith & Beauty: The Religion of Islam (Fons Vitae, 2009).
Daniel A. Madigan
Dr. Madigan is Associate Professor and Jeanette W. and Otto J. Ruesch Family Distinguished Jesuit
Scholar at Georgetown University, Washington, D.C., where he is also Senior Fellow of The Al-Waleed
xv
Authors
Center for Muslim–Christian Understanding, a Faculty Fellow of the Berkley Center for Religion,
Peace and World Affairs, and an Honorary Professorial Fellow of the Australian Catholic University.
He is the author of many works on the Qur’an, Islam, and Christian/Muslim dialogue, including The
Qur’ân’s Self-Image: Writing and Authority in Islam’s Scripture (Princeton University Press, 2001).
N.A. Mansour
N. A. Mansour is a historian and a PhD candidate at Princeton University’s Department of Near
Eastern Studies, where she is writing a dissertation on the transition between manuscript and print
in Arabic-language contexts. She produces podcasts for different venues, coedits Hazine.info, and
works for different museums and archives. She also writes for the general public on culture, Islam,
and history.
Younus Y. Mirza
Dr. Mirza is Director of the Barzinji Project at Shenandoah University in Virginia and a Visiting
Researcher at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C. His work focuses on the Ibn Kathīr,
marriage and sexuality in Islam, and the relationships between the depictions of the prophets in bib-
lical and Qur’anic sources. On this last matter, Dr. Mirza is the author of The Bible and the Qur’an:
Biblical Figures in the Islamic Tradition (with John Kaltner, Bloomsbury, 2018).
Hadia Mubarak
Dr. Mubarak is an Assistant Professor of Religion at Queens University of Charlotte, where she
teaches courses on Islam, women and gender in Islam, the history of Islam in America, and com-
parative scriptures, among other courses. Prior to joining Queens, she served as Assistant Professor
of Religious Studies at Guilford College (2018–2020). During the 2017–2018 academic year, she
was a Research Fellow at New York University Abu Dhabi (NYUAD)’s Institute in the Humani-
ties, where she wrote her monograph, Rebellious Wives, Neglectful Husbands: Controversies in Modern
Quranic Commentaries (OUP, forthcoming). Mubarak completed her PhD in Islamic Studies from
Georgetown University.
Gordon D. Newby
Dr. Newby is Professor Emeritus of Middle Eastern and South Asian Studies at Emory University.
Dr. Newby works in comparative studies, and focuses especially on the relationship of the early Mus-
lims to Jews and Christians. He is also the author of A History of the Jews of Arabia: From Ancient Times
to Their Eclipse Under Islam (University of South Carolina Press, 2009), The Making of the Last Prophet:
A Reconstruction of the Earliest Biography of Muhammad (University of South Carolina Press, 1989).
Ali A. Olomi
Dr. Olomi is Assistant Professor of History at Penn State Abington. He received his PhD in History
at the University of California Irvine. The author of many articles on Islam and gender, sexuality,
and the rise of Islamism and nationalism, Dr. Olomi has most recently been researching Islamic
esoctericism and folklore, specifically with regard to jinn.
Lauren E. Osborne
Dr. Osborne is Associate Professor of Religion and South Asian and Middle Eastern Studies at
Whitman College in Walla Walla, Washington. Her main area of specialization is the recitation of
the Qur’an, a subject on which she has published several articles and book chapters, and has a mono-
graph in progress, called Recite! Aesthetics and Experience of the Recited Qur’an. She is also writing a
textbook on Islam and sound. She has written as well on affect theory in relation to the Qur’an, and
Sayyid Qutb’s works on the Qur’an.
xvi
Authors
Johanna Pink
Dr. Pink is Professor of Islamic Studies at the Albert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg, Germany.
She completed her doctoral degree at the University of Bonn and has taught at Freie Universität
Berlin and the University of Tuebingen. Her main fields of interest are the transregional history of
tafsīr, especially in the modern period, and Qur’an translations with a particular focus on Indonesia.
Her publications include a monograph on Sunni tafsīr in the modern Islamic world, a guest-edited
volume of the Journal of Qur’anic Studies on translations of the Qur’an in Muslim majority contexts,
and a volume on tafsīr and Islamic intellectual history, coedited with Andreas Görke. Her latest
monograph is entitled Muslim Qur’anic Interpretation Today (Equinox, 2019).
Michael Pregill
Dr. Pregill is a scholar of comparative religion, focusing on the scriptural cultures of Late Antiquity
and the Middle Ages. His main areas of academic specialization are the Qur’an and its interpretation,
the origins of Islam in the Late Antique milieu, and Muslim relations with non-Muslims. Much of
his research focuses on the reception of biblical, Jewish, and Christian traditions in the Qur’an and
Islam. He is the author of The Golden Calf Between Bible and Qur’an: Scripture, Polemic, and Exegesis
from Late Antiquity to Islam (Oxford University Press, 2020). He is currently a lecturer at Chapman
University in Orange, California.
Ahmed Ragab
Dr. Ragab is Associate Professor of the History of Medicine at Johns Hopkins University. He is the
author of several works on Islamic Medicine, including The Medieval Islamic Hospital: Medicine, Religion
and Charity (Cambridge, 2015), Piety and Patienthood in Medieval Islam (Routledge, 2018), and Medicine
and Religion in the Life of an Ottoman Sheikh (Routledge, 2018). He is also authoring two new books:
Communities of Knowledge: Science in Medieval Europe and Islamdom (coauthored with Dr. Katharine Park,
Princeton) and Around the Clock: Time in Medieval Islamic Clinical Culture ( Johns Hopkins).
Nevin Reda
Dr. Reda is Associate Professor of Muslim Studies at Emmanuel College of Victoria University in
the University of Toronto. She is the author of The al-Baqara Crescendo: Understanding the Qur’an’s
Style, Narrative Structure, and Running Themes (McGill–Queen’s UP, 2017) on the scripture’s organi-
zation, poetics, and interpretation and co-editor of Islamic Interpretive Tradition and Gender Justice:
Processes of Canonization, Subversion, and Change (McGill–Queen’s UP, 2020).
Mohammed Rustom
Mohammed Rustom is Professor of Islamic Thought at Carleton University. He is author of The
Triumph of Mercy: Philosophy and Scripture in Mullā S.adrā (SUNY Press, 2012), co-editor of The Study
Quran: A New Translation and Commentary (HarperOne, 2015), translator of ʿAyn al-Qud.āt, The
Essence of Reality: A Defense of Philosophical Sufism (Library of Arabic Literature; NYU Press, 2022),
and author of Inrushes of the Heart: The Sufi Philosophy of ʿAyn al-Qud. āt (SUNY Press, 2022).
Abdulaziz Sachedina
Dr. Sachedina is Professor of Islamic Studies at George Mason University in Fairfax, Virginia. He
works most especially in Islamic ethics, politics, and jurisprudence. Among his published works are
Islam and the Challenge of Human Rights (Oxford University Press, 2009), Islamic Biomedical Ethics:
Principles and Application (Oxford University Press, 2011), The Islamic Roots of Democratic Pluralism
(Oxford University Press, 2007), and The Just Ruler in Shiʿite Islam: The Comprehensive Authority of the
Jurist in Imamite Jurisprudence (Oxford University Press, 1998).
xvii
Authors
Feryal Salem
Dr. Salem is Associate Professor of Arabic and Islamic Studies at the American Islamic College
where she is also the Director of the Masters in Divinity in the Islamic Studies and Muslim Chap-
laincy programs. She received her PhD in Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations from the Uni-
versity of Chicago. Dr. Salem is also the author of The Emergence of Early Sufi Piety and Sunnī
Scholasticism:ʿAbdallāh b. al-Mubārak and the Formation of Sunni Identity in the Second Islamic Century
(Brill, 2016) and translator of the forthcoming The Isogoge: al-Abharī’s Introduction to Logic (University
of Chicago Press).
Devin J. Stewart
Dr. Stewart is a Professor of Arabic and Islamic Studies at Emory University. Dr. Stewart has a PhD
from the University of Pennsylvania in Arabic and Islamic Studies. Teaching and writing on a wide
variety of topics within those fields – from early modern Shiʿism, to Islamic legal theory, to modern
Arabic dialects – Dr. Stewart has shown particular interest in the poetic and prosaic language of the
Qur’an.
Lahouari R. Taleb
Lahourari R. Taleb specializes in Sufi theology and Qur’anic exegesis. His dissertation on the Sufi
Qur’anic exegesis and Theology of ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jazāʾirī (d. 1883), the Algerian freedom fighter
and Sufi mystical theologian.
David Thomas
David Thomas FBA is Emeritus Professor of Christianity and Islam at the University of Birming-
ham. His areas of interest include early Islamic theological thought and the history of Muslim/
Christian relations. He is editor of The Routledge Handbook on Christian-Muslim Relations (Routledge,
2019) and lead editor of Christian–Muslim Relations. A Bibliographical History (Brill, 2009–present, 18
volumes completed so far).
Sarra Tlili
Dr. Tlili is Associate Professor of Arabic and Islamic Studies in the Department of Languages, Litera-
tures, and Cultures at the University of Florida. Her areas of specialization are animals, the environ-
ment, and sustainability in the Islamic tradition and the Qur’an most especially. She received both
her PhD and MA in Arabic and Islamic Studies from the University of Pennsylvania.
Roberto Tottoli
Dr. Tottoli is Full Professor of Islamic Studies at the Università di Napoli L'Orientale. His areas of
expertise include Qur’an exegesis, hadith, and modern Islam. He is the author of Biblical Prophets
in the Qur’an and Muslim Literature (Routledge, 2013), Islam: An Advanced Introduction (Routledge,
2020), and the editor of The Routledge Handbook of Islam in the West (Routledge, 2014).
Elaine van Dalen
Dr. van Dalen is assistant professor of Classical Islamic Studies at Columbia University’s Depart-
ment of Middle Eastern, South Asian, and African Studies. She works primarily on the history
of medicine in the classical Islamic world. Her forthcoming manuscript will treat the reception of
Hippocratic and Galenic works by Arabic physicians. She is also the author of “Pediatrics in Classi-
cal Islamic Theoria” ( Journal of the American Oriental Society, 2019) and “Subjectivity in Translation:
H.unayn Ibn Ish.āq’s 9th-century Interpretation of Galen’s ‘Ego’ in his Commentary on the Hippo-
cratic Aphorisms” (Oriens, 2017).
xviii
Authors
Tim Winter
Dr. Winter is the Shaykh Zayed Lecturer in Islamic Studies at the University of Cambridge, Cam-
bridge, UK. He researches widely in Islamic theology, Sufism, and interreligious dialogue. He is the
translator of The Remembrance of Death and the Afterlife (Islamic Texts Society, 1989) and Al-Ghazali
on Disciplining the Soul and on Breaking the Two Desires (Islamic Texts Society, 1995), and is editor of
the Cambridge Companion to Classical Islamic Theology (Cambridge, 2009).
Travis Zadeh
Dr. Zadeh is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at Yale University, New Haven, CT. Besides
Qur’anic Studies, he works on Islamic cosmography, mythology, and eschatology. He is the author
of Mapping Frontiers Across Medieval Islam: Geography, Translation and the ‘Abbasid Empire (I. B. Tau-
ris, 2011) and The Vernacular Qur’an: Translation and the Rise of Persian Exegesis (Oxford University
Press, 2012). He has also finished a forthcoming monograph on wonder and astonishment in Islamic
philosophy, science, and literature.
xix
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The editors of the Routledge Companion to the Qur’an would like to thank all of the people who
contributed to this volume, as well as our team at Routledge and Amy Doffegnies most especially.
Over the many years that this collection took to come to fruition, individuals beyond count aided us
and our authors. In gratitude, we also wish to thank Nicholas Boylston, Sophia Rose Arjana, Jason
Welle, Rachel Schine, Rose Deighton, Kristen Peterson, Elyas Sabir, and Kayla Renée Wheeler.
And, finally, we would like to thank our friends and families for their patience.
From Daniel A. Madigan: I owe a great debt of gratitude to my fellow editors for carrying this
project to completion after I was forced to withdraw from it for reasons of health. Maria M. Dakake’s
idea of enlisting the help of George Archer was inspired. My thanks to both of them for bearing the
burdens that producing a volume such as this unavoidably entails. It is not merely for alphabetical
reasons that my name should appear last on it.
xx
EDITORS’ INTRODUCTION:
THE QUR’AN’S THREE WORLDS
George Archer, Maria M. Dakake, and Daniel A. Madigan
The keys to hearts are in the hand of God. He opens hearts when, as, and how he wills.
The only thing opening at this moment are three chapters.
al-Ghazālī (d. 1111), Mishkāt al-anwār
Part I: A Brief History of an Eternal Book

Sometime in the first half of the seventh century ce, a collection of documents and oral reports
began to circulate around the landmass we now call Arabia. This corpus referred to itself repeatedly
as “the Recitation,” or “the Recital,” (Arabic, al-qurʾān). This Qur’an claimed at length to be, or be
part of a larger tradition of writings, records, and scripture (kitāb, plur. kutub) which included the
collected wisdom of both Jews and Christians. It was wah.y, a “revealed communication” from the
one God, just as the Torah, the Psalms, and the Gospel are. And most especially, the Qur’an insisted
on the utmost reality of this one, unique divine being – Allāh, “the God” – who is without equal or
partner and who speaks to humankind across history through prophets, messengers, natural wonders,
and supernatural portents. The Qur’an, it insists of itself, is the next part of this cosmic story of
revelation; and to Muslims, the last and greatest part.
While often reminiscent of the Psalms, the Hebrew Prophets, apocalyptic literatures, Jewish rab-
binical lore, Arabic poetry, and contemporary Syriac Christian hagiography and liturgy, the Qur’an
is, as the later Muslim scholars would claim, in a genre all its own. Indeed, one of the Qur’an’s most
remarkable features is its uncanny ability to feel familiar while always being in a unique category. The
Qur’an tells us that it is bringing striking news from a compassionate God, while at the same time
underscoring that the news is known to people already. The Qur’an is in its genius always a novelty
and a reminder in the same moment. It was dismissed by some early rejecters of its message as merely
“tales of the ancients” (asāt․īru l-awwalīna, Q 23:83) but on the other hand, it is a revelation that has
come to warn these very people whose forebears were not warned before (Q 36:6). The Qur’an
moves seamlessly between the past and the future, what has been seen before and what is unseen.
The Qur’anic voice – for Muslims, the voice of God, often speaking directly in the first person –
booms forth from a transcendent perspective that stands outside of human time and yet encompasses
it all, flattening history and making chronology irrelevant, invoking both past and future to reinforce
what is at stake for its listeners in a morally demanding and inescapable now. Yet the commanding
voice of the Qur’an that stands beyond history also enters into it, responding, at times directly, to its
xxi
Editors’ Introduction: The Qur’an’s Three Worlds
critics, addressing contemporaneous issues and events in the life of its prophetic receptacle and his
community of believers, and offering moral commentary on the very stories it relates. This God is
never an indifferent or impartial narrator.
Around the year 650, the written and orally preserved parts of the Qur’an were compiled in
forms more familiar to us now. The oral stories, visions, parables, laws, and sayings that constituted
the Qur’anic revelations were arranged in written form. These written copies were the ancestors of
every Qur’an on earth today. The Qur’anic codex (mus.h.af ) has a number of features that marks it
as distinct, and often unique, among other literatures from Late Antiquity (circa 300–800 ce). Most
notable of these is the Arabic language it employs. The Qur’an may very well be the first true book
written in the Arabic language, or at the very least it is the first Arabic book that survives to us. This
use of Arabic – which hitherto was not a literary language like Greek, Syriac, or Hebrew – is self-
consciously acknowledged and repeatedly invoked in the Qur’an itself to assert that it is addressed,
at least initially, to an Arabic-speaking people previously unaddressed by the biblical God in their
own language. “Indeed, we have sent it down as an Arabic recitation [qurʾānan ʿarabiyyan], so that
you may understand” (Q 12:2).
The 114 sections of the Qur’an are arranged roughly by their length, descending from longest
to shortest. Notably, each of the Qur’an’s sections is referred to as a sura (sūra, pl. suwar). Although
the Qur’an refers to its own use of the sura as a unit (e.g., Q 2:23), there are no indications of what
the term sura means exactly. Perhaps referring to something “enclosed” or “ensnared,” the suras
are units of various lengths, styles, themes, and timescales without any obvious unifying features to
mark the sura as a defined format. They can be dozens of pages long or as short as sayings. They can
be historical, mythical, legal, moral, literal, symbolic, prose, or rhyming meter – although most are
some combination of these.
Each sura is subdivided into verses, referred to as signs, āyāt (sing. āya), using the same term
that the Qur’an also uses repeatedly to describe a variety of natural and supernatural phenomena,
historical personages, and events. The Qur’anic āyāt often (but not always) are marked with rhym-
ing ends in the Arabic. The Qur’an’s verses can vary significantly in length, grammatical structure,
and regularity, save perhaps the rough principle that the longer the sura, the longer the āyāt in that
sura will tend to be. In the oldest known codices, divisions between the verses were indicated by a
series of dots, while later Qur’ans used numerical systems for ease of reference. The vast majority of
Qur’ans printed today follow the verse enumerations of the Royal Cairo edition of 1924–1926 by
al-Azhar University.
At some point during the Umayyad Period (661–750), all of the Qur’an’s suras began to receive
more or less standard titles. How this happened is not clear, but by the classical Islamic period, the
naming of suras would become so ubiquitous that later scribes would insert the titles onto already
ancient Qur’anic codices. Some of these names refer to an unusual word that appears within that
sura, such as al-Masad (“the Fiber,” sura 112), al-Fīl (“the Elephant,” sura 105), or ʿAbasa (“He
frowned,” sura 80). Other suras were named for well-known figures from Arabian and/or biblical
history: Yūnus (“Jonah,” sura 10), Maryam (“Mary,” sura 19), Luqmān (the name of a legendary sage,
sura 31). Still others were named thematically, for instance al-Nisāʾ (“the Women,” sura 4), al-Qas.as.
(“the Stories,” sura 28), and al-T․alāq (“the Divorce,” sura 65). And others again were named for mys-
terious disconnected Arabic letters (h.urūf muqat․․taʿāt) that precede many of the suras, like Yāʾ Sīn (“Y
S,” sura 36) or Qāf (“Q,” sura 50). Several well-known and oft repeated āyāt, too, were endowed with
semiofficial names, like Āyat al-Kursī (“the Throne Verse,” Q 2:255), Āyat al-Sayf (“the Sword Verse,”
Q 9:5), and Āyat al-Nūr (“the Light Verse,” Q 24:35).
Like all texts everywhere, the Qur’an has an assumed audience. In the case of the Qur’an, it
speaks as if the listeners know one particular register of Arabic fluently and as if the audience is
immersed in the environment of seventh-century Arabian life. The culture, customs, religions,
stories, and characters of that very specific world punctuate the message in its entirety. The Qur’an
xxii
appeared in Late Antique Arabia, and it assumes its intelligibility to an audience situated in this
time and place. However as the years went on and the community of the Qur’an, which in time
referred to itself by the Qur’anic term “Muslims,” expanded beyond Arabia and established its politi-
cal authority over wide swathes of territory from North Africa to the borders of India, Qur’anic
audiences asked what this revelation meant in new settings and to new peoples. Around the time of
the ʿAbbāsid Revolution in 750, we start to detect the first clues of formal studies of the Qur’an.
Since by this point the Qur’an had been in circulation for over a century, and the original audience
was long dead, Muslims began to ask themselves about how the Qur’an was to be read, understood,
and implemented in situations far removed from that of the early “community” (umma) which had
received this unusual scripture.
Muslims have tried to resolve this disparity between the Qur’an’s primary and secondary audi-
ences in a number of ways. The principal response to the dilemma that we see in the eighth century
is the turn to the Qur’an’s first recipient: a single prophet-messenger. The Qur’an as we have it
before us very often addresses a grammatically male speaker of Arabic in the second person singular
“you” or refers to him in the third person. This addressee is also singularly called, “the Prophet”
and “the Messenger,” which indicates that this is only one person in particular. Four times this
individual is named Muh.ammad (“the Praiseworthy”), and once he is understood to be referred to
by the variant Ah.mad. Moreover, the Qur’anic verses often take the form of very personal com-
munications with him, not only giving him instructions or commands but engaging his hopes, his
fears, and his disappointments with those who rejected the message he was tasked with delivering, as
well as aspects of his personal, domestic life. The Islamic tradition unanimously identifies this single,
immediate addressee of the Qur’an as the historical figure Muh.ammad ibn ʿAbdallāh, who lived
from approximately 570 to 632 ce in the towns of Mecca and Yathrib (Medina) in Western Arabia.
To engage the Qur’an in this new ʿAbbāsid world meant to reconstruct the narrative of Muhum-
mad’s life and the milieu he moved in 150 years before. Although no Islamic tradition considers
Muhammad the author of the Qur’an, all variants of Islam insist that this person, his Companions,
and his environment are somehow crucial to understanding the Qur’an and its function. But because
the primary audience of the Qur’an can presumably see and hear Muhammad, the Qur’an rarely
provides detailed biographical information about him itself. To fill this void, secondary literature
began to appear across the Near East and Central Asia to describe Muhammad and his people. In
providing the details of the Qur’an’s prophetic intermediary and earliest hearers and reciters, these
secondary literatures became the hermeneutical keys to reading the Qur’an itself. Muhammad is not
the Qur’an’s author, but he would come to be the Qur’an’s context.
The Sīra (fully Sīrat Rasūl Allāh, The Epic of God’s Messenger), written by Ibn Ish.āq (d. 767), is an
early prophetic biography composed of oral reports and stories attributed to the first Muslims. Ibn
Ish.āq, his redactors Ibn Hishām (d. 833) and al-T ․abarī (d. 923), and other historian-biographers
like Maʿmar ibn Rāshid (d. 770) and al-Wāqidī (d. 823), sought to reconstruct the life and times of
Muhammad. In so doing, they embedded accounts of the revelation of particular Qur’anic passages
in the context of specific circumstances in Muhammad’s life, effectively trying to re-present the
Qur’an as they understood it to have emerged piecemeal in its original historical setting more than
a century earlier. These accounts of the historical situations in the life of Muhammad when certain
sections of the Qur’an appeared, allowed eighth- and ninth-century Muslims to attempt to approach
the Qur’anic text chronologically. The Qur’an could now be understood through the lens of its
particular communal foundation. Beyond this, many of these works included a history of prophecy
prior to Muhammad, often (but not exclusively) linked to the prophetic figures in the Qur’an, a his-
tory which saw the founding of the Islamic community as the goal toward which everything tended.
This allowed the whole of the Qur’an, including accounts of pre-Muhammadan prophets, to be read
within the context of a universal sacred history. However, the establishment of a chronological order
for both individual Qur’anic verses and Qur’anic prophetic history never replaced the significance
xxiii
of reading the Qur’an synchronically, that is, in its textual order, which is considered by Muslims to
possess a unique spiritual power.
Scholars have long questioned the historical accuracy of the details of the Sīra and other early
biographical sources, but few would doubt the general outline of Muhammad’s ministry they all
provided. He was born in Mecca, began reciting the Qur’an in his middle age, established a religious
community that relocated to Yathrib (later called Medina), and his movement swept over Mecca
and the rest of Western Arabia in the time before his death. The story of the human Muhammad
and the interpretation of the divine Qur’an became interlocked. The most striking example of this
is the identification of the Qur’an’s suras by their location of origin, or at least the origin of the
majority of the verses found in a particular sura. The suras were categorized as originating either in
the Qurayshī town of Mecca, where Muhammad was born, or at the religiously diverse oasis called
Medina, where Muhammad sought sanctuary, developed his umma, and eventually died. The sīra
tradition indicates that Muhammad’s career as recipient and prophet of the Qur’an, which encom-
passed the last 23 years of his life, was unevenly split between these two locations: 13 years in Mecca
and ten in Medina. Correspondingly, by most reckonings about 60% of the Qur’anic suras have their
provenance in Mecca and about 40% in Medina.
Contemporaneously, another movement started to manifest which also sought to resurrect the
world of the first Muslims and to use that reconstruction, in part, as a means to understand the
Qur’an. Authors like Mālik ibn Anas (d. 795) began to collect hadiths (h.adīth, “report”) of sayings
and events attributed to the people of Muhammad’s umma. These would, in theory, clarify matters
of religious practice (primarily) or doctrine upon which the Qur’an was obscure or would supple-
ment it entirely where the Qur’an was silent. Within two generations, the focus of the hadiths nar-
rowed significantly to give the maximum priority to words and deeds attributed to Muhammad, his
family, and his immediate entourage. In the Sunni Islamic tradition, the authority to interpret and
supplement the Qur’an would belong to these contemporary Companions (s.ah.āba) of Muhammad,
as well as the early generations of scholars that followed them. This refinement of the hadith genre
in the Sunni tradition was especially typified by the compilers, al-Bukhārī (d. 870) and Muslim ibn
al-H.ajjāj (d. 875), whose work epitomized the rigorous standards for authenticating hadiths through
careful source analysis as part of a new branch of Islamic learning (ʿilm al-h.adīth). For Shiʿi Mus-
lims, who have other collections of hadiths, it is the Prophet and the Shiʿi Imams who possess this
authority. Shiʿi hadith collections, particularly those of al-Kulayni (d. 941) and Ibn Babawayh (d.
991), regularly feature interpretative commentary on Qur’anic passages both from the Prophet and
the Imams.
The sīra corpus allowed later Muslims to understand the way in which the Qur’an unfolded
contextually through the events of Muhammad’s life. However, the hadiths arranged accounts of
Muhammad’s words and actions topically rather than chronologically, effectively decontextualizing
his teachings and exemplary actions. This allowed Muslims of the eighth century and beyond access
to Muhammad’s sunna as an authoritative and seemingly timeless “precedent” for how to live, prac-
tice Islam, and engage with God’s revelation. These hadith collections are considered second only
to the Qur’an in authority and are very often a necessary supplement to it, given the Qur’an’s less
than detailed treatment of some central rites and aspects of Islamic practice. By turning only to (sup-
posedly) trustworthy hadiths, the Muslim could interpret and implement the Qur’an as Muhammad
and his inner circle once did.
Concurrent with this turn to the life and teaching of Muhammad as the touchstone for inter-
preting the Qur’an, another religious trend began to emerge in the Islamic community. This was a
focus on the interior and experiential dimensions of Islamic belief and practice and often eschewed
or critiqued more scholastic approaches to the Qur’an and the hadiths. Later referred to as Sufism
(tas.awwuf ), this movement counted among its adherents both Muslims without access to these
more scholarly approaches to the religion (women, the poor, slaves) but also pious and sometimes
xxiv
prominent religious scholars themselves, including the early figures al-H.asan al-Bas.rī (d. 728) and
Sufyān al-Thawrī (d. 778). These early Sufis combined scrupulous attention to prescribed religious
practices and their own inner spiritual state and moral purity, with sometimes extreme acts of piety
and asceticism. Sufi thought was deeply rooted in the Qur’an, from which most of the technical
terms of Sufi thought and practice derive, but Sufis focused on the mystical and experiential “inner”
(bāt․in) meanings of the scripture rather than on more technical and historically rooted approaches
to its interpretation. In these cases, the hermeneutical keys to the Qur’an were to be found in the
quest for personal, spiritual transformation: the purification and ultimate annihilation of the ego, an
emphasis on love as the basis of the relationship between God and the Sufi seeker, and the quest for
experiential knowledge of – and, for some, union with – God. Between the eleventh and thirteenth
centuries, most Sufi trends concretized into established schools and lineages which incorporated
other forms of Islamic learning, but self-purification and transformation, personal piety, and the pur-
suit of both love and knowledge of God remained deeply tied to the unveiling of hidden meanings in
all of God’s “signs,” including the Qur’anic verses. As a result, among the most penetrating exegetical
treatments of the Qur’an are those authored by S.ufi scholars, including some that combine system-
atic scholarly approaches to the Qur’an with their personal mystical insights.
Parallel to these developments was a gradual evolution of the Arabic language, which was in
part bolstered by the influence of the Qur’an. The extraordinary reality of God’s self-disclosure in
the Arabic language of the Qur’an, paired with the eighth-century introduction of paper and the
transformation of the umma from a tribal confederation into a series of empires, prompted a shift
in the very nature of Arabic itself. The once obscure cluster of dialects spoken only in Arabia and
the Levant gave way to what may perhaps be the most literate civilization in world history before
the modern period. Books beyond reckoning were written in or translated into Arabic on every
imaginable topic. Poetry, “natural philosophy” (falsafa), medicine, “dialectical theology” (kalām),
“etiquette” (adab), material sciences, mathematics, histories, fiction, linguistics, and engineering all
found expression in medieval Arabic, encouraging and requiring both the development and docu-
mentation of orthographic and grammatical standards for the language, as well as the development
of a host of technical vocabularies related to the religious and other sciences. And behind this all was
the Qur’an, which was at once the grammatical guide, spiritual catalyst, and unrivaled masterpiece
of this new, literary Arabic. The availability of both native-Islamic learning and the pre-Islamic
knowledge of the ancient Greeks, Romans, Persians, Mesopotamians, Egyptians, and Indians called
for new mental landscapes. The shift to a literary culture with diverse areas of scholarly and intel-
lectual inquiry would in turn influence the reading and explanation of the same Qur’an that gave
rise to the shift. What is the relationship between the Qur’an and poetry? Or the Qur’an and logic?
Or theology? Or history? Or previous religions?
These areas of intellectual inquiry related to the Qur’an begat endless rereadings of the scripture
and its message, with no branch of Islamic knowledge left untouched. These approaches recom-
bined in numerous formal exegeses of the Qur’an, today collectively referred to as tafsīr (“interpre-
tation”). In a classical work of tafsīr, an author would analyze the Qur’an through any number of
sciences and write an accompanying commentary literature – often at staggering length. Some of
the earliest iterations of this genre made extensive use of interwoven glosses upon the words and
phrases of the Qur’an, with later exegetes making frequent reference to the compendia of pre-
Islamic poetry to explain some of the archaic Arabic terminology employed in the scripture. Many
also included mention, where known, of the circumstances in which a particular verse or passage was
revealed to Muhammad or supplemented the discussion of the highly elliptical Qur’anic narratives
of pre-Muhammadan prophets with the biblical and para-biblical lore of the Jews and Christians
(isrāʾiliyyāt), as we can see in the early commentary of Muqātil ibn Sulaymān (d. 767). These early
exegetical approaches would lead to the emergence of encyclopedic tafsīrs, like those of al-T ․abarī
or al-Thaʿlabī (d. 1035), which were able to draw upon the (by that point) more or less canonized
xxv
collections of hadiths of the Prophet and reports of the Prophet’s Companions or of the early
generations of pious scholars that succeeded them, in addition to earlier exegetical developments.
Other exegetical works were more focused in their interests and methodologies, from the heavily
linguistic analysis of al-Zamakhsharī (d. 1144), to exegeses dominated by legal concerns, like that of
al-Qurt․ubī (d. 1273), or heavily engaged in philosophical theology, like that of Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī
(d. 1210). Were these many possible – and even competing – opinions about the meaning of the
Qur’an to be considered together?
Aside from the availability of different forms of information, the reading of the Qur’an was
shaped by ever new readers. As Islam spread and Muslims came into contact with other cultures, the
worldviews, presuppositions, languages, and questions of each new audience addressed the Qur’anic
text. Could the Arabic Qur’an be translated into other languages, such as Persian, and later other
vernaculars? What did reciting the Qur’an in prayer or reading mean to someone who did not
understand its words? What did the Qur’an mean to a Turkish poet, an Amazigh merchant, a Malian
princess, a Spanish Jew, or a Chinese Christian? Conversely, but similarly creating new approaches
to the Qur’an, was the increasing encounter with non-Muslims in the already Islamicized parts of
the globe or on its contested borders, particularly in the postcaliphal period. These encounters took
many forms, from the productive multireligious intellectual flowering of Islamic Spain (al-Andalus)
between the eighth and thirteenth centuries, to the destructive invasion of vast swaths of Islamic
territory by the Mongols in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries that fundamentally undercut
Sunni authority in these territories, paving the way for new forms of Shiʿism and Sufism to flour-
ish there; from India, where the Islamic Mughal Dynasty (1526–1857) sought intellectual outreach
to the majority of their subjects who followed Hindu religions (including the mutual translation of
sacred texts), to the Ottoman conquest of large areas of Byzantine Christian territory, including its
religious center in Constantinople, and the development of new ways of administering their own
multireligious society.
Whether Muslims moved into or invaded non-Muslim regions or non-Muslims invaded the
Islamic world, each new contact with a new audience led to a new dialogue with the Qur’an. The
Qur’an continued to be interpreted and reinterpreted through all of these seismic changes and in
all of these new contexts, while also remaining heavily influenced by earlier exegetical opinions
and approaches. By the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, perhaps in response to the variety of
approaches to the Qur’an that had developed, some influential works were composed that sought
to establish or systematically articulate acceptable methodologies for the “Qur’anic sciences” (ʿulūm
al-qurʾān). In the Sunni tradition, these notably included al-Suyūt․ī’s (d. 1505) The Perfect Guide to the
Qur’anic Sciences (al-Itqān fī ʿulūm al-qurʾān) and Ibn Taymiyya’s (d. 1328) influential Introduction to the
Sources of Interpretation (al-Muqaddima fī us.ūl al-tafsīr). This latter work insisted, among other things,
on a regular hierarchy of sources for interpreting the Qur’an and strict adherence to the earlier
interpretations of the Prophet and the first three generations of Muslim scholars. This view heav-
ily influenced his student, the Qur’anic exegete Ibn Kathīr (d. 1373), who argued that Jewish and
Christian sources should be avoided in Qur’anic commentary in favor of sound Islamic hadiths. But
creative new exegeses and important revisions of earlier ones continued to be produced, including
in non-Arabic languages like Persian or Ottoman Turkish, even if these postclassical tafsīrs have not
received as much scholarly attention to date as their predecessors.
The most radical set of changes to Islamic intellectual culture, including Qur’anic exegesis, fol-
lowed the nearly worldwide conquests by Western Europeans. Being the first truly global event
in human history, the process of European colonization (circa 1500–1980) and its accompanying
worldview, modernity, would leave the most extreme and lasting impacts on the Qur’an. From
the point of view of those Muslims whose homes were invaded, any number of concerns were laid
before the Qur’an for the first time. What is the Qur’an to those who have been violently ripped
xxvi
away from Arabic-language education, Islamic learning, and access to the written Qur’an itself, as in
the case of the enslaved Muslims of Western Africa brought to the Americas? Sayyid Ahmed Khan
(d. 1898) and many others asked how the Qur’an was to be interpreted in the light (and shadow)
of European material and historical sciences. Should Muslims undergo a “reformation” (is.lāh.) to
work in harmony with Western modern conceptions of nation-states, citizenship, law, and human
rights? Or were these notions to be rejected or modified as an “innovation” (bidʿa) contrary to
Qur’anic norms and prescriptions? What does the Qur’an have to say regarding modern Western
preoccupations such as “religion,” “art,” “capitalism,” “race,” “feminism,” “sexuality,” “pop culture,”
and “factuality,” which lack exact Qur’anic analogues? As Muslims became increasingly aware of
these new questions being raised about the Qur’an, they struggled to find ways to respond to these
deeply unfamiliar methods of approaching their sacred text, based on a set of assumptions that were
almost entirely foreign to them. They responded, and continue to respond, in a variety of ways;
but whatever the response, the West has become, explicitly or implicitly, a part of the conversation
about what the Qur’an means to Muslims in modernity, whether as a conversation partner or as an
intellectual and religious foil.
And on the other side of the colonization and modernization process were the new Qur’anic
readers among the Western non-Muslim colonizers. Does the Qur’an function in ways similar to
Reformed Christian notions of “Bible” and “scripture”? What does the Qur’an say to these non-
Muslims? What does the Qur’an say about other religions, secularism, and atheism, as Westerners
understand them? What is the Qur’an when placed into the new historical notion of “Late Antiq-
uity”? What do recent discoveries in Arabic epigraphy, codicology, and linguistics tell us of the
Qur’an and its history? Beneath all of these questions and many more, what is the Qur’an to those
who do not start with the claim that the text is in some sense “true”?
Part II: The Many Meanings of “Qur’anic Studies”

Western and Muslim researchers remain separated more than ever by hermeneutic barri-
ers. Western researchers accuse Muslims of being beholden to theological dogmas, while
Muslim researchers perceive their Western colleagues as polemical and triumphalist,
devoid of the most elementary empathy for Islam.
Angelika Neuwirth, The Qur’an and Late Antiquity1
How are we to approach this extraordinary and all-important document: the Qur’an? In English, the
now ubiquitous term for the analysis of the Qur’an is Qur’anic Studies. Yet this label is deceptively
simple. Indeed, it is used in many ways that are often quite distinct, and all of which this volume
seeks to address, problematize, and put into dialogue. And beyond this, the way we categorize
Qur’anic Studies exposes us to a number of issues each of which must be addressed or explained.
We, the editors of this volume, see the divisions within the contemporary field of Qur’anic
Studies along three general lines. First, there are scholars, whether Muslim or not, who, like the
traditional Muslim scholars of the Qur’an, relied heavily on the Islamic religious literatures produced
subsequently to the Qur’an itself (and often centuries later) to properly understand and analyze the
scripture, including historical and biographical accounts of the Prophet Muhammad and the early
community, hadith literature, and early exegetical reports attributed to the Prophet’s Companions
and the immediately succeeding generations. One argument for this methodological approach is
simply that these indigenous materials are the only materials that scholars have that provide detailed
historical context for the events surrounding the emergence of the Qur’an and the Muslim commu-
nity. There are no detailed “outsider” accounts of these events at least until the Muslim community
xxvii
expanded beyond Arabia into the literate cultures of the previously Byzantine and Persian Empires.
Even in this case, these early accounts of the new Muslim presence do not seem to have been privy at
all to the internal developments that were critical for understanding the canonization of the Qur’an
and its role in the development of the community. Moreover, for some contemporary scholars who
take this methodological perspective, a scripture (or indeed any text) analyzed outside of the tradi-
tion that produced, preserved, and adhered to it was likely not only to result in interpretations that
were antithetical to that tradition (the context in which that text is most meaningful and influential)
but to be prone to fundamental misunderstandings, or even serious errors.
However sympathetic one might be to that argument, and however one viewed the reliabil-
ity of these traditional literatures that offered context and clarification for the sometimes cryptic
Qur’anic text, such literatures could be understood as having “domesticated” the scripture. That is,
these literatures made it applicable and useful for the established and growing Muslim community
and empire that existed in the periods in which these literatures were written. There is little doubt
that this is true and indeed that it is true of other scriptures and their exegetical traditions as well.
Scripture and prophecy – understood by religious persons as God’s direct intervention into human
history – are by definition “radical” in nature and in the ideational and societal change they demand.
But once the new religious communities they engender are established and embedded in normative
social structures, the obvious need for stability leads to scriptural interpretation that mutes (although
it cannot silence) what is most radical in these texts. Even though Muslim philosophical and mystical
exegeses of the Qur’an would eventually be written that took the text far from its practical, religious,
and social applications, the reliance on these early, secondary literatures that definitively contextual-
ized the Qur’an remained a foundation for all Muslim approaches to the Qur’an, either explicitly or
implicitly. For those contemporary scholars in the field (both Muslim and non-Muslim) who con-
tinue to make use of these texts, with all of their variety, in their research and analysis of the Qur’an,
they remain indispensable, even if not beyond critique. Their often hagiographic tone and at times
transparent concern with personal, doctrinal, and political conflicts, as well as some narrative ele-
ments that seem exaggerated or even fantastical, naturally enjoin skepticism among modern scholars,
who apply varying degrees of critical analysis to these texts, even as they view them as essential to
their understanding of the Qur’an and its history.
Other scholars in the field, however, are far more skeptical about the reliability of these secondary
Muslim literatures and consider contemporary scholars of the Qur’an whose work relies significantly
on these literatures to be limiting their analysis of the Qur’an to the contextual parameters defined
and delineated by them. Among these more skeptical scholars, are historical-critical scholars who
can be considered to represent the second category of scholarly approaches to the Qur’an. Those
who adopt this approach may take some of the secondary Islamic literatures into consideration but
also insist that the contextual lens for understanding the Qur’an must be significantly broadened to
include the culturally dynamic and diverse environment of the seventh-century Near East, and the
religious concepts, languages, trends, debates, and innovations of that era. Similar to the benefits
of studying the Christian New Testament in the historical, political, and religious context of the
first-century Roman world and Second Temple Judaism, studying the Qur’an in the context of the
Late Antique Near East may elucidate some of the language, references, and themes in the text that
might otherwise be enigmatic or misinterpreted, while allowing the emergence of the Qur’an and
the Islamic religion to be seen as a development with clear historical antecedents outside of its own,
more limited self-narrative. It expands the traditional Islamic view of the Qur’an and its histori-
cal emergence, which many find to be too myopic – focused largely on the locales in which Islam
emerged, Mecca and Medina, on the person of the Prophet Muhammad and his small community
of Companions, and on early religious developments that unfolded after his death. These later devel-
opments, for example, unfolded in the context of the Arab military encampments and eventually
xxviii
the new Islamic cities that would nonetheless be, for several centuries to come, surrounded and
outnumbered by longstanding non-Muslim religious communities – Christian, Jewish, “pagan,” and
Zoroastrian, with all of their sectarian varieties – but whose role in these developments is largely
ignored by, or unknown to, traditional Muslim scholarship. Taking these more fully into account
can, in the view of these scholars, make better sense of both the Qur’an and the history of its emer-
gence, while also assisting with the critical analysis of the traditional Islamic accounts themselves.
For some, however, the attempt to examine the Qur’an in this broader historical and geographical
context and looking for ways in which the Qur’an reflects, continues, or extends trends already in
existence in the Late Antique Near East, can lead to an overemphasis on these relationships. This
may obscure some of the more unique and distinctive characteristics of the Qur’an and its history.
For others, even viewing the Qur’an through a larger lens does not suffice to convincingly answer
the questions the Qur’anic text raises about its own origins.
This latter perspective partly defines a third methodological category, represented by scholars
who are wary about assuming that the Qur’an that we have today has any particular or singular con-
text for its emergence, even the broad and diversified context of the Late Antique Near East. From
this methodological perspective, the only way to understand anything about the Qur’an and the only
evidence for the origin, audience, and historical circumstances of its emergence have to come from
the one source about which a historically minded scholar could be absolutely certain: the Qur’an
itself. There was no way out of the mystery of the text and its historical emergence except through
the text itself, or more accurately, through a careful literary, stylistic, and thematic analysis of it inde-
pendent of any contextualizing traditions or framing. In this view, one has to rely on the Qur’anic
text to discover anything reliable about its original context, rather than relying on an assumed or
hypothetical context to clarify the text. For many such scholars, this frees the study of the Qur’anic
text from the confessional and political framing of Muslim religious scholars which they see as self-
serving and deeply untrustworthy, if not purely fictional. Effectively, it also creates a blank slate upon
which entirely new theories about the historical origins of the Qur’an could be drawn; theories that
often bear little relation or resemblance to the traditional Muslim accounts of its emergence. The
ability of this group to rely on the Qur’anic text as a legitimate “primary” or “documentary” source
has been facilitated, in part, by increasing manuscript and epigraphic evidence for the early origins
and existence of a stable Qur’anic text as early as the mid-seventh century, well before the composi-
tion of other detailed, extant Islamic sources. Their commitment to finding historical evidence from
within the Qur’an itself has yielded some interesting observations that were otherwise obscured by
its contextualizing traditions and have led to the development of important new questions and lines
of inquiry about the text itself, even as some of the hypotheses these lines of inquiry have offered by
way of explanation stretch credulity – and not simply because they challenge long and deeply held
historical and religious understandings of the text. Some suggest or imagine a contextualization for
the Qur’an in terms of time or place that is radically different from that which is provided by the
traditional Islamic sources, whose general outlines have guided even most historical-critical schol-
ars. Consequently, such suggestions must directly or indirectly assume that the traditional Islamic
narrative as we know it is essentially a legitimist fiction promulgated by a powerful and centralized
Islamic Empire, which was simultaneously able to suppress all contravening historical memory, even
though there is little to suggest that the medieval Islamic state had the means or the unified authority
to accomplish anything like this feat. The apparent mutual suspicion between the Islamic political
rulers and the religious scholars producing these narratives, the decentralized nature of the Islamic
Empire, and the general lack of established institutional structures that could promulgate and enforce
such a fiction as ‘history’ – not to mention the diverse and contradictory renderings of many details
of this history throughout and within the various genres of Islamic literature that reflect its broader
narrative – make such a possibility seem remote.
xxix
Questions of Audience
The Qur’an is never alone. Whether it is spoken by God in eternity or heard/read by a human in
history, to discuss the Qur’an is to discuss the eye, ear, hand, mouth, and mind of the one who pos-
sesses it. When we say or write “the Qur’an says. . . ,” do we mean “God says,” “Muhammad says,”
“Islam says,” “all Muslims say,” “this Muslim says,” or “I say”? And our first questions must be who is
the audience for the Qur’an, and does it matter?
We begin with the primary audience of the Qur’an. The primary audience would be those peo-
ple who received it at the opening of its history: the people of the early seventh-century H.ijāz (West-
ern Central Arabia). They would speak and understand the Arabic dialect of the Qur’an with little
or no issue. They would have generally understood the genres in which the Qur’an presents itself or
mirrors: Jewish and Christian liturgies, Arabic folklore, oration, poetry, rhymed prose (sajʿ), and the
sura. And they would have generally understood the references that the Qur’an makes with minimal
clarification. For example, when the Qur’an mysteriously asks the hearer to take refuge from “the
blowers on knots” (al-naffāththāti fī l-ʿuqad, Q 113:4), a member of the primary audience would
know full well who these were and what blowing on knots meant in the culture of the Late Antique
H.ijāz. The primary audience are members of the same civilization and way of life as Muhammad. If
the Qur’an mentions Moses, ʿAd, Mary, Iblīs, Dhū l-Kifl, al-ʿUzzā, Zayd, or Dhū l-Qarnayn, the
primary audience would know the figures in question. If the Qur’an refers to the Torah, the Gospel,
Iram dhāt al-ʿimād, the jinn, or the wife of the ʿAzīz, the hearer would have heard of each before from
a non-Qur’anic source. The primary audience are those who personally witnessed the appearance
of the Qur’an on the stage of history or who were in direct contact with those who did. How many
people were a part of this primary audience is anyone’s guess, but considering what we know of the
Late Antique H.ijāz and its lack of major cities, it would have presumably been only several thousand
or tens of thousands of people.
This is compared to the secondary audiences of the Qur’an. The secondary audiences are con-
stituted by anyone who has access to the Qur’an but requires some kind of notable assistance in
understanding it. They are somehow removed in time, space, and culture from the Qur’an’s primary
audience. They may not understand Arabic, or they may speak a form of the Arabic language other
than the seventh-century dialect employed by the Qur’an. They may not have the physical abilities
of the primary audience. If the primary audience of the Qur’an is expected to hear it, a deaf person
would fall into a secondary audience. Most significantly, a secondary audience will not possess all
of the cultural data of the primary audience. Returning to the example of “the blowers on knots,”
someone in a secondary audience would have to ask what that means or look it up in a book or on
the Internet. This group is orders of magnitude larger than the primary audience. The secondary
audiences would include all of the billions of Muslims who ever lived (minus those in the Qur’an’s
primary audience), and the innumerable members of other religious communities who have in some
way encountered the Qur’an in the last 14 centuries.
This brings us to the question: does it matter if the Qur’an is analyzed by someone in a secondary
audience as opposed to the primary audience? For some in Qur’anic Studies, the question is impor-
tant, although it is not a problem that needs to be resolved. The reading of the Qur’an’s primary audi-
ence tells us something of Islamic origins as a historical phenomenon, while the secondary audiences
give us the Qur’an’s reception history. The different readings, however, do not need to be mutually
compatible; they may even be in opposition to one another. A classical exegete of the Qur’an in the
Middle Ages and Muhammad’s own people centuries before may have quite different interpretations
of the Qur’anic text, and this is not considered problematic. In this case, the simple fact that the
Qur’an has had a life long after Muhammad and the rest of the Qur’an’s primary audience passed
away is incidental. Because a historical-critic who is being thoroughly historical does not assume that
the Qur’an has a single, unchanging meaning, there is no need to reconcile differences in readings.
xxx
For others in Qur’anic Studies, the distinction between primary and secondary audiences is
addressed through the legacy of orally transmitted and later written reports of what these verses
meant according to the first and second generations of Muslim scholars, which in principle provides
an unbroken chain of interpretation back to the early Companions and Muhammad himself. While
the reader may accept or even celebrate many possible readings of the Qur’an, for Sunni scholars in
particular, all “correct” approaches to the Qur’an must work harmoniously within a larger tradition:
either Islam as a whole or some particular interpretation of Islam. In the Shiʿi tradition, the founda-
tional sources for the interpretation of the Qur’an include not only the Prophet and his immediate
Companions but also the Imams in the Prophet’s lineage, whose primary roles was the elaboration
of the deeper meanings of the Qur’an. For Twelver Shiʿis, whose line of Imams ends in the tenth
century, it was the role of Twelver Shiʿi scholars to preserve these teachings for later audiences.
Other forms of traditional Qur’anic Studies would operate likewise using their own methods and
source materials.
Questions of History and Revisionism

Strictly speaking, all histories are revisions of the past. To write a history is to present a new inter-
pretation of what came before. Why even write a history if there is not something that needs to be
revised and reenvisioned? In that sense, al-T ․abarī’s History of the Prophets and Kings (Tārīkh al-rusul
wa l-mulūk) is just as much “revisionism” as Patricia Crone and Michael Cook’s Hagarism (1977).
However, within Qur’anic Studies, the term revisionism carries a much more specific connota-
tion. In any arena, revisionism refers to a form of historical-critical Qur’anic Studies that cannot be
reconciled with any traditional Qur’anic Studies. There is little or even no connection between the
primary audience of the Qur’an and its secondary audiences; they are unrelated.
With the classical critiques of Ibn Ish.āq’s Sīra (previously noted), all living forms of Islam conceive
of Islamic origins in a way that approximately follows the plot he provided:
• Muhammad is born in the pagan town of Mecca around the year 570.
• Muhammad is orphaned and grows into adulthood as a minor member of the Quraysh tribe.
• In his middle age, Muhammad claims he is visited by the angel Gabriel ( Jibrīl) who begins to
relay the Arabic Qur’an to him.
• Muhammad begins preaching monotheistic “submission” (islām) to his people.
• Muhammad is persecuted and flees to Yathrib/Medina in 622 where the umma is founded.
• The umma engages in a number of battles with the Meccans, who are finally defeated around
the year 630.
• Muhammad dies in Medina after a short illness in 632.
• The Qur’an continued to appear throughout Muhammad’s life and its revelation ceased upon
Muhammad’s death, but the early Muslims preserved it very well and with minimal interference.
Almost any medieval or modern Muslim account of Islamic origins would agree with this outline,
no matter how much they may disagree on further details. This history is the bedrock of any tradi-
tional scholarship of the Qur’an and, for that matter, of many forms of historical-critical Qur’anic
Studies, too.
To call a historical-critical study of the Qur’an “revisionism” suggests that its vision of early Islam
cannot fit into the Sīra’s historical backbone in any way. There is a major disconnect in the evolution
of Islamic history between the Qur’an’s origins and later Muslims. For some examples, to claim that
Muhammad never lived at all, that the Qur’an was composed outside of Mecca and Medina and/or
by many people in several languages, or that islām does not refer to a movement distinct from other
monotheisms would each qualify as revisionism. None of these ideas, and several more like them,
xxxi
can be even partially squared with the history provided by Ibn Ish.āq’s Sīra. Muhammad was a his-
torical personage, or he was not. The Qur’an has certain historical origins, or it has others. Mecca
refers to a Qurayshī village in the H.ijāz, or it refers to someplace else. There is no middle ground or
compromise on these matters. Not to agree with the basic outline of Muhammad’s life and times is
to engage in revisionism.
In the Western academic study of religion, Islam had for a long time been considered unique
among the so-called major world religions for not having mysterious or conjectural origins. The oft
used quote of French Orientalist Ernest Renan (d. 1892) declares:
Islamism [sic] was the last religious creation of humanity, and in many ways the least origi-
nal. Instead of the mystery in which other religions wrapped their cradle, this was born in
the full light of history; its roots are even with the ground. The life of the founder is as well
known to us as that of the reformers of the 16th century.2
Anti-Islamic slander aside, there is a kind of truth to Renan’s claims. Traditional Qur’anic Studies
and many Western accounts of early Islamic history speak with a great deal of confidence about
the life, character, and words of Muhammad and his people. Unlike historical studies of Moses,
Jesus, Confucius, or Gautama Buddha, whose results are at best vaguely human-shaped shadows,
most studies of Muhammad are rich with character analysis and precise, sometimes absurdly specific
details.
It should be no surprise, then, that in historical-critical Qur’anic Studies in the 1970s and 1980s,
there arose an almost rebellious glamour in attempting to debunk such “common sense” and ortho-
doxy. And for a time, revisionism like this was considered by many historical-critics as the forefront
of the field. However, the tendencies toward revisionism in the historical-critical scholarly commu-
nity regarding the Qur’an have waned considerably in the past 20 years. New discoveries in Qur’anic
manuscripts and Arabian and Levantine epigraphy have rendered the theories of the more extreme
revisionists untenable. That is not to say approaches that may be called revisionist do not continue to
appear in Qur’anic Studies, but their degree of revision has (on the whole) decreased significantly.
Whereas older revisionists strongly denied any historical relationship between the Qur’an’s primary
and secondary audiences, newer revisionists see a weak evolution: the first Muslims and the later
historical record of them are related but distantly. Although the label of revisionist is still regularly
invoked, it often carries a prescriptive character as well. It is now more often a pejorative term either
for someone who views heterodoxy as a natural good in itself or for someone whose vision of early
Islam is based on conspiracy theories.
Questions of Consistency
The many approaches that may be called Qur’anic Studies are ever changing and reorienting. While
a certain uninformed person may claim that there is a single, universally agreed upon truth to the
Qur’an, even a short comparison of tafsīrs exposes boundless interpretations by Muslims over the
centuries. Likewise, the historical-critic can argue for “factuality” in the study of the Qur’an, but
factuality is a cultural construct of particular peoples that is itself hardly static. To quote Kecia Ali in
her discussion of the many visions of the life of Muhammad, “Just as boundaries between traditions
have always been fluid, so traditions have always been internally heterogeneous.”3 In other words,
there is no one fixed study of the Qur’an, traditional or historical-critical. All approaches revisit the
past infinitely and thus create ever new futures for the Qur’an, Islam, Muslims, and humanity as a
whole. Does that mean that all forms of Qur’anic Studies ought to be granted a seat at the table of
dialogue? No. Many studies of the Qur’an are demonstrably incorrect, hostile, bigoted, or naïve.
But those studies that are rigorous, both critical yet compassionate, and open to self-development
xxxii
may be introduced to one another for their mutual benefit. This volume is an attempt at such an
introduction.
Part III: The Routledge Companion to the Qur’an and Its Methods
In order to provide transparency regarding these issues discussed, we, the editors of this companion,
would like to explain our approach to this volume and the study of the Qur’an generally with two
personal reflections.
A Personal Note From Maria M. Dakake

When Daniel A. Madigan phoned me in my office many years ago to offer me a surprising invitation
to coedit this volume with him, I was in the final stages of another extended academic project – The
Study Quran4 – and was not necessarily looking for a new one. I did not know Dan very well at the
time, but I had already developed an appreciation for his insightful scholarship on the Qur’an. At a
conference I had organized at George Mason University a few years prior, he had spoken compel-
lingly about what it means to take seriously the idea that the Qur’an explicitly addresses itself to all
of humanity. He explained that his vision for the volume was one that would present the Qur’an
from three different perspectives. First, it would consider the Qur’an in light of the world from and
in which it originated, what he called “the world behind the Qur’an.” Second, the volume would
examine “the world of the Qur’an” – that is, the text of the Qur’an itself, its language and liter-
ary structure, its theology, and its many voices and characters. Finally, the third section, “the world
beyond the Qur’an,” would examine its varied reception history among various Muslim (and non-
Muslim) audiences. Intersecting with these three different points from which the Qur’an was to be
examined would be three different kinds of scholarship and methodologies for approaching the text.
In Dan’s vision, the field of Qur’anic Studies could be divided into: (1) scholars who approached
the Qur’an as embedded in a series of traditional texts – from classical Muslim histories to exegetical
works – and indeed as inseparable from the larger Islamic tradition that grew around it; (2) those
who considered it as a product of the Late Antique Near East and who argued that it should be
understood within this broader and diversified religious and intellectual culture; and (3) those who
insisted that the Qur’an was a completely mysterious text, that could only be understood through
internal evidence and analysis of the text itself, independently of either the Muslim religious sciences
that grew up around it or its purported historical origin in Late Antiquity. Although the differences
between these approaches was rarely firm and fixed, Dan wanted a volume that would show how
all of these different perspectives could be brought into a productive conversation with one another.
Dan and I set about engaging what we hoped would be a methodologically diverse group of
scholars and enlisting them to write various articles. As the years went on and the project became
delayed due to a number of issues, we were joined by Dan’s former colleague, George Archer, with-
out whose extraordinary work, commitment, and scholarly contributions, this volume would surely
have never come to fruition. Dan, George, and I all approach the study of the Qur’an from different
perspectives ourselves – given the various tripartite divisions in the volume, perhaps it is fitting that it
has three editors. We hope that our joint editorship of this volume can itself serve as small testament
to the very possibility that we hope this volume will demonstrate – namely, that what some see as an
unbridgeable divide, or even as a “crisis,” in Qur’anic Studies need not be so.
A Personal Note From George Archer

I am of the firm belief that one cannot engage in any scholarship or science without knowing where
one stands oneself. Like most humanist academics trained in the late twentieth and early twenty-first
xxxiii
centuries, I fully reject human access to pure “objectivity” in the mundane sense of that word. Just
as we historians must fully contextualize our subjects of study, we must contextualize ourselves. In
this harmonization or contrast of object and observer, something approaching a reality is unveiled.
Like the biologist at the microscope, we in the humanities and social sciences must keep adjusting,
cleaning, and focusing not one but two lenses: the artifact we see and the eye through which we see.
To disregard either is to willfully turn exegesis to eisegesis: to “look through a glass darkly” means
to “look through a mirror darkly.” The light of the past can only be seen through its gleams in the
present.
This observation – that we must look both beyond and into ourselves – is especially noteworthy
in a field like Qur’anic Studies, whatever that term refers to. This is perhaps why so many in this
discipline, in its many varieties, cling so reflexively to deep binaries, each with its own assumed
“versus.” Traditional versus historical-critical. Orientalism versus Islamic scholarship. Muslim versus
non-Muslim. Sunni versus Shiʿi. Political versus apolitical. Religious versus secular. Constructive ver-
sus descriptive. This reductive and more often than not useless compartmentalization of Qur’anic
Studies was shattered in me years ago in my personal discussions with Daniel A. Madigan.
Dan and I were both drawn to this unusual Late Antique document called the Qur’an, yet nei-
ther of us were Muslims or planned to become one. Indeed, that Dan is a Jesuit priest and I am a
nonreligious failed monastic would, by most metrics, make this common interest we both had in the
Qur’an odd, if not suspect. But as these things go, Dan, as is his special talent, had a simpler, cleaner,
and, frankly, truer explanation. The Qur’an, he said easily, is addressed to the human race. Full stop.
It is an historical object of unimaginable importance to Muslims, and yet at the same time, it delib-
erately and with full self-awareness speaks to humanity beyond any tribe or group.
But there is the rub. It is at once true that the Qur’an offers itself to all of humanity, and therefore
it is the task of all people to engage it. And yet it is uniquely precious to only a particular part of
humanity: the multitudes who have called and do call themselves Muslims. Like the collections in so
many museums around the world, the Qur’an at once belongs to everyone and yet most especially to
a particular people (from whom it has been often stolen). To ignore that the Qur’an lives with and
within Muslims – to treat it just as a curio, no different from a Minoan pottery shard – is an act of
psychic violence stemming from centuries of colonization and racism. But to ignore that the Qur’an
is addressed and addressing itself to humanity as a whole is an act of cultural neglect – an indifference
to one of the prize jewels of our species. The Qur’an is neither here nor there but is somehow both.
Indeed, it is remarkably good at that.
Here as well, Dan offered me a resolution of sorts. The Qur’an, Dan noted, is at home in several
locales simultaneously, locales he would call “worlds.” The Qur’an is not just an object from the Late
Antique world, or the world of the historic personage Muh.ammad ibn ʿAbdullāh, or the world of
1,400 years of Islamic history, scholarship, and self-reflection. It is from and native to all of these.
When the speaker of the Qur’an, which the narrator calls God, is first introduced, it is as “the Lord
of the worlds” (rabbi l-ʿālamīn, Q 1:2) – with the rhyme striking right on the plural form of the term
“worlds.” Dan’s project in this volume, and now Maria’s and my own, is to honor that diversity of
homelands and approaches. A remnant of a seventh-century refugee community, the Qur’an rightly
and fully belongs in lots of places (even if part of this is due to historical violence).
The Division of This Volume Into the Three “Worlds” of the Qur’an
In practice, the many perspectives on the Qur’an and its readers are not as clear-cut as they have
been presented here and elsewhere. Yet there are vastly different methodological and foundational
assumptions held by the many people who are party to Qur’anic Studies. Do the different foun-
dational assumptions of these diverse perspectives mean that they are doomed to mutual distrust,
dismissal, and conflict? Is there nothing that these different methodological approaches and the
xxxiv
scholars that embrace them have to say to one another, and, as such, does their very existence evince
a crisis in the field of Qur’anic Studies? The editors of this volume – one Muslim, one Christian, one
nonreligious – do not accept that this is the case, even if they agree that the various perspectives can
never be fully reconciled with one another, given the commitments (religious, intellectual, or both)
that generate the underlying theoretical assumptions of all groups of scholars. Rather, it is the view
of the editors of this volume that scholars working on the Qur’an from these different methodologi-
cal and personal perspectives can mutually benefit from the observations and research developments
of scholars working from other points of view and from subjecting their own analyses to the discus-
sion and critique of those starting from other assumptions. This volume is dedicated to that opinion.
To materialize this dialogue across methods in Qur’anic Studies, we have separated our areas of
discussion into three worlds: “the world behind the Qur’an,” “the world of the Qur’an,” and “the
world in front of the Qur’an.”
The first of these worlds – the world behind the Qur’an – represents the historical context into
which the Qur’an emerged, as viewed through different lenses and emphases. If the Qur’an were a
play, the world behind the Qur’an would be the stage and set onto which the actions unfold. In this
volume, we start with Sidney H. Griffith’s article, “Late Antiquity and the Religious Milieu of the
Qur’an’s Origins,” which gives our widest overview of religious developments in the Near East dur-
ing the postclassical epoch. Gordon D. Newby then takes us to Arabia more specifically in “Arabia:
Ripe for Revelation.” Finally, we narrow the aperture further still, as Maria M. Dakake presents an
analysis of those two Arabian locales most closely tied to the Qur’an: Mecca and Medina.
This then takes us to the script and the actors: the world of the Qur’an itself. This incorporates its
language and structure, its literary characteristics, and its narrative power. It also includes studies of
the Qur’anic dramatis personae – the figures and beings who feature in its sacred history and its cos-
mic vision. We start with “God: the Many-Named One of the Qur’an” (as here discussed by Tim
Winter). We then consider the human race as a whole, as the Qur’an discusses our primordial past
(“Humanity in Covenant With God,” by Joseph E.B. Lumbard) and our ultimate future (“Qur’anic
Eschatology,” by Mohammed Rustom). Then we will meet some of the more specific people of the
Qur’anic world: “Abraham and his Family” (by Halla Attallah and George Archer), other “Biblical
Prophets: Moses, Joseph, Jonah, and Job” (Roberto Tottoli), “John Jesus, and Mary in the Qur’an”
(Archer), and, of course, “Muhammad in the Qur’an” (Lumbard). These are followed by two discus-
sions of Qur’anic groups of people: a discussion of the Qur’anic presentation of virtuous people in
“The Praiseworthy” (Feryal Salem) and the Jewish and Christian communities who are part of the
Qur’an’s sacred past and Muhammad’s own Arabian environment: “The People of Scripture (Ahl
al-Kitāb)” (Michael Pregill). The world of the Qur’an is also populated with nonhuman creatures, as
presented by Sarra Tlili in “Qur’anic Creation: Anthropocentric Readings and Eco-centric Possi-
bilities” and perhaps the Qur’an’s most enigmatic creatures, the “Jinn in the Qur’an” (Ali A. Olomi).
This second section is also comprised of studies of the Qur’an’s structure and language: its stylistic
elements, including rhyme, rhythm and rhetoric, considered in relation to the Qur’an’s seventh-
century Arabian context (Devin J. Stewart); its sura structure, whose intricate, if subtle, patterns are
an increasingly important area of Qur’anic Studies inquiries (Nevin Reda); its narrative form that
shares elements with both the epic and the apocalyptic (Todd Lawson); its ubiquitous deployment of
metaphor and symbolism – both explicit and implicit – in the delivery of its message (Caner Dagli);
and relationship between the Qur’an’s origins and foundation as an oral revelation and traditions of
recitation that develop therefrom (Lauren E. Osborne).
Finally, we look to our third world: the world in front of the Qur’an. If the world before the Qur’an
is the stage, the theater, and the set, and the world of the Qur’an is the play and the players, then the
world in front of the Qur’an is the audience who watch, listen, and respond. That is, the world in
front of the Qur’an is the 1,400-year reception history of this seventh-century recitation. For obvi-
ous reasons, this is the longest section of this volume, and effort has been made to include as much
xxxv
variety as possible in terms of temporary, geographic, intellectual, and religious perspective and
readings of this important and enigmatic text. This section begins with an article on the relationship
between Sīra literature and the genre of reports referred to as “occasions of revelation,” which nar-
rated the particular historical and situational contexts in which they were traditionally believed to
be revealed and how this latter literature becomes an integral part of Qur’anic commentary (Ahmed
Ragab). This is then followed by chapters on various indigenous, premodern, and modern forms
of Qur’anic commentary and those who composed them. S.R. Burge will open this section on
the sources and methods of the foundational early commentators on the Qur’an, tracing develop-
ments that will become integral to the fully developed commentary tradition. Then we will have an
analysis of the thirteen-century Sunni commentator Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, whose exegesis bears the
marks of more developed theological and philosophical perspectives in the Islamic sciences (Michel
Lagarde). Introducing the Shiʿi tradition of exegesis, Maria M. Dakake provides an article examining
the change and continuities between early and classical Imami Shiʿi exegesis. We then meet perhaps
the most influential Twelver Shiʿi commentator of the modern era, ʿAllāma T ․abāt․abāʾī (Abdulaziz
Sachedina). These studies are followed by an article on the metaphysician and mystic, Ibn ʿArabī, for
whom the Qur’an is not only the textual key to his elaborate mystical-theological cosmology but a
fundamental part of that cosmology, whose reality transcends its manifestation as a textual scripture
(William C. Chittick). Lahouari R. Taleb will then guide us through the role of Qur’anic exegesis
in the Sufi tradition more broadly. We will look at the unique and vastly understudied approach
to Qur’anic exegesis in the Ismaili tradition (Khalil Andani). Finally, this overview of Qur’anic
commentaries will conclude with two chapters on the reception history of the Qur’an in modern
contexts: on readings of the Qur’an from outside the classical Muslim exegetical tradition, includ-
ing readings by Western critical or revisionist scholars, as well as more modern literary and secular
readings (Emran El-Badawi) and then “Women’s Contemporary Readings of the Qur’an” (Hadia
Mubarak). “War and Peace in the Qur’an” (Rumee Ahmed) covers the long history of violence
and nonviolence in the text. Massimo Campinini provides us with an article on new approaches to
the Qur’an that emerged among Muslim intellectuals in the twentieth century. Also included is a
reevaluation of the tafsīr of Ibn Kathīr, a fourteenth-century scholar whose exegesis took on a new,
much more significant role in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries (Younus Y. Mirza).
These are followed by chapters on the boundless formats in which the Qur’an has been pre-
sented: an article on the politics of Qur’anic translation, past and present, as well as the multiple
purposes, audiences, and approaches of modern translations ( Johanna Pink); a discussion of the
process by which the written Qur’an, the mus.h.af, became an increasingly important part of Islamic
material culture, with artistic and religious conventions for the production and handling of the
written Qur’an, and popular traditions regarding the mus.h.af ’s spiritual and talismanic power (Travis
Zadeh); the very recent developments related to the presence of the Qur’an on the Internet and in
digitally accessible formats (Gary R. Bunt); and the place of the Qur’an in popular culture and some
contemporary ways of accessing and appreciating the Qur’an (N.A. Mansour).
Finally, the volume will conclude with several chapters that discuss the scripture’s meetings,
clashes, and marriages with numerous other intellectual traditions: an article on the relationship
between the Qur’an and the Islamic theological tradition, which sought to both defend and ration-
alize Qur’anic teachings, while also taking the Qur’an as both its foundation and a topic of debate
itself within this tradition (David Thomas); an article on the more subtle and thus underappreciated
influence of Qur’anic concepts on the development of Islamic philosophy (Gholamreza Aavani); an
article on the struggle to construct a political theology on the basis of the Qur’an, which repeat-
edly asserts that sovereignty belongs to God, while offering no direct guidance on the structures of
human governance (Paul L. Heck); and, finally, how the Qur’an has (and has not) impacted Islamic
medicinal practices in “The Qur’an and Medicine” (Elaine van Dalen).
xxxvi
We, the editors of The Routledge Companion to the Qur’an, adopted this schema of the Qur’an’s
three worlds, not to create more divisions in wider Qur’anic Studies but instead to ask ourselves
where we ground our interests, concerns, and expertise. Although in a certain sense this triparti-
tion may appear as an intellectual border patrol, its final goal, we sincerely hope, will allow us all
to speak more plainly to one another. Having a vocabulary for our many approaches to the Qur’an
equips us to better discuss our relationships to one another’s research and histories. The scholars
contributing articles to all sections of this volume collectively represent the different perspectives,
starting assumptions, and approaches, previously described, as contributors to the field of Qur’anic
Studies, although many might hesitate to put themselves distinctly into one camp or another. Most
demonstrate the extent to which a wide variety of scholarly research and approaches to the Qur’an
have influenced and enriched their scholarship. The editors encouraged them to make this clear to
their readers, as well as to engage as much as possible or as meaningful with scholarship and scholarly
perspectives that differ from their own. Good scholars do this routinely, of course, but the intention
of the editors is to make this kind of engagement and its benefits particularly clear to the reader. We
hope that by arranging the material in this way, and by bringing these various approaches together in
a single volume, the vibrancy and possibilities of the field of Qur’anic Studies – with all its internal
diversity – can be made clear both to its “old hands” and to those encountering it for the first time.
Notes
1 Angelika Neuwirth, The Qur’an and Late Antiquity: A Shared Heritage, trans. Samuel Wilder (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2019), 2.
2 Ernest Renan, Studies of Religious History and Criticism, trans. Octavius Brooks Frothingham (Northfield,
MN: Carlton, 1864), 228.
3 Kecia Ali, The Lives of Muhammad (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), 3.
4 The Study Quran, eds. S.H. Nasr, C.K. Dagli, M.M. Dakake, M. Rustom, and J.E.B. Lumbard (New York:
Harper Collins, 2015).
xxxvii
PART I
The World Before the Qur’an

1
LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE
RELIGIOUS MILIEU OF THE
QUR’AN’S ORIGINS
Sidney H. Griffith
The historiographical concept of Late Antiquity, which first came into scholarly prominence in the
work of twentieth-century scholars of the history and culture of the late Roman Empire and of
early Christianity in particular, has more recently come to serve historians of early Islam as well by
providing a wider hermeneutical horizon within which, more broadly than heretofore, to appreciate
the cultural richness of the Arabic-speaking world of the Qur’an’s first appearance. In other words,
historians have extended Late Antiquity’s conceptual reach to include the origins and development
of early Islam up to the mid-eighth century and even beyond.1 While not neglecting the evidence
of the centuries-long Islamic tradition of exploring the Arabian roots of the Qur’an’s language and
religious culture, Late Antiquity’s hermeneutical frame of reference has provided researchers with
the opportunity especially to explore early Islam’s reflection of its interaction with a much wider
interreligious culture than just that of its most immediate Arabian antecedents,2 which some recent
scholars have nevertheless continued to emphasize by way of a corrective vision.3 But still the wider
range of the Late Antique interpretive horizon has encouraged Qur’an scholars to redouble their
efforts to search out connections between the religious discourse of the Arabic scripture and the
religious lore and literatures of the non-Arabic-speaking, circumambient communities ranging from
the borders of the Roman Empire to those of Iran and the Persian Empire, all of them now consid-
ered to have been within the intellectual and cultural purview of the Arabic-speaking community
of the Qur’an’s origins.
Within the Late Antique horizon, perhaps the most immediate interreligious background to seri-
ously consider for the study of the Qur’an’s origins is the varied panorama of the presence of Jewish,
Christian, and indigenous, polytheist, and monotheist confessional communities revealed by the
more recent florescence of scholarship in South Arabian epigraphy, with its disclosure of the region’s
multiple interactions with Ethiopia, the Persian Empire, and the Roman Empire from the third cen-
tury ce to the seventh.4 The archive of literally thousands of inscriptions and graffiti in the several
languages and scripts of pre-Islamic Arabia, from Yemen to the H.ijāz and beyond display not only a
wide range of Arabian political and military interaction with countries and communities all around
its periphery in Late Antiquity, but they also furnish the evidence for sketching the broader outlines
of inner-Arabian tribal and political history of the time, along with the concomitant developments
in religious thought and allegiance among them. The study of the inscriptions in the ensemble
has shown the widespread presence of Jewish and Christian communities among the Arabs by the
end of the sixth century ce, along with some evidence of their connections with their coreligion-
ists beyond the Arabic-speaking milieu.5 Most notable, however, is the corroboratory evidence the
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-2 3
Sidney H. Griffith
inscriptions provide for the appearance of an indigenous, one might even say a nondenominational
monotheism among the pre-Islamic Arabians, neither Jewish nor Christian as such, but most likely
influenced by Jewish or Christian lore, given its trademark veneration of the biblical patriarch Abra-
ham.6 A number of historians have long proposed as much on the basis of passages in the works of
largely Greek- and Syriac-speaking writers living outside Arabia proper but who chronicled the
interactions of Roman, Persian, and Ethiopian interventions in Arabia in the Late Antique period.7
Of course, numerous Arabic-speaking authors in early Islamic times, such as Hishām ibn al-Kalbī
(d. 819), especially in his well-known Book of Idols (Kitāb al-As.nām), also reported numerous, mostly
polytheist religious traditions, which had flourished in the peninsula prior to the rise of Islam.8
The indigenous, Arabian polytheists, whom the Qur’an calls “associators” (al-mushrikūn), those
whom it accuses of associating other beings with the one God, included numerous devotees of vari-
ous local deities honored throughout the territories of the Arabic-speaking peoples of Late Antiq-
uity.9 The Qur’an reflects much of the religious idiom of pre-Islamic Arabia in its own vocabulary,
just as it includes references to typical Arabian cultic rites and practices in the process of delivering
its own distinctive message, which in turn echoes themes and modes of religious expression that also
reflect the Qur’an’s interaction with the lore of multiple traditions flourishing in the wider world of
Late Antiquity.10 Recent scholarship has shown that by the time of the Qur’an’s origins, the indig-
enous polytheistic traditions were themselves involved in the process of interacting not only with the
increasing presence of Jews and Christians in the Arabian milieu, but also with the religio-political
traditions of the bordering empires, particularly those of the Persians and Romans.11
By the first third of the seventh century ce, Jewish communities had already become well estab-
lished in Arabia; they had achieved political significance in Yemen and Himyar by the fourth century
ce,12 where the previously mentioned, so-called nondenominational Abrahamic monotheism first
appeared, ostensibly under Jewish influence.13 Jews had established themselves in South Arabia, in
H.imyar, and particularly in Yemen, long prior to the Christian Era, where they were to remain an
important cultural presence until well into the twentieth century.14 For a brief period in the sixth
century, a Jewish king, Yūsuf Dhū Nuwās (d. 525), reigned in H.imyar,15 during which time he
engaged in a military action against the city of Najrān that resulted in the tragic deaths of numerous
Christians, a circumstance that yielded a rich martyrological tradition in Syriac, thus bringing news
of events in deepest Arabia to the notice of the wider Christian world on the Arabian periphery.16 It
is significant that during his tenure in office, King Yūsuf is also said to have been in correspondence
with Jewish religious authorities in Tiberias in Palestine,17 indicating that he and his community
were not isolated in Arabia from the wider world of Judaism in the sixth century ce, and suggesting a
rabbinical consultation on the king’s part. More to the present purpose, the existence of Jewish com-
munities in Muhammad’s immediate ambience in the H.ijāz in the early seventh century is also well
attested.18 In particular, it is well-known that there were Jews in the oasis communities of Khaybar
as well as in Yathrib (Medina), where they were known by their tribal identities as the Banū l-Nad.īr,
the Banū Qaynuqāʿ, and the Banū Qurayz․a. During his time in Yathrib/Medina, Muhammad is
credited with having composed the document that has come to be known as the Constitution of
Medina, in which he details regulations for the harmonious relationships between the several tribal
groupings of Arabs in the city, the Jews prominently included.19
The ubiquitous Christian communities established throughout the Roman and Persian domains
on the periphery of the heartlands of Arabia in Late Antiquity had also long been extending both
their political and religious influence beyond their own borders into the milieu of the Arabic-
speaking peoples.20 Unlike the case of the Jews of Arabia, however, the available evidence for the
Christian presence within the ambience of the Qur’an’s origins is more circumstantial in that, apart
from a number of rather laconic pre-Islamic inscriptions and graffiti that include Christian symbols
such as the cross and occasional confessional formulae,21 evidence for an active Christian presence
in the H.ijāz, is largely gleaned on the one hand from scattered Greek and Syriac reports of incidents
4
Late Antiquity and the Religious Milieu of the Qur’an’s Origins
in Arabian church life22 and on the other hand and most importantly from the Qur’an itself. The
Qur’an’s evidence for the currency of Christian thought and practice in the immediate milieu of its
origins is abundant. In the Meccan suras, much of the Arabic scripture’s recollection of the bibli-
cal and para-biblical lore of the patriarchs and prophets, notably including accounts of Jesus and his
mother Mary, are demonstrably congruent with contemporary Christian traditions and particularly
those otherwise attested in surviving Syriac texts.23 The same is the case with nonbiblical accounts,
such as the Sleepers of Ephesus or the Alexander Legend,24 and even with allusions to intra-Christian
doctrinal quarrels, not to mention references to Christian liturgical personnel and community lead-
ers. Suras from the Medinan period of Muh.ammad’s prophetic career feature the very texts of
the Qur’an’s most critical, even polemical interreligious interaction with Christians, whom it now
regularly calls al-Nas.ārā, i.e., “Nazarenes,” adopting this well-known name for those whom others
regularly called Christians from Late Antique Syriac and Greek Christian texts.25
There are scholars who take the Qur’an’s evidence of Christians in its milieu to be indicative not
of a Christian presence in the H . ijāz in the first third of the seventh century ce but as support for
their now minority position that the Qur’an’s origins in its canonical form are not in Mecca and
Medina in the seventh century but further north in Syria and Iraq in later Umayyad times, where the
Christian presence was still pervasive in the eighth century, especially in its Syriac expression and in
its several denominational communities.26 Their hypotheses seem increasingly untenable especially
in the light of ongoing research into the age of the earliest surviving manuscripts of the Qur’an’s text,
which scholars have determined to have been copied in a distinctively H.ijāzī script in the second
half of the seventh century.27 What is more, scholars who originally made the strongest case for the
Qur’an’s origins outside of the H.ijāz and well after the close of the seventh century have effectively
abandoned their position in the light of subsequent research.28
There has been much scholarly discussion of the Christian identity of the Qur’an’s “Nazarenes”
who were present in the Arabian milieu of the Arabic scripture’s origins, whose doctrines and prac-
tices the Qur’an strongly critiques at the same time as it enlists them among the “Scripture People”
(ahl al-kitāb) and “Gospel People” (ahl al-injīl) within its purview. The available historical evidence
supports the view that in the Arabic-speaking world of the sixth and seventh centuries ce, the local
Christians, the Qur’an’s Nazarenes, were among the largely Syriac influenced “Melkite,” “Jacobite,
and “Nestorian” communities who composed Late Antiquity’s major Christian denominations in
the Middle East, including the Copts, the Armenians, and the Ethiopians, each with their own
traditional languages and cultures, who were themselves nevertheless in close communion with the
Syriac-speaking churches, especially the so-called Jacobites.29 Of course, there were also other com-
munities with Christian credentials living within the sphere of the Qur’an’s Late Antique horizons,
most prominently the Manicheans, whom we shall discuss in this chapter,30 and perhaps even some
of those who have in modern times come to be called Jewish Christians, not to mention possible
adepts of the several quasi-religious traditions of Late Antique mythology and philosophy,31 a num-
ber of whose Greek texts contemporary Syriac-speaking Christian scholars were themselves at the
time closely studying and translating into Syriac.
The alleged presence of “Jewish Christian” communities in the milieu of the Qur’an’s origins
presents a special case in Qur’anic historiography. There has been a crescendo in the study of “Jew-
ish Christianity” in the mid-twentieth century, beginning with the work of Jean Daniélou and Hans
Joachim Schoeps.32 Following Schoeps’s suggestions, a number of scholars have since highlighted
the occurrence of coincidences of doctrine and even of phraseology in the expression of doctrine,
between the Qur’an and a number of so-called Jewish Christian texts of Late Antiquity or reports of
Jewish Christian doctrine and practice in Early Christian heresiographical texts. This development
has prompted some to posit the presence and influence of one or another of the so-called Jewish
Christian communities in the Arabian milieu of the Qur’an’s origins, groups such as the ancient
Nazarenes, Ebionites, Elkasaites, and other “Judeo-Christian” communities.33 None have argued
5
Sidney H. Griffith
more forcefully or more influentially for the plausibility of an Arabian presence of Jewish Christians
in the seventh century ce and the influence of their ideas on the nascent Qur’an than the prominent
historian of early Islam, Patricia Crone.34 Others, arguing from the point of view of historical, inter-
religious theology, have even posited a form of Jewish Christianity redivivus in the Qur’an.35
The problem with the hypothesis that there were Jewish Christian communities resident in the
Arabian milieu of the Qur’an’s origins whose ideas and practices influenced the Qur’an’s prophetol-
ogy, particularly its view of Jesus the Messiah, and who also influenced its food and personal purity
laws is threefold. First of all, there is no historical record of the presence of any Jewish Christian
communities in Arabia in the first third of the seventh century ce. Secondly, the Qur’an’s reflec-
tion of and critique of Christian thought and practice current in its milieu is readily understandable
in terms of its apologetic and polemical interaction with the major Christian communities of Late
Antiquity historically known to be actively present within its Arabian ambience at the time of its
origins. Thirdly there is a hermeneutical, even an epistemological problem with the nature of the
evidence put forward by the proponents of the hypothesis of direct influence on the Qur’an on the
part of Jewish Christians who are hypothetically alleged to have been present in the milieu of its
origins. The evidence usually put forward consists of highlighting the congruence of the Qur’an’s
pertinent doctrines and practices with those said to be characteristic of Jewish Christians and then
arguing that the Qur’an must therefore have been influenced by Jewish Christians historically pre-
sent in its immediate environs. The argument presumes that the Qur’an has no reasons of its own
for the positions it espouses, which is demonstrably false, especially in the matter of its prophetology
and Christology. As for the so-called Jewish Christian legal provisions of the Qur’an, they are for the
most part also held in common with Jewish and Christian traditions transmitted by the communi-
ties known to have already been present in Arabia and readily assumed by the Qur’an, with suitable
adjustments and changes in nuance to be part of contemporary religious observance.36 The conclu-
sion is that there is in fact no credible, historical evidence for any Jewish Christian presence in the
environs of the Qur’an in its origins and no reasonable basis to posit Jewish Christian influence on
Qur’anic thought or expression. That there is a congruence between the Qur’an’s thought and prac-
tice and that said to be characteristic of Jewish Christianity is not in itself evidence for dependence,
especially in light of the fact that there is actually considerable doubt about the very existence of such
a thing as “Jewish Christianity” in the form in which it is generally portrayed by its proponents.37
Even Guy G. Stroumsa, one of the strongest supporters of the role Jewish Christians are said to have
played in transmitting ideas to the Qur’an and early Islam, says, “It is to its heuristic utility that the
Jewish Christian track owes its strength,”38 a virtual admission of the lack of convincing evidence for
its actual existence, since, as a heuristic device, it is by definition simply an otherwise unverifiable
didactic or explanatory stratagem used in this instance to highlight the congruence of thought and
practice in two religious traditions.
While Jews, Christians, and other Arabian monotheists, along with the local polytheist com-
munities, undoubtedly made up the majority in the religious milieu of the Qur’an, the text itself
provides evidence of other Late Antique communities that were also within its purview. In addition
to the Believers, the Jews, the Christians, and the polytheists, the Qur’an also mentions the Magi-
ans (al-Majūs) and the Sabians (al-S.ābi’ūn) (Q 2:62, 22:17). On the one hand, it is widely agreed
among scholars that the Magians were the Zoroastrians of the Qur’an’s day, whose presence among
the Persians on the Arabian periphery and in Arabia proper is well attested.39 On the other hand,
the identity of the Sabians has been more difficult to establish, but some scholars have proposed the
hypothesis that the name, which occurs three times in the Qur’an,40 was originally meant to refer
to the Manichaeans.41 They were in fact at the time of the Qur’an’s origins a constant presence
throughout the Late Antique Middle East and especially in the territories on the periphery of Ara-
bia, in Egypt, Syria, Mesopotamia, Persia, and elsewhere.42 The spread of Manichaeism among the
Arabic-speaking communities in the early seventh century was probably no more unlikely than the
6
spread of Judaism and Christianity among them. The importance of recognizing the highly probable
presence of Manichaeans in the milieu of the Qur’an lies in the fact that they too had a canonical
scripture that in many ways echoed the themes of earlier Jewish and Christian scriptures, as well as
the narratives of a number of texts considered apocryphal or pseudepigraphical among the Jews and
Christians.43 So the Manichaeans too could well have served as one of the conduits for the spread
of scriptural knowledge among the Arabs of the early seventh century,44 albeit not the major one,
through which a common awareness of biblical and para-biblical narratives and of stories of biblical
personalities and their exploits could have flowed. And in this connection one should not forget that
Manichaeism persisted into early Islamic times, not least among Muslims themselves.45
Qur’an scholars have long recognized the Arabic scripture’s evocation of narratives, themes, and
modes of expression, which are also found in the scriptures and para-biblical texts of the Jews and
Christians. In this connection, one need only recall the publication of the magisterial studies of
Abraham Geiger in the thirties of the nineteenth century and of Heinrich Speyer a hundred years
later,46 which provided the spring-board for numerous subsequent researchers who have been and
continue to be indefatigably busy uncovering passages in the Qur’an that seem to them to recall,
allude to, or in some way echo passages occurring in the earlier Jewish and Christian scriptures.47
Their researches have raised the question of whether or not there were already written Arabic trans-
lations of any of the earlier scriptures prior to the appearance of the Qur’an in the early seventh
century ce.
There is in fact abundant evidence for the availability of writing in Arabic by the first half of
the seventh century,48 and the Qur’an itself has much to say about writing and the accoutrements
of writing, even at one point suggesting the availability of the Torah and the Gospel in writing to
the Israelites, the Jews and Nazarenes, in its audience (e.g., 7:157). In the light of such evidence as
this, and along with the well-known penchant among Christians in Late Antiquity for producing
translations of the scriptures into the vernacular languages of their environs, a number of scholars
have argued strenuously in favor of the hypothesis that by the sixth century at the latest, Arabian
Christians too would most likely have produced written Arabic translations of at least portions of
the Bible, such as the Torah, the Psalms, and the Gospels, which would have been used in local
liturgies.49 The problem with this hypothesis is twofold. First of all, there is no evidence for the
production of any book-length writing at all in Arabic prior to the rise of Islam, and, as Gregor Sch-
oeler has put it, “The first book of Islam, and at the same time of Arabic literature, is the Qur’an.”50
What is more, all the available evidence for the first production of written translations of the Bible
into Arabic points to the eighth and ninth centuries ce at the earliest, well after the rise of Islam.51
Secondly, on the evidence of the Qur’an itself, the Arabic scripture’s interaction with the narratives
of the earlier scriptures was an oral, not a written phenomenon; the Qur’an presumes its audience’s
ready familiarity with the accounts of the biblical and para-biblical lore it recollects. All the available
evidence suggests that the earlier scriptures, to which the Qur’an refers by name, the Torah, the
Gospel, and the Psalms, were at the time in the possession of the local communities to which they
belonged and in their own canonical languages. The Qur’an was the only “scripture” (kitāb) com-
ing to be within the Arabian ambience of its origins whose verses were distinguished as an Arabic
recitation (qurʾān) for a people who could understand (cf. Q 41:3).
A striking feature of the historical study of Qur’anic origins within the broad horizon of Late
Antiquity with its wide range of religious traditions has been the realization of the pertinence of
the Arabic scripture’s phrasing to the current doctrinal and practical expressions of the environing,
rival communities’ parlance in non-Arabic languages, which the Arabic Qur’an often paraphrases,
critiques and corrects from its own point of view. This is especially the case when one recognizes
the Qur’an’s varied rhetorical strategies and particularly its modes of counter discourse, not only in
reporting the views of its adversaries but in its apologetic and polemical diction in which it responds
to adversarial positions,52 most notably those of the Jews and Christians, most of whose religious lore
7
Sidney H. Griffith
lay in texts in non-Arabic languages spoken beyond the immediate range of Arabian culture.53 The
recognition of the subtlety of the Qur’an’s polemic and the accuracy of its reflection of the details
of the controversial topics it addresses often emerges when its response is read through the lens of
its counter discourse to ideas otherwise found in non-Arabic texts circulating contemporaneously
within Late Antiquity’s wider frame of reference.
When the Arabic Scripture is read in tandem with attention paid to other, contemporary dis-
courses that were current and popular within its own Late Antique milieu, be they texts or wide-
spread oral traditions in cognate languages, especially those that articulated views contrary to its
own, the Qur’an’s implicit but intentional critique and correction of them becomes evident in
its own style of counter discourse. This Qur’anic counter discourse is principally expressed in the
Arabic scripture’s reinterpretation, even counter interpretation of the understanding of earlier nar-
ratives according to its own paradigmatic constructions of meaning. For example, in the particular
instance of the Arabic scripture’s “reading” and reinterpretation of the biblical and para-biblical nar-
ratives of the patriarchs and prophets circulating within its intellectual milieu, it frames its counter
interpretation of their stories within the exegetical framework of its own paradigmatic prophetology,
countering in particular the “reading” of the accounts of these same well-known figures that were
then overwhelmingly current, especially in Syriac Christian discourse. The typical, Late Antique
Christian exegesis of the Bible’s patriarchal and prophetic narratives was particularly well expressed
in the homiletic traditions of the contemporary Syriac-speaking churches, the principal themes of
which arguably had a wide oral circulation even among the Arabic-speaking Christians of Arabia in
the seventh century ce.54
There is an uncanny counterpoint to be seen in the hermeneutical function of the Qur’an’s oft
repeated mention of God’s “signs” (āya, pl. āyāt; 373 occurrences),55 especially in its reminiscences
of the Bible’s patriarchs and prophets, when they are compared with the function of the typologi-
cal “signs and symbols” (rôzê) of the Messiah’s mission in the discourse of the authors of the Syriac
“verse homilies” (mêmrê) regarding the same biblical personae. Both terms, āyāt and rôzê, are meant
to be indicative of the right hermeneutical horizon within which the prophetic narratives are to be
interpreted. Within this context, the Qur’an says repeatedly that there is a “sign” (āya) to be dis-
cerned in the mission of every one of God’s messengers who is mentioned in a given sura. There are
also abundant mentions of the āyāt Allāh in all the passages of the Qur’an that refer to Jesus the Mes-
siah as God’s Messenger and Prophet; in one place the Qur’an even says, “We made the Son of Mary
and his mother an āya” (Q 23: 50). In the Qur’an’s reminiscences of the messengers and prophets, the
signs inevitably point to the manifest evidences of the power and presence of the one God apparent
in their stories. By way of contrast, in the Syriac mêmrê, the “signs” (rôzê), functioning as “types,”
which the composers discern in the stories of the Bible’s patriarchs and prophets inevitably point to
their “antitype,” which is the person and Messianic role of Jesus of Nazareth, who is confessed in
the Gospel to be “the Messiah, the Son of the living God” (Matthew 16:16). This is a role that, as
interpreted in the Late Antique Christian discourse in the milieu of the Qur’an’s origins, is distinctly
counter to that which the Arabic scripture envisions for Jesus as not the last but one in its sequence
of God’s messengers and prophets.56
Reading the Qur’an as a textual lens through which to discern developments in Late Antiq-
uity’s religious and intellectual history more broadly than just what is perceptible through the usual
medium of Greek, Aramaic, or Latin sources reveals the Arabic scripture’s wide range of intellectual
engagement, much beyond the horizons afforded by its own immediate, Arabian, even Bedouin
milieu. In the process, the exercise frees the interpreter of the Qur’an’s religious history from the
heretofore seemingly universal scholarly compulsion to search for alien “sources” and to concentrate
on the Arabic scripture’s own knowing, rhetorical approaches to the currents of religious thought
and expression now seen to be well within the widened horizon of its own Late Antique purview.
8
Notes
1 See the discussion in Angelika Neuwirth, Der Koran als Text der Spätantike: e`in europäischer Zugang (Berlin:
Verlag der Weltreligionen im Insel Verlag, 2010) and in Aziz al-Azmeh, The Emergence of Islam in Late Antiq-
uity: Allāh and His People (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2014).
2 See Garth Fowden, Empire to Commonwealth: Consequences of Monotheism in Late Antiquity (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 1993); idem, Before and after Muh.ammad: The First Millennium Refocused (Prince-
ton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2014); Jitse H.G. Dijkstra and Greg Fisher (eds.), Inside and Out: Interac-
tions Between Rome and the Peoples on the Arabian and Egyptian Frontiers in Late Antiquity (Late Antique History
and Religion, vol. 8; Leuven: Peeters, 2014); Richard E. Payne, A State of Mixture: Christians, Zoroastrians,
and Iranian Political Culture in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2015).
3 See, e.g., the studies by Jacqueline Chabbi, Le Seigneur des tribus: Li’Islam de Mahomet (Paris: Noêsis, 1997);
idem, Le Coran décrypté: Figures bibliques en Arabie (Paris: Cerf, 2014); idem, Les trois Piliers de l’Islam: Lecture
anthropologique du Coran (Paris: Seuil, 2016).
4 See G.W. Bowersock, The Crucible of Islam (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2017).
5 See in particular Christian Julien Robin, “The Peoples Beyond the Arabian Frontier in Late Antiquity:
Recent Epigraphic Discoveries and Latest Advances,” in Inside and Out: Interactions Between Rome and the
Peoples on the Arabian and Egyptian Frontiers in Late Antiquity, ed. Jitse H.F. Dijkstra and Greg Fisher (Late
Antique History and Religion, vol. 8; Leuven: Peeters, 2014), 33–79. See also Christian Julien Robin,
“Ethiopia and Arabia,” in The Oxford Handbook of Late Antiquity, ed. Scott Fitzgerald Johnson (Oxford and
New York: Oxford University Press, 2012).
6 See, in particular, Robin, “The Peoples Beyond the Arabian Frontier,” 55. The Qur’an’s term, h.anīf (plural
h.unafāʾ), is usually taken to refer to these pre-Qur’anic monotheists. See Uri Rubin, “H.anīf,” in Encyclo-
paedia of the Qur’an, volume II, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe, 6 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 2001–2006), 402. Fur-
thermore, the Qur’an designates the monotheism of “Abraham the h.anīf ” as the dīn ibrāhīm (cf. Q 3:37,
95; 6:161; 16:120, 123). See Edmund Beck, “Die Gestalt des Abraham am Wendepunkt der Entwicklung
Muhammeds: Analyse von Sure 2, 118 (124)–135 (141),” Le Muséon 56 (1952): 73–94.
7 See the numerous studies of Irfan Shahid, “Byzantium and Kinda,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 53 (1960): 57–73;
“Procopius and Kinda,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 53 (1960): 74–78; “A Contribution to Koranic Exegesis,” in
Arabic and Islamic Studies in Honor of Hamilton A.R. Gibb, ed. G. Makdisi (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1965), 563–580;
The Martyrs of Najrān: New Documents (Subsidia Hagiographica, no. 49; Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes,
1971); “Byzantium in South Arabia,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 33 (1979): 23–94; “Another Contribution to
Koranic Exegesis: The Sūra of the Poets (XXVI),” Journal of Arabic Literature 41 (1983): 1–21; Rome and the
Arabs: A Prolegomenon to the Study of Byzantium and the Arabs) (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1984);
Byzantium and the Arabs in the Fourth Century (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1984); Byzantium and
the Arabs in the Fifth Century (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1989); Byzantium and the Arabs in the
Sixth Century, 2 vols. in 4 (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1995–2009); The Arabs in Late Antiquity:
Their Role, Achievement, and Legacy (The Margaret Weyerhaeuser Jewett Chair of Arabic, Occasional Papers;
Beirut: American University of Beirut, 2008). See also Spencer J. Trimingham, Christianity Among the Arabs
in Pre-Islamic Times (London and New York: Longman, 1979); Greg Fisher, Between Empires: Arabs, Romans,
and Sasanians in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011).
8 Hisham ibn al-Kalbī, Kitāb al-As.nām, The Book of Idols, trans. Nabith Amin Faris (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1952/2015).
9 See Mustansir Mir, “Polytheism and Atheism,” in The Encyclopaedia of the Qur’an, volume IV, ed. Jane Dam-
men McAuliffe, 6 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 2001–2006), 158–162.
10 See, in particular, al-Azmeh, The Emergence of Islam in Late Antiquity and the works of J. Chabbi previously
cited.
11 See, in particular, the work of Patricia Crone, Meccan Trade and the Rise of Islam (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1987); Gerald R. Hawting, The Idea of Idolatry and the Emergence of Islam (Cambridge,
UK: Cambridge University Press, 1999). See also Patricia Crone, “How Did the Quranic Pagans Make a
Living?” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London 68 (2005): 387–399; idem,
“The Religion of the Qur’anic Pagans: God and the Lesser Deities,” Arabica 57 (2010): 151–200; idem,
“Angels Versus Humans as Messengers of God: The View of the Qur’anic Pagans,” in Revelation, Literature,
and Community in Late Antiquity, ed. Philippa Townsend and Moulie Vidas (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck,
2011), 315–336; idem, “The Quranic Mushrikūn and the Resurrection (Part I),” Bulletin of the School of
Oriental and African Studies, University of London 75 (2012): 445–472; idem, “The Quranic Mushrikūn and
the Resurrection (Part II),” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London 76
(2013): 1–20.
9
Sidney H. Griffith
12 See Norman A. Stillman, The Jews of Arab Lands: A History and Source Book (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication
Society of America, 1979); Gordon D. Newby, A History of the Jews of Arabia (Columbia: University of South
Carolina Press, 1988).
13 See Robin, “The Peoples Beyond the Arabian Frontier,” 52–56.
14 See Christian Julien Robin, “Le judaïsme de H.imyar,” Arabia 1 (2003): 97–172; Bat-Zion Eraqi Klorman,
“Yemen,” in Encyclopedia of Jews in the Islamic World, volume IV, 5 vols., ed. Norman A. Stillman (Leiden: E.J.
Brill, 2010): 627–639.
15 See Christian Julien Robin, “Joseph, dernier roi de H.imyar (de 522 à 525, ou une des années suivantes),”
Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 34 (2008): 1–124.
16 See Shahid, The Martyrs of Najrān; Theresia Hainthaler, Christliche Araber vor dem Islam: Verbreitung und
konfessionelle Zugehörigkeit; eine Hinführung (Eastern Christian Studies, 7; Leuven: Peeters, 2007), sub voce;
Robin, “Joseph, dernier roi de H.imyar,” esp. 37–72; Joëlle Beaucamp et al., Juifs et chrétiens en Arabie aux Ve
et Vie siècles: Regards Croisés sur les Sources (CNRS Monographies, 32; Paris: Association des amis du Centre
d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance, 2010). It is important also to note that Christian Julien Robin in a
soon to be published article, “Les Chrétiens de Najran,” has shown that some Christians of Najran were
supporters of King Yūsuf.
17 See Klorman, “Yemen,” 629; Robin, “Joseph, dernier roi de H.imyar,” 70–71.
18 See Michael Lecker, Jews and Arabs in Pre- and Early Islamic Arabia (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 1998); idem,
People, Tribes, and Society in Arabia Around the Time of Muh.ammad (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2005).
19 See Michael Lecker, The “Constitution of Medina”: Muh.ammad's First Legal Document (Princeton, NJ: Darwin
Press, 2004). See also M. Gil, “The Origin of the Jews of Yathrib,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 4 (1984):
203–224; Michael Lecker, Muslims, Jews and Pagans: Studies on Early Islamic Medina (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1995).
20 See Hainthaler, Christliche Araber vor dem Islam.
21 See, in particular, Robin, “The Peoples Beyond the Arabian Frontier,” 65–77; idem, Les Chrétiens de Najran.
See also René Tardy, Najrān: Chrétiens d’Arabie avant l’Islam (Beirut: Dar el-Machreq, 1999).
22 See the studies cited in n. 7.
23 See, e.g., Gabriel Said Reynolds, The Qur’an and Its Biblical Subtext (London and New York: Routledge,
2010). See also Sidney H. Griffith, “What Does Mecca Have to Do with Urhōy? Syriac Christianity, Islamic
Origins, and the Qur’an,” in Syriac Encounters: Papers from the Sixth North American Syriac Symposium, Duke
University, 26–29 June 2011, ed. Maria Doerfler, Emanuel Fiano, and Kyle Smith (Eastern Christian Studies,
20; Leuven: Peeters, 2015), 369–399.
24 See Sidney H. Griffith, “Christian Lore and the Arabic Qur’an: The ‘Companions of the Cave’ in Sūrat
al-Kahf and in Syriac Christian Tradition,” and Kevin van Bladel, “The Alexander Legend in the Qur’an
18:83–102,” in The Qur’an in Its Historical Context, ed. Gabriel Said Reynolds (London and New York:
Routledge, 2008), 109–137, 175–203. See also Kevin van Bladel, “The Syriac Sources of the Early Arabic
Narratives of Alexander,” in Memory as History: The Legacy of Alexander in Asia, ed. H.P. Ray and D.T. Potts
(New Delhi: Aryan Books International, 2007), 54–75.
25 See Sidney H. Griffith, “The Qur’an’s ‘Nazarenes’ and Other Late Antique Christians: Arabic-Speaking
‘Gospel People’ in Qur’anic Perspective,” in Christsein in der islamischen Welt: Festschrift für Martin Tamcke zum
60. Geburtstag, ed. S.H. Griffith and S. Grebenstein (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2015), 81–106. See also Sid-
ney H. Griffith, “Al-Nas.ārā in the Qur’an: A Hermeneutical Reflection,” in New Perspectives on the Qur’an:
The Qur’an in Its Historical Context 2, ed. Gabriel Said Reynolds (London and New York: Routledge, 2011),
301–322.
26 See, e.g., Patricia Crone and Michael Cook, Hagarism: The Making of the Islamic World (Cambridge, UK:
Cambridge University Press, 1977); John E. Wansbrough, The Sectarian Milieu: Content and Composition of
Islamic Salvation History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978); Stephen J. Shoemaker, “Christmas in
the Qur’an,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 28 (2003): 11–39; idem, The Death of a Prophet: The End
of Muh.ammad’s Life and the Beginnings of Islam (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011);
John Jandora, The Latent Trace of Islamic Origins: Midian’s Legacy in Mecca’s Moral Awakening (Piscataway, NJ:
Gorgias Press, 2012). See also many of the studies included in Carlos A. Segovia and Basil Lourié (eds.), The
Coming of the Comforter: When, Where, and to Whom? Studies on the Rise of Islam and Various Other Topics in
Memory of John Wansbrough (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2012). See too Karl-Heinz Ohlig, “Das syrische
und arabische Christentum und der Koran,” in Die dunkilen Anfänge: Neue Forschungen zur Entstehung und
frühen Geschichte des Islam, 3rd ed., ed. Kark-Heinz Ohlig and Gerd – R. Puin (Berlin: Verlag Hans Schiler,
2007), 366–404.
27 See Behnam Sadeghi and Uwe Bergman, “The Codex of a Companion of the Prophet and the Qur’an of
the Prophet,” Arabica 75 (2010): 343–436; François Déroche, La transmission écrite du Coran dans le débuts de
l’islam (Texts and Studies on the Qur’an, 5; Leiden: Brill, 2009).
10
28 See, e.g., Patricia Crone, “What Do We Actually Know About Mohammed?” Open Democracy, June 10,
2008, http://www/opendemocracy.net.
29 See Sidney H. Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2008): idem, “The Qur’an’s Nazarenes.”
30 See the studies mentioned in n. 38.
31 See, e.g., Walid A. Saleh, “The Etymological Fallacy and Qur’anic Studies: Muhammad, Paradise, and
Late Antiquity,” in The Qur’an in Context: Historical and Literary Investigations into the Qur’anic Milieu, ed.
Angelika Neuwirth, Nicolai Sinai, and Michael Marx (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 649–698, esp. 689–691; Samuel
Zinner, “Echoes of Parmenides Fragment 8 in Qur’an 112: A Textual-Philological Investigation,” 2012,
www.samuelzinner.com.
32 Hans Joachim Schoeps, Theologie und Geschichte des Judenchristentums (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr (Paul Sie-
beck), 1949); Jean Daniélou, Théologie du judéo-christianisme (Paris: Desclée, 1958), on whose work, see now
Emanuel Piano, “The Construction of Ancient Jewish Christianity in the Twentieth Century: The Cases
of Hans-Joachim Schoeps and Jean Daniélou,” in Patristic Studies in the Twenty-first Century: Proceedings of An
International Conference to Mark the 50th Anniversary of the International Association of Patristic Studies, ed. Bro-
uria Britton-Ashkelony, Theodore de Bruyn, and Carol Harrison (Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols Publishers,
2015), 279–297.
33 Building on the work of earlier scholars, such as John Toland (1668–1722), Nazarenus, or Jewish, Gentile, and
Mahometan Christianity (London: J. Brotherton, J. Roberts, & A. Dodd, 1718), this line of reasoning was
revived in more recent times already by Julius Wellhausen, Reste arabischen Heldentumes (Berlin: G. Reimer,
1897), 232. It was explicitly put forward by Schoeps, Theologie und Geschichte des Judenchristentums, 334–342,
where, just prior to his section on Ebionitische Elemente im Islam, Schoeps states, “It was a sectarian Christian-
ity of partly Jewish Christian character that Muhammad got to know at the beginning of his career under
the name Nas.ara – a collective name of the sects of East Syria-Arabia,” 334. See Simon C. Mimouni, “Les
Nazoréens: Recherche étymologique et historique,” Revue Biblique 105 (1998): 208–262. Most recently this
point of view has been most ably presented by François de Blois, “Nas.rānī (Ναζωραιος) and h.anīf (εθνικος):
Studies on the Religious Vocabulary of Christianity and of Islam,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African
Studies 65 (2002): 1–30; Edouard M. Gallez, Le messie et son prophète: Aux origines de l’islam (tome I: De
Qumrân à Muh.ammad, 2nd ed.; Paris: Éditions de Paris, 2005); Joachim Gnilka, Die Nazarener und der
Koran: Eine Spurensuche (Freiburg: Herder, 2007).
34 Patricia Crone, “Jewish Christianity and the Qur’an (Part One),” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 74 (2015):
225–253; idem, “Jewish Christianity and the Qur’an (Part Two),” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 75 (2016): 1–21.
35 See most recently Samuel Zinner, The Abrahamic Archetype: Conceptual and Historical Relationships Between
Judaism, Christianity and Islam (Bartlow, Cambridge: Archetype, 2011) and Mustafa Akyol, The Islamic Jesus:
How the King of the Fews Became a Prophet of the Muslims (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2017).
36 See, e.g., Holger Zellentin, The Qur’an’s Legal Culture: The Didascalia Apostolorum as a Point of Departure
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013).
37 See Joan E. Taylor, “The Phenomenon of Early Jewish-Christianity: Reality or Scholarly Invention?” Vig-
iliae Christianae 44 (1990): 313–334; Daniel Boyarin, “Rethinking Jewish Christianity: An Argument for
Dismantling a Dubious Category (to which is Appended a Correction of my Border Lines),” The Jewish Quar-
terly Review 99 (2009): 7–36; Fiano, “The Construction of Ancient Jewish Christianity in the Twentieth
Century,” 279–297.
38 Guy G. Stroumsa, “Jewish Christianity and Islamic Origins,” in Islamic Cultures, Islamic Contexts: Essays in
Honor of Professor Patricia Crone, ed. Behnam Sadeghi et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 90.
39 See William R. Darrow, “Magians,” in Encyclopaedia of the Qur’an, vol. III, 244–245.
40 Q 2:62, 5:59, 22:17.
41 See, e.g., Moshe Gil, “The Creed of Abū ‘Āmir,” Israel Oriental Studies 12 (1992): 9–47; M. Tardieu,
“L’arrivée des manichéens à al-H . īra,” in La Syrie de Byzance à l’Islam VIIe – VIIIe siècles: Actes du colloque
international, Lyon-Maison de l’Orient Méditerranien, Paris – Institut de Monde Arabe, 11–15 Septembre 1990,
ed. Pierre Canivet and Jean-Paul Rey-Coquais (Damas: Institut Français de Damas, 1992), 15–24; James
A. Bellamy, “More Proposed Emendations to the Text of the Koran,” Journal of the American Oriental Society
116 (1996): 196–204, esp. 201–203; Róbert Simon, “Mānī and Muh.ammad,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and
Islam 21 (1997): 118–141; François de Blois, “The ‘Sabians’ (S.ābi’ūn) in Pre-Islamic Arabia,” Acta Orientalia
56 (1995): 39–61; idem, “Sabians,” Encyclopaedia of the Qur’an, vol. IV, 511–513; idem, “Nas.rānī and H.anīf ”;
idem, “Elchasai–Manes–Muh.ammad: Manichäismus und Islam in religionshistorischen Vergleich,” Der Islam
81 (2004): 31–48.
42 See Samuel N.C. Lieu, Manichaeism in Mesopotamia and the Roman East (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994); idem,
Manichaeism in Central Asia and China (Leiden: Brill, 1998).
11
Sidney H. Griffith
43 The echoes of and allusions to biblical and apocryphal narratives in Manichaean texts is an understudied area
of Manichaean Studies. But see, e.g., L. Koenen, “Manichaean Apocalypticism at the Crossroads of Iranian,
Egyptian, Jewish and Christian Thought,” in Codex Manichaicus Coloniensis: Atti del Simposio Internazionale
(Rende-Amantea 3–7 settembre 1984), ed. Luigi Cirillo (Cosenza: Marra Editore, 1986), 285–332.
44 See, e.g., the suggestions made by Cornelia B. Horn, “Lines of Transmission Between Apochryphal Tradi-
tions in the Syriac-speaking World: Manichaeism, and the Rise of Islam; the Case of the Acts of John,” Parole
de l’Orient 35 (2010): 337–355.
45 See John C. Reeves, Prolegomena to a History of Islamicate Manichaeism (Comparative Islamic Studies; Shef-
field, UK and Oakville, CT: Equinox, 2011).
46 Abraham Geiger, Was hat Mohammed aus dem Judenthume aufgenommen? (Bonn: Baaden, 1831); Heinrich
Speyer, Die biblischen Erzählungen im Qoran, 3 vols. (Gräfenhainichen and Breslau: Schulze, 1931).
47 See, e.g., Reynolds, The Qur’an and Its Biblical Subtext.
48 See, most succinctly, Gregor Schoeler, Écrire et transmettre dans les débouts de l’Islam (Paris: Presses Universi-
taires de France, 2002).
49 See, in particular, Shahid, Byzantium and the Arabs in the Fourth Century; idem, Byzantium and the Arabs in
the Sixth Century (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2002); Hikmat Kachouh, The Arabic Versions of the
Gospels: The Manuscripts and Their Families (Berlin and New York: DeGruyter, 2012).
50 Schoeler, Écrire et transmettre, 26.
51 Sidney H. Griffith, The Bible in Arabic: The Scriptures of the ‘People of the Book’ in the Language of Islam (Prince-
ton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2013); idem, “Script, Text, and the Bible in Arabic: The Evidence of
the Qur’an,” in press.
52 See Rosalind Ward Gwynne, Logic, Rhetoric, and Legal Reasoning in the Qur’an: God’s Arguments (New York:
Routledge Curzon, 2004).
53 See in this connection the important work of Mehdi Azaiez, Le contre-discours coranique (Studies in the His-
tory and Culture of the Middle East, vol. 30; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2015).
54 See Griffith, “What Does Mecca Have to Do with Urhōy?” 369–399; idem, “The Qur’an’s ‘Nazarenes’
and Other Late Antique Christians: Arabic-Speaking ‘Gospel People’ in Qur’anic Perspective,” in Christsein
in der islamischen Welt: Festschrift für Martin Tamcke zum 60. Geburtstag, ed. S.H. Griffith and S. Grebenstein
(Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2015), 81–106.
55 The term as it is used in the Qur’an refers to “some phenomenon or entity in nature that is to draw the
attention of the people to the power of God; . . . [it] may also be understood as ‘textual segment of the
Revelation’.” Arne A. Ambros, A Concise Dictionary of Koranic Arabic (Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 2004),
32. In post-Qur’anic times, the term āya (pl. āyāt) is regularly used to mean a verse (or verses) of the Qur’an.
56 See Sidney H. Griffith, “Late Antique Christology in Qur’anic Perspective,” forthcoming.
12
2
ARABIA
Ripe for Revelation
Gordon D. Newby
Historiographic Introduction
Historians have long wondered why Arabia was the birthplace of Islam. A religious Muslim might
say because God willed it. For historians of religion, the answer involves geography, climate, politics,
war, trade, and other elements intermixed in the religious history of the Late Antique East Mediter-
ranean. While no single element will provide a complete answer, it is the historian’s task to assemble
all the available evidence and offer the best hypothesis from that evidence.1
The period of time called Late Antiquity has recently become the center of a lively debate about
Arabia in the period leading up to Muhammad and the Qur’an. The scholar, Aziz al-Azmeh states:
Islam forms an integral part of Late Antiquity in the sense that it instantiated, under the
signature of a new universal calendar, two salient features which over-determine – rather
than constitute the “essence” of – this period. These are monotheism and an ecumenical
empire, the conjunction of which, in constituting the history of the period, serves in very
complex ways as its points of articulation and internal coherence. Both monotheism . . .
and empire might be termed Roman, or perhaps Late Roman.2
When looking at Arabia in the period from roughly a hundred years before the birth of Muham-
mad through Muhammad’s lifetime, we can see that Rome/Byzantium (Arabic: Rūm) was only part
of the story, and our geographic view has to extend East to the Sasanian Empire, South to Himyar,
and across the Red Sea to the kingdom of Axum in Ethiopia. In other words, the Late Antique East
should be understood as a wide geographic area as well as a broad time period in which the Roman
Empire and the Persian/Sassanian Empire compete for dominance and promote varieties of Judaisms
and Christianities as the religions of their clients throughout the region and particularly in Arabia.
Al-Azmeh’s perspective is joined by G.W. Bowersock’s latest work, The Crucible of Islam.3 Both see
the formation of an Islamic polity after the death of Muhammad and the formation of an impe-
rial caliphate as a monotheistic empire that subsumes Jews, Christians, and some Zoroastrians in an
“ecumenical empire.” When we look back at the Late Antique in Arabia through the lens of Islam,
Jewish modes of thinking about and talking about religion were already indigenized in Arabian
society in ways that survived the rise and dominance of Islam.4 To an almost equal extent, Christian
thought-ways were also indigenized in Arabia, and the evidence from the Qur’an shows how both
were strongly present by the time of Muhammad.
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-3 13
Gordon D. Newby
An alternative historiographic perspective popular in the late twentieth century contends that
the major influence on the Qur’an and the rise of Islam is not found in Arabia but among Syrian
Christians outside the Arabian peninsula.5 Along with their emphases on the Christian underpin-
nings of the Qur’an, many of those historians embrace a view that diminishes or rejects the value
of Arabian traditions and Islamic scholarship for understanding the Qur’an and the environment in
which it appeared. Since the appearance of Patricia Crone and Michael Cook’s thought experiment,
Hagarism, in 1977, many Western historians of early Islam have been very critical of Islamic tradi-
tions to the point of rejecting them as nothing more than what John Wansbrough termed “salvation
history” (Heilsgeschichte).6 Recent discoveries of ancient Qur’anic manuscripts dating to the time of
the first generation after Muhammad as well as the counterarguments put forth by such scholars as
al-Azmeh and Bowersock have weakened the force of this alternative view and strengthened the
case for Arabia without diminishing the real influence of Judaism and Christianity on the religious
thought of the Arabs in pre-Islamic Arabia.
Arabia as a Place of Refuge and Proselytizing

For our ancestors in the Late Antique period, Arabia was not a precise geographic term. It was
where Arabs were found, but Arab was also not a precise term. Generally, Arabia was bounded on
the north by the Fertile Crescent, and the arid and semi-arid lands underneath that curve of fertility
were inhabited by nomadic people who were regarded as Arabs. Ancient Arabia extended south to
encompass what we regard as the Arabian Peninsula that is bounded by the Red Sea, the Gulf of
Aden, the Gulf of Oman, the Arabian Sea, the Persian Gulf, and the Indian Ocean. In spite of being
surrounded by water, there are few places where there are good ports. The Red Sea is filled with
coral, and the Persian Gulf has extensive shoaling. Because of the desert and the difficult shoreline,
Arabia was known to be a remote, forbidding place, unconquerable, as Aelius Gallus (fl. circa 26–24
bce) had learned in 25 bce in his failed attempt to conquer the peninsula under the Roman emperor
Augustus (d. 14 ce). Arabia’s interior had no permanent rivers and very little annual rain. The
ancient geographers termed Arabia’s climate and geography natura maligna: “malign nature.” But the
forbidding environment made Arabia a safe haven for those fleeing the Jewish-Roman wars (66–136
ce) or the charges of heresy from various Christian Church councils. As a result of these religiously
committed refugees, Arabia was a place of intense religious contestation and religious inquiry. The
varieties of Judaisms and Christianities found in pre-Islamic Arabia were usually associated with the
imperial ambitions of the two major empires, Rome and Persia. Indigenous polytheism appears to
have been in decline, but it was still a strong social force in the Arabia of Muhammad’s birth, in
particular the Northwest known as the H.ijāz. Some of the polytheists are reported to have been
strongly associated with the tribal and family gods but also that they were influenced by Jewish and
Christian proselytizing. Islamic traditions report that some polytheists adopted monotheistic beliefs
not connected to either Judaism or Christianity as a kind of transition from polytheism.7
Commerce and Conflict

Arabia was also a center for international trade which connected Arabia to Persia, the Roman Medi-
terranean, Africa, and the Indian subcontinent. Commodities such as gold, frankincense, and myrrh
came from southern Arabia and the Horn of Africa, while Indian spices and African wood and
slaves were transshipped through Arabia to the Mediterranean on the backs of camels that had been
domesticated at the beginning of the first millennium bce. Jews, Christians, Zoroastrians, polytheists,
and others intermixed in Arabia, at a time when politics, economics, and religion were inextricably
intertwined in this international trade, and when religious identities and interests were associated
with particular segments of trade. For example, gold and other metalsmithing were dominated by
14
Arabia
Jews, while wine production was found among both Jews and Christians. International trade was
linked to the polytheists, particularly the tribe of Quraysh in Mecca and their worship around the
Kaʿba. They were the tribe that took over international trade when the Roman Empire relinquished
control of the Red Sea, and the trade moved to an inland route using camels.
At the beginning of the first millennium ce, Arabs in Arabia developed the North Arabian camel
saddle, a platform that, when strapped to the camel, allowed a stable area to sit and ride. This trans-
formed the camel into a cavalry animal as well as a pack animal for trade, and the pastoral nomads
of Arabia hired themselves to the Byzantine Romans and the Persians as mercenary cavalry in the
Roman–Persian Wars (circa first century bce–seventh century ce). Christians and Jewish Bedouins,
as well as polytheists, fought on both sides of the conflict, giving them intimate knowledge of the
religions and politics of the East Mediterranean.8 This development of clientage along the Byzantine
and Persian borders worked in concert with the border fortifications, such as the series of forts along
the Limes Arabicus, the road that extended from the Gulf of Aqaba to northern Syria, to keep the
Arabs in control of who entered and exited Arabia. It also gave the Arabs the beginnings of a sense
of identity as Arabs and not just individual tribes.
Arabian Jews
There are legendary indications that Jews were in Arabia from ancient times, but for our purposes,
we are interested chiefly in the Jews that fled from the Roman destruction of the Second Temple
in Jerusalem and the subsequent Jewish–Roman wars and the Jews that came into Arabia from
Persian-held Mesopotamia, as well as those Arabs who converted to Judaism. In other words, we
are interested in the development of the strong Jewish communities that helped shape the religious
consciousness in pre-Islamic Arabia.
With the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 ce, Jews fled to places where there were other
Jews and where they could find safety and economic opportunity. Arabia was a close place that
offered both. The two chief Jewish tribes in Medina, the city that would become second to Mecca in
Muhammad’s life, the Banū Qurayz․a and the Banū l-Nadīr, were called the two priestly tribes after
an ancestor called al-Kāhin, an appellation that reflects the migration of priestly tribes into Arabia
after the Temple’s destruction. They came to maintain Levitical purity, await the rebuilding of the
Temple and the reinstitution of Temple sacrifice.9
The legendary origins of the Jewish communities of Southern Arabia also involve the Temple, but
in their case extends back, at least in legend, to the First Temple. According to Yemenite legends, the
original Yemenite settlers left Jerusalem 42 years before the destruction of the First Temple (586 bce) in
anticipation of its destruction. When Ezra called on them to return, they refused because they foresaw
the destruction of the Second Temple. Ezra, according to the legend, cursed them, and they in turn
cursed him.10 Additionally, the Yemenite Jews claim their origins from Solomon and the Queen of
Sheba, legends that get their greatest articulation in Islamic sources but are preceded by Jewish sources.11
Setting aside the legendary origins, there is no reason to separate the H.ijāz (Northwest Arabia)
from Himyar in South Arabia. As Michael Lecker has demonstrated, the conversion of Himyar to
Judaism in the fifth century ce was under the influence of the Jews of Yathrib/Medina, and this
connection remained into Muhammad’s lifetime.12 This is part of the larger story of the Jewish king,
Yūsuf dhū Nuwas (d. 527) and his conflict with the Ethiopian Christian general, Abraha (fl. circa
550), a pivotal event in both Christian and Jewish history in Arabia. We are told that Yūsuf was a
client of the Sasanian ambitions in the area. Both Byzantium and the Sasanians were using factions
in Arabia as clients in their proxy wars, not always to the benefit of the Arabs.13 Yūsuf ’s campaign
to restore control over the Yemen involved the persecution of Ethiopian-backed Monophysites,
who had apparently replaced the Persian-backed Nestorians in what had been a Jewish kingdom in
the Yemen. Reports of this, which we know through a Syriac martyrology, provoked an Ethiopian
15
Gordon D. Newby
invasion under the support of the Byzantine emperor, resulting in the defeat and death of Yūsuf.14
Internal politics in Byzantium and Persia, as well as the negotiation of a truce between the two
superpowers, meant that the Persian Jewish clients were abandoned. Nonetheless, the substantial
Jewish community in Southern Arabia retained connections with the Jews of the Hijāz, and a num-
ber of Jews from Yemen were in the company of Muhammad.
The Jews of the H . ijāz had the strongest influence on religious thought in Arabia as shown in the
influence they had on the Arabic used in the Qur’an. The H.ijāzī Jews were polylingual and used a
dialect of Arabic as their everyday language of communication. We have only fragmentary surviv-
ing written evidence, so we rely on secondary reports. In one example, it is reported that the rabbis
of Medina read the Torah in Hebrew and “translated” it (fassara) into Arabic for the congregation
(which included Muhammad and some of his followers on at least one occasion.)15 These “bridge”
practices give us the earliest examples of Judeo-Arabic, that has its own vocabulary, script, and,
pronunciation. Judeo-Arabic parallels other Jewish subdialects of languages where Jews were indi-
genized, such as Yiddish in relationship to Middle High German, Ladino to Medieval Spanish, and
Judeo-Tajik for the Persianate world.16
The main source of our linguistic evidence comes from the Qur’an in which a number of words
can best be explained in meaning and usage as having been derived from Jewish usage in Hebrew
and/or Jewish Aramaic. Some of the most prominent examples are salāt (prayer), .sadaqa (charity),
zakāt (alms), and nabī (prophet). These terms are presented in the Qur’an as clear Arabic words, even
though later Islamic scholars identify them as “foreign” words. The cross-cultural, cross-language
movement of technical terms is common, of course, but in this case, it is interesting to note that
these are foundational religious terms, indicating that the indigenized Arabian Jewish communities
provided fundamental ideas about religion and religious practice, including scripture.17 This process
of indigenizing these words and concepts, I contend, happened mainly in the proto-Islamic period
and became part of the available vocabulary to Arabs when talking about religion.18
Looking at how scripture was used in Arabia among Jews, we see that Jews employed “main-
stream” Hijāzī Arabic and yahūdiyya in spoken and written forms in addition to the liturgical use of
Hebrew and Aramaic. Hebrew and Aramaic were primarily languages of the Jewish intelligentsia:
the rabbis and the haberīm.19 Congregational practice for reading the Torah involved the ritual read-
ing of Hebrew followed by a translation into Arabic in a dialect understandable to Muhammad
and his Companions. The production of a commentary/translation (tafsīr) for the Medinan Jewish
congregation as a means of understanding the Torah, a pesher if we take the Arabic word back to its
Hebrew counterpart, is an essential part of what it means to be rabbinic. This is also how the Qur’an
and related Islamic traditions understand the Medinan Jews. The term rabbāniyyūn occurs three times
in Q 3:79, 5:44, and 5:63 in contexts where it clearly means “rabbis.” It can also be translated as “rab-
binites” or “those who are rabbinic.” Haggai Mazuz makes a strong case for Medinan Jews fitting in,
for the most part, to a recognizable pattern of rabbinic belief and practice.20 He cites, for example,
evidence that the Jews of Wādī al-Qurā sent sheʾiltôt, official legal inquiries, to the rabbis in Babylo-
nia.21 And some of what we find in the Qur’an fits that well, particularly in the areas of interpreta-
tion of Torah. They are accused, for example, of changing the text and/or the meaning of the text
of the Torah.22 This is normal practice in midrash, not actually changing the words of the Torah but
offering various interpretations based on plausible textual parallels found elsewhere in the Tanakh.
In Qur’anic Arabic, this practice is called tahrīf, letter substitution, or tabdīl, exchange. An example
of midrash-making shows up in association with Q 2:80 in which the Jews are said to claim that the
fires of Hell would only affect them for a limited time. In later Islamic traditions, this is amplified as
saying that the Jews held that Creation took seven days, then the world would last for 7,000 years
and would end (uncreate) after another seven days, limiting the time one could be in Hell. Since the
Tanakh fails to spell out when and how long the Eschaton will be, asserting parallelism with Genesis
fits nicely within the rabbinic midrashic practice of trying to fill in the “gaps” in the text.
16
Arabia
Other Qur’anic accusations against Jewish belief and practice indicate that some Arabian Jews
were involved with beliefs and practices outside of the Torah-Talmud textual orbit. Qur’an 9:30–31
says, “And the Jews say: Ezra (ʿUzayr) is the son of God, and the Christians say: The Messiah is the
son of God.” This is attributed to haberīm, previously mentioned, and Christian monks. The question
is: how could rabbinic Jews plausibly be said to have regarded Ezra as a “son” of God. The best expla-
nation is that Ezra, along with Baruch, Elijah, and Enoch, was translated into heaven alive, stripped
of humanity and that the four were made into members of the benê elohīm, literally “sons of God,”
part of the angelic realm. It was Enoch who became Metatron, the guardian of the secrets of heaven.
Ezra, who is known in extrarabbinic literature as “the Scribe of the knowledge of the Most High,”23
is conflated with Enoch by those haberīm who were involved in the practice of Merkabah mysticism.24
Of interest to our discussion is that the Ezra/Enoch traditions embraced by the Arabian haberīm are
found among communities in Palestine, Babylonia, and Ethiopia, indicating that the Arabian Jews
were connected to the lands outside and surrounding the Arabian Peninsula.
In sum, what are we to make of the evidence for the Jewish presence and influence on the ideas
of scripture in Arabia? First, we notice that the Qur’an takes Jewish ideas seriously. Much of the
polemic in the Qur’an against the Jews is against ideas that can be found in Rabbinic literature.
Additionally, those polemical passages are presented in the Qur’an as discussions of well-known
ideas among Jewish and non-Jewish listeners to the Qur’an. This stands to reason because we have
ample evidence that Judaism in various forms was respected in Arabia at the time of Muhammad.
Second, we should note that Jewish scripture in Arabia was more than just the five books of Moses:
the written Torah. The material we have from the Qur’an and later from the tafsīr traditions on
specific Qur’anic passages represents the dual scripture of Rabbinic Judaism, the ketiv and the qere,
that is, the “written” and “oral” Torah. Indeed, the Qur’anic polemics seem chiefly aimed at the
Rabbinic use of oral Torah and their methods of reading, without asserting that we have anything
more than the Jewish practices that later are adopted by Rabbinic Jews. That being the case, it is
somewhat ironic that the development of Islamic legal/scriptural practice adopts a form of dual
scripturalism in the Qur’an and the Sunna, supporting the observations that many have made that
Islam and Rabbinic Judaism are remarkably more similar than either is to Christianity. Third, the
Jewish communities of Arabia were well connected to Jewish and non-Jewish communities outside
of Arabia, which, of course, can be argued for all of the major Arabian communities, settled or
pastoral.
The idea of “scriptural religion,” that is, divine revelation in written form, seems to have been
a major topic of interest in Arabia shortly before and during Muhammad’s lifetime. It was certainly
promoted by the interests and interferences of the major powers – the Byzantine Romans and the
Persians – who used the Arabian Jews and Christians from in and around the Arabian Peninsula as
active surrogates in their ambitions. Jewish and Christian missionaries found fertile ground in Arabia
as Arabians were interested in coalescing around communities of belief and practice whose authority
could be found in the written word of God.
Arabian Christians
Christianity came to Arabia early. In the Acts of the Apostles, we are told that Arabs were present
in Jerusalem at the Pentecost, when those in the crowd had glossolalia; reference to Arabs in that
crowd was evidence at the least that Arabia was connected to Jerusalem and Palestine at Christianity’s
beginnings.25 A clearer indication of Christianity’s penetration into Arabia is found in the Apostle
Paul’s actions immediately after his conversion:
But when God, who had set me apart before I was born and called me through his grace,
was pleased to reveal his Son to me, so that I might proclaim him among the gentiles, I did
17
Gordon D. Newby
not confer with any human being, nor did I go up to Jerusalem, but I went away at once
to Arabia and afterwards I returned to Damascus.26
Unfortunately, we know little about the time Paul spent in Arabia, but we can infer from his later
missionary activity among various synagogues that he brought his message to Arabian Jewish com-
munities among others. On such slim evidence, we have to wait until the Church Councils starting
in the fourth century to see substantial Christian presence in the Arabian Peninsula.
As Christianity spread from Palestine to other areas in the East Mediterranean, various groups
reacted differently to the Christian message. As seen in the letters of Paul, some early Christians
adhered to Jewish practices and customs while acknowledging Jesus as their savior, while others saw
this early Christianity as something new. Gospels describing the life and teachings of Jesus prolifer-
ated with regional authorities recognizing different collections of gospels and the letters of Paul not
only in Greek but in other vernaculars such as Coptic in Egypt, Syriac Aramaic in Syria-Palestine,
Armenian, Latin, and Ethiopic, to name a few. By 180 ce, Irenaeus of Lyon (d. circa 202 ce), in his
Against Heresies (Adversus Haereses), recognized four gospels, against Marcion of Sinope’s (fl. circa 140
ce) use of Luke and some of Matthew for his single gospel. But, as we will note, not all Christians
accepted that view. For instance, Tatian’s (fl. circa 160 ce) Diatesseron, four gospels combined into
one, was in widespread use in the Syro-Aramaic world.
Christianity was regarded as heretical in the early Roman Empire because Roman civic religion
entailed worship of the emperor and the daily sacrifice of meat and grains to the gods. For Christians
and Jews, meat and grain sold in the markets were tainted by having been dedicated as sacrifice, so
they necessarily had to live and eat outside of the mainstream. But by 313 ce, the Emperor Constan-
tine (d. 337 ce) issued the Edict of Milan that declared Christianity tolerated in the Roman Empire.
By 380 ce, under the Emperor Theodosius (d. 395 ce), Christianity became the official religion.
The linking of Christianity and the Roman imperial government had a profound effect on Christi-
anity as emperors and bishops sought to extend control over the subjects in the empire.
In 325 ce, the Emperor Constantine called a council of the empire’s bishops in Nicaea (present-
day Iznick, Turkey). The council was ostensibly to settle the question of the nature of Jesus, but
Constantine, who was not baptized, presided over the council and took part in the discussions,
demonstrating the emperor’s position as head of the Church. The question was of Jesus’s nature: was
he God, a human, or a combination of both with one nature or two? Had a human woman, Mary,
been pregnant and given birth to God? These central questions divided Christians, particularly
when the council’s report, the Nicene Creed, defined Jesus in ways that challenged their beliefs.27
Many Christians could not agree that Jesus could be divine and human at the same time, nor could
they agree that Jesus was God in utero. Additionally, Syrian and Egyptian Christians resisted giving
up their vernacular liturgy for Greek and paying their tithes to the central government in Constan-
tinople to fund Greek-speaking clergy who regarded them as heretics. The Monophysite Coptic
Church, who held that Jesus had only one nature with the human and divine combined, extended
its control into Ethiopia. The Nestorians, who held that Jesus had two distinct natures, human and
divine but not combined, were driven to Rome’s enemy, the Sassanian-Persian Empire. All sides
sought control through both military conflict and missionary activities, hoping to have enough
churches and bishops adhering to their beliefs to sway the proceedings of the many church councils
that followed Nicaea.
Just as Arabia was for the Jews, it was for the Christians a place of refuge and opportunity. Some
of the stories about the Egyptian Desert Fathers show up in Arabian traditions,28 but the bearers of
these tales were not solely peaceful. We have evidence that warrior-missionaries from all sides of
Arabia, Egypt, Ethiopia, and Persia came to Arabia to win converts and defend their fellow believers
from attack.29 A good example is the case of Jewish King Yūsuf Dhū Nuwās, previously mentioned,
18
Arabia
who fought against the armed Monophysites from Ethiopia and who was defeated and killed, open-
ing Yemen to Coptic and Greek Orthodox influence.30
There is little direct evidence of Christian communities in the H.ijāz, Muhammad’s home, but
East and South Arabia had strong communities. Narratives from the Qur’an show that there was
knowledge of Christian stories among the first listeners to the Qur’an and that Jesus (ʿĪsā) is fre-
quently mentioned along with his mother, Mary (Maryam), and sometimes with the apparent title
Messiah, (al-masīh.), but in a non-Christian or Jewish sense. The New Testament’s Joseph is not
mentioned, however. Islamic traditions report that Muhammad ordered a picture of Mary and the
infant Jesus that had been painted inside the Kaʿba left undisturbed when the Kaʿba was cleansed of
idols, but no other Christian figures were mentioned.
The Qur’an refers to a “gospel” (injīl),31 but as a single work, and no extant gospel is quoted
exactly, leading scholars to the conclusion that the gospels may have been known orally but were not
translated into Arabic in pre-Islamic times.32 The Qur’an’s representation of Christian beliefs appears
to be a sympathetic but tendentious portrayal, placing Christianity as a true message from God that
had become corrupted. The divinity of Jesus is rejected, as is the orthodox story of Jesus’s crucifix-
ion, resurrection, and ascension. The Qur’an is adamant in saying that God did not have a son but
holds that Jesus is a messenger from God and part of a long line of messengers beginning with Adam
and continuing with Muhammad.
The Qur’an refers to a number of stories that parallel various gospel stories, but most are nonca-
nonical. In Qur’an 3:49 and 5:110, the text refers to a story that the infant Jesus formed a bird out
of clay and breathed life into it and that it flew away. This is found in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas,
the oldest surviving copy of which is in Coptic found among the Nag Hammadi papyri in Upper
Egypt. While the Infancy Gospel of Thomas was never admitted into the canon of any version of
Christianity, the stories it and other similar noncanonical gospels contained can be found widely
circulated in Christian circles.
Similarly, the Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew, an apocryphal gospel also in the genre relating to the
early childhood of Jesus, and a parallel to Qur’an 19:23–26, tells the story of Mary’s birth pangs
while she and Joseph are searching for food and drink. Jesus, speaking from the womb, commands
a palm tree to bend down and give dates and water to rise up to quench their thirst. The Qur’anic
chapter continues the theme of Jesus speaking from the womb.33
What is clear from our question about the religious state of Arabia prior to the Qur’an is that
there was strong interest in Christianity just as there was in Judaism. The ethical values of Christian-
ity were affirmed, but trinitarian theology was strongly rejected. The Qur’anic message of reward
and punishment based on actions in this life reflect the values found in Christianity. Conversion to
Judaism is reported in Arab traditions, usually as group conversions,34 but conversion to either Juda-
ism or Christianity would have meant adopting not only a particular theology but also an allegiance
to one of the two super-powers in conflict for Arabia.
Arabian Polytheism
The sources we have for Arabian polytheism, particularly in the area of the H.ijāz, tell us little directly
about the nature of the deities and the peoples’ beliefs in them. Most of the sources are from Islamic
texts influenced by the polemical perspective of the Qur’an or from pre-Islamic poetry that avoids
religious subjects for genre reasons. From inscriptions and graffiti, we know the names of a large
number of the deities that seem to have been locally or tribally venerated for their power to intercede
in the usual problems of life: fertility, health, water, safety, etc. The modes of worship were invoca-
tions and offerings, and some of the deities seem to have been represented by stones and carvings
that were portable. In some places, particularly in Southern Arabia, there were temples and priests
19
Gordon D. Newby
that collected offerings and tithes. In Mecca, the Kaʿba was a place that had attracted the worship of
a number of deities whose original homes had been elsewhere, and Arabian tradition tells of annual
fairs associated with the Kaʿba that served the dual purpose of veneration and commerce.35
Because of the paucity of evidence, scholars regularly analogize Arabian polytheism to the poly-
theism in the larger Near East and find plausible parallels. There was a hierarchy of deities with Allāh
at or near the top.36 Like the Northwest Semitic Baʿal, for example, Allāh had three daughters, Allāt,
Manāt, and al-ʿUzzā.37 Manāt appears to have been worshiped at a shrine near Mecca as well as in
Mecca itself and in Medina as the goddess of fate and destiny. Allāt, whose name means “the god-
dess,” was widely worshipped in Arabia as a deity who could make positive intervention in time of
illness, while al-ʿUzzā, “the strong one,” settled disputes and received animal (and, some contend,
human) sacrifices. In many available traditions, there are indications of influence from outside Ara-
bia, particularly when viewing the statues, reliefs, and other material remains of polytheistic worship,
making it hard to distinguish Arabian ideas about polytheism from those of the greater Near East in
the Late Antique.38
The presence of elaborate tombs in many parts of Arabia are indications that Arabian polytheists
believed in an afterlife, even though we have little indication of what that might entail. Pre-Islamic
poetry, which glorified the active, marauding life, viewed death as having to live in a house, and this
does not appear contradictory to the many tombs found in centers around Arabia.39 The Nabataean
city of Petra is the most famous and elaborate location of tombs, but in other urban centers there are
funerary buildings and monuments. In the desert, the preferred and most ancient construction is the
cairn. Arrowheads and other implements are part of the burial equipment, and sometimes camels
would be found either in the burial or in a burial alongside the primary tomb.
Conclusion
With the start of Muhammad’s public declaration of Islam and the Qur’an, traditionally dated to 610
ce when he was 40 years of age, the Arab tribes in the H.ijāz seemed to have quickly embraced the
new religious order. Resistance mostly ended shortly after Muhammad’s death a little over two dec-
ades later in 632. Just a century after that, Muslims extended Islamic culture from central France to
South Asia. While it took centuries for the Islamic world to become what it is today both in extent
and religious thought, the early acceptance among the Arabs of the Islamic message shows the power
of a scripture that is clear and in Arabic. As it says of itself: “Alif, Lām, Rā:40 These are the verses of
the clear book. We have revealed it, an Arabic Qur’an, so that you may understand” (Q 12:1–2).
Arabia, which had become hyper-religious from all the surrounding forces acting on it, came of age
with a sense of Arabness, a universal vision of God, and a revelation in its own language.
Notes
1 This acknowledges that new evidence has recently come to light and that new interpretations have recently
changed our perspectives and promises to in the future.
2 Aziz al-Azmeh, The Emergence of Islam in Late Antiquity: Allāh and His People (Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press, 2014), 2–3.
3 G.W. Bowersock, The Crucible of Islam (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2017).
4 Jewish views of religion, Jewish interpretations of biblical stories and other aspects of Jewish culture were
expanded in commentaries on the Qur’an in the Isrāʾīliyyāt traditions popular at the end of the first and
beginning of the second Islamic centuries. This nexus between Isrāʾīliyyāt and the Qur’an is an important
question for understanding early Islam but is outside the scope of this article.
5 See, for example, Christoph Luxenberg (pseudonym), Die syro-aramäische Lesart des Koran. Ein Beitrag zur
Entschlüsselung der Koransprache (Berlin: Das Arabische Buch, 2000); idem, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the
Koran: A Contribution to the Decoding of the Language of the Koran (Berlin: Hans Schiler, 2007).
20
Arabia
6 Patricia Crone and Michael Cook, Hagarism: The Making of the Islamic World (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1977); John Wansbrough, The Sectarian Milieu: Contents and Composition of Islamic Salvation
History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977).
7 Some of these monotheists were known as h.anīfs. See A. Jeffery, The Foreign Vocabulary of the Qur’an (Baroda:
The Oriental Institute, 1938), where he discusses the various theories of the origin of this word, settling on
its Christian Aramaic origin, originally meaning “heathen” and then, by extension, neither Christian nor
Jewish, and then, under the influence of the Qur’an, “a follower of the religion of Abraham.”
8 Another result of the development of the military use of the camel was the “Bedouinization” of Arabia.
Camel breeding and pasturing became profitable, and most urban Arabian tribes had close associations with
Bedouin tribes, including marriage and family ties.
9 Gordon D. Newby, A History of the Jews of Arabia (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1988), 126,
notes 10 and 11. It should be noted that the status of Kohanīm among these Arabian Jews did not carry with
it all the restrictions set forth in the Torah and later in the Talmud.
10 L. Ginzberg, Legends of the Jews, trans. Henrietta Szold (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America,
1909–1938), vol. 6, 431–432. The folklorist, Haim Schwarzbaum sees this story as having roots in Midrash
Tanhuma, which uses the words from Haggai 1:1–6 in which Ezra urges the return of the diaspora and the
rebuilding of the Temple. They refuse, claiming that the time is not right, and are cursed by Haggai. It is
difficult to ascertain the date of this legend, and scholars have differed about its antiquity, but the legend’s use
of Haggai would argue for its origins in disagreements between diaspora and “returned” Jews rather than as
part of an argument between Jews and Muslims.
11 Newby, History, 127, n. 17.
12 Michael, Lecker, “The Conversion of Himyar to Judaism and the Banu Hadl of Medina,” Die Welt des Ori-
ents 26 (1995): 129–136.
13 Sidney Smith, “Events in Arabia in the 6th Century A.D.,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies,
University of London 16, no. 3 (1954): 425–468.
14 These events are chronicled in Islamic sources, in Procopius’s (fl. circa 560) writings about Justinian, The
Book of the Himyarites, edited by Axel Moberg, and various inscriptions. In spite of some obvious exaggera-
tions, such as the generic inflation of the number of martyrs killed by Yūsuf and his troops and the Islamic
conflation of the events with the birth of Muhammad, the information we have from various vectors pro-
vides confidence that we can speak of Jews in both southern Arabia and in the H.ijāz during this period. See
Newby, History, 34–48.
15 See Nabia Abbott, Studies in Arabic Literary Papyri (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1967), vol. II. From
this we get the Islamic Arabic fassara, tafsīr, as a technical term for interpretation of scripture, apparently an
Arabization of the Hebrew pesher, meaning an interpretation.
16 Gordon D. Newby, “Observations About an Early Judaeo-Arabic,” The Jewish Quarterly Review 61, no. 3
(1971): 212–221. Two instances reported in Islamic sources point to this early Judeo-Arabic. The first is
from the maghāzī tradition on the raid on Khaybar, in which ʿAbdallāh ibn ʿAtik, whose mother was a
Khaybar Jewess, is able to lead a raiding party into the heavily fortified city during Passover to assassinate the
community leader. Another example is the famous example that Zaid ibn Thābit learned yahūdiyya in seven
days, indicating most likely that he learned the Hebrew script and some vocabulary to be able to understand
what was written by the Hijāzī Jews. The literary evidence from pre-Islamic poets identified as Jewish show
that they were fully integrated into the secular Arabic literary scene.
17 I do not mean, of course, to imply that religious models are only Jewish. When Waraqa ibn Nawfal (d. circa
610), who is said to have studied the scriptures of the People of the Book, talks with Khadīja about Muham-
mad’s receipt of the Qur’an, he refers to the revelation as the greatest nāmūs that Moses had received, which
is an Arabicization of the Greek nomos (law), possibly transmitted through Christian sources but used as the
translation of Torah in the Septuagint and in the writings of the Pharisee Paul, whose first missions were to
Jewish communities, including those in Arabia.
18 Beside these well discussed examples, other examples help us understand the development of the Jewish-
influenced religious vocabulary in proto-Islamic times and help us come closer to an understanding of who
these Jews were. A telling example of this Jewish linguistic influence from the Qur’an occurs in Q 5:48.
In a context that discusses the scriptures that were revealed to Jews and Christians, we are told: “For each
[community] we have set out a shirʿa and a minhāj.” Shirʿa is revealed, divine law in this passage: Jewish Torah
or Christian Gospel. The reference is to the law by which each of the communities is to be judged, Jews
theirs and Christians theirs. Minhāj is usually translated as “way of life, a road or a path.” But minhāj is a hapax
legomenon in the Qur’an, and the subsequent dictionary definitions seem to be contextual definitions for
this usage. Viewed through a Hebrew perspective, the word minhāj appears as a calque of the Hebrew min-
hag, meaning customary practice. In Rabbinic Judaism, the degree of authority of minhag is debated, with
21
Gordon D. Newby
many communities holding that the minhag of a community is halakha, law. Relying on the Jewish meaning
appears appropriate, since the Qur’anic phrase clearly has both shirʿa and minhāj having divine origin. The
term minhāj in this passage indicates a Jewish view of revealed divine law, shirʿa and divinely delivered minhāj,
customary law, a feature that later becomes identified with Rabbinic Judaism
19 A class of pious, educated Jews.
20 Haggai Mazuz, The Religious and Spiritual Life of the Jews of Medina (Leiden: Brill, 2014).
21 Ibid., appendixes 1 and 2.
22 These accusations are found among the later Karaites against the Rabbinites and in the Dead Sea materials.
See Haggai Mazuz, op. cit., 103–107, where he presents an argument that earliest Islam can be seen as an
anti-rabbinic movement.
23 4 Ezra 14:50.
24 See David J. Halperin, Faces of the Chariot: Development of Rabbinic Exegesis of Ezekiel's Vision of the Divine
Chariot (Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum) (Tübingen: Paul Siebeck, 1988).
25 Acts 2:11.
26 Galatians 1:15–17.
27 There are several versions of the Nicene Creed, which was changed and enlarged in later councils and after
the Protestant Reformation. Among the Orthodox and in the Roman Church in the West, Jesus is said to
be the Son of God, to have two natures, human and divine, and to have been born to Mary.
28 Gordon D. Newby, “An Example of Coptic Literary Influence on Ibn Ishaq’s Sīra,” Journal of Near Eastern
Studies 31 (1972): 22–28.
29 For the relationship between religion and warfare among missionaries, see Thomas Sizgorich, Violence and
Belief in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009). He makes the case that the
norm in the Late Antique was to see religious advocates as warriors for the Truth against the evil of the
disbelievers.
30 From a Jewish perspective, Yūsuf was regarded as a holy figure for defending monotheism against
trinitarianism.
31 This form is from Greek euangelion possibly through Ethiopic wangêl, demonstrating Abyssinian Monophys-
ite influence on Arabian Christianity.
32 See Sidney H. Griffith, The Bible in Arabic (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2013) for a discussion
of the lively debate about the influence of Christian scripture on the formation of Islam.
33 In the English carol tradition, this story appears as “The Cherry Tree Carol.”
34 Moshe Gil, “The Origins of the Jews of Yathrib,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 4 (1984): 210 f.
35 See Hishām ibn al-Kalbī, The Book of Idols, trans. Nabih Amin Faris (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
Press, 2016). The author reports that hundreds of idols were removed from the Kaʿba when it was cleansed
by Muhammad and dedicated to Islamic veneration.
36 The name Allāh appears to be a form of the Arabic al-ilāh, “the God.”
37 Cyrus H. Gordon, “The Daughters of Baal and Allah,” Muslim World 33, no. 1 (1943): 50–51.
38 For an excellent summary of current and past scholarship, see Robert G. Hoyland, Arabia and the Arabs from
the Bronze Age to the Coming of Islam (New York: Routledge, 2001).
39 M.M. Bravmann, The Spiritual Background of Early Islam (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1972).
40 Groups of Arabic letters such as these appear at the beginning of several suras of the Qur’an and have been
the subject of much scholarly debate, both inside and outside the Islamic communities.
22
3
MECCA AND MEDINA
The Sacred Geography of Qur’anic Revelation
Maria M. Dakake
The emergence of the religion of Islam, based upon a new and distinct scripture, the Qur’an, is one
of the most influential events in Late Antique Near Eastern religious history and a transformational
one for both the Arabian Peninsula specifically and for the Near East as a whole. From the perspec-
tive of Islamic sacred history, however, the story of the revelation of the Qur’an is, above all, a tale
of two “cities,” Mecca and Medina (the latter known as Yathrib prior to the Muslim community’s
establishment there). Although very different in terms of climate and natural resources, both cities
are located in the Hijaz region of Arabia, on the western side of the Peninsula, between the Red Sea
Coast and the raised plain further east. Both Mecca and Medina (Yathrib) have pre-Islamic histories
whose outlines are suggested in accounts of their settlement by different tribal groups, as well as
by their engagement or encounters with more powerful political entities in the Peninsula and the
broader Near East, allowing scholars to piece together a partial and tentative history of both cities
dating back at least two centuries before the rise of Islam.
These historical reports – whose authenticity is always a matter of scholarly debate, whether
they come from contemporaneous but exogenous accounts or from the accounts of Muslim authors
writing centuries after the pre-Islamic period – are overlaid in Islamic sources with more legendary
and mythical histories. This is particularly the case with Mecca, whose sacred history is set forth in
both the Qur’an and the hadith and is aligned in part with the Biblical and para-biblical accounts
of Abraham, Hagar, and Ishmael. This sacred history is further developed in mythical accounts of
Mecca as the center of the world, the very pole between heaven and earth, and the image of the
celestial throne of God, as well as in elaborations upon the Qur’anic identification of the city as the
site of the first “house” (bayt) erected for the human worship of God. The sacred status of Medina,
by contrast, is not founded upon a mythical and legendary past but is rather imparted to it by virtue
of the role it played in the momentous, last ten years of the Prophet Muhammad’s life and, impor-
tantly, his death and burial in the city. It, too, is a center of sorts, situated roughly near the axis that
runs between Mecca and the third sacred city of the Islamic tradition, Jerusalem. As the site of the
change of the direction of prayer (qibla) from Jerusalem to Mecca, Medina represents an actual and
symbolic “pivot” between the religion’s pre-Islamic Arab (and for Muslims, Abrahamic/Ishmaelite)
heritage, centered on the Kaʿba in Mecca, and its deep connection to the heritage of Judaism and
Christianity. Finally, these two cities, as geographical bookends to the life and mission of Muham-
mad – who is born and called to prophecy in Mecca and who realizes the establishment of Islam and
dies in Medina – also provided distinct social, political, and religious contexts for the revelation of
various verses of the Qur’an. Traditional Islamic sources, including biographies of the Prophet and
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-4 23
Maria M. Dakake
nearly all exegetical works, make it clear that the revelation of various Qur’anic verses was directly
“occasioned” by particular situations, events, and inhabitants located in these cities.
Mecca: The Mother of Towns (Umm al-Qurā)

The city of Mecca is located in a “valley without cultivation (bi-wādin ghayr dhī zārʿ)” – a description
of the city attributed to Abraham in the Qur’an, as he prays that the land will nonetheless provide for
his descendants (through Hagar and Ishmael) whom he has “settled” there.1 Ringed by mountains
on its northern, eastern, and southern sides, Mecca lies between the plain of Tihama that slopes
downward toward the Red Sea (located a little over 40 miles to the west of Mecca) and the Satir
mountains to the east. Without a sufficient water source, with scarce natural vegetation, and with no
arable land for agricultural development, its population capacity was limited. At its center, however,
lay a temple, the Kaʿba, a simple, largely unadorned, rectangular structure. This seems to have been
the primary reason for the existence of any settlement in this area at all, given its generally inhospi-
table climate, for as F.E. Peters says, “Only [this site’s] sanctity, however obscure the origins of that
holiness, explains the existence of Mecca, and only a shrine linked to other considerations – social,
economic, or political – explains the eventual presence of a city there.”2
Islamic sources recount that Mecca was inhabited by various tribal groups prior to the Quraysh.
In ancient times, the Amalekites were said to inhabit the environs of Mecca.3 They are described in
Islamic sources as descendants of Noah’s son Shem who occupied parts of the Arabian Peninsula,
as well as Egypt (before the Pharaohs), but also as descendants of ʿAmlaq or ʿImlīq, the eponymous
founder of one of the original “ʿāriba (or “Arabizing”) tribes of the Peninsula.4 In the Bible, they
are descendants of Esau, the chronic enemy of the Israelites fought by Aaron and Joshua and later by
Saul and David.5 Yet other than the biblical description of the Amalekites as nomadic and in some
way related to or allied with the Ishmaelites and Midianites, the relationship between the ancient
tribe and the Arabs of the Peninsula as described in both literatures is not clear. The Qur’an places
Abraham and his son Ishmael (Ismāʿīl) in Mecca, and recounts them building (or “raising”) the
Kaʿba from (presumably) preexisting foundations and then establishing the rite of circumambulating
the Kaʿba, both upon divine command. The Qur’an does not mention the reason for Abraham and
Ishmael’s presence in Mecca. It is only in the hadith and Islamic sīra, exegetical, and historical lit-
erature that we find their journey to Mecca connected to the Biblical story of Abraham’s wife Sarah
demanding that Abraham take his slave wife Hagar (Hajar in Islamic sources) and her son Ishmael
and abandon them in the “wilderness.”6 This wilderness, in the Islamic account, is Mecca.
Traditional Islamic accounts found in hadith and sīra literature tell a story that aligns with some
aspects of the biblical narrative of Hagar and Ishmael in Genesis but fully locates the story in the con-
text of ancient Arabia, with its itinerant, tribal inhabitants. According to this narrative, Abraham left
Hagar and Ishmael in the uninhabited environs of Mecca. When they eventually ran out of water,
and Hagar feared her son would die imminently, she ran desperately between two hilltops searching
for someone who could help them. Those two hilltops are S.afā and Marwa, between which pilgrims
to Mecca “hurry” as part of the rites of the h.ajj, in commemoration of Hagar’s desperate hour. After
several trips between the hills and the place where she had left the child, she encountered an angel,
understood to be Gabriel, who struck the ground with his foot.7 From that spot, a spring emerged,
and Hagar moved quickly to preserve the water. Shortly thereafter, Jurhum, a southern tribal group
journeying north from Yemen,8 saw birds circling over the area of Mecca from afar, leading them to
surmise the presence of water there. They proceeded to Mecca, where they found Hagar, her son,
and the new well. She allowed them to settle there, preferring to have neighbors, but forthrightly
claimed the newly discovered well – the spring of Zamzam, traditionally – as her own. When
Ishmael grew up, he married a Jurhumite woman, the daughter of their leader, Mad.ād. ibn ʿAmr.9
Abraham would occasionally visit his family in Mecca, and it was on one of these occasions he was
24
Mecca and Medina
instructed by God to build the Kaʿba with his son.10 Both Hagar and Ishmael died in Mecca and
were buried near the Kaʿba – an area that came to be called the H.ijr Ismāʿīl. After Ishmael’s death,
his father-in-law, Mad.ād., took charge of his offspring and the care of the Kaʿba in Ishmael’s stead.11
According to Islamic sources, moral corruption and a lack of reverence for the h.aram (“sanctum”)
eventually developed among the Jurhum, despite the warnings of their leader, Mad.ād.. Legend has
it that a Jurhumite couple attempted to fornicate in the h.aram and were turned to stone; their stone
forms were placed atop S.afā and Marwa as a warning.12 By this time, or at this point, the descendants
of Ishmael left Mecca, spreading out into Arabia.13 The Jurhum were later driven out of Mecca –
understood as a divine response to their immorality and corruption – and the city was occupied by
another southern Arabian tribe, the Khuzāʿa. Even before the Jurhum left, however, Mad.ād., angered
by the behavior of his people, hid the well of Zamzam, placing two idols over its mouth and then
burying it. Islamic sources claim that it was only rediscovered generations later by Muhammad’s
grandfather, ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib. The Jurhum, including some descendants of Ishmael, reportedly
took stones from the Kaʿba when they left Mecca. These stones are said to have become sites of
veneration in various parts of Arabia, perhaps furnishing an etiology for the worship of stones among
the pre-Islamic Arabs. Such practices are alluded to in the Qur’an, for example, when it warns that
Hellfire is “fueled by men and stones” (the latter understood to be idols or objects falsely worshipped
by the Arabs),14 or when it prohibits consuming the meat of animals slaughtered on “stone altars.”15
The Khuzāʿa, like the Jurhum, are said to have begun their tenure in Mecca responsibly, main-
taining the Kaʿba and allowing some of the descendants of Ishmael to return. Among the second
generation of Khuzāʿa leaders, however, was a man named ʿAmr ibn Rabīʿa, who is said to have
initiated the installation of idols in and around the h.aram. Among his installations was the idol,
Hubal, which he had brought back from one of his journeys (a detail that emphasizes its foreignness
in relation to Mecca and the h.aram). This idol was installed in the center of the Kaʿba sanctuary, and
Mecca’s residents, up to the time of Quraysh, practiced divining arrows before it.16 The Khuzāʿa
reportedly controlled Mecca for 300 years,17 until they were displaced by the Quraysh.
The Quraysh seem to have formed as a distinct tribal group from a collection of northern Arabs
descended from the Kināna tribe. They came to be the dominant tribe in Mecca through the efforts
and good fortune of their ancestor, Qusayy. Qusayy married the Khuzāʿa leader’s daughter and
assumed control of Mecca sometime after the death of his father-in-law in the mid-fifth century ce.
Before his own death, Qusayy split the duties related to the Kaʿba between two of his sons, ʿAbd
al-Dār (who was given the “keys” to the Kaʿba) and Hāshim (the eponymous founder of Muham-
mad’s clan), who was given the honor of feeding and watering the pilgrims. In order to fund the
provisions for the pilgrims, Hāshim engaged in trade, initiating, according to legend, the southern
and northern journeys of the Quraysh – south to Yemen and north to Syria. These trading journeys
are fundamental to the traditional Islamic understanding of the Quraysh and their growing impor-
tance in Arabia, as well as to Muhammad’s early life, and they are mentioned as a divine favor to
the Quraysh in Q 106:1–2. Hāshim’s travels led him through the oasis of Yathrib (the later Medina)
where he took a wife from the Arab clan of Khazraj. Hāshim’s wife and their children remained
in Yathrib, while Hāshim maintained residence in Mecca between his travels. When Hāshim died
at a relatively young age, he was succeeded by his brother Mut․․talib. Eventually, Mut․․talib brought
Hāshim’s son, Shaybān (later renamed ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib), back to Mecca to assume his father’s
responsibilities for feeding and watering the pilgrims, thereby restoring this honor to the lineage of
his brother Hāshim.
ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib gained prominence in Mecca, in large part for his rediscovery of the well of
Zamzam. According to Muslim accounts, ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib, whose relationship with the polytheistic
religion of Mecca is unclear,18 used to enjoy spending nights in the h.aram. On one such night, he
felt someone stir him and command him to “dig.” He had this strange experience three nights in a
row, after which he enlisted the aid of his sons to dig where the voice had indicated. He unearthed
25
Maria M. Dakake
the statues placed over the well by Mad.ād. and eventually the well itself. ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib had many
sons, and at one point, he made a vow to sacrifice one of them. After drawing lots, it was his son,
ʿAbdallāh (the future father of the Prophet Muhammad), who was selected as the victim, but ʿAbd
al-Mut․․talib ransomed him with the slaughter of a hundred camels in his stead. ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib’s
reputation for strength and wisdom was further burnished when, as leader of Mecca, he faced down
the South Arabian king, Abraha (fl. circa 550–570 ce), who had come with an army and an elephant
to destroy the Meccan shrine.19 With the army poised to attack, ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib met Abraha on
the outskirts of Mecca and demanded the return of some camels stolen from him by Abraha’s men.
Abraha was amazed at his calm demeanor, and his demand only for his own camels. He asked ʿAbd
al-Mut․․talib why he had no concern for his city’s sacred shrine, which Abraha was intent on destroy-
ing. ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib confidently replied that while he was the master of his camels, the Kaʿba had
its own master who would see to its protection. As recounted in Islamic sources and alluded to in the
Qur’an, the elephant refused to advance upon the h.aram, and the army of Abraha was driven back
by a flock of birds pelting them with stones. This event is said to have taken place in 570, the Year of
the Elephant, as it came to be known, which is also remembered as the year of Muhammad’s birth.
If we review this history as found primarily in Islamic sources, we can make some general obser-
vations. First, the traditional Islamic histories of Mecca are not primarily social or political histories
of the city or of the tribes who occupied it. With few exceptions, the figures connected with this
history are sketched rather simply, at least until we get to the time of Quraysh. The chronology
of the events concerning Mecca are ambiguous and read more as legend than historical chroni-
cle – even if some aspects of these accounts seem consistent with epigraphic and other exogenous
historical evidence.20 At their heart, these are not political histories of a city and its inhabitants, but
rather the sacred history of a sacred place: the Kaʿba and the h.aram that surrounds it, recounting their
establishment, maintenance, and miraculous, divine protection from corruption or destruction. The
accounts give little indication that the ancient city enjoyed great political or commercial influence
and, until the era of the Quraysh, they suggest a city remote and detached from other events in and
around the Peninsula. In these accounts, the h.aram itself is the central protagonist – a spiritual treas-
ure that had miraculously survived a variety of occupants and attempts to control it in the course of
its lifetime, stretching back (in some accounts) to the origin of the world itself. It is presented as a
shrine of universal significance, as a world center or axis mundi, which was nonetheless remote and
hidden for much of its ancient history and only fully recognized and recovered in the Islamic era.
Second, with the arrival of the Quraysh in Mecca, the accounts shift toward the hagiographic.
Narratives related about the Qurayshi ancestors of the Prophet in the city invoke themes funda-
mental to the Abrahamic spiritual lineage of Muhammad’s prophethood and to Muhammad’s own
life, while also reflecting the city’s pagan Arab history and culture. ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib’s rediscovery of
Zamzam connects him to Ishmael and thus ultimately to Abraham, and the way in which he makes
this discovery (being awoken three times while in the hijr of the h.aram) recalls the initiation of the
Prophet’s Night Journey. At the same time, the fact that in the process of uncovering the well he also
finds the statues placed there by Mad.ād. recalls the history of the Jurhum in Mecca.ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib’s
intended sacrifice and eventual ransom of his son, ʿAbdallāh (Muhammad’s father) recalls Abraham’s
aborted sacrifice of his own son and suggests the special value of Muhammad’s father among ʿAbd
al-Mut․․talib’s children. But the detail that his near sacrifice involved the pagan practice of drawing
lots at the statue of Hubal, and seeking ransom through the sacrificial slaughter of livestock, reminds
us of the city’s pagan history. Finally, ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib’s identification of the Kaʿba as “the house of
Allāh and his friend, Abraham,” and his fervent prayer at the door of the Kaʿba that “Allāh” would
protect his sanctuary from Abraha’s army,21 suggests an awareness that the sacred shrine belonged
ultimately to the one God. Collectively, these accounts make the case for an Abrahamic legacy that
is foundationally, rather than superficially Arabian in context and that survives, however improbably,
through centuries of paganism and tribal conflict in the Peninsula.
26
Mecca and Medina
Finally, despite the legendary and hagiographic nature of these narratives, they nonetheless fit
plausibly within the broad outlines of pre-Islamic Arabian history that can be gleaned from non-
Islamic sources. Note that in these accounts, pre-Islamic Mecca seems to have been occupied pri-
marily by tribes migrating from southern Arabia (ʿāriba) in its early history, ending only when the
Quraysh acquired control of the city sometime between the fifth and sixth centuries ce.22 The
northern Arab tribes, the “Arabized (mustaʿāriba),” are said to descend from Ishmael, but their history
in Mecca, even in the accounts about Ishmael himself, is intertwined with that of various south-
ern Arabian tribes: Ishmael reportedly intermarried with Jurhum, and his Jurhumite father-in-law
assumed responsibility both for Ishmael’s children and for the Kaʿba; Qusayy was able to assume
control of Mecca and its sanctuary by marrying the daughter of the chief of the southern tribe of
Khuzāʿa, who was occupying the city at that time; and Muhammad’s grandfather, ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib,
was born and raised among his mother’s southern, Khazraj clan in Yathrib. Thus these traditional
accounts of pre-Islamic Mecca seem to reflect the centuries-long process of the migration of tribes
from southern Arabia to various regions of central and north Arabia. At the same time, they make
the symbolic point that Mecca was a city with significance for Arabs of both groups (northern and
southern) and a central location in which the histories of various Arab tribal groups overlapped.
Society, Religion, and Politics in Mecca on the Eve of Islam

Islamic accounts of the history of Mecca prior to the sixth century present a history that is relatively
self-contained, making few references to outside alliances, engagements, or conflicts for the city.
The apparent remoteness and isolation of the city seems to contrast with accounts of the universal
significance of its central shrine. Yet even if these accounts do not make historical sense, they make
mythological sense. The idea that places and objects of immense spiritual power or cosmological
significance are hidden from most of the world is a common notion in various world mythologies.
Even historically, however, the remoteness of Mecca does not necessarily contradict the accounts
of the existence of a sacred shrine at its center dating from ancient times. As Aziz al-Azmeh notes
in a recent book on the emergence of Islam, it is hardly uncommon for sacred sites to be located
in remote and otherwise inhospitable areas.23 Indeed, Muslim accounts of pre-Islamic Mecca (and
certainly pre-Qurayshi Mecca) suggest a city with little to recommend its existence as a settlement
at all other than the presence of its shrine and h.aram.
Mecca may not have been a political or economic center in these early times, and hence its
absence from exogenous accounts of Arabia, but that does not preclude the possibility that it was
recognized by its inhabitants or by those who visited it in the nearby region as a sacred place of great
spiritual significance. A story involving pre-Islamic Mecca recounted in various Muslim histories
suggests the Kaʿba’s regional status as a sacred site and anticipates the city and its shrine as a point
of connection between the (then primarily) Jewish oasis of Yathrib, north of Mecca, and southern
Arabia. In this legendary account, one of the ancient kings of Yemen, Tubbaʿ (Tubān ibn Abū
Karīb, d. circa 420), was engaged in military conflict with the people of Yathrib. Fearing that he
would destroy their city, some rabbis of the Banū Qurayz· a (already resident there) came to warn him
against continuing to attack Yathrib, as the city was destined to play an important role in the life of
a future prophet. The king heeded their advice and embraced their Jewish faith as well. Abandoning
his engagement in Yathrib, he set forth for Yemen by way of Mecca, taking the rabbis with him.
On their way, they were met by some Arab tribesmen who tried to entice the king toward Mecca,
promising that it possessed a temple filled with jewels; their ultimate intention, however, was to get
the king to commit an outrage in the city, knowing that any king who did such a thing would surely
die. The two rabbis warned Tubbaʿ against this, saying, “We know of no other temple in the land
that God has chosen for himself, and if you do as they suggest, you and all your men will perish.”24
They instructed him, instead, on how to properly worship at the Mecca shrine, remarking that the
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site belonged to their ancestor, Abraham, but that the idol worship that now took place in the shrine
prevented them from worshipping there. Tubbaʿ followed their advice, circumambulated the Kaʿba
and, inspired by a dream, had it covered in fine Yemeni cloth. He then departed Mecca for Yemen,
where he brought the religion of Judaism to his previously polytheistic people.25
This legend functions on several levels. It provides an etiology for both the covering of the Kaʿba
with a cloth (which is done to this day), as well as for the establishment of Judaism in southern Ara-
bia. It suggests that the sacredness of the Kaʿba was recognized not only by those following ancient
Arab religions but also by Jewish communities in Arabia, while simultaneously explaining why the
latter did not make pilgrimage there. Finally, the account presages the future status of Mecca and
its shrine as the spiritual center of a new religion that would unite disparate parts of the Peninsula,
and also of Yathrib (Medina) as the home of its prophet. Yet we might note that in this account,
the otherwise well-traveled king had to be told about the significance of the Meccan shrine by oth-
ers – locals who knew of its significance but also its obscurity outside their region. The king payed
homage to the Kaʿba and its city but nonetheless left it to establish a new religion among his people
in southern Arabia. This would seem to indicate that Mecca’s status as a remote religious site did
not necessarily depend upon – or lead to – political, economic, or social importance beyond its own
region.
The situation of Mecca seems to have changed quite significantly in the sixth century and in the
decades leading up to the emergence of Islam. Under the leadership of Quraysh, Muslim sources
indicate, Mecca grew in importance as a site for both pilgrimage and trade – and the two were
increasingly connected. At the same time, the fifth and sixth centuries witnessed the rising inter-
est and involvement of the Byzantines and Sassanians in the central regions of Arabia, including
Mecca and Yathrib. This would have introduced a region otherwise relatively isolated from these
empires and their religious cultures to new ideas and concerns. Historical sources also indicate that,
from the mid-sixth century, Arab client tribes, long employed by the Byzantines and Sassanians as
buffers along their border with the Peninsula, began to decline. At the same time, the kingdoms of
southern Arabia were in a state of disarray, with competing Byzantine and Sassanian influence sup-
porting rival groups, and a related and escalating set of conflicts between Jewish and Christian tribes
in Yemen. These developments may have created an opportunity for the Quraysh,26 now in control
of Mecca and its pilgrimage, to grow their regional influence, while also expanding the horizons of
a hitherto relatively isolated region.
Muslim historical and exegetical sources represent Mecca and the central region of the Arabian
Peninsula as largely polytheistic and idolatrous but also as having longstanding interactions with
Jewish and Christian populations that afforded the peoples of this region knowledge of these two
religious traditions and their sacred histories. It has long been observed that the Qur’an assumes
its original audience’s familiarity with Biblical narratives. The presence of versions of Jewish and
Christian narratives in the Qur’an has led some to suggest that the scripture originated not in Arabia
but in a predominantly Christian context, somewhere farther north in the central lands of the Near
East. Some more recent studies have aimed to further this suggestion by calling into question the
historicity of Muslim accounts of the idolatry of the Qur’an’s initial audience and thus its origins in
the Arabian Peninsula. Gerard Hawting notes that while the Qur’an stridently criticizes its original
audience for their shirk (usually translated as “polytheism” or “idolatry” and understood to signify
both), the term actually means “associationism,” and may refer to a belief system with a single, over-
arching deity, some of whose powers are also attributed to other deities or beings, who are therefore
“associated” with the primary divinity. This could be taken to indicate that the Qur’an’s original
polemical target was not necessarily pre-Islamic Arab idolatry or actual idolatry at all. He observes
that while the Qur’an attributes crass and literal idol worship to the wayward communities of other
prophets, notably those of Abraham and Noah, it does not do this in the case of its own immedi-
ate audience. Combining this observation with the extensive biblical references in the Qur’an, he
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Mecca and Medina
suggests that Qur’anic rhetoric related to shirk could have originated as a polemic between Chris-
tian sects, who may have used the derogatory term to dismiss certain religious beliefs among rival
Christian groups.27
Another possibility, however, is that the Muslim historical sources may have overstated the nature
of Meccan idolatry beyond the Qur’an’s own suggestions for spiritual effect. Whether or not Mec-
can religion took the form of literal idolatry, the Qur’an as well as epigraphic evidence corroborate
the idea that the Arabs of central Arabia worshipped multiple deities. The Qur’an suggests in several
places that the Arabs of Mecca believed in an overarching creator God, called Allāh28 but also allowed
for the “association” of others with him as intermediaries (angels or lesser deities). The Qur’an
specifically criticizes the worship of three female subdeities – Allāt, al-ʿUzza and Manāt – whose
cults are attested in epigraphic sources from various parts of Arabia29 – and suggests that these were
“associated” with Allāh (falsely) as his “daughters.” It is indeed curious that the Qur’an makes no
mention, for example, of Hubal, the stone idol that Muslim historical accounts identify as the major
tribal deity of the Quraysh and whose statue is said to have stood in the center of the h.aram,30 or of
the hundreds of idols said to have been placed around and on top of the Kaʿba, which Muhammad
and his followers dramatically smashed during the conquest of Mecca in 630, according to Muslim
sīra accounts – an act that typologically resembles Abraham’s iconoclasm.31 Yet even if the crass
nature of Meccan idolatry is overstated in the sīra literature for rhetorical purposes or to enhance the
connection between Muhammad and Abraham, the Qur’anic polemic against shirk very plausibly
fits what we know of pre-Islamic Arab religion. For example, there is Qur’anic as well as historical
and archeological evidence that pre-Islamic Meccan ritual practices included, among other things,
the veneration of sacred stones. The practice seems phenomenologically linked to the sacred status
accorded to the black stone in the corner of the Kaʿba, which was monotheistically resignified in
the Islamic Era.32 The Qur’an, in conjunction with the sīra and exegetical literature, also indicates
the pre-Islamic existence of the belief in jinn – understood as psychic beings, who could be sources
of madness or (relatedly) of a kind of inspiration that was made manifest primarily in the words of
soothsayers (sing., kāhin) and poets. The Qur’an affirms the reality of jinn (often referring to them
along with humans as receivers of revelation and guidance and as therefore morally responsible) but
also at times speaks of them as “satans” (shayatin), whose influence on and “inspiration” for human
beings are primarily malevolent and are neither divine nor angelic in origin (unlike the revelations
given to Muhammad).33 Moreover, jinn are sometimes said to be the objects of human worship,
or else the psychic force behind the cultic devotion to false deities and objects.34 The notion of
sacred stones or psychic beings – mischievous or demonic – may have phenomenological parallels in
other Near Eastern religions (including Christianity); but the particular way in which these things
are described in the Qur’an – e.g., the clear association of sacred stones with false worship (rather
than just markers of sacred spaces), or the distinct place of jinn in Islamic cosmological understand-
ing, seem to reflect quite specifically Arab phenomena, and would seem to make little sense in the
context of intra-Christian polemic. The sheer variety of false objects of worship denounced in the
Qur’an as forms of shirk – from stones, to jinn, to other deities – seems more suggestive of a diverse,
decentralized and pagan religious culture, such as that of central Arabia, than of a Christian sectarian
context, with a common religious heritage grounded in shared scripture.
While there is little we can know for certain about the religious life of pre-Islamic Mecca, it
seems quite certain that the center of pre-Islamic Meccan religion was the Kaʿba h.aram, and the
pilgrimage to it, which may have grown from a purely local to a more regional cult in the century
before Muhammad’s birth. Various ritual elements of the Islamic h.ajj were present in its pre-Islamic
version, as attested by their specific mention and endorsement in the Qur’an, in response to some
apparent uncertainty among Muhammad’s followers about participating in practices previously asso-
ciated with the pagan Meccan ritual.35 At the same time, both the Qur’an and Muslim tradition offer
direct criticism of other elements of the pre-Islamic practice of pilgrimage to the h.aram, for example,
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when the Qur’an dismisses pre-Islamic practices at the Kaʿba as mere “whistling and clapping.”36
Together, these references suggest a plausible, historical process of religious and ritual transition in a
specifically central Arabian context. The pilgrimage’s translocal appeal and Arabian setting, even in
pre-Islamic times, are indicated by Qur’anic and traditional references to four sacred months, when
Arabs could travel freely without fear of attack, three of which were meant to facilitate travel for
pilgrimage. Historical accounts also indicate that sometime after Abraha’s attempted attack on the
Kaʿba, the Quraysh created a religious association composed of members of their own tribe, as well
as affiliated tribes, referred as the Hums, who recognized the sacred character of the Kaʿba and who
not only regularly made pilgrimage to the shrine but also worshipped there in a manner similar to
the Quraysh themselves.37
The Qur’an and later Muslim tradition refer to the collection of beliefs and rituals of the pre-
Islamic Quraysh and other Arab tribes, including their devotion to the Kaʿba sanctuary, as a dīn
(religion), suggesting a cult with at least some commonly acknowledged parameters and elements.
As we have seen, Muslim sources suggest that these elements included belief in a creator God, Allāh,
alongside a variety of other deities, the recognition of sacred sites and times, and associated rituals.
The Qur’an also indicates that the pre-Islamic Quraysh religion included proprietary offerings to
various deities,38 and dietary regulations, which the Qur’an presents as corrupted by their association
with false deities or as humanly fabricated and practiced in a manner that creates false social hierar-
chies39 or entails cruelty to animals.40 The Qur’anic polemic against these practices is thus part and
parcel of its larger critique of the ethical deficiencies of this “religion” (at least in its seventh-century
form) which included false piety, the neglect of vulnerable members of society, the mistreatment
of women and girls, and mercantile dishonesty. This Qur’anic critique is consistent with Muslim
historical sources that suggest unease among some members of the Quraysh tribe about the absence
of ethical guidelines to govern the increasingly complex social and commercial interactions the
Quraysh encountered as their culture grew in regional importance and “unfurled” itself toward the
world outside of Mecca.41
W. Montgomery Watt was among the first Western scholars to argue that the commercialization
of Mecca led to growing inequality, social and economic injustices, and a breakdown of certain
norms of conduct among Arab tribesmen that seemed to demand a more ethically focused religious
structure.42 Somewhat more recently, Mohammed Bamyeh hypothesized that these developments
were also linked to the shift from a more nomadic to a more sedentary lifestyle for those in Mecca
and central Arabia.43 While such socioeconomic explanations of the origins of Islam may be over-
stated, reported developments among the Quraysh during or just before Muhammad’s lifetime sug-
gest a desire for ethical reform in Meccan society. For example, Muslim sources report that around
this same time, Muhammad’s clan of Hāshim headed an alliance dedicated to promoting justice and
fair treatment for all residents or visitors to Mecca. This alliance, whose formation was witnessed by
Muhammad as a young man, was called “the League of the Virtuous”(h.ilf al-fud.ūl).44 The inevitable
hindsight of sources written well into the Islamic Era may have led Muslim authors to exaggerate the
moral depravity of pre-Islamic Arab culture and religion, and hagiographical purposes may underlie
accounts of an anticipatory desire on the part of some members of Quraysh, and of Hāshim in par-
ticular, for a religion with a moral structure like Judaism and Christianity. However, there are clear
hints of such sentiments in the Qur’an (a more contemporaneous source) as well; and the fact that
the very earliest Qur’anic revelations focused on the moral, rather than the theological deficiencies
of pre-Islamic religion, despite how important theological issues would later become, suggests that
these early messages were addressing concerns that were particularly acute in Muhammad’s Meccan
environment.
Increased contact with the Byzantine Empire and with smaller Christian client states in southern
Arabia would have made the Quraysh aware that their religion lacked not only the imperial power
of Byzantine Christianity and a fixed ethical code but also a written scripture, or “book,” which
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Mecca and Medina
Judaism and Christianity could claim. Several passages in the Qur’an indicate the prestige associ-
ated with the possession of a “book” on the part of both the Prophet’s Meccan opponents and the
Qur’an itself.45 Both the Qur’an’s self-identification as a “Book” (even before it was completed
or written down)46 and its honorific reference to Jews and Christians as “People of the Book” are
further evidence of the importance both the Qur’an and its audience assigned to this idea and the
authority it gave to religious claims. Qur’anic suggestions of moral and religious discontent among
its initial audience seems consistent with references in Muslim histories to the existence of individual
converts to these scriptural religions in pre-Islamic Mecca (e.g., Khadija’s cousin, Waraqa) and in
central Arabia more broadly (e.g., references to Yathribi Arabs sending their children to be educated
in the Jewish schools in the city). It also seems to be reflected in the accounts of pre-Muhammadan
and contemporaneous individuals referred to as h.unafā’ (sing. h.anīf ),47 described as Arab mono-
theists who were not members of either of the two scriptural communities. If traditional Muslim
accounts of pre-Islamic Mecca were indeed mere legitimist and teleological narratives for Muham-
mad’s prophethood, one would expect that such figures would be portrayed in these sources as early
and eager followers of Muhammad, who viewed the emergence of a monotheistic prophet in Arabia
as a fulfillment of their religious anticipation. But the sources actually portray several of these figures
as ambivalent toward Muhammad, suggesting the existence of a genuine spiritual discontent in the
region, but one that was not immediately dissipated by Muhammad’s prophetic emergence – at least
not for all such discontents.
As the influence of the empires increased and moved inward toward central Arabia, Mecca and its
environs may have remained a somewhat stubborn preserve of polytheistic Arabian religion that took
pride in the traditions of its forefathers. But in various ways, the Qur’an and later Muslim sources
suggest that the hold of this religion upon the Quraysh and their neighbors was weakening, and this
religion may have looked increasingly impoverished and ineffective in light of the more sophisti-
cated religion and culture of the great imperial powers.48 Islam’s ability to make significant inroads
in Mecca and ultimately bring it within its orbit is a testament to the strength of Islam in the face
of the weakening indigenous Arab religion. Although the Prophet’s initial mission in Mecca ended
in persecution and his community’s flight to Yathrib (Medina), the religion that he brought – with
its own book and ethical code but in the “Arabic language”49 – proved ultimately irresistible to the
proud Arabs of Mecca.
Yathrib/Medina
If Mecca was centered around a sanctuary located in a barren valley, Yathrib, which lay 250 miles to
the north-northeast, was its geographic opposite. It was a decentralized cluster of agricultural villages
built on an oasis, with soil made fertile by rich lava flows nearby, and structured around a series of
date orchards and markets. With both Jewish and Arab clans in residence, it developed as a collection
of individual settlements, with each clan having its territory and, in many cases, its own fortress. The
southern area of Yathrib was topographically higher but also more fertile and better watered land
than its northern section. At the time of the Prophet’s arrival in Yathrib, this territory was occupied
by the most influential Jewish and Arab clans in the city. The city enjoyed some natural protection,
with extensive tracts of congealed lava surrounding the city on three sides and the imposing Mount
Uhud to the north. Wādīs and natural water sources allowed for significant agricultural output,
including fields of grain as well as its famous date orchards.
Yathrib was an oasis but not an island. Besides the resident Jewish population’s connections with
other Jewish communities north and south of it, the city was also the site of Sassanian Persian influ-
ence in central Arabia. If the Byzantine Empire supported numerous Christian Arab client tribes and
proto-states along the northern and southern edges of the Peninsula, the Sassanian Empire, home to
both non-Byzantine Christian communities and Jewish communities, tended to support rival Jewish
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interests in the pre-Islamic power struggles in southern Arabia and enlisted Jewish communities to
represent their interests in other parts of Arabia. Specifically, there is a report that shortly before
the rise of Islam, the inhabitants of Yathrib collected taxes for the Sassanians in their area of central
Arabia.
The Jewish Population of Yathrib

Yathrib was the southernmost city in a line of settlements with significant Jewish populations that
stretched in a southwestern direction from Palestine and included Dumat al-Jandal and Khaybar. The
Jewish populations in these cities were old and, in Yathrib, predated the settlement of the Arab clans,
who seem to have gained the upper hand in the city by the time of Muhammad. The geographic
mapping of the Jewish communities in northwestern Arabia in a south-southeastward direction from
Jerusalem suggest that these communities were formed of emigrants from this city and its environs
in Palestine. Some classical Islamic histories related unlikely narratives tracing the origins of these
communities to the time of Moses or to the diaspora after the destruction of the first Jewish Temple
in 586 bce.50 Gordon D. Newby, however, makes a more plausible case that these Jewish communi-
ties emigrated from Palestine after the destruction of the second Jewish Temple (70 ce) and/or the
Bar Kokhba revolt in 132 ce.51
Perhaps the strongest literary evidence in favor of this later dating comes from a variety of details
about these Jewish clans mentioned in the Islamic biographical and historical accounts, as well as in
the Qur’an, which collectively suggest that these were Rabbinic Jewish communities that formed
in diaspora after the destruction of the Second Temple and its aftermath. For example, although the
Muslim tradition is aware of the historical existence of the Jewish priesthood (which disappeared
after the Temple’s destruction),52 the Qur’an and Islamic historical accounts of the Prophet’s time in
Medina mention only “rabbis (rabbāniyūn) and sages (aḥbār)”53 as titles for the religious leadership of
these contemporaneous Jewish communities. The Qur’anic polemic against the Banū Israel and the
Jews contemporary with Muhammad frequently implores the Jews to “follow the Torah” (suggesting
that they were not doing this in every case). It also accuses them of misinterpreting their scripture54
and writing scripture “with their hands” and claiming that it is from God55 – all of which may be
polemical references to their embrace of the Talmud or Oral Torah tradition as the source of their
practical and daily guidance in the rabbinic period.56 Moreover, there are multiple references to a
“midrashic school” (bayt ha-midrash) in Medina, which the Prophet and some of his Companions
visited occasionally.57
According to Muslim historical accounts, there were three major Jewish clans resident in Yathrib
at the time of the Prophet’s migration there. These included the Banū Nad· īr and Banū Qurayz․a,
both of whom are depicted as relatively wealthy and influential in the social and political life of Yath-
rib and resided in the southern part of the city, with the choicest conditions for agriculture. A third
Jewish clan, the Banū Qaynuqāʾ, occupied the northern (lower) area of Yathrib, where they were
engaged primarily in running a market. Members of all three clans seem to have had Arabic names
and clearly spoke Arabic, although the Qur’an indicates that at least the religious leadership could
read and understand Hebrew.58 Despite the wealth that some of the Jewish clans enjoyed, they seem,
at some point, to have lost their status to the Arab clans that subsequently settled in the city, becom-
ing their “clients,”59 although they retained their extensive agricultural properties. Islamic sources
indicate that hostility occasionally emerged, not only between the two dominant Arab clans in the
city but also between the Jewish and Arab clans, who seemed to have coexisted rather tenuously in
the decentralized city.60 When tensions arose between the two groups, the Jews would reportedly
warn their Arab neighbors that a prophet would arise in the near future and restore their power
over the Arabs – an idea that fits with the general atmosphere of religious anticipation that Muslim
histories suggest dominated in Arabia on the eve of Islam’s emergence. When the Prophet came to
32
Mecca and Medina
Medina, the local Jewish population by and large did not accept him as the awaited figure, however,
and polemical discourse in the sīra literature suggests that this is because the Jews were envious or
else incredulous that such a figure would arise among the Arabs (against whom they were seeking
help) rather than among themselves.61
The Arab population of Yathrib

The Arab population in Yathrib was constituted primarily by two dominant clans – the Khazraj and
the Aws – who were originally from the south, settling in Yathrib after the Jewish clans but certainly
well before the arrival of Muhammad, by which point they were well established in the city. It is
plausible, then, that these clans settled there as part of the broader migration from the south begin-
ning in the third century ce. Of the two clans, Khazraj was the more powerful and influential, and
members of this clan could also boast an ancestral connection to Muhammad as Muhammad’s great-
grandmother (the wife of his great-grandfather Hāshim) had belonged to this clan. As previously
noted, this wife of Hāshim never lived with him in Mecca but rather resided with her own family in
Yathrib and raised their children, including the Prophet’s grandfather, ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib, among her
own relatives there until the latter was brought to Mecca by his uncle. Although we cannot general-
ize from this single report, it seems possible that at least some of the Arabs of Yathrib, unlike those
of Mecca, may have practiced matrilocality. The Khazraj are described in Islamic sources as more
committed to the support of Muhammad and his religion than the Aws. Converts from both clans
would come to be recognized and honored as Ans.ār (“Helpers”), but Khazraj clansmen seem to have
embraced Islam more quickly, more sincerely, and in greater numbers, at least initially, than the Aws.
Prior to their association with the Prophet Muhammad, the Arabs of the two Yathribi clans of
Aws and Khazraj were polytheists or “associators” and were engaged in an ongoing struggle with
each other. Islamic tradition holds that these clans initially extended the invitation to Muhammad
and his followers to come to their city so that he could serve as an impartial arbiter in their disputes.62
The process began with a meeting, in the context of the pilgrimage and fair of 620 ce, between a
group of 12 Arabs from Yathrib (with representatives from both clans) and Muhammad on the out-
skirts of Mecca. The small Yathribi delegation concluded a pact with Muhammad, which became
known as the Pact of the Women (bayʿat al-nisāʾ) because it only required them to embrace Islam
and to follow the basic ritual and moral prescriptions of religion, with no commitment to mutual
defense. Following this meeting, Muhammad sent one of his followers to accompany the delegation
back to Yathrib to instruct them in the religion and assist them in bringing other Arab clansmen
there to Islam.63 By the time the Yathribi Arabs returned to Mecca the following year, they were able
to send a delegation of 73 men and two women, although a decisive majority of the delegation was
from the Khazraj tribe (accounting for 62 of the men and both women).64 The pact concluded at
this meeting included commitments to mutual protection and defense between Muhammad’s com-
munity and the Arab clans of Yathrib; it was thus referred to as the Pact of War (bayʿat al-h.arb). The
emigration of Muhammad’s community from Mecca to Yathrib began shortly thereafter.
The Migration (hijra) from Mecca to Yathrib

After the second pact with the Yathribi Arabs, Muhammad’s followers in Mecca began to leave
Mecca for Yathrib, traveling in small groups, with Muhammad and his companion Abu Bakr arriv-
ing in September 622 ce. They approached the city from the south, and Muhammad temporarily
took up residence in the village of Quba, where a rudimentary mosque was set up, which remains
in the location to this day. The more centrally located Prophet’s Mosque was built shortly thereaf-
ter, when the Prophet settled about 3 miles farther north. This mosque complex included attached
residences for his family and became the center of Muhammad’s religious community. However,
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Maria M. Dakake
sources indicate that at least one other mosque, located to the west of the Prophet’s mosque, was also
in use; this came to be known as the Mosque of the Two Qiblas (Masjid al-Qiblatayn) because (until
recently)65 it preserved the original qibla, or marker of the direction of prayer, toward Jerusalem – the
direction of prayer for the Muslim community when they came to Yathrib – along with the qibla in
the direction of Mecca, to which Muhammad was ordered to redirect his prayer in 624 ce.
The existence of more than one mosque, even in the Prophet’s time, reflects the decentralized
nature of settlement in Yathrib/Medina, which presented the Prophet with a very different set of
challenges than those he had in Mecca. Muhammad’s struggle in Mecca was to establish a new reli-
gious community within the religiously homogeneous and ritually centralized city of Mecca, which
was dominated politically and socially by his religious opponents and whose central shrine had to be
shared with them. By contrast, Muhammad’s challenge in Yathrib was to try to construct a “center”
for the city and foster unity among its internally divided, tribally diverse, and multireligious popula-
tion, who resided in separate villages or areas within the city. Even Muhammad’s followers were now
composed of Meccan Emigrants and the newly converted Yathribi Arabs (or “the Helpers”), and
despite their shared religious purpose, the distinct identities of both groups were maintained both
during the Prophet’s lifetime and after his death. Almost as soon as he arrived in Yathrib, Muham-
mad moved to establish relationships of mutual protection and support among all of Yathrib’s inhab-
itants and, at least initially, to recognize the autonomy of the city’s different groups, while creating a
sense of shared identity based on attachment to the city. At some point, Yathrib came to be referred
to as “Madīnat al-Nabī (the City of the Prophet),” or simply Medina. It is unclear when this might
have happened, but it is unlikely to have been in the first few years of his time there, or before his
status and the dominance of his Muslim followers within the city had been decisively established.66
The most significant political initiative of the Prophet to this end was the drawing up of the
Constitution (or Pact, or Document) of Medina – as the document is often referred to in both
Islamic and Western scholarship.67 It outlined a foundational agreement between the “Emigrants”
and “Helpers,” but also one to which the Jewish clans of the city were invited and in which “their
religion and their wealth” were recognized and confirmed.68 The document acknowledged the city’s
multireligious population and sought to create a hybrid political arrangement among them.69 Effec-
tively, the document established a hierarchy of relationships and obligations and among the city’s
diverse inhabitants: first to one’s tribal group, by making financial obligations for blood money or
ransom fall primarily on individual clan units; second to religious community, by recognizing the
Muslim “believers” (mu’minūn) as a single unit whose religion was separate from that of the Jews in
the city; and finally to the city’s residents as a whole, describing the “believers of Quraysh and Yath-
rib” and those who join with them as clients (which seems to refer primarily to the Jews of Yathrib)
as “one people (umma wāh.ida) to the exclusion of [other] people.”70 All were mutually obligated to
defend one another and their shared city. More importantly, the city was declared to be a sanctuary
like the sanctuary in Mecca – made sacred by Muhammad’s supplication on its behalf to God, just as
Mecca had been blessed by Abraham’s prayer.71
From Yathrib to Madīnat al-Nabī

Although it is unclear when the change of the town’s name occurred, the sīra accounts depict gradual
changes that took place demographically, politically, and religiously in the Prophet’s adopted city. In
the early years of the Prophet’s time there, both the sīra accounts generally and the text of the “Con-
stitution of Medina” in particular suggest that the Prophet and his followers recognized themselves
as living in a diverse and multireligious community. The Prophet may have initially imagined that
the Jews of Yathrib would be natural allies for several reasons: they were monotheists and people of
scripture, they had reportedly been anticipating the rise of a prophet, and they prayed, at least ini-
tially, in the same direction as the Muslims, toward a city they both held sacred. But over the course
34
Mecca and Medina
of Muhammad’s ten years there, the city would become an exclusively Muslim city-state, with the
Prophet at its head.
This shift took place through two major processes: the gradual elimination of the Jewish clans in
the city and the attraction of new converts to the religion through the requirement of hijra – under-
stood, at least until the conquest of Mecca, to mean that anyone who wished to fully join Muham-
mad’s religion had to settle in Medina.72 Despite what may have been Muhammad’s hopes for his
relationship with the Jews of Medina, tensions between the two communities developed quickly.
The Jewish inhabitants of Medina were skeptical of the prophetic status of Muhammad – a non-
Hebrew-speaking, or “gentile” (ummī)73 prophet reportedly did not match their expectations – and
of the content of his revelations. The tensions grew into increasingly serious conflicts. Just shortly
before the Battle of Badr in 624 ce, the Prophet received a command to change the qibla from Jeru-
salem to Mecca – a ritual amplification of the religious differences between the Muslim and Jewish
communities – and replaced the fast of the tenth of Muh.arram, which was similar to Yom Kippur
(both fall on the tenth day of the new year in the Arab and Jewish calendars, respectively) with the
month-long fast of Ramadan. After the Battle of Badr, with the Muslims newly confident after their
victory over the Meccan army, a conflict reportedly began over a crude insult to a Muslim woman
by a member of the Qaynuqāʾ. It eventually led to the exile of this Jewish clan – the socially and
economically weakest of the three. Roughly a year later and shortly after the Battle of Uh.ud (a defeat
for the Muslim army), Muhammad reportedly became aware of a plot to kill him by some mem-
bers of the Jewish clan of Nad· īr. They, too, were subsequently exiled, relocating to Khaybar. More
drastic, however, was the fate of the most prominent Jewish clan in the city – the Qurayz․a – who
conspired with the Meccan alliance that besieged Yathrib/Medina in 627 ce. This act presumably
constituted a breach of the terms regarding the mutual defense of the city stipulated in the Constitu-
tion of Medina. When the Prophet became aware of their treachery, the Qurayz․a retreated to their
fortress, where they were besieged by Muhammad and his followers. Eventually the Qurayz․a agreed
to surrender if their fate could be decided by one of their former allies among the native Medinan
“Helpers” (Ans.ār). This former ally, however, found that their actions merited execution – a ruling
upheld by the Prophet – and all adult male members were executed and their wives and children
taken as captives. Just five years after Muhammad’s arrival in the city, the population was almost
entirely Muslim, though there remained a group of secretly discontent Medinans, referred to in the
Qur’an and sīra as “the hypocrites,” who had nominally accepted Islam but frequently worked to
thwart Muhammad and his community.
Two later events served to fully establish Medina as the City of the Prophet and a sacred sanctuary,
second only to Mecca itself. The first is the Treaty of H.udaybiya, which the Prophet concluded with
the Meccans after a failed attempt to make “the minor pilgrimage” (ʿumra) to Mecca with his follow-
ers in 628 ce. The treaty created a ten-year truce between the two groups, which according to the
Prophet’s earliest biographer, Ibn Ish.āq (d. 767), allowed Islam to spread peacefully through various
parts of Arabia74 and led to many Arabs – now no longer concerned about the reaction of Mecca –
to join the Prophet in Medina. The treaty also established that any Meccan who sought to flee the
city and join the Prophet in Medina would be sent back, while any Medinan who wished to leave
the Prophet’s community and come to Mecca would be allowed to do so. While this would seem to
have put the Prophet and the community at Medina at a disadvantage, it may also have strengthened
the internal cohesiveness of the city by allowing potentially traitorous Medinans to leave, even as
the city’s population was increased by the arrival of new converts from other parts of the Peninsula.
The second major development was the conquest of Mecca two years later in 630 ce. When a
tribal ally of the Meccans attacked a tribe allied with Medina, breaching the H.udaybiya treaty, the
Prophet and his army marched toward Mecca. Before entering the city, however, representatives of
the Meccan elite surrendered the city to Muhammad, and with a handful of exceptions, the popu-
lation of Mecca accepted Islam. Yet despite the wholesale conversion of Mecca to an Islamic city,
35
Maria M. Dakake
Muhammad did not take up residence again in Mecca. This was a striking decision in many ways.
Mecca represented the holiest place in Islam and was the site of Muhammad’s birth, his marriage to
Khadīja, his first wife, and the birth of all but one of his children. Yet he chose to return to Medina,
where he would die and be buried just two years later. The Prophet’s presence, both in life and in
death, cemented the city’s status as a sacred site, and justified its new name, Madīnat al-Nabī, “the
City of the Prophet.”
Mecca and Medina as Sites of Revelation

Given that the Qur’an was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad in piecemeal fashion and in response
to particular situations faced by the Prophet and his followers, Muslim tradition has long held that
knowledge of whether a passage of the Qur’an was revealed in Mecca or Medina is profoundly
important for understanding its intended meaning. There is a general consensus in the Islamic tradi-
tion regarding the designation of particular suras of the Qur’an as “Meccan” or “Medinan,” although
there are differences of opinion regarding some individual verses.75 It should be noted that the dis-
tinction between Meccan and Medinan revelations was primarily a temporal rather than geographic
one, indicating whether the verse was revealed during the 13-year “Meccan” phase of Muhammad’s
career or the latter ten-year period in Medina. For example, Qur’an 5:3, which declares the reli-
gion of Islam to have been “completed,” was reportedly revealed to Muhammad during his farewell
sermon at Mount Arafat on the outskirts of Mecca during his final pilgrimage but is considered a
“Medinan” verse because it was revealed during the final period of Muhammad’s life and career,
when he was based in Medina.
The Meccan and Medinan verses seem to reflect – in both style and content – the differing
geographic and social contexts of these two cities and respond both implicitly and explicitly to the
particular set of interlocutors and challenges the Prophet encountered in these two locations. The
earliest revelations Muhammad received in Mecca were composed in a style similar (but not identi-
cal) to the sajʿ rhymed prose that was common among both pre-Islamic poets and soothsayers.76
Like such forms of communication or composition, the language of the Qur’an was elliptical and
evocative in nature. Yet the initial sense of familiarity that the style of these early revelations may
have engendered in the Prophet’s Meccan audience (they do accuse him of being a poet or sooth-
sayer)77 must have felt rather shockingly betrayed by the stark difference in the content of the mes-
sages delivered in these early verses. The pre-Islamic poets were concerned with the worldly themes
of great tribal exploits or the tragedy of lost loves, hemmed in always by the fleetingness of life and
the inevitability and finality of death and thus the vanity of it all. The Qur’anic verses, by contrast,
chastise excessive and exclusive concern with this world and emphasize the inevitability of death,
not as a sign of the meaninglessness of the world but as a warning that every person would be held
accountable for their deeds.
Speaking to a people whose religion seemed to lack clear moral guidelines beyond the recogni-
tion of a set of qualities considered marks of worldly nobility, the Qur’an emphasized the importance
of moral virtues, including generosity, justice, and sincerity in worship. As the Prophet Muhammad
faced the rejection and opposition of the Meccan leaders, the Meccan revelations told stories of
powerful societies of the past and their ruling elites who were punished and annihilated for rejecting
the messages of their prophets. Addressing the followers of the ancient Arab religion and the Kaʿba
cult, who were nonetheless aware of the great religions of Judaism and Christianity, the Meccan
verses and the stories they told wove these histories together: the Kaʿba was part of the Abrahamic
legacy; the stories of the biblical Noah and Lot, like those of the Arab prophets Hūd and S.alīh., told
an identical story about God’s “habit” (sunna) of sending messengers and punishing those who refuse
to heed their warnings; and the revelation received by Muhammad was like the great book of Moses
but was communicated to them in Arabic, their own mother tongue. Like Mecca itself, built around
36
Mecca and Medina
a single sacred shrine, the Meccan suras tend to be composed around a single theme and, as Angelika
Neuwirth and others have clearly demonstrated, often have a clearly defined “center.”78 Like the
Meccan sanctuary, which the Qur’an itself describes as a sacred house for all humankind, the Mec-
can verses, especially the earliest ones, tend to speak in universal terms and often address themselves
to human beings as a whole.
By contrast, the Medinan suras are longer and more prosaic and are composed of individual verses
that are similarly lengthier and less poetic in nature (although still with a defined end rhyme). Similar
to the nature of Medina itself, the (generally) longer Medinan suras are not as thematically focused;
their content is more decentralized and variant in nature. When an organizing principle for these
suras can be identified, it tends to be progressive or dialectical in nature rather than focusing on a
single, central theme.79 While the language continues to be highly elliptical, in places it adopts a
more precise and instructional style, particularly in verses that deal with a new theme not seen in the
Meccan verses: social and ritual rules and guidance for the now independent and rapidly developing
Muslim community in Medina. The Prophet’s interlocutors are no longer just the polytheistic Arabs
of Mecca but are now also (and primarily) the religious communities of Medina: Jews, Muslims,
and the “hypocrites.” These communities and the changing relations between them are specifically
addressed at various points in the Medinan verses, something of a shift from Meccan emphasis on
humanity, universally conceived. While the Meccan suras retell Jewish and Christian narratives in a
way that presents the religion of Islam and, by extension, the Arabs and their ancient Kaʿba cult, as
an integral part of this sacred history, and suggests that Jews and Christians possess genuine guidance
and knowledge brought to them by scripture, the Medinan verses engage in direct polemic with
Jewish and Christian practices (or lapses therein) and theology.
Conclusion
Like many prophets of both the Qur’an and the Bible, Muhammad begins his life in one place and
ends it in another. His mission and revelation are characterized by a geographic migration between
two cities – Mecca and Medina – whose historical conditions are distinctly reflected in the revelation
itself and at the same time are deeply symbolic of larger spiritual themes embedded in that mission.
The beginnings of Muhammad’s mission and the Qur’anic revelations in Mecca point to Islam’s
universalist assertion of itself as a religion birthed in what Muslims consider the very spiritual center
of the world, a timeless sanctuary where the temporal distance between Muhammad and Abraham,
the original builder of the Kaʿba, is collapsed. Medina, situated between Mecca and Jerusalem, and
bearing – at least initially – a mixed religious heritage and culture, mirrors Islam’s own deep con-
nections to both Judeo-Christian sacred history and Arabia. It is also where the new religion enters
into history (even technically speaking, as the hijri calendar begins with the move to Medina) and
builds its community, becoming a new center of the religion’s presence in the world – a base from
which the religion will spread further outward, to the rest of the Peninsula and beyond – even as its
spiritual center continues to be located in Mecca.
Notes
1 Q 14:37. All English translations of the Qur’an included in this article are taken from S.H. Nasr, C.K. Dagli,
M.M. Dakake, M. Rustom, and J.E. Lumbard, The Study Quran (New York: Harper Collins, 2015).
2 F.E. Peters, Mecca: A Literary History of the Muslim Holy Land (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,
1994), 10.
3 Muh.ammad ibn Jarīr Al-T ․ abarī, Taʾrīkh al-rusul wa l-mulūk, ed. M.J. de Goeje (Leiden: Brill, 1964),
part 1, 278.
4 Ibid., part 1, 213. Al-T
․ abarī attributes his report to Ibn Ish.āq, and the same report is found in Gordon
Newby’s reconstruction of the first part of Ibn Ish.āq’s Sīra, in Gordon Newby, The Making of the Last Prophet:
37
Maria M. Dakake
A Reconstruction of the Earliest Biography of Muhammad (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press,
1989), 48–49.
5 See, e.g., Exodus 17–18; Numbers 14, 20; 1 Samuel 15. See also Gordon Newby, A History of the Jews of
Arabia: From Ancient Times to Their Eclipse Under Islam (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press,
1988), 14–17.
6 See Genesis 21:1–20, where the wilderness is specified as the “wilderness of Beer-sheba.” For a hadith
account, see Bukhārī, S.ah.īh., v. 4, book 55, h. 583–584. For Islamic historical sources, see al-T ․ abarī, Ta’rīkh,
part 1, 278–280; Abū l-Walīd Muh.ammad ibn ʿAbd Allāh ibn Ah.mad al-Azraqī, Akhbār Makka, 2 vols.,
ed. Rushdī al-S.ālih. Mah.āsin (Mecca: al-Mat․baʿa al-Mājidiyya, 1933), v. 1, 20–21; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil fīl-
tārīkh (Beirut: Dār S.ādir, 1965), v. 1, 103–104. Note that Ibn Saʿd has a rather different account, in which
Abraham brings Hagar and Ishmael to Mecca, traveling on the miraculous Buraq, when Ishmael is 16 years
old (rather than an infant); see Muh.ammad ibn Saʿd, Kitāb al-T ․ abaqāt al-kabīr, 11 vols., ed. ʿAlī Muh.ammad
ʿUmar (Cairo: Maktabat al-Khānjī, 2001), v. 1, 33–34.
7 Al-T ․ abarī, Ta’rīkh, part 1, 281. An alternate version of this account in the first part of Ibn Ish.āq’s Sīra, the
spring miraculously emerges from beneath the hand of the infant Ishmael, see ibid., 279; Newby, The Mak-
ing of the Last Prophet, 74.
8 Akhbār Makka, v. 1, 41; al-T ․ abarī, Ta’rīkh, part 1, 281; Ibn al- Athīr, v. 1, 104–105.
9 Ibid., v. 1, 21–22, citing Ibn Ish.āq; al-T ․ abarī, Ta’rīkh, part 1, 351–352.
10 Q 2:127. Al-T ․ abarī and Ibn Saʿd chronologically situate this event after Ishmael had already grown and
married among the Jurhum (Ta’rīkh, part 1, 284–287; T ․ abaqāt, v. 1, 35).
11 Akhbār Makka, v. 1, 42–43.
12 These were said to have later been removed from the hills and brought within the h.aram itself by Qusayy, the
original Qurayshi settler in Mecca, and used as stones on which to slaughter animals. See ibid., v. 1, 45.
13 Ibid., v. 1, 41.
14 See Q 2:24 and, relatedly, 21:98 and 66:6. For the interpretation of “stones” here as idols, see, e.g., Ibn
Kathīr, Tafsīr, on Q 2:24 and 66:6. Zamakhsharī sees the fact that stones can be the fuel for the fire of Hell
to indicate that it is a fire of extraordinary heat (since ordinary fire would not consume stones) but that it
also connects this to the notion that these stones may be representative of those the unbelievers used to carve
idols (Zamakhsharī, al-Kashshāf on Q 2:24).
15 Q 5:3.
16 Akhbār Makka, v. 1, 54–55.
17 Ibid., v. 1, 56; an alternate account in this same source says their control of Mecca lasted 500 years (ibid., 55).
18 Some accounts identify him with a number of other hunafaʾ (primordial Abrahamic monotheists) in Mecca
and stress that he never worshipped Hubal or the other idols in the h.aram, but they also indicate that he
permitted idols to be installed in the Kaʿba by others. See Martin Lings, Muhammad: His Life Based on the
Earliest Sources (revised edition, Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions, 2006), 15–16.
19 Abraha’s attempted attack on Mecca was reportedly provoked either because he sought to destroy the Kaʿba
as a rival pilgrimage destination to his own center of worship in southern Yemen or else because an associ-
ate of the Quraysh (a tribesman from Kināna) had intentionally defiled the center of worship in Abraha’s
territory. The two reasons seem related. See Ibn Hishām, al-Sīra al-Nabawiyya, 4 vols., ed. M. al-Saqā, I.
al-Abyārī, and A.H. Shalabī (Qumm: Matba`at al-Mustafawī, 1936), v. 1, 44–47; T ․ abarī, I: 933–934; Ibn
al-Athīr, v. 1, 442–447.
20 For example, many of the deities mentioned in Islamic sources in connection with pre-Islamic and Qurayshi
paganism, including Hubal, Allāt, al-ʿUzza, and Manāt, are also mentioned on epigraphic inscriptions in
northern and central Arabia. Regarding Hubal and the idol/deity, Wadd (mentioned in Q 71:23, in the
context of the story of Noah), e.g., see Aziz al-Azmeh, The Emergence of Islam in Late Antiquity: Allah and
His People (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 76–78.
21 See Ibn Hishām, v. 1, 50, 52.
22 Different dates are given by different authors for the date when the Quraysh finally take control of Mecca.
Both 400 and 500 ce are mentioned, for example. If we consider that Islamic accounts note five generations
between Qusayy and Muhammad (whose birthdate is traditionally dated to 570 ce), the Quraysh should
have settled in Mecca sometime in the mid- to late fifth century.
23 al-Azmeh makes this observation in his study of the Arab context and broader Near Eastern context for the
rise of Islam; see The Emergence of Islam, 173.
24 Ibn Hishām, v. 1, 24–25.
25 Ibid., 19–28; T ․ abarī, I: 903–904.
26 al-Azmeh, The Emergence of Islam, 158.
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Mecca and Medina
27 There have been other relatively recent studies based upon intensive analysis of the Qur’an itself (now
considered more contemporaneous with the rise of the Islamic movement), that argue for shifting the geo-
graphic (rather than the temporal, pace Wansbrough) setting of Qur’anic origins. See, for example, Patricia
Crone’s article, “How Did the Quranic Pagans Make a Living?” in The Qur’anic Pagans and Related Mat-
ters, vol. 1, ed. Hanna Siurua (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 1–20, where she argues that the plentiful agricultural
metaphors in the Qur’an seem to reflect a more agrarian context rather than that of the more pastoral and
nomadic setting of Arabia – an argument, however, that fails to consider the existence of small centers of
agricultural activity not far from Mecca – including not only Yathrib/Medina itself but also Taʾif, which
apparently boasted lush gardens.
28 Q 31:25, 39:38, 43:87.
29 See, for example, Robert Hoyland, Arabia and the Arabs from the Bronze Age to the Coming of Islam (New York:
Routledge, 2001), passim, where the author notes the existence of inscriptions relating to the Qur’anically
mentioned Allāt, al-ʿUzza, and Manāt, who are mentioned for both North and Central Arabia, dating hun-
dreds of years before the rise of Islam, as well as in inscriptions closer to this event.
30 Hubal, however, is attested in inscriptions from central Arabia; see for example, ibid., 159.
31 Q 21:51–60. However, in the case of Abraham, unlike in the case of the conquest of Mecca, this was not a
triumphal moment, and his iconoclasm did not result in a change of heart among his people.
32 See, for example, a curious hadith in S.ah.īh. Bukhārī, where ʿUmar appears hesitant about kissing the Black
Stone of the Kaʿba, asserting that, despite the reverence shown to the stone by the Prophet, it is “only a
stone” (K. al-h.ajj, h. 1597). This may suggest some concern on ʿUmar’s part that this practice, which he
claims to engage in only because he saw the Prophet do it, seems close to the pre-Islamic Arab veneration
of certain stones (the Black Stone of the Kaʿba reportedly being one such stone, given the widely reported
account of the treatment of the stone in the rebuilding of the Kaʿba in Muhammad’s time).
33 See Q 6:112, and especially Q 15:16–18, 37:6–10, and 72:8–9, which are said to allude to the jinn sitting on
the edges of the celestial realm in order to try to overhear matters of divine decree – getting only some of it
and imperfectly – to convey it to people through oracles to soothsayers (this is made clear in certain com-
mentaries; see, e.g., T․ abarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān ʿan ta’wīl al-Qur’ān, 30 vols., ed. S.J. al-ʿAttār (Beirut: Dar al-Fikr,
1995), v. 22, 45; see also hadith narrations that explain meteors as missiles driving out eavesdropping jinn
and satans in S.ah.īh. Bukhārī, K. al-adab, h. 6213; S.ah.īh. Muslim, K. al-salām, h. 2229; and Tirmidhī, Sunan,
K. al-tafsīr, h. 3324.
34 Q 34:41, 37:158.
35 See, e.g., Q 2:158: “Truly S.afā and Marwa are among the rituals of God, so whosoever performs hajj to the
House, or makes the ʿumrah, there is no blame on him in going to and fro between them. And whosoever
volunteers good, truly God is Thankful, Knowing.” The verse seems to be responding to those who thought
participating in this rite might entail some blame.
36 Q 8:35. The tradition also suggests that the pre-Islamic pilgrimage rites were performed in the nude. After
Muhammad deputized Abū Bakr to conduct the pilgrimage (after its conquest, in the year 631 ce), Muslim
accounts claim that no polytheist was allowed to make the pilgrimage, and no one circumambulated the
Kaʿba naked (Ibn Hishām, v. 4, 190). Note that the existence of such a practice may seem to be corrobo-
rated by the fact that the clothing worn during the Muslim hajj includes some forms of “symbolic” naked-
ness that nonetheless preserve Islamic codes of modesty – for example, men wearing only two “unsewn”
pieces of cloth suggests the pre-lapsarian state of Adam and Eve who only “sew” leaves together as cloth-
ing after their act of disobedience reveals their nakedness, and the fact that women are discouraged from
covering their faces during the hajj again conveys a “nakedness” that is modestly limited to the face. For a
discussion of this connection, see Brannon M. Wheeler, Mecca and Eden Ritual, Relics, and Territory in Islam
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 64–67.
37 See M.J. Kister, “Mecca and Tamīm (Aspect of Their Relations),” Journal of the Economic and Social History of
the Orient 8, no. 2 (1965), 113–163.
38 Q 6:136: “And they dedicate to God a share of the crops and cattle He multiplied, saying, ‘This belongs to
God’ – or so they claim – ‘And this belongs to our partners.’ But that which is for their partners does not
reach God, and that which is for God does reach their partners. Evil indeed is the judgment they make!”
39 Q 6:138–140.
40 Q 4:119.
41 See al-Azmeh, The Emergence of Islam, 156–157, where he uses this imagery of an “unfurling” Mecca to
describe the city’s greater outreach in the Peninsula at this time.
42 See W.M. Watt, Muhammad: Prophet and Statesman (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 1974; idem, Muham-
mad at Mecca (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1953).
39
Maria M. Dakake
43 See Mohammed Bamyeh, Social Origins of Islam: Mind, Economy, Discourse (Minneapolis: University of Min-
nesota Press, 1999).
44 Ibn Hishām, v. 1, 140–142.
45 See Q 6:156–157; 28:48; 17:93; 22:8; 31:20; 34:44; 35:40; 37:156–157; 43:21; 6:20, 114; 13:36; 10:94.
46 See Daniel Madigan, The Qur’ân’s Self-Image: Writing and Authority in Islam’s Scripture (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 2001), esp. 54–77, for an extensive discussion of the meaning of the Qur’an’s
self-identification as a “scripture.”
47 In the Qur’an, this term is, of course, most commonly associated with Abraham, and by extension with
Muhammad’s religion, which is also identified as the milla Ibrahim or “creed of Abraham.” Muslim tradition
understands Muhammad to have lived and practiced as a h.anīf prior to his call to prophethood.
48 Various Qur’anic verses suggest that Muhammad invoked the authority of Jewish and Christian scriptures,
Jewish and Christian ideas of human prophethood, and Jews and Christians themselves when arguing for
the authenticity of his message to his fellow Meccans; see, for example, Q 6:91–92, 46:10–12, and 21:7 (if
“People of the Reminder” refers to Jews and Christians, as many commentators assert). The Qur’anic report
that the Meccans tried to excuse their lack of moral guidance on their lack of a divinely revealed book (Q
6:155–157) seems to betray both a sense of the inferiority of their own religious tradition vis-à-vis that of
Jews and Christians (the only “two groups” given a book, as referred to in these verses) and also a desire to
willfully and pridefully adhere to their inferior religion rather than adopting a book given to others.
49 For the Qur’anic emphasis on its “Arabic language” as the basis of its distinctiveness as a scripture, see, for
example, Q 13:37; 16:103, 41; 42:7.
50 Newby, A History of the Jews of Arabia, 14–17, citing Abu’l-Faraj al-Isfahani’s Kitāb al-aghānī.
51 Newby, A History of the Jews of Arabia, 28–32.
52 See, for example, the Qur’anic account of Mary and Zechariah (Q 3:37–41, 19:2–17) and the exegetical
literature connected to this account.
53 Q 5:44, 63; 9:31. In Q 3:79, the term sages seems to be used for religious authorities among the People of
the Book, and it seems to refer to those whose authority is linked to having “studied” and “taught” scripture.
For a discussion of the term sages (ah.bār), see Newby, 57–58 and Haggai Mazuz, The Religious and Spiritual
Life of the Jews of Medina (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 21–23.
54 See Q 2:75, 4:46, 5:13 (where they are also said to have forgotten part of their scripture), and 5:41. This is
the concept known as tah.rīf, which literally suggests moving words or letters from their places but which is
idiomatically understood to mean misinterpretation.
55 See Q 2:79.
56 One account suggests the presence of a physical Torah in Medina and that the Jewish leaders had made
“innovations” to some of its rulings. In this account, the Prophet was asked to make a judgment regarding
two Medinan Jews who had been caught in the act of adultery. The Prophet inquired as to the punishment
prescribed in the Torah for this act and was told that while the punishment in the Torah is stoning, the Jew-
ish authorities have substituted an alternate and less drastic punishment. The Prophet calls for the Torah to
be brought, and one of the Jewish authorities is said to have put his hand over the part of the Torah passage
that prescribes stoning. See Bukhārī, S.ah.īh., K. al-h.udūd, h. 6819.
57 One hadith indicates that Muhammad went to the bayt ha-midrash to try to persuade those there to enter
Islam, Bukhārī, S.ah.īh., K. al-ikrāh, h. 6944; Ibn Hisham, v. 2, 201. Abū Bakr is said to have gone to the
“bayt madāris” of the Jewish clan, the Banū Qaynuqā’ for a similar purpose; this latter account is given as the
context for Q 3:181, see T ․ abarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān, v. 4, 258; Zayd ibn Thābit, one of the leaders of the con-
sultative council that compiled the ʿUthmani codex, is said to have learned a Jewish dialect of Arabic there,
see Newby, The Making of the Last Prophet, 10.
58 The Qur’an refers to some Jews as the “ummiyūn” or “illiterate,” who were unable to read the Torah them-
selves but relied upon their religious authorities to orally convey it to them. It is then suggested that these
illiterate folks were vulnerable to deception by those who would “write the book with their hands” and
claim it was revelation from God, as mentioned previously (see Q 2:78–79). Muslim reports refer to the
Jews of Medina reciting the Torah in Hebrew (including several hadith in Bukhārī, S.ah.īh., h. 4485; 7362;
7542). There is also a hadith attributed to Zayd ibn Thābit, one of the heads of the consultative council that
oversaw the production of the ʿUthmani codex of the Qur’an, in which he says that the Prophet had asked
him to learn the “writing of the Jews” (presumably Hebrew). Abū Dawūd, Sunan, K. al-ʿilm, h. 3645.
59 In the “Constitution of Medina,” Jewish groups in Yathrib seem to be referred to as clients of other Arab
clans rather than by the names Banū Nad· īr, Banū Qurayz․a, or Banū Qaynuqā’ that are found for them in
traditional Muslim sīra and historical accounts.
60 A military engagement between the clans, involving their Jewish clients and referred to in the sources as the
Battle of Buʿāth, had just concluded a few years before Muhammad’s arrival in the city.
40
Mecca and Medina
61 For the suggestion that this envy was on account of their belief that prophethood should only arise from
among their own people, see Ibn Hishām, v. 2, 196, 201, where some of the Medinan Jews seem to reject
the notion that Muhammad was the figure they had been waiting for because he had been sent from among
“the Arabs” or that he was not Jewish.
62 A conflict between the two Arab clans of Yathrib, the Aws and Khazraj (along with and involving their
Jewish clients within the city), referred to as the Battle of Buʿāth, had occurred just approximately five years
before the Yathribi Arabs’ meeting with Muhammad at Mecca. See Ibn Hishām, v. 2, 68–69. In the initial
meeting with Muhammad, the Yathribi delegation expresses hope that he and his religion may bring unity
to their divided community (ibid., 70–71).
63 This arrangement was reportedly necessary since neither clan could countenance letting the other take the
lead in this matter. See ibid., v. 2, 72–73.
64 Ibid., v. 2, 81–87.
65 When the mosque was renovated in 1987–1988 under King Fahd of Saudi Arabia, the earlier qibla facing
Jerusalem was removed.
66 The sources are unclear when, precisely, this new name came to be widely used. The term Yathrib is used
to refer to the city in the Qur’anic sura 33, which is a relatively late Medinan sura, but in this particular pas-
sage, the city is being referenced by Yathrib’s indigenous “hypocrites,” who secretly opposed Muhammad’s
religion and worked against him and so who would have been more likely to refer to their city by its original
name. Yathrib is also used to refer to the city in the Constitution of Medina, which is widely recognized as
an authentically early document (to be discussed later in the chapter) but one that may have been written in
different stages of Muhammad’s time in the city. In the earliest sīra accounts and certainly in the hadith, the
city is almost invariably referred to by its Islamic name, Medina, rather than Yathrib, from its earliest men-
tion, even prior to the Prophet’s residence there, and so they offer us no indication of a specific time when
the name Medina actually became the primary way of referring to the city.
67 In the sīra accounts, it is described simply as a “written document (kitāb).” See Ibn Hishām, Sīra, v. 2, 147.
However, given the significance the Qur’an seems to give to written documents, as well as the broader
traditional picture of pre- and early Islamic Arabia as a place where writing was done rarely and thus only
for special purposes, the fact that this was a written document might suggest that it had an importance that
these other terms more clearly convey.
68 Ibid., 147.
69 A number of aspects of the agreement in this document seem consistent with alliance-forming procedures
and rules that seem to have existed in the pre-Islamic Arab context, including those practiced by the
Quraysh, whose regional strength at this time seemed to be partly related to its success in forming such rela-
tionships, with which Muhammad would have already been familiar. For an overview of these pre-Islamic
practices, see Ella Landau-Tasserson, “The Status of Allies in Pre-Islamic and Early Islamic Arabian Society,”
Islamic Law and Society 13, no. 1 (2006): 6–32.
70 Ibn Hishām, Sīra, v. 2, 147. Later in the document, the Jewish clients of the Arab tribes are described as
forming “an umma along with the believers” despite their religious differences which are explicitly acknowl-
edged in the same sentence of the document (Ibid., 149). Note that the phrase, umma wāh.ida is Qur’anic in
origin, where it is used to refer to the community of human beings before they began to differ from one
another (Q 2:213, 10:19), and in some cases, perhaps, the community of all true prophets and their followers
(see Q 21:92). In most cases, however, the term umma is used to refer to a distinct religious community (Q
10:47, 16:84–90, 22:34) or even a particular sect or group within a larger religious community (Q 3:104,
5:66, 7:159), so it is curious that the Muslims and Jews of Yathrib would be declared a single community
despite the religious differences between the two clarified in the same document.
71 See Q 14:35: “And [remember] when Abraham said, ‘My Lord! Make this land secure, and spare me and
my children from worshipping idols.’ ”
72 See Q 8:72, which mentions the limited responsibility that Muslim believers had to fellow believers who
had not emigrated to Medina: “As for those who believe and did not emigrate, you owe them no protection
until they emigrate. But if they ask your help for the sake of religion, then help is a duty upon you, except
against a people with whom you have a covenant.”
73 See Q 7:157, where Muhammad is directly referred to as the “ummi” prophet, and Q 62:2 where he is said to
have been sent to his “ummi” people. The term is often translated as “unlettered” but one possible reading of
the term is “gentile” – given that both the term “gentile” and the Arabic ummi can mean those of “the nations.”
For a fuller discussion, see Halla Attallah and George Archer article, “Abraham and His Family” in this volume.
74 See Alfred Guillaume, Life of Muhammad: A Translation of Ibn Ishaq’s Sirat Rasul Allah (Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 2002), 507. Ibn Hishām attributes a similar statement to the early historian, al-Zuhrī (Sīra,
v. 3, 336–337).
41
Maria M. Dakake
75 In quite a few cases, a Meccan sura will be said to continue some individual verses revealed in Medina and
vice versa.
76 See Devin Stewart’s article in this volume.
77 For explicit or implicit references to Muhammad as a “poet,” see Q 21:5, 36:69, 37:36, 52:30, and 69:41.
For direct or indirect accusations that he was a soothsayer, see Q 52:29, 69:42.
78 See, for example, Angelika Neuwirth, “Structural, Linguistic, and Literary Features,” in Cambridge Compan-
ion to the Qur’an, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 97–113,
esp. 110–111.
79 For example, Neal Robinson has done an excellent study of sura 2, al-Baqara (“The Cow”), which identifies
five distinctive thematic sections, each building on the other and reflecting the developing rift between the
early Muslim community in Medina and the Jewish clans there (see Discovering the Qur’an: A Contemporary
Approach to a Veiled Text [Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 2004], 196–223). Michel Cuypers
has done a lengthier study of sura 5, al-Māʾida (“The Table/Banquet”), which reads the sura as have a “ring”
structure, in which the last section mirrors the first (not dissimilar from the tripartite structure identified in
middle Meccan suras by Neuwirth). But it is not a simple tripartite structure and indeed embeds a polemic
between the Muslims and the People of the Book (particularly Christians here) regarding the concept of
the covenant; see Michel Cuypers, The Banquet: A Reading of the Fifth Sūra of the Qur’an (Miami, FL: Con-
vivium, 2009).
42
PART II
The World of the Qur’an

4
GOD THE SPEAKER
The Many-Named One
Tim Winter
The Qur’an’s first listeners were pagan Meccans whom it tried to shame into repentance by contrast-
ing their tribal totems with a teaching of pristine and simple monotheism sharpened by the threat
of an imminent apocalypse. When reinforced with references to the narratives of neighboring Jew-
ish and Christian communities already broadly familiar in the Western Arabian milieu, this locally
rooted polemic gave the new scriptural articulation a quality that, over time, proved remarkably
successful in drawing the peoples of the “Eurasian hinge” of Southwest Asia into the fold of the new
religion. Such a triumphant outcome, which bespeaks a doctrine of very considerable power and
coherence, could hardly have come about had the Qur’an’s theology not transcended its initial local
concerns to stand in substantial contiguity with existing debates among monotheists. The scripture
is unmistakably a document of the Near Eastern ecumenical world, and its God is the God of the
diverse but discrete “Abrahamic tradition.”1 We shall suggest, however, that while its characteristic
treatment of divine predication tends to recall its appurtenance to the wider monotheistic culture, it
also reacts strongly to its original Sitz im Leben in the Arabian region where native beliefs remained
dominant. Only when we recall its point of origin can we grasp the distinctiveness of the Qur’an’s
universal God, its style of naming Him in particular, and account for the quality of Islam’s later theol-
ogy and mysticism and its engagement with rival systems.
In attacking the religion of the Western Arabians, the Qur’an appears to vindicate the broad
narrative of their neighbors and rivals, and hence appears as a victory for the other over the same.2
The established monotheisms of the Near East were not, however, simply adopted or replicated,
for a second polemic is intrinsic to the text. The Abrahamic theism of the Qur’an was shaped in a
double polemic, being constructed not only as an antitype to Arabian idolatry and animism but also
as a trenchant correction of Jewish and Christian error. It was not only the Meccan pagans but the
contemporary adherents of the Torah and the Gospel who had strayed from the ur-monotheismus of
ancient prophets and from their teaching of moral universals which transcended clan and commu-
nity. Inveterate human “willfulness” (hawā) and a culpable “forgetfulness” (nisyān) of scripture and
revelation had spawned misleading beliefs about Abraham’s God.
The Qur’an’s deity is hence presented in a nostalgic idiom, as a God of immemorial times who
cyclically reproaches and corrects His errant servants by sending prophets, some of whom bear
scriptures. “Never did We send a messenger before you but that We revealed to him that there is
no god but I, so worship Me” (Q 21:25). If their hearers will not comply, then God may punish
them, so that His moral order in the world is conserved (Q 17:15). This is part of His sunna, His
way with history.3 Prophets and their books thus do not disclose significant dogmas unknown to
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-6 45
Tim Winter
earlier generations but simply recall humanity to its duty toward the God first known by Adam.
God is obvious, and so is His guiding or punitive agency in history. But “man is created weak”
(Q 4:28), and the devil draws him into “heedlessness” (ghafla) and false notions. These latter are
often figured in terms of “extravagance” (isrāf, Q 40:34, 7:81)4 or “excess” (ghuluww, Q 4:171,
5:77), the Christians having been tempted into an exaggerated and perhaps idolatrous veneration
of Christ (Q 5:77), while the Jews had been seduced into an apparently similar reverence for a fig-
ure the Qur’an knows as ʿUzayr (Q 9:30).5 It is human nature to amplify and elaborate, but truth
remains manifest (Q 17:81), and the task of prophecy is to restore a balanced theology and social
existence safe from all extremes and complexifications: “a straight path.” Monotheistic assurance
itself is a natural and innate faculty created in humans by God, while doubt, polytheism, and the
apotheosis of prophets are aberrations which have corrupted man’s true and “God-given nature”
(fit․ra, Q 30:30). The Qur’an’s assurance that misguidance is the result of hawā was to have large
repercussions in the later history of Islamic thought. “Heresies” themselves came to be termed
ahwāʾ (“willfullnesses”), the plural of hawā. Ego, not divine obscurity, was thought to be the usual
root of doctrinal error.
The Qur’an’s account of the Christian deity is rooted in this confidence. God’s cyclical inter-
ventions in history return His servants to the true, saving belief. It was sufficient for Jesus to be a
prophet, whose very first words confessed his own subordination to God (Q 19:30). Like Adam, he
was created of clay (Q 3:59). He was God’s messenger (Q 5:75) but was certainly not His offspring
(a concept which seemed to recall the old Arabian heathenism which had attributed progeny to
God, Q 16:57, 6:100). Further, God cannot be “the third of three” (Q 5:73), a phrase which had
been used by some Syriac-speaking Christians to describe Christ and his role in the Trinity.6 God
“begat not, nor is He begotten, and there is none like unto Him” (Q 112:2–3). All this is presented
as self-evident, while the intricacies of Christology appear as inadmissible embroideries that anger
God by fostering sectarianism (Q 19:39) and that have turned mankind aside from the “religion
of Abraham,” who was “neither Jew nor Christian” (Q 3:67) but a man submissive to God and
in flight from anything that might thwart the proclamation of His unity. Again, just as the pagan
Meccans knew instinctively but would not admit that the Qur’an’s preaching was compelling, so
also Christian clergy will weep when they hear the Qur’an “because of what they recognize of the
truth” (Q 5:83). Not only does the new scripture, in its role as a “healing and a mercy” (Q 17:82),
correct unethical and interpolated biblical tales, it helps Jews and Christians to rediscover the true
and fully monotheistic doctrine of God. The Qur’an is re-pristination (Q 2:129) of true faith, as
well as climax (Q 33:40).
It follows that the Qur’an does not construct formal arguments to prove God’s existence. It is
incredulous at the very idea of denial, asking repeatedly: “Do you not think?” (Q 21:67) and “Is
there any god with God?” (Q 27:60).7 “Can there be doubt about God, Creator of the heavens and
the earth?” (Q 14:10). It debates and tells stories but tends to present God as a matter of fact to be
kerygmatically announced, not as a proposition to be reasoned out. This sole God is evidently the
master truth against which all else must be interpreted and judged.8 Still, it summons its doubting
Meccan audience to contemplate God’s “signs” (āyāt) in the natural order from which they are to
infer not so much His existence but His unity, omnipotence, and moral nature. His existence they
already know: “If you ask them [pagans] who created the heavens and the earth, they will certainly
say, ‘God!’ ” (Q 31:25). The Qur’an is thus a “reminder” (Q 65:10) and in one well-known passage
suggests that all souls pledged a covenant and witnessed to God’s lordship before historical time
began (Q 7:172), reinforcing the idea that knowledge of God is innate in human beings. But they
must open their hearts to His signs in order to be reminded and to detect saving facts about His
nature, His agency in the cosmos, and the moral and ritual life which they ought to adopt in order
to live on “the straight path.”9 Again, Abraham is extolled as the precursor of this pattern of infer-
ring the Divine nature from natural signs (Q 6:74–83). He was munīb, (“contrite,” Q 11:75) and thus
46
God the Speaker
the ideal type of the humble, intuitive, natural monotheist; a believer must “fear the All-Merciful
[though He be] unseen, and bring a contrite heart” (Q 50:33).10
Although Syriac Christianity often came to favor a quasi-sacramental view of the cosmos,11 the
idea that God is known from His general revelation in nature is stressed far more insistently in the
Qur’an than it is by most Biblical authors. The most likely explanation of this is that it reflects
the Arabian environment, in which a polemic against animism, strategically appropriating its rever-
ence for nature, needed to be central to its agenda. “Do not prostrate to sun and moon, but to God
Who created them” (Q 41:37). A healthy and contrite heart will perceive that the world is not a
battlefield for demiurges but a harmonious whole created to glorify its One Maker: “You shall not
see any incongruity in the All-Merciful’s creation” (Q 67:3). Tragedies, natural phenomena, and
patterned human variations such as gender are not outcomes of a blind fate following a theogony of
divine heroes, nor are they the result of celestial play (Q 21:16). On the contrary, they unerringly
point to their source: “All are submitted to Him” (Q 30:26). Thanks to this vision of the cosmos as
a majestic and beautiful oratorio, a notably high regard is granted to the natural world, particularly
the world of animals.12 Although each created phenomenon has its own integrity and each “knows
its prayer and its glorification” (Q 24:41), it also supports natural theology by guiding the human
heart to the intuition of God. God is known and trusted not through “belief ” so much as through a
secure confidence (īmān) whose locus in the human being is a variously described interior intuitive
faculty.13 The legibility of divine predicates in the cosmos is assisted by the absence of a Fall doctrine
akin to that of Augustine (d. 430): the human perception of God’s presence is damaged not by an
inheritance of sin but by forgetfulness.
Truly in the creation of the heavens and the earth, and the succession of night and day, are
signs for people of perception. Those who remember God standing, sitting, and on their
sides, and who meditate on the creation of the heaven and the earth.
(Q 3:190)
The vainglorious and stubborn “ignorance” ( jāhiliyya) of the old Arabs had read nature as a
domain of chaos inspiring fear and tragic defiance. By contrast, the new doctrine announced it as an
ordered theophany indicating its God’s most indispensable property: oneness. To misread the cosmos
is to infer that its source is multiple or divided, that behind its plurality there lies a further plurality.
This is the unforgivable error of shirk, the “empartnering” of the uniquely potent God. Religion is
to be “pure and sincere for Him” (Q 98:5). Although the Prophet and others can pray to God on
behalf of other believers (Q 9:102–3), such intercessions are effectual only by God’s permission and
approval (Q 19:87, 20:109). To perceive with a heart that is “sound” (Q 37:84) or “contrite” (Q
50:33) yields a “God-wariness” (taqwā) that responds to the signs to “affirm the unity” (tawh.īd) of
God, on whom all things rely and to whom they return. The signs bespeak a radical contingency
upon this unitive source, which alone is objective and ultimate. Thus one of God’s names is “the
Truth” or “the Real” (al-H . aqq, Q 22:6, 24:25): “Everything upon the earth shall pass away, and
there remains only the face of your Lord” (Q 55:26–27). Another name is al-Qawī, “the Strong” (Q
11:66), for “to Him submit all that are in heaven and earth” (Q 3:83).
This deity is known by the proper name Allāh.14 The sources assert that Allāh was already entirely
familiar as a supreme deity and provider among the Meccan pagans. The biblical Elohim and various
Syriac names, notably Alaha, and the Biblical Aramaic Elah (with dialectal variations in vocalization),
which were perhaps rooted in the name of the high god of the ancient Canaanite cultus, were evi-
dently cognate nouns derived from a common consonantal cluster, although the Qur’an’s key name
for the deity, probably a compaction of al-ilāh, “the God,”15 is purely Arabic.16 Here, however, the
etymological family resemblances seem to end. As we would expect given the text’s Meccan genesis,
divine names that would have been used more internally in Jewish discussion and worship are absent.
47
Tim Winter
Major Hebrew names for God, notably the proper name YHWH, El Shaddai (“God Almighty”) and
Adonai (“my Lord”), as well as the use of HaShem (“the Name”), all refer to the deity but have no
recognizable Qur’anic cognates. Moreover, Syriac terminology familiar in Christian worship was so
Christologically colored that, apart from Alaha itself, it does not seem to offer significant parallels.17
The Qur’an’s naming of God appears to be a thoroughly Arabic affair.
The Qur’an is conscious of itself as the harbinger of a doctrine of divine names that are remark-
able for their range and articulation. “God’s fairest names” (asmā’ Allāh al-h.usnā, cf. Q 7:180,
17:110, 20:8, 59:24), which shape the book’s theology, again seem to be purely Arabic,18 as one
would expect given the text’s Western Arabian provenance. In a few cases, these may echo certain
names of pre-Islamic Arab deities. For instance, al-Malik (“the King,” Q 20:114) seems to recall
the Thamudic deity Malik.19 Al-Rah.mān (“the Compassionate”) recalls Rah.mānān, the high god
of pre-Islamic South Arabia,20 and the Qur’an itself insists that Allāh and al-Rah.mān are the same
deity (Q 17:110). The name of the North Arabian deity Rah.īm (“the Merciful”) is adopted appar-
ently by the same strategy, so that both may be employed as epithets rather than as proper names.
These comprise, however, only a few cases, and it is clear that most names of ancient Arab deities
were not appropriated as descriptors for God. Instead, Allāh is often set over their field of action,
so that the Qur’an’s account of the natural world implicitly denies the authority of the gods of fate,
astral phenomena, thunder, and so forth, by identifying Allāh as the lord or god of these natural
features.21
It appears that the proliferation of divine names which plays such an important part in the
Qur’an’s prosody forms part of a wider discursive strategy of appropriation and denial. Although
few examples of pagan incantations seem to have survived, the extant texts attributed to the pagan
soothsayers typically appear in the dynamic rhyming prose form known as sajʿ, a version of which is
also a noted feature of Qur’anic diction.22 In pagan sajʿ and also in some surviving poetry attributed
to the period, names of deities frequently appear sforzando at the end of phrases or hemistiches,
presumably for emphasis and probably recalling incantatory and mantic practices, and the Qur’an
replaces these with the names of its own God.23 The new monotheistic oracle, explicitly claim-
ing to outclass the utterances of the pagan seers (Q 10:38, 11:13), not only declares an etiology of
nature whereby all phenomena hitherto treated as animated objects of worship or divination are
shown as generated by and subject to the One God but also trumps the principle of plural deities
by proposing a God with a large number of “fairest names,” to be celebrated in a Qur’anic chanting
which directly competes with the old pagan incantations. A major function of the names, then,
is to rhetorically surpass the pantheon. One outcome was the replacement of pagan theophoric
names among the Arabs with monotheistic alternatives. Oaths, too, were now to be sworn only by
the One God’s names.
The “fairest names” are intensively distributed throughout the text, particularly at the ends of
verses, where they often add assonance, perhaps add mnemonic support, and typically indicate the
aspects of God that are at stake in the passage in question. Often, they serve as short perorations
indicating that a particular sequence of verses on a topic has come to an end, particularly where
they include two rhyming names. Where a distinctive name recurs within a sequence, it may serve
to add cohesion.24 On occasion the Qur’an supplies longer lists, which fuse certain divine predicates
into a threnody of praise. In these passages, the marked plurality of the names is taken as a rhetorical
sign of the unity and omnipotence of God, of which the text’s adversaries harbored so many doubts.
He is God, other than whom there is no God, the Knower of the Invisible and the Vis-
ible. He is the Beneficent, the Merciful. He is God, other than whom there is no God, the
Sovereign Lord, the Holy One, Peace, the Keeper of Faith, the Guardian, the Majestic, the
Compeller, the Superb. Glorified is God above all that they ascribe as partner to Him. He
48
God the Speaker
is God, the Creator, the Initiator, the Fashioner. His are the most beautiful names. All that
is in the heavens and the earth glorifies Him, and He is the Mighty, the Wise.
(Q 59: 22–24)
The divine names listed at the close of this almost creedal passage announce this deity as author of
the cosmos, and this is one of His key properties. He is the “Creator (khāliq) of all things” (Q 39:62).
This creation is apparently ex nihilo, for He said: “Be! And it was” (Q 6:73, 36:82).25 He is al-Bāriʾ,
“the Initiator” (Q 2:54, 59:24).26 He is their “Fashioner” (Mus.awwir). He did not need to create but
nonetheless did so for a reason. This is evidently anthropocentric. The world is a display of God’s
mercy and might, but its underlying purpose is to furnish a stage upon which man must act. God did
not create the world’s splendor “for recreation” (Q 21:16) or “in futility” (Q 38:27). He made it in
order to provide a field for creaturely moral agency and worship: “We created man and jinn only to
worship Me” (Q 51:56) and “to test you: which of you is best in action” (Q 67:2). Thus the creation
of Adam took place by a unique process. God made him with His two hands (Q 38:75) and then
breathed His spirit into him (Q 15:29, 38:72). Creation is ex nihilo, but is also conceived as a constant
process, for God’s aseity makes him al-H.ayy, al-Qayyūm, “the Living, the Upholding,” never lapsing
into drowsiness (Q 2:255). He created bi-l-H.aqq, “with the Truth” (Q 6:73), implying that He is its
constantly sustaining ground and also that it possesses an ontology rooted in His reality. Thus is He
al-Khallāq, “the constantly creating” (Q 36:81) and the one who originates and returns (Q 85:13).
He makes human beings unceasingly: “out of dust, then a drop of semen, then shaped you as a man”
(Q 18:37), “in your mothers’ wombs, as creation after creation” (Q 39:6). Pagan conceptions of
cosmic and human origin are decisively abolished.
The same idea of ongoing creation and dominion inhabits the key term Rabb, “Lord,” a word that
seems to occur with particular frequency during the Meccan period. The first sura announces God
as Rabb al-ʿālamīn, “Lord of the Worlds” (Q 1:1), as though to dismiss pagan allegations of divine
limitation. The name al-Rabb, “the Lord,” while present in the hadith literature,27 is absent from
the Qur’an, where God is always Lord in a genitive construct state with a locution describing some
aspect of creation. He is “Lord of East and West” (Q 26:28), “Lord of the seven heavens” (Q 23:86),
and “Lord of Moses and Aaron” (Q 26:48). The term often implies notions of kindness and noblesse
oblige, the root carrying the sense of nurturing and sustaining as well as of mastery.28
God ‘writes’ scripture but also writes the world. The language of creation itself, and of God’s
ongoing agency is frequently expressed in terms of writing, although this function does not appear
in the canonical lists of His names or in the theological digests that give God the quality of “speech”
(kalām) but not of writing. Still, the world has been “written” by God – we might almost say “fore-
written,” given the strongly deterministic mood of the text. God has “written” the fertility or bar-
renness of potential parents (Q 2:187), that the Jews would have the Holy Land (Q 5:21), that He
and His messengers will prevail (Q 58:21). He “writes” faith in hearts (Q 58:22) and also prescribes
that the believers must fast (Q 2:183) and take up arms (Q 2:216, 4:77). Just as one sign of the “Peo-
ple of the Book’s” (ahl al-kitāb) superiority over the pagans was their possession of books in which
laws and narratives were written, giving them a fixity and the possibility of reliable consultation, so
also the monotheistic God, unlike His pagan rivals, “writes” history and the world, thus underscor-
ing their stability and purpose.
This “writing” hence makes the universe a settled place of pattern and Divine order. Creation
is a disciplined message inscribed on the tabula rasa of nonbeing – the miracle of writing itself, in
much of seventh-century Arabia a rarely witnessed marvel, authoritatively fixed forms, documented
historical events, and enacted commandments, where hitherto there had been relativity and expedi-
ence. So too does God create the world, prescribe rules, and write history’s script. In this elision
of creation, deontological enactment, and the determination of events, the metaphor of writing
49
Tim Winter
supports a theological system that emphasizes that without God’s agency, morality as well as mat-
ter is an impossibility. While the scripture assumes that its ethical instructions will be intelligible to
the Arabs, it appears to suggest that they are only valid because God has written them. Outside the
divine ground of value, there seems to be no value at all.
Through the same “writing” God appears implicitly as the author of the present and the future
as well as of past history. This is God as al-Qādir (“the Able,” Q 17:99), al-Qahhār (“the Overpower-
ing,” Q 12:39), and al-Jabbār (“the Compeller,” Q 59:23). Pagans and others had misunderstood the
world as a theodrama in which God was the most powerful agent and might one day serve as a final
unrivaled judge, but who contended against other agencies, including demonic and human rebels.
These do indeed, in the Qur’an’s world, disobey God. In fact, they seem to do so incessantly. But
its presentation of biblical stories tends to eliminate any trace of Divine error or lack of foresight
and disposition. Consider the picaresque career of Joseph: “God prevailed in his affair” (Q 12:21).
His enemies may think that they have outwitted Him, but this is only a divine “ruse” (kayd). So too
this is the case with Pharaoh’s massacre of the innocents, which missed the infant Moses who was
cast upon the Nile to be unwittingly adopted into Pharaoh’s house (Q 28:8). Human planning that
attempts to exploit God’s seeming inadvertence is designated as a ruse in this way but is misplaced,
as His own ruses always prevail (Q 40:37, 77:39, 86:16), while “the Devil’s ruse is feeble” (Q 4:76).
It is clear that no human or demonic stratagem can unwrite what God has decreed. Thus one of His
names must be al-Muh.īt․, “the Surrounder,” or, in Kaltner’s suggestive version, “the Environment.”29
God “surrounds all things” (Q 4:126), “surrounds the unbelievers” (Q 2:19), and “surrounds what
they do” (Q 3:120).
God’s “surrounding” of human agents in a “written” universe bespeaks an outlook that, while
not quite fatalistic, is certainly one of resignation to His irresistible but often inscrutable decree
(amr). A possessor of taqwā accepts this divine “forewriting”: “Say: ‘Nothing shall afflict us save that
which God has written for us’ ” (Q 9:51). The believer knows that God is therefore al-Mawlā (“the
Master,” Q 9:51, 47:11), in whom the faithful must trust. The cognate name al-Walī (“the Friend,”
Q 2:257, 4:45) has the additional implication of benign friendship and proximity. More common
is the name al-Wakīl, translated as “the Trustee.” “He is Creator of all things, so worship Him; He
is over all things Trustee” (Q 6:102), and “sufficient is He as Trustee” (Q 4:81). To take Him as
Trustee embodies the key virtue of “trust” in divine providence (tawakkul) and shows that one has
understood God’s mastery of the world. It becomes a key Muslim virtue: “Should they incline to
peace, then incline towards it also, and trust in God” (Q 8:61). “Our Lord encompasses everything
in knowledge; in Him do we trust” (Q 7:89).
The same “surrounding” emphasizes the close and overlapping relationship which exists between
God as Powerful and as “the Knowing” (al-ʿAlīm, also in the still more emphatic form al-ʿAllām).
God “knows what is before and behind them” (Q 2:255); He “knows what you do” (Q 6:60).
Unlike the pagan deities, the Qur’an’s God is present in creation through a total knowledge: “He is
Knower of all things” (Q 2:29). The natural world that He has written is subject to His power and
knowledge: “no leaf falls but that He knows it” (Q 6:59); and “there is no grain in the darknesses
of the earth, and no moist or dry thing, that is not in a clear record” (Q 6:59). Just as the reality of
the cosmos and of God’s ordinances is stressed by the use of the trope of writing, so the absoluteness
of His knowledge is often described as a quantitative knowing.30 His universe operates by a fixed
almanac known to Him: “sun and moon are accounted for [in their courses]” (Q 55:5), which allows
humans to “know the numbering of the years, and calculation” (Q 10:5). Worship, too, which the
Qur’an links to the diurnal and mensual cycles, is to be at fixed times: “[t]he prayer (s.alāt) is incum-
bent upon the believers in times prescribed” (Q 4:103). Just as the practice of writing is adopted as
an image for the Qur’an’s account of a regular cosmos created only by God, so too the mercantile
Meccan elite seem to have furnished an idiom by which the indeterminate surface of creation could
be adumbrated as managed and precisely calculated by the Creator. This applies with particular force
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to human actions, which God as “the Reckoner” (al-H.asīb) adds up and assays, bringing all humanity
to a final accounting (h.isāb), in which “whoever did an atom’s weight of good shall see it” (Q 99:7).
“Not an atom’s weight escapes Him in heaven or on earth” (Q 34:3). The writing and the reckoning
are conflated in the word kitāb, which is not only God’s “register” of His inscribed decrees in the
world and His “scriptural self-disclosure” as the Speaker but also the “record” of human deeds to be
unrolled at the eschaton: “Read your kitāb: sufficient against you today is your own self as reckoner
(h.asīb)!” (Q 17:14).31
It might seem unlikely that this insistence on a totally active and present God, whose decree
is forewritten and whose knowledge is already quantified and complete, could permit substantive
contiguity with most biblical theologies of a personal deity. Theodicy, causation, and even the onto-
logical reality of the world can seem almost illusory when the absoluteness of the Qur’an’s account
of God’s action is taken seriously. This God seems to be radically but impersonally present, while
also an absolute Other: “nothing resembles His likeness” (Q 42:11) – the end point of the struggle
against the fond anthropomorphisms of the pagan past. However, the scripture also preaches a God
who acts in history and whose nature is markedly moral, judgmental, and merciful. Strangely, per-
haps, we even find explicit anthropomorphisms scattered about the Qur’an. These are not as intense
or extended as those of the Yahwist Genesis. The Qur’an’s God certainly does not walk in Eden “in
the cool of the evening” or rest on the seventh day of creation.32 Still, He does things that sound
like the actions of humans. He “leads people on” (Q 7:182), “mocks” (Q 2:15), and even “forgets”
(Q 9:67).33 At the Judgment, He will “come in ranks with the angels” (Q 89:22). He has a face (Q
55:27), hands (Q 48:10), eyes (Q 20:39), and a throne, which at the end of time will be carried aloft
by eight angels (Q 69:17).34 Most later commentators scrambled to read these figuratively or, at least
in the Ashʿarite context, “amodally.” God is indeed possessed of these features but we cannot know
how. The extent of the figuration created some of the emblematic arguments that came to divide
Muʿtazilites, early and late Ashʿarites, and H.anbalites. Apart from a dogged few among the latter,
however, together with certain early Twelver Shiʿa, it was agreed that these anthropomorphisms
were not to be taken literally. The text itself seemed to imply this. For instance, by attributing some-
times two but sometimes more than two “hands” to God (Q 36:71, 38:75), the suggestion that His
power was what was really meant is emphasized. The text “His two hands are spread out” (Q 5:64),
though paralleling a Yahwist trope, was generally agreed to signal divine munificence rather than a
physical gesture. God’s “rope” (Q 3:103) probably referred to the Qur’an.35 God’s “face” could not
be corporeal, since it exists “wherever you turn” (Q 2:115). God certainly had no physical form or
extent or place, and the difficult and divisive issue of the Prophet’s apparent vision of God during
his celestial ascension (traditionally associated with Q 81:19–25) and of the believers’ beatific vision
of His face in paradise described in certain hadith was resolved either by a Muʿtazilite willingness
to read these events as experiences of metaphorical orientation and acceptance or by the Ashʿarite
recourse to an amodal divine disposition.36 Whatever the Qur’an’s intention may have been, it is sig-
nificant that it reproduces none of the major biblical theophanies and in fact reproaches the Israelites
for asking to see God (Q 4:153). Whereas in (the Yahwist) Exodus, God shows Himself to Moses
(Exodus 24:10–11), in the Qur’an He tells him that “you cannot behold Me.” Instead, He manifests
His glory to the mountain, which is smashed to smithereens. Moses, belatedly grasping the nature
and scale of his question, faints (Q 7:143).
Although physicalist anthropomorphisms were evidently not intended, the text’s repeated adver-
sions to God’s moral seriousness and scrutiny of human acts maintain the dynamic tension with the
unitive metaphysics apparently implied by the insistence on the impossibility of divine ignorance
or impotence. God knows and decrees all things but nonetheless shows His mercy by dispatching
prophets and books to restore humanity to the straight path. Unlike the sometimes whimsical or
mercurial deities of the ancient Arabs, the Qur’an’s God is presented as morally consistent, an orderly
actor upon and within His orderly creation. He can be wrathful (although this is not reflected in the
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names, unless we except among them Dhū intiqām, “the Avenger” (Q 3:4, 14:47). It was His wrath
that unleashed Noah’s flood and the plagues of Egypt. The Day of Judgment will be “the Day of
Threat” (Q 50:20), “the Day of the Greatest Terror” (Q 21:103), and “the Day of Shame” (Q 11:66),
upon which some will be cursed (Q 2:159). Yet as Rosalind Gwynne has shown, God’s punishment
is dealt in order to bring humanity back to the truth and “is not simply the negative counterpart of
creation.”37 His recital of His destruction of bygone peoples sought to put the fear of God into the
worldly wise Qurayshī traders, aiming for a hortatory and deterrent effect, for the Prophet is sent
with “good news and a warning” (Q 25:56). The former tends to preponderate, so that it is divine
patience, not divine anger, that is the more usual response to human waywardness.38 Significantly,
the “sacred exterminations” (herem) of the Hebrew Bible are written out of the Qur’an, and the
religion’s founder, despite his participation in military engagements, is not to be the instrument of
divine wrath in the end times. Overall, the theme of anger and retribution remains, but it has been
noticeably muted.
In such ways, the alternation of paired names in the Qur’an sets up a perception of God’s action
and hence of the world, as a dynamic field where opposites interact. Anger and mercy alternate in
the Qur’an as part of this divine dimorphism. But again, most Muslims held that the latter principle
is preponderant. As a hadith reports: “My mercy outstrips My wrath.”39 God “guides many” and
“leads many astray” (Q 2:26), but the dominant divine agency was understood to be compassionate
and providential. This seems to be intimated by the basmala itself – “In the name of God, the Merci-
ful and Compassionate” – the expression which opens every sura but one.40 It is primarily through
the most frequent of the names, al-Rah.mān, “the Compassionate,” that the Qur’an’s God in His
‘personal’ modality engages with His human creatures. “Say, ‘O My servants who have transgressed
against themselves! Despair not of God’s mercy, for God forgives all sins; He is Forgiving, Merci-
ful’ ” (Q 39:53). And “God forgives not that partners should be set up beside Him, but He forgives
anything less than that to whomsoever He pleases” (Q 4:48). His mercy “embraces all things” (Q
7:156).41 It is possible that the Qur’an is here, as so often, continuing its reparative polemic, under-
standing part of its vocation as a redirection of its pagan, Jewish, and Christian predecessors toward
a fuller recognition of God’s “mercy” (rah.ma). The already noted absence of a doctrine of original
sin should perhaps be understood in this context. God has not created a world fundamentally char-
acterized by inveterate sinfulness and suffering.42 Although the concept of God’s love for the faithful
appears in the Qur’an, as “He loves them and they love Him” (Q 5:54),43 it is assumed to be less sig-
nificant and intense than the concept of compassion, of which it is a key modality. As the theologian
Abū H . āmid al-Ghazālī (d. 1111) characterized this rah.ma:
It is both perfect and inclusive . . . perfect inasmuch as it wants to fulfil the needs of those
in need and does meet them; and inclusive inasmuch as it embraces both deserving and
undeserving. . . . The Compassionate is He who loves men, first by creating them; second,
by guiding them to faith and to the means of salvation; third, by making them happy in the
next world; and fourth, by granting them the contemplation of His noble Face.44
Even God’s tests and punishments, Ghazālī concludes, are expressions of mercy. A mother is kind and
a father is rigorous, but both are expressing mercy.45 Prophecy, despite its necessarily rigorous aspect,
is also interpreted as an expression of divine rah.ma: Muhammad himself is “sent only as a rah.ma to
the worlds” (Q 21:107).
Although this mercy in some way “embraces everything” (Q 7:156), justice remains its neces-
sary counterpoint. Here too the dynamic tension between immanence and transcendence infuses
the cosmos with a constant dialectic (which even came to be interpreted by some Sufis in gendered
terms46). God as “the Wise” (al-H.akīm, Q 2:32) is rigorous but fair. He directs the material world
but also inscribes moral laws and makes accurate judgments at the end of history. At the last, He will
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sit as al-H.akam, (“the Arbiter,” Q 6:114), and His wisdom will stand unveiled to end human confu-
sion: “Today We have removed the veil from you, so your vision this day is sharp” (Q 50:22). Then
His creatures at last fully perceive the appropriateness of His actions and laws. Paradise and hell will
manifest in concrete form the perfection of His knowledge and wisdom and confirm the inherent
gravity of human choices. Thus is He “King of Judgment Day” (maliki yawm al-dīn, Q 1:3), when
the mild and severe aspects of God shall be finally and decisively differentiated.
As though to confirm that rah.ma is the most cardinal of virtues, it is in this context that the
Qur’an supplies a semantic basis for the idea that human ethics are to be emulations of the divine
names.47 “Let them forgive and forbear. . . . Do you not wish God to forgive you? Truly God is
Forgiving [Ghafūr] and Merciful [Rah.īm]” (Q 24:22). “Lower unto them [parents] the [protecting]
wing of rah.ma, and say: ‘My Lord, be compassionate to them, just as they brought me up when a
child’ ” (Q 17:25). This imitatio Dei was made more explicit in the hadith canon: “Have compassion
upon those who are on the earth, and He Who is in heaven shall have compassion upon you.”48 For
the Qur’an and hadith, the analogy between human and divine excellence is implicitly genuine, and
in time, the explicit coupling of divine and human mercy was adumbrated until it became, with
some Platonic admixture, a thoroughgoing doctrine of virtue ethics rooted in divine emulation.49
Integral to the concept of rah.ma is God’s maghfira, or “forgiveness.” No fewer than three Qur’anic
names for God link etymologically to this concept: al-Ghāfir, al-Ghafūr, and al-Ghaffār, the latter two
being treated as emphatic forms of this salient mode of Divine engagement with the human world.
Forgiveness is grounded in compassion, but its trigger is God’s “turning” and relenting toward His
forgetful servants. He is al-Tawwāb, the “Oft-Turning,” or “Acceptor of penitence” (Q 2:128, 4:64,
49:12, 110:3). Forgiveness comes easily, but especially when humans repent. A believer can also
experience tawba, understood as a penitent turning back to God, who turns toward the penitent.
“God turns [in tawba] towards whomsoever He wishes; truly God is Forgiving [Ghafūr], Merciful
[Rah.īm]” (Q 9:27). Again, the names bespeak a divine and human world of alternation and flux,
which shape the surface of a dynamic teleology of “return” (maʿād).
We have seen that the Qur’an advances a consistent doctrine of a God of a very distinct character.
While its content is insignificant though in partial continuity with biblical and post-biblical (hag-
gadic and Syriac) legacies, it deploys a very large repertory of resonant divine predicates reflective
of its Meccan polemical matrix that give it much of its literary and theological originality. These
names effectively define the Muslim universe. Most fundamentally, they save the Qur’an’s anti-pagan
polemic from collapsing into the adoration of an ineffable monad, but at the same time they tend
to prevent readers from constructing a precise and stable image of the solitary deity.50 The names
are often paired but irregularly. Synonyms may appear together, but so too may antonyms (“He is
the First and the Last, the Manifest and the Hidden,” Q 57:3) or names whose relationship seems
unclear. The divine speaker Himself is referred to in the first, second, or third person singular or plu-
ral (the well-known feature termed iltifāt, “turning attention”), and this seems further to destabilize
any static conception of God or of His relationship to the world and the reader. The apophatically
conceived divinity whom “perceptions cannot attain” (Q 6:103) is balanced both within and against
a world comprising and revealing a mobile interplay of His names. With its naming of God, the
Qur’an thus offers its response to one of the most serious challenges to the coherence of monothe-
ism: the problem of the relation between the One and the Many and hence the ontological status
of the world, which had exercised the Greeks as much as their Jewish and Christian neighbors and
successors.
To this primal dialectic between the absolute unicity of God and the energetic pleroma of His
self-expression in His names is added a second dynamic existing between two large and easily dif-
ferentiated categories of names, roughly indicative of transcendence and immanence. The Qur’an’s
hearers are invited to confirm creation’s subjection to the One God through this deliberately large
gamut of predications in a text whose beauty emphasizes an essentially aesthetic vision of creation
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as God’s Other, which in multiple ways praises and affirms Him. We have seen that some of these
divine names exist as complements or even opposites. However, others are not. The name al-Qarīb
(“the Near”) is not given an opposite. “And when My servants call Me, then I am near” (Q 2:186),
and even: “We are nearer to man than his jugular vein” (Q 50:16). His “face,” identified by exegetes
with His essence, is “wherever you turn” (Q 2:115).51 So intense is this doctrine of the oneness of
God that the Qur’an implies a God who is maximally present, since the ontological reality of every-
thing else must be fragile and questionable in this ‘environment’ of the absolute and uninterrupted
effulgence of His qualities. This may help to explain why Islam so often developed influential mysti-
cisms that could seem almost monistic in intent, notably the very Qur’anically evidenced ontology
of Ibn ʿArabī (d. 1240).52 Sufis were usually very intimately connected to the scripture, whose plain
sense could seem to collapse the Divine Otherness altogether into a cosmic unity in which “differ-
entiation” (farq) was simply a human point of view, a realm of imagination, or a particular modality of
divine discourse. After all, if the divine “Face” was in some sense His nature or essence, how else was
one to read the verse insisting that “wherever you turn, there is God’s Face”? This real presence in
the cosmos seemed to make a sign and a Name interchangeable, so that the world comprises nothing
but divine indicativity and self-reference.
Nor was this radical ontological drift a mystical monopoly. The Ashʿarī kalām theologians, too,
while ostensibly focused on transcendence rather than immanence, could also seem to query the
ontological reality of the world with their creedal position that God was neither identical with nor
other than His attributes. God’s power, vaunted by the text in refutation of pagan views, seemed
to deny human agency entirely: “You did not throw when you threw; it was God that threw” (Q
8:17), and “Nothing in the matter is yours at all” (Q 3:128). The pagan (and, in some theologies,
Christian) view of the world as only partially submissive to God, in the Qur’an seems to give way
to a startlingly radical metaphysic of a complete divine occupation of the world’s processes. Here the
Qur’an continues its overwriting of the palimpsest of monotheistic scripture in a significantly new
way. Much that was distinctively Islamic, not least Ashʿarism and metaphysical Sufism, would result
from this turn.
This tendency was paralleled by the development of a kind of scripture mysticism. As we have
seen, the text consciously adopts the same word, āyāt, for its own “signs,” the “verses” of the special
revelation in scripture. Here the metaphysical aestheticism of the Qur’an’s cosmology and naming
of God turned into a holy delectation of the Arabic language, which brings forth the scripture as
“God’s banquet.”53 Outstripping the incantations of the Arab shamans, whose sajʿ had coaxed spirits
from trees, rocks, and images, the Qur’an, sometimes dithyramb and sometimes paean, does not
invite God to appear but rather confirms and represents His presence. The scripture’s sharp self-
awareness allows it to present a doctrine of “revelation” (wah.y, tanzīl), which implies that the text
is something “of God”: as a book “sent down,” the Qur’an seems to consider itself a phenomenon
native to a higher world, originating obscurely in a “Mother of the Book” (Q 13:39), sent down
“on a blessed night” (Q 44:3), which was apparently “the Night of Destiny” or “the Night of Power”
(laylat al-qadr, Q 97:1). In the eyes of many Muslims, this “high Qur’anology” seemed to make the
text something “of God,” so that it is in some way His quintessential speech. To recite it and par-
ticularly to resonate with His names is thus enigmatically to experience His nearness. Again, Sufism
in many of its developed forms was triggered or facilitated by this. For Louis Massignon, Qur’anic
cantillation and the incantation of the “fairest names,” enabled by the early doctrine of God’s ‘real
presence’ in His scriptural speech, provided both the liturgy and the ontology for the earliest Islamic
mysticism.54
The Qur’an, then, constructs a God who inscribes by His own complementary qualities but who
seems to transcend them, a God who is fully Other but also seems paradoxically open to meaningful
analogies with created things, who forewrites the world but is also said to be just in judgment, who is
Avenger but also All-merciful. It offers “a network of interlocking binary oppositions,” a “symmetric
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balance of antitheses,”55 a God who is I, Thou, He, and We: a replete compaction of possible divine
modalities in a single scripture, which portrays itself as a summons to God’s garden, an “Abode of
Peace” (dār al-salām), where the true relation between the interlocking agencies of His predicates will
be fully and finally disclosed.
Notes
1 For the Qur’an as substantially engaging with, rather than overturning and perverting the Near Eastern
monotheistic repertory, see Angelika Neuwirth, “Orientalism in Oriental Studies? Qur’anic Studies as a
Case in Point,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 9, no. 2 (2007): 115–127. One supposes that Muslim theologians
may find their traditionalist positions reinforced by a scholarship that identifies large continuities with Syriac
and Aramaic precedent; for them, this would indicate the equivalent of a preparatio evangelii.
2 Early Christianity in a sense accomplished something similar, although less totalizing: St. Paul had adjusted
or rejected the beliefs of his own people in a way that made monotheism more intelligible to the dominant
Hellenistic mentality of the Mediterranean world.
3 Rosalind Ward Gwynne, Logic, Rhetoric, and Legal Reasoning in the Qur’an: God’s Arguments (London: Rout-
ledge, 2004), 28, 41; Kenneth Cragg, The Mind of the Qur’an: Chapters in Reflection (London: Allen and
Unwin, 1973), 93–109.
4 For isrāf see Toshihiko Izutsu, Ethico-religious Concepts in the Qur’an (Montreal: McGill-Queens University
Press, 2002), 174–177.
5 Perhaps a reference to Metatron, the creator angel and “son of God”: Gordon Darnell Newby, A History of
the Jews of Arabia: From Ancient Times to Their Eclipse Under Islam (Columbia: University of South Carolina
Press, 1988), 59–61. But see also the older (among European scholars) identification of ʿUzayr with Azazel,
also one of the b’nai Elohim: Paul Casanova, “Idris et ‘Ouzair’,” Journal Asiatique 205 (1924): 356–360.
6 Sidney H. Griffith, “Syriacisms in the Arabic Qur’an: Who Were ‘Those Who Said Allah Is Third of Three’
according to al-Māʾidah 73?” in A Word Fitly Spoken: Studies in Mediaeval Exegesis of the Hebrew Bible and the
Qur’ān; Presented to Haggai Ben-Shammai, ed. Meir M. Bar-Asher et al. ( Jerusalem: The Ben-Zvi Institute,
2007), 83–110.
7 Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an (Minneapolis, MN: Biblioteca Islamica, 1980), 11.
8 Ibid., 2.
9 William Graham, “ ‘The Winds to Herald His Mercy’ and Other ‘Signs for Those of Certain Faith,’ Nature
as Token of God’s Sovereignty and Grace in the Qur’an,” in Faithful Imagining: Essays in Honor of Richard R.
Niebuhr, ed. Wayne Proudfoot, Sang Hyun Lee, and Albert Blackwell (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995), 19–38.
10 Izutsu, 111.
11 Seely J. Beggiani, Early Syriac Theology with Special Reference to the Maronite Tradition (Lanham, MD: Univer-
sity Press of America, 1983), 26–29, drawing mainly on Ephrem the Syrian (d. 373), but the language and
emphasis are radically distinct from the Qur’an’s. A simple continuity with the Qur’anic trope of an indica-
tive cosmos seems ruled out by the intensely Christological stress.
12 Sarra Tlili, Animals in the Qur’an (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012).
13 Helmer Ringgren, “The Conception of Faith in the Koran,” Oriens 4 (1951): 1–20.
14 Josef Van Ess, “Der Name Gottes im Islam,” in Der Name Gottes, ed. H. von Stietencron (Dusseldorf: Pat-
mos, 1975), 156–175; Daniel Gimaret, Les noms divins en Islam (Paris: Cerf, 1988), 121–126.
15 For the compaction, see Abu’l-Qāsim al-Zajjājī, Ishtiqāq asmā’ Allāh (Najaf: Mat․baʿat al-Nuʿmān,
1394/1974), 27–29, with analogous cases (al-unās becomes al-nās, etc.).
16 There are strong arguments against an Aramaic etymology; see J. Blau, “Arabic Lexicographical Miscel-
lanies,” Journal of Semitic Studies 17 (1972): 173–190, esp. 175–177. Elah would have been the closest in
emergent Islam’s oral context; however, it often appears biblically in constructions that are not Qur’anic,
such as Elah Yisrael (Ezekiel 5:1) or Elah elahin (Daniel 2:47); there are only a few exceptions, such as Elah
avahati (“God of my fathers,” Daniel 2:23), which parallels the Qur’an’s ilāh ābā’ika (“God of your fathers,”
Q 2:133). Generally, the Qur’anic ilāh is used in contexts emphasizing the divine unity.
17 The NT Peshitta makes very frequent use of MarYah, translating the tetragrammaton. This has no Islamic
equivalent.
18 Al-S.amad (Q 112:2) is sometimes cited as a loanword, but this has been dismissed by Walid A. Saleh, “The
Etymological Fallacy and Qur’anic Studies: Muhammad, Paradise, and Late Antiquity,” in The Qur’an in
Context: Historical and Literary Investigations into the Qur’anic Milieu, ed. Angelika Neuwirth, Nicolai Sinai,
and Michael Marx (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 649–698. For al-Barr, another controversial case, see Zajjājī, 347;
Gimaret, Noms, 394.
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1 9 G. Rykmans, Les religions arabes préislamiques (Louvain: Publications Universitaires, 1951), 21.
20 Ibid., 23.
21 “The thunder praises Him” (Q 13:13); “He is Lord of Sirius” (Q 53:49), etc.
22 Toufic Fahd, La divination arabe: études religieuses, sociologiques et folkloriques sur le milieu natif d'Islam (Leiden:
Brill, 1966), 151–153, 161; for a valuable attempt to infer the likely features of pagan sajʿ from the Qur’anic
text, see Devin J. Stewart, “Divine Epithets and the Dibacchius: Clausulae and Qur’anic Rhythm,” Journal of
Qur’anic Studies 15, no. 2 (2013): 22–64.
23 See much of the epigraphic evidence cited by Rykmans and also, even more strikingly, the pagan incanta-
tory verse reported by Ibn al-Kalbī (ed. and trans. Wahib Atallah), Kitāb al-As.nām (Paris: C. Kincksieck,
1969), 23, 24, 26, 32, 33, 35, 47, etc. With its rhythmic breaks, percussive patterns, and repeated chantings
of a ‘motto’ incorporating the names of deities, this coincides well with the analysis of trance chanting pro-
posed by Gilbert Rouget, Music and Trance: A Theory of the Relations Between Music and Possession (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1985), 78–83, 101. The divine names at the end of Qur’anic verses ‘abrogate’
the dynamic, musical, and rhetorical position hitherto occupied by the Arabian gods.
24 Neal Robinson, Discovering the Qur’an: A Contemporary Approach to a Veiled Text (London: SCM, 1996),
200–201.
25 This seems evident from the text’s plain sense, but see D.C. Peterson, “Does the Qur’an Teach Creation ex
nihilo?” in By Study and also by Faith: Essays in Honor of Hugh Nibley on the Occasion of His Eightieth Birthday,
ed. John M. Lundquist and Stephen D. Ricks (Salt Lake City, UT: Shadow Mountain, 1990), 584–610.
26 For Ghazālī, this is the dimension of divine creativity which appears to point most clearly to an ex nihilo
production (Abū H.āmid al-Ghazālī, al-Maqs.ad al-asnā fi sharh. asmā’ Allāh al-h.usnā, ed. Fadlou A. Shehadi
[Beirut: Dar El-Machreq, 1971], 80; trans. David B. Burrell and Nazih Daher, Al-Ghazālī: The Ninety-Nine
Beautiful Names of God [Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 1992], 68) and which is presumably why the
kalām often uses this word when discussing creation (kalām also developed a fondness for the extra-Qur’anic
name al-S.āniʿ).
27 E.g., Tirmidhī, Thawāb al-Qur’ān, 25.
28 Simonetta Calderini, “Lord,” EQ III, 229–231; Jacques Chelhod, “Note sur l’emploi du mot rabb dans le
Coran,” Arabica 5 (1958): 159–167.
29 John Kaltner, Introducing the Qur’an for Today’s Readers (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2011), 47–48.
30 He “counts all things” (Q 72:28). In the hadith, one of His canonical names is indeed al-Muh..sī, “the Coun-
ter.” al-Ghazālī, al-Maqs.ad al-asnā, 142–143, trans. Burrell and Daher, 128.
31 The word kitāb has a complex range of other uses also; see Daniel A. Madigan, The Qur’ân’s Self-image: Writ-
ing and Authority in Islam’s Scripture (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2001).
32 Genesis 2:2, 3:8.
33 The context always makes it plain that this is an intentional forgetting, done as a matter of reciprocal recom-
pense for those who have forgotten him.
34 G. Vitestam, “ʿArsh and Kursī. An Essay on the Throne Tradition in Islam,” in Living Waters. Scandinavian
Oriental Studies Presented to Dr. Frede Lokkegaard on his Seventy-fifth Birthday. January 27th 1990, ed. E. Keck,
S. Sondergaard, and E. Wulff (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 1990), 369–378.
35 Daniel Gimaret, Dieu à l’image de l’homme: les anthropomorphismes de la sunna et leur interpretation par les théolo-
giens (Paris: Cerf, 1997), 21–22.
36 Ibid., 165–174.
37 Gwynne, Logic, Rhetoric, and Legal Reasoning, 28.
38 Michael Sells, Approaching the Qur’an: The Early Revelations (Ashland, OR: White Cloud Press, 1999), 23.
39 Bukhārī, Tawh.īd, 13; Muslim, Tawba, 14.
40 Naseer Ahmad and Muzaffar Iqbal, “Basmala,” Integrated Encyclopedia of the Qur’an I (2013): 330–357.
41 For al-Rah.mān, see J. Jomier, “Le nom divin al-Rah.mān dans le Coran,” in Mélanges Louis Massignon
(Damascus: Institut français de Damas, 1957), II, 361–381.
42 Jacques Jomier, The Great Themes of the Qur’an (London: SCM, 1997), 32. For a corrective to recent Chris-
tian attempts to minimize the rigor of the New Testament God, see Paul Moser, The Severity of God: Religion
and Philosophy Reconceived (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013).
43 Kaltner, Introducing the Qur’an for Today’s Readers, 77f.
44 al-Ghazālī, al-Maqs.ad al-asnā, 65, trans. Burrell and Daher, 53–54.
45 Ibid., 56.
46 Sachiko Murata, The Tao of Islam: A Sourcebook on Gender Relationships in Islamic Thought (Albany: SUNY
Press, 1992), 49–223.
47 The idea is not only Platonic but recurs independently in Jewish and Christian thought before Islam, cf.
Micheline Chaze, Imitatio Dei dans le Targum et la Aggada (Paris: Peeters, 2005).
56
God the Speaker
4 8 Abū Dāūd, Adab, 58; Tirmidhī, Birr, 16.

49 The salient example of which is al-Ghazālī’s Maqs.ad.
50 Ingrid Mattson, The Story of the Qur’an: Its History and Place in Muslim Life (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2008),
42.
51 Cf. J.M.S. Baljon, “To Seek the Face of God in Koran and Hadith,” Acta Orientalia 21 (1953): 254–266.
52 For Ibn ʿArabī and the Qur’an, see William C. Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge: Ibn al-ʿArabī’s Metaphys-
ics of Imagination (Albany: SUNY Press, 1989), 231–252.
53 Hadith in Abū Dāūd, Fad. āʾil al-Qur’ān, 1.
54 Louis Massignon (trans. Benjamin Clark), Essay on the Origins of the Technical Language of Islamic Mysticism
(Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 73; see more recently F.E. Peters, The Voice,
the Word, the Books: The Sacred Scripture of the Jews, Christians and Muslims (London: British Library, 2007),
256–258, 263–270.
55 Anthony H. Johns, “Reflections on the Dynamics and Spirituality of Sūrat al-Furqān,” in Literary Structures of
Religious Meaning in the Qur’an, ed. Issa J. Boullata (Richmond: Curzon, 2000), 188–227, esp. 189–190.
57
5
HUMANITY IN COVENANT
WITH GOD
Joseph E.B. Lumbard
The concept of the covenant is “integral to the Qurʾānic idiom”1 and is found throughout the
commentary tradition. As Rosalind Gwynne writes, “the Covenant may be called the cosmic rule,
the unshakeable basis for the moral reasoning that God requires of human beings. It validates divine
commandments, defines the human condition.”2 Therefore, “The covenant is the bedrock of legal
obligation and responsibility,”3 since, as Bernard Weiss observes, in Islam, “To know God is to know
him as a presence before whom one stands in a covenantal relationship. There is no other way to
know God.”4
Words pertaining to the covenant occur well over one hundred times in the Qur’an and covenant
functions as an underlying concept, binding human beings to God’s injunctions. As Toshihiko Izutsu
writes, “The concept of religion as a covenant between two parties is indeed no less characteristic of
the Qur’an than of the Old Testament.”5 Despite the importance of the covenant for understanding
the relationship between God and human beings and the obligations this relationship entails, “cov-
enant was not a subject on which Muslim authors deemed it necessary to write comprehensive and
systematic treatises.”6 Similar to the classical Islamic tradition, the contemporary field of Qur’anic
Studies has not produced discrete studies focused upon the covenant. The most extensive discussion
is found in Robert Darnell’s unpublished dissertation, “The Idea of the Covenant in the Qur’an.”7
Bernard Weiss analyzes the relationship between Islamic Law and the Covenant in “Covenant and
Law in Islam.”8 Rosalind Gwynne demonstrates the importance of the covenant for understanding
Qur’anic arguments in Logic, Rhetoric, and Legal Reasoning in the Qurʾān, and several articles examine
the importance of the covenant in Sufi literature.9 Wadād al-Qādī has provided the most compre-
hensive analysis of the discussion of the covenant in the exegetical tradition in “The Primordial Cov-
enant and Human History in The Qurʾān.”10 Most recently, Belkacem Amiri has provided a detailed
presentation of the understanding of the covenant in the Sunni exegetical tradition;11 the present
author has proposed that the underlying covenantal pluralism of the Qur’an provides material for
a more inclusive “covenantal theology’ in Islam;12 and Tariq Jaffer has demonstrated the manner in
which Sunni theologians discussed and debated the implications of the covenant, but despite the
extensive material in the Qur’an, never developed a salient covenant theology.13 Despite the mention
of the covenant in several other studies, the understanding of the covenant in the Qur’an remains an
underdeveloped area of inquiry in the fields of Qur’anic Studies and Islamic Studies.14
The central Qur’anic terms for covenant are ʿahd and mīthāq. In addition, terms such as is.r
(“burden”), amāna (pl. amānāt, “trust”), and waʿd (“promise”) are sometimes treated as references
58 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-7
Humanity in Covenant With God
to a covenant between God and human beings. Discussions of the covenant are also found in the
exegetical treatment of Qur’anic terms such as h.abl Allāh (“the rope of God,” Q 3:103, cf. 3:112)
and al-urwat al-wuthqā (“the most unfailing [or the firmest] handhold,” Q 2:256, 31:22), among
others. ʿAhd appears 29 times in the Qur’an, while its verbal form occurs nine times. Mīthāq
occurs 25 times. Like the biblical Hebrew term berit, both ʿahd and mīthāq can designate a cov-
enantal or contractual relation between human beings (Q 4:90–92, 8:72) or between God and
human beings.15 In addition ʿahd and mīthāq are often treated as synonyms in the commentary tra-
dition. ʿAhd is related to the verb ʿahida, which in Qur’anic usage is most commonly joined to the
preposition ilā, meaning “to enjoin, charge, bid, order, command,”16 as in, “Did I not enjoin you
(or make a covenant with you), O children of Adam, to not worship Satan?” (alam aʿhad ilaykum
yā Banī Ādam an lā taʿbudū al-shayt․ān, Q 36:60) or as in, “And I enjoined (or I made a covenant
with) Abraham and Ishmael to purify My house” (wa ʿahidnā ilā Ibrāhīm wa Ismāʿīl an ․tahhirā baytī,
Q 2:125). When used without the preposition ilā, ʿahida can mean, “to fulfill.” ʿAhd thus implies a
reciprocal agreement and obligation, but when used with the preposition ilā it indicates a unilateral
“agreement” that has been “enjoined” by one party upon the other. The third form from the same
root, ʿāhada, has more reciprocal implications and is employed in eleven Qur’anic verses.17 Most
instances refer to the covenant between God and human beings (Q 2:100, 9:75, 16:91, 33:15, 23,
48:10), while others provide specific references to treaties made between the Muslims and other
groups in Arabia (Q 8:56, 9:1, 4, 7), and one can be read as a reference to fulfilling the covenant
between God and human beings or as a reference to maintaining pacts and treaties among human
beings (Q 2:177).
The term mīthāq derives from the verb wāthaqa, meaning “to enter into an agreement, contract
or treaty, or to make a firm resolution.” Mīthāq implies reciprocity between two parties, and while
it usually occurs by itself in the phrase, “We took a covenant” (akhadhnā mīthāq, Q 2:63, 83, 84, 93;
5:14, 17, 70), it also occurs in the phrase “We took a covenant from them” (akhadhnā minhum mīthāq,
Q 4:154, 33:7), which implies that human beings actually had something to give. In Qur’an 4:21 –
“And how can you take it back, when you have lain with one another and they have taken from you
a solemn covenant?” – the phrase “they have taken from you a solemn covenant” (akhadhna minkum
mīthāq) refers to marriage contracts between husbands and wives, with the wives being those who
have taken the covenant from their husbands.18 From this perspective, the idea that one can “take a
covenant” (akhadha mīthāq) indicates a reciprocal agreement between husband and wife. The recipro-
cal implications of the term are important for understanding the covenant as a reciprocal relationship
between the Divine and the human in the Qur’an.
In a commentary upon the term akhadhnā minhum, ʿAllāmah T ․ abātabāʾī (d. 1401/1981) notes
that it implies both something “taken” (maʾkhūdh) and something from which it is taken (maʾkhūdh
minhu) and cites examples such as taking knowledge from a scholar (ʿālim). In this sense the
Qur’anic use of the phrase, “We took a covenant from them,” implies a manner in which God
honors and elevates the human being by allowing him/her to voluntarily give what God could just
as easily take: a theme echoed in other Qur’anic verses, most notably Q 17:70, “We have indeed
honored the Children of Adam.” Such honoring is particularly evident in the phrase, “Who shall
lend unto God a goodly loan?” (Q 2:245, 57:11, cf. 5:12, 57:18, 64:17, 73:20), since it implies
that although God is the Creator, Lord, and Master of all, He allows human beings to freely give
back to God that which is God’s. By extension, the phrase akhadhnā minhum mīthāq and its varia-
tions indicates that God allows human beings to participate in the covenant of their own free will,
despite God’s ability to compel their compliance. God thus gives human beings free disposition
(tas.rīf ) to maintain or break the covenant. Such covenantal reciprocity is most evident in Q 2:40,
where God addresses the Children of Israel: “Fulfill My covenant (ʿahdī), and I shall fulfill your
covenant, and be in awe of Me.”
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Joseph E.B. Lumbard
Cosmic Covenant
In the Qur’an, the covenant is etiological. As Tariq Jaffer writes, “from the perspective of the
Qurʾān the first event in cosmic history is one that establishes and binds together the monotheistic
worldview and an ethos or program of conduct on earth for humanity.”19 The majority of exegetes
maintain that this is the subject of Q 7:172:
And when thy Lord took from the Children of Adam, from their loins, their progeny and
made them bear witness concerning themselves, “Am I not your Lord?” They said, “Yea,
surely, we bear witness.”
As Gerhard Böwering observes, Q 7:172–173 “became the fulcrum of qurʾānic interpretation for the
primordial covenant.”20 In the context of this verse, many other verses are then understood to mean
that all human beings would recognize the truth were they to follow what is available to them through
revelation and through the intellect.21 Conversely, the root of all sin and iniquity is the breaking of the
covenant, as in Q 2:26–27, which describes the iniquitous as “those who break God’s pact (ʿahd) after
accepting His covenant (mīthāq), and sever what God has commanded be joined.” In this same vein, Q
13:25 states, “And for those who break God’s pact after accepting His covenant, and sever what God has
commanded be joined, and work corruption upon the earth, theirs shall be the curse, and theirs shall
be the evil abode.” Breaking the covenant with God is then the major accusation posed against the Jews
and Christians in sura 5, “The Table Spread” (al-Māʾida), which begins, “O you who believe! Fulfill
your covenants (ʿuhūd, Q 5:1).”22 After detailing many of the injunctions of the Qur’anic revelation in
Q 5:2–6, the sura then enjoins, “And remember God’s blessing upon you, and His covenant by which
He bound you, when you said, ‘We hear and we obey.’ And reverence God. Truly God knows what lies
within breasts” (Q 5:7). With this background providing the importance of the covenant and its details,
the sura then explains the manner in which the Israelites and Christians both violated the covenant:
God had made a covenant with the Children of Israel, and We raised among them twelve
chieftains. And God said, “I am with you! Surely, if you perform the prayer, and give alms
and believe in My messengers and support them, and lend unto God a goodly loan, I shall
surely absolve you of your evil deeds, and shall cause you to enter Gardens with rivers run-
ning below. But whosoever among you disbelieves thereafter, surely he has strayed from the
right way.” Then for their breaking of their covenant, We cursed them and hardened their
hearts. They distort the meaning of the word, and have forgotten a part of that whereof
they were reminded. Thou wilt not cease to discover their treachery, from all save a few
of them. So pardon them, and forbear. Truly God loves the virtuous. And with those who
say, “We are Christians,” We made a covenant. Then they forgot a part of that whereof
they had been reminded. So We stirred up enmity and hatred among them, till the Day of
Resurrection. God will inform them of that which they used to do.
(Q 5:12–13)
From this perspective, each new revelation comes when people have ceased to live in accord with the cov-
enant enjoined by previous revelations. The purpose of the Qur’an, then, is to provide a way for human
beings to continue to fulfill the covenant with God after previous communities had ceased to do so.
Verse 7:172
Qur’an 7:172 is the most important verse for the understanding of the covenant, providing motifs
and concepts that echo throughout the classical Islamic tradition. Though differing in content, the
60
verse is reminiscent of God’s promise to the Children of Israel at Mount Sinai and their response in
Exodus 24:7: “All that the Lord has said we will do, and be obedient.” It also bears similarities to
reaffirmations found in other books of the Hebrew Bible. Nonetheless, there is no paradigmatic cov-
enantal event in the Qur’an that is equivalent to the Mosaic covenant on Mount Sinai. Qur’an 7:172
is understood by most exegetes as referring to human existence before human beings are brought
into this world, when the spirits of all human beings are said to have been assembled before God on
a single plain and the same moment. “Am I not your Lord?” is understood as a rhetorical question
whereby God affirms His Reality as the Lord of all humankind. The human response is the acknowl-
edgment of this reality that establishes a covenant to which human beings are forever beholden and
to which they will bear witness on the Day of Judgment. This exchange is thus referred to in the
classical tradition as “The Covenant of Lordship and Servitude” (ʿahd al-rubūbiyya wa-l-ʿubūdiyya).
The whole of the human race is bound by it, and every generation must strive to comply with it.
In addition to The Covenant of Lordship and Servitude to which all human beings bear witness,
there is another covenant particular to the prophets, which is made after the covenant with all of
humanity and which states that the prophets worship God, call others to worship God, and affirm
the prophetic missions of one another.23 This is referred to in Q 33:7, “And [remember] when We
took from the prophets their covenant [mīthāq]” and in Q 3:81:
And [remember] when God made the covenant of the prophets, “By that which I have
given you of a Book and Wisdom, should a messenger then come to you confirming that
which is with you, you shall believe in him and you shall help him.” He said, “Do you
agree and take on My burden on these conditions?” They said, “We agree.” He said, “Bear
witness, for I am with you among those who bear witness.”
To understand the function of this covenant with the prophets in relation to the more general cov-
enant made with all of humanity, it must be viewed in relation to the last part of Q 7:172 and its
continuation in Q 7:173:
[This was] lest you should say on the Day of Resurrection, “Truly we were oblivious
to this,” or lest you should say, “[It is] only that our fathers ascribed partners unto God
aforetime, and we were their progeny after them. Wilt Thou destroy us for that which the
falsifiers have done?”
Having made the pre-temporal covenant, none will be able to claim that he or she was not respon-
sible for maintaining it. Some may claim that they are not responsible for maintaining the covenant
because their ancestors did not follow it, and they could not observe that of which they were not
informed. But all of humanity is held responsible because all of humanity bears the imprint of the
initial covenant within. In this vein Ibn Kathīr (d. 774/1373) states that when the truthful (al-s.
iddīqūn) are “questioned concerning their truthfulness” (Q 33:8), they respond, “The messengers of
our Lord certainly brought the truth” (Q 7:43).24 Due to this innate recognition of the truth stem-
ming from the primordial covenant, those who break the covenant and reject the prophets who
reminded them of it must eventually “admit their sin” (Q 67:11) and “bear witness against them-
selves that they were disbelievers” (Q 6:130). Their having born witness to the first covenant leaves
an imprint such that when they stand in judgment and God says, “Is this not the truth?” they cannot
but respond, “Yea, indeed, by our Lord!” (Q 6:30).
Some commentators propose that the reference to all of humanity as “a single community” (Q
2:213, cf. 10:19) alludes to the time when all human beings made the covenant with God, then fol-
lowed a single religion and a single creed.25 Based upon the discussion of the covenant in these and
other Qur’anic verses, commentators speak of two covenants that pertain to all of humanity: one
61
Joseph E.B. Lumbard
taken before human beings came into this world and another taken while human beings are in this
world. That taken before is referred to as the general covenant (al-ʿahd al-ʿāmm) to which human
nature (al-khis.la) bears witness, while that taken in this world is a particular covenant (ʿahd khās..s)26
that is manifest through adherence to one of God’s revealed religions that God’s prophets covenanted
to deliver in the prophetic covenant referred to in Q 3:81 and 33:7. From this perspective, each
religion derives from a particular covenant that reminds human beings of the first primordial cov-
enant and teaches how to live in accord with it. As Ah.mad Ibn ʿAjība (d. 1244/1809) writes in his
commentary on 7:172:
They said, “Yea, surely” you are our Lord, “we bear witness to that concerning ourselves,”
because all spirits were at that time in the original disposition [fit․ra], knowing, perceiv-
ing. Then when they alighted in this mold [qālib, i.e., the human body], they forgot their
witnessing. Then God sent the prophets and messengers reminding the people of that
covenant [ʿahd]. So whosoever attests to it is saved and whosoever denies it is destroyed.27
Commenting on Q 7:173, Ibn ʿAjība continues, “the implication is ‘We took that covenant in the
world of spirits and sent the messengers renewing it in the world of figures [i.e., this world] to avoid
your saying, ‘we were oblivious to this.’ ” He then connects Q 7:173 to Q 17:15, “And never do We
punish till We have sent a messenger,” and to Q 4:165, which speaks of “messengers [who are sent]
as bearers of glad tidings and as warners, that mankind might have no argument against God after
the messengers.” Regarding all of these verses, Ibn ʿAjība writes, “Testifying as spirits does not suf-
fice as a proof [against them] during the Resurrection, because the spirits forgot that covenant when
they entered the world of figures. So they do not guide them to it except through an indication that
reminds them of it.”28 By this he means the revelations sent through God’s prophets. In this same
vein, the Andalusian exegete Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Qurt․ubī (d. 671/1272) writes in his Qur’an com-
mentary, “[W]hen they neglect the covenant, God reminds them through His prophets and seals the
reminding with the purest of them, for them [i.e., the prophets] to be a witness regarding them.”29
From this perspective, every religion to which human beings bear witness on earth and which
the Islamic tradition maintains occurred through authentic revelation from God provides a means
of recognizing, renewing, and continuing the original general covenant. The function of revelation
and prophethood, for which another covenant was made with the prophets, is thus to reawaken the
awareness of this imprint, remind human beings of the first covenant, and provide them the means
to live in accordance with it.30 Every human collectivity throughout history has been sent a reminder
of God’s Oneness, Lordship, and Sovereignty, and all revelations represent a series of renewals of the
original general covenant. Every revealed book and every prophetic messenger is thus held to be,
like the Qur’an and the Prophet Muhammad, “a reminder.”31 In this vein, Ibn ʿAjība interprets the
refrain of sura 54, “is there anyone who remembers?” (Q 54:15, 17, 22, 32, 40, 51) to mean, “Is
there any who remembers the covenant that was made by Us with him.”32
Fi․t ra: The Original Disposition (or Primordial Norm)

Many commentators upon Q 7:172 propose that the original nature of the human being is to be in
covenant with God. They thus link covenant to the concept of the fit․ra – the original disposition (or
literally the “initial cleaving”)33 – mentioned in Q 30:30:
Set thy face to religion as one truly devout [a h.anīf ] – in the original disposition [fit․ra] of
God, upon which He originated mankind. There is no alteration in God’s creation; that is
the religion upright – but most people know not.
62
The link between the covenant and the fit․ra is made by the earlier Qur’anic commentator Ibn
Mazāh.im al-D
. ah.h.āk (d. 212/827), who said when his infant son was being prepared for burial:
Whoever attains awareness of the latter covenant [by following the guidance of the Prophet]
and ratifies it, the first covenant has benefited him and whoever attains awareness of the
latter covenant and does not ratify it, the first covenant does not benefit him. But whoever
dies as a child before having become aware of the latter covenant dies upon the first cov-
enant, upon the fit․ra.34
In this vein al-Qurt․ubī observes that some commentators maintain, “Whoever dies as a child enters
the Garden due to having affirmed the first covenant.”35
Qur’an 30:30 is understood by most commentators as a command to follow the religion of God
for which He created human beings. Some commentators take the first phrase to mean, “Follow the
religion as one truly devout [a h.anīf ] and follow the original disposition [fit․ra] in which God cre-
ated you.”36 It implies that human beings were made for belief in the Oneness of God (tawh.īd), for
religion, and for worship. To make this connection, al-Qurt․ubī connects Q 30:30 to Q 51:56, “And
I did not create jinn and mankind save to worship Me,” implying that to be in a state of worship is to
live in accord with the fit․ra.37 To accept this reality and live in accord with one’s fundamental nature
is thus understood as the substance of true servitude (ʿubūdiyya), which results from recognizing
God’s Lordship (rubūbiyya) – indicating its connection to the universal testimony offered by human
beings in Q 7:172.38
The Line of Prophethood

Abū Dharr al-Ghifārī (d. 31/652) is reported to have asked the Prophet who was the first prophet.
To this he responded, “That is Adam who spoke with God.”39 As the first prophet, Adam is the first
human being with whom God made a particular covenant, as in Q 20:115: “We made a covenant
with Adam before, but he forgot; and We did not find in him any determination.”40 In this vein,
the Qur’an gives a different account of Adam’s fall than does the Bible. Adam is not tempted by
Eve; rather Adam and Eve are tempted by Satan and both are responsible for their fall, since Satan
tempted both of them with “the Tree of Everlastingness” (Q 20:120), and “they both ate therefrom.
Then their nakedness was exposed to them, and they began to sew together the leaves of the Gar-
den. Adam disobeyed his Lord, and so he erred” (Q 20:121). For their transgressions, all of human-
kind was then banished to the earth, “And God expelled them from that wherein they were, and
We said, ‘Get ye down, each an enemy to the other. In the earth a dwelling place and enjoyment
shall be yours, for a time’ ” (Q 2:36, cf. Q 20:123). This event represents the first breaking of the
covenant, and the descent to “each an enemy unto the other” represents the consequences. In this
vein, Muh.ammad ibn Jarīr al-T ․ abarī (d. 310/923) states that “forgot” in Q 20:115 refers to Adam
“leaving the covenant” (ʿahd) and leaving obedience to God’s command.41 In contrast to the Bible,
in the Qur’an, after the fall, Adam and Eve repent for their sin, as they are made to say, “Our Lord!
We have wronged ourselves. If Thou dost not forgive us and have mercy upon us, we shall surely
be among the losers” (Q 7:23). Then God relents unto Adam by offering “words” and guidance:
Then Adam received words from his Lord, and He relented unto him. Indeed He is the
Relenting, the Merciful. We said, “Get down from it, all of you. If guidance comes to you
from Me, then for whosoever follows My guidance, no fear shall come upon them, nor
shall they grieve.”
(Q 2:37–38)
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Joseph E.B. Lumbard
The words and guidance received by Adam imply the renewal of the covenant and mark the begin-
ning of revelation. Before falling from grace, Adam and Eve lived in adherence to the first general
covenant and were in no need of a particular covenant to remind them of it and reaffirm it. But hav-
ing forgotten, Adam and Eve and thus all human beings must now have periodic reminders if they
are to reaffirm the covenant and be brought back to their natural state of servanthood (ʿubūdiyya)
wherein they recognize the oneness of God and worship none but God.42 In this vein, Wahb Ibn
Munabbih (d. circa 110/728) is reported to have said that Adam was the first of all messengers and
Muhammad was the last,43 Ibn Ish.āq (d. 150/767) reports that Adam received 50 sheets of scripture,44
and Abū Dharr al-Ghifārī is reported to have said that he received ten.45 Every revelation after the
words sent to Adam can be understood to be a continuation or reiteration of this first particular
covenant, which was itself a reminder of the primordial general covenant.
Israelite Covenant
Since every prophet is sent to confirm and reestablish the general covenant, the covenant can be
seen as an underlying theme for every prophetic account in the Qur’an, from that of Adam to that
of the Prophet Muhammad. The covenants with prophets such as Noah, Abraham, and Jesus are
mentioned or alluded to in various ways. But as in the Hebrew Scriptures, the particular covenant
that is mentioned most often in the Qur’an is the Mosaic covenant that God made with the Children
of Israel (Q 2:40, 63–64; 83–4, 100; 4:153–4; 5:12–13, 70; 7:134, 169), which is often joined to a
discussion of their failure to maintain that covenant (e.g., Q 2:63, 83–84, 93; 4:155–57, 5:12, 70;
7:169). The longest discussion of the Israelites in the Qur’an, Q 7:103–171, precedes the discussion
of the general covenant in Q 7:172–173. The placement of Q 7:172–173 after the reference to the
covenant with the Children of Israel in Q 7:171 can be understood as a means of emphasizing the
Qur’anic idea that the covenant is not determined by a single historical event or limited to a single
community.
The reference to the particular covenant with the Children of Israel in Q 7:171 evokes elements
of fear and reverence: “And [remember] when We lifted the mountain above them, as if it were a
canopy, and they thought it would fall upon them, ‘Take hold of that which We have given you
with strength, and remember what is therein, that haply you may be reverent’ ” (cf. Q 2:63, 93). In
relation to Q 4:153–154, this passage would appear to refer to a covenant made with the Children
of Israel after they had disobeyed God by worshiping the golden calf:
The People of the Book ask thee to bring a book down upon them from Heaven; indeed
they asked a greater thing of Moses. They said, “Show us God openly,” whereupon the
thunderbolt seized them for their wrongdoing. Then they took up the calf, even after clear
proofs had come to them. Yet We pardoned this and We gave Moses a manifest authority.
We raised the Mount over them, at [the making of ] their covenant, and We said to them,
“Enter the gate, prostrating,” and We said to them, “Do not transgress the Sabbath.” And
We made with them a solemn covenant.
(Q 4:153–154)
The fear, awe, and reverence for God mentioned in reference to the historical event of the Mosaic
covenant at Sinai are complemented by an injunction to remember God’s blessings in Q 2:40: “O
Children of Israel! Remember My blessing which I bestowed upon you, and fulfill My covenant,
and I shall fulfill your covenant, and be in awe of Me.” As Robert Darnell observes, fear of God
and thankfulness for God’s blessings thus constitute the two attitudes required for maintaining the
covenant.46 The specific manner in which the covenant is to be fulfilled is then outlined in Q
2:41–2:48. It entails believing in revelation, or that which God has sent down (Q 2:41, cf. 5:12),
64
not selling God’s signs “for a paltry price,” reverencing God, not mixing truth with falsehood or
concealing the truth, performing prayer, giving alms, and bowing, seeking help “in patience and
prayer,” and being mindful of the Day of Judgment (2:41–48). Qur’an 5:12 repeats the need to pray
and pay alms in order to fulfill the covenant and adds, “[B]elieve in My messengers and support
them, and lend unto God a goodly loan.” These requirements for covenantal fulfillment could be
placed in three categories: (1) reverence, awe, and belief in God; (2) reverence and belief in revela-
tion, which entails honoring and obeying God’s messengers; and (3) following the rites and rituals
ordained by God.
The Children of Israel are reprimanded for having failed to fulfill the covenant by distorting their
scriptures (Q 2:74; 4:46; 5:13, 41), concealing its teachings (Q 2:174, 3:187, 6:91), betraying God’s
messengers (2:61, 87, 91; 3:21, 112, 181; 4:155–157; 5:70), and failing to observe the rites ordained
by God, the Sabbath in particular (Q 2:65–66, 4:47, 7:163–166). Thus, as in the Hebrew Scriptures,
they have failed to fulfill the covenant and have compromised their status as God’s chosen people.
This outline of the covenant with the Children of Israel serves as the prime example of the
covenant in the Qur’an, providing both the manner in which it is to be fulfilled and the manner in
which it can be broken. Throughout the Qur’an, though dispersed in various passages, all of the
injunctions listed, save that of observing the Sabbath, are also enjoined upon those who follow the
Prophet Muhammad. The most extensive, though by no means exhaustive, discussion of that which
is required for following the covenant occurs in Q 13:19–22:
Is one who knows that what has been sent down unto thee from thy Lord is the truth
like one who is blind? Only those who possess intellect reflect, who fulfill the pact with
God and break not the covenant, who join what God has commanded be joined, fear
their Lord, and dread an evil reckoning, and who are patient, seeking the Face of their
Lord, perform the prayer, and spend from that which We have provided them, secretly and
openly, and who repel evil with good. For them there shall be the reward of the Abode.
These injunctions are not as specific as the injunctions listed for the Israelites, and they add the
general injunction to “repel evil with good.” Nonetheless, the injunction to “join what God has
commanded be joined” is understood to mean that they fulfill all of the acts enjoined upon them
by God;47 it thus comprises all of the prescriptions and proscriptions of Islam. In contrast, severing
“what God has commanded be joined” breaks the covenant: “As for those who break God’s pact
after accepting His covenant, and sever what God has commanded be joined, and work corruption
upon the earth, theirs shall be the curse, and theirs shall be the evil abode” (Q 13:25, cf. 2:27).
Conclusion
The covenant and the need to fulfill it are an underlying theme of the Qur’an that has shaped the
way many Muslims envision the relationship between the Divine and the human. Similar to previ-
ous scriptures, the Qur’an makes the covenant universal, but unlike previous scriptures, it envisions
the covenant as pre-temporal and presents previous revelations as ways in which humanity lived
in accord with it. The Qur’anic evaluation of Jews and Christians revolves around the extent to
which they adhere to the covenant or break it (Q 5:12–15). This is then extended to the followers
of Muhammad, who are enjoined to fulfill their covenants (Q 5:1, 13:20) and “join what God has
command be joined” (Q 13:21). Although the covenant is as integral to the Qur’anic vision of the
relationship between the Divine and the human as it is to the vision of the Hebrew Scriptures, it
does not enjoy the same saliency in the Islamic theological tradition as do other central Qur’anic
concepts, nor has it been fully investigated in contemporary academic literature. It remains a concept
that is ripe for further scholarly analysis and theological development.
65
Joseph E.B. Lumbard
Notes
1 Rosalind Gwynne, Logic, Rhetoric, and Legal Reasoning in the Qurʾān (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2004), 6.
2 Ibid., 24.
3 Bernard G. Weiss, The Spirit of Islamic Law (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2006), 33.
4 Ibid., 31.
5 Toshihiko Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts in the Qurʾan (Montreal: McGill University Press, 1966), 88–89.
6 Bernard Weiss, “Covenant and Law in Islam,” in Religion and Law, Biblical-Judaic and Islamic Perspectives, ed.
E. Frimage et al. (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 58.
7 Robert Carter Darnell Jr., “The Idea of the Covenant in the Quran” (PhD diss., University of Michigan,
1970).
8 Bernard Weiss, “Covenant and Law in Islam,” 49–83.
9 For studies regarding the covenant in Sufi literature, see Ali Hassan Abdel-Kader, The Life, Personality and
Writings of al-Junayd (London: Luzac, 1962), 76–87, 160–164; Georges C. Anawati, “La Notion de ‘péché
origenel’ existe-t-elle dans Islam?” Studia Islamica 31 (1970): 29–40; Gerhard Böwering, The Mystical Vision
of Classical Existence of Islam: The Qurʾanic Hermeneutics of the S.ūfī Sahl al-Tustarī (d. 283/896) (Berlin: De
Gruyter, 1980), 145–157, 185–195; Richard Gramlich, “Der Urvertrag in der Koranauslegung (zu Sure
7, 172–173),” Der Islam 40 (1983): 205–230; Louis Massignon, “Le ‘Jour du Covenant’ (yawm al-mīthāq),”
Oriens 15 (1962): 86–92; Annemarie Schimmel, The Mystical Dimension of Islam (Chapel Hill: University of
North Carolina Press, 1975), 24, 57–58.
10 Wadād al-Qādī, “The Primordial Covenant and Human History in the Qurʾān” (American University in
Beirut, Occasional Papers, 2006).
11 Belkacem Amiri, “al-Mīthāq fi l-Qurʾān” (PhD diss., Al-Madina International University, Malaysia, 2012).
12 Joseph Lumbard, “Covenant and Covenants in the Qurʾan,” Journal of Qurʾanic Studies 17 (2015): 1–23.
13 Tariq Jaffer, “Is There Covenant Theology in Islam?” in Islamic Studies Today: Essays in Honor of Andrew Rip-
pin, ed. Majid Daneshgar and Walid Saleh (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2016), 98–121. One can only speculate as to
the reasons for the lack of a salient covenantal theology in Islam and its treatment as a discrete theological
issue. It is most likely that the issues that would be addressed by developing such a theology were seen as
being addressed in other areas, such as definitions of faith (īmān), prophethood (nubuwwa), and revelation
(wah.y).
14 For other discussions of the covenant in secondary literature, see Josef Van Ess, Theologie und Gesellshaft (Ber-
lin: De Gruyter, 1991–1995), ii, 486, iii, 432, iv, 278–279, 362, 461, 527, 592–594, v. 441; idem, Zwischen
h.adīt und Theologie (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1975), 32–39; Toshiko Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts in the Qurʾan
(Montreal: McGill University Press, 1966), 87–95; Uri Rubin, “Pre-existence and Light Aspects of the
Concept of Nūr Muh.ammad,” Israel Oriental Studies 5 (1975): 67–75; Cornelia Schöck, “Adam and Eve,”
in Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, volume 1, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe (Leiden: Brill, 2001–2006), 22–26;
idem, Adam im Islam (Berlin: K. Schwarz, 1999), 166–192. The idea of the covenant is also touched upon by
Angelika Neuwrith, “The House of Abraham and the House of Amram: Geneology, Patriarchal Authority,
and Exegetical Professionalism,” in The Qurʾān in Context: Historical and Literary Investigation into the Qurʾānic
Milieu, ed. Angelika Neuwrith, Nicolai Sinai, and Michael Marx (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 499–531; Reuven
Firestone, “Is There a Notion of ‘Divine Election’ in the Qurʾān?” in The Qurʾān in Its Historical Context,
ed. Gabriel Seyyed Reynolds (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), 393–410; Todd Lawson, “Coher-
ent Chaos and Chaotic Cosmos: The Qur’an and the Symmetry of Truth,” in Weltkonstruktionen: Religiöse
Weltdeutung zwischen Chaos und Kosmos vom Alten Orient bis zum Islam, Orientalische Religionen in der
Antike 5, ed. Peter Gemeinhardt and Annette Zgoll (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 177–193; for a study
of the covenant and its manifestation within Shi’ism and the Bahai Faith, see Todd Lawson, “Seeing Double:
The Covenant and the Tablet of Ahmad,” in Bahai Studies 1: The Bahai Faith and the World Religions, ed.
M. Momen (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 39–87.
15 John Wansbrough, Quranic Studies (Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 2004), 9.
16 Edward William Lane, Stanley Lane-Poole, and I.G.N. Keith-Falconer, Madd al-qāmūs = An Arabic-English
Lexicon: Derived from the Best and the Most Copious Eastern Sources (London: Williams and Norgate, 1877;
Reprint Islamic Texts Society, 1991), 2182a.
17 Q 2:100; 177; 8:56; 9:1, 4, 7, 75; 16:91; 33:15, 23; 48:10.
18 Here the “solemn covenant” may refer to the contractual words the groom utters during the marriage
ceremony, or to the groom’s assent to the charge that he keep his new wife honorably or release her virtu-
ously – language derived from Q 2:229–231 – or simply to the groom’s verbal acceptance of the marriage.
See Muh.ammad ibn Jarīr al-T ․ abarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān ʿan taʾwīl āy al-Qurʾān, volume 4, ed. Mah.mūd Shākir
al-H.aristānī (Beirut: Dār Ih.yāʾ al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 1421/2001), 390–391; Abuʾl-Qāsim Mah.mūd b. ʿAmr
66
al-Zamakhsharī, al-Kashshāf ʿan ghawāmid. h.aqāʾiq al-tanzīl wa-ʿuyūn al-aqāwīl fī wujūh al-taʾwīl, volume 4
(Beirut: Dār al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 1421/2001), 523; Qurt․ubī, al-Jāmiʿ li ah.kām al-Qurʾān, volume 3, ed.
Muh.ammad Ibrahīm al-H . afnāwī (Cairo: Dār al-H. adīth, 1323/2002), 95.
19 Jaffer, “Is There Covenant Theology in Islam?” 102–103.
20 Gerhard Böwering, “Covenant,” in Encylopaedia of the Qurʾān, ed. Jane Dammen MacCauliffe et al., I, 466.
21 For example, Q 57:8: “And how is it that you believe not in God when the Messenger calls you to believe
in your Lord – and He has indeed made a covenant with you – if you are believers?” is understood by some
commentators to mean that all human beings have two sources for understanding the truth to which they
are called, revelation and intellect, or revelation and the pretemporal covenant within; see Muh.ammad
Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, al-Tafsīr al-kabīr, volume 29 (Beirut: Dār Ih.yāʾ al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 1422/2001), 217;
ʿAbdallāh b. Ah.mad al-Nasafī, Madārik al-Tanzīl wa h.aqāʾiq al-taʾwīl (Cairo: Matbaʿat al-Saʿada, 1914).
22 There is some debate as to whether this verse is addressed to Muslims alone or to all People of the Book;
see Maria Dakake, “Commentary on Sūrat al-Māʾida,” in The Study Quran, ed. Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Caner
Dagli, Maria Dakake, Joseph Lumbard, and Mohammed Rustom (San Francisco: HarperOne, 2015), 270–
338, 272.
23 T ․ abarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān, volume 21, 134; Qurt․ubī, al-Jāmiʿ li ah.kām al-Qurʾān, volume 7, 439; Muh.ammad b.
ʿAlī b. Muh.ammad al-Shawkānī, Fath. al-qadīr: al-Jāmiʿ bayna fanay al-riwāya wa-l-dirāya min ʿilm al-tafsīr, ed.
Yūsuf al-Ghūsh (Beirut: Dār al-Maʿrifah, 1428/2007), 1158.
24 Abu’l-Fidāʾ Ismāʿīl ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr, volume 3 (Cairo: Dār al-H.ādīth, 1414/1993), 452.
25 T ․ abarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān, volume 2, 405; Qurt․ubī, al-Jāmiʿ li ah.kām al-Qurʾān, volume 2, 31–32.
26 Ibn ʿAjība, al-Bah.r al-madīd fī tafsīr al-Qurʾān al-majīd, volume 2, ed. ʿUmar Ah.mad al-Rāwī (Beirut: Dār al-
Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1426/2005), 414.
27 Ibid., 413.
28 Ibid., 413–414.
29 Qurt․ubī, al-Jāmiʿ li ah.kām al-Qurʾān, volume 4, 273.
30 In support of this position, commentaries upon Q 7:172 cite a wide range of Quranic verses, such as Q
16:36, “And We have sent to every people a messenger, that they may worship God,” Q 10:47, “And for
every people there is a messenger. When their messenger comes, they are judged with fairness and they are
not wronged,” and Q 53:56, “This [i.e., the Quran] is a warning from the warnings of old.”
31 The Quran refers to itself as “a reminder” (dhikr, dhikrā, or tadhkira) throughout. See, e.g., Q 6:90; 7:2;
11:114, 120; 12:104; 20:3, 99; 21:24; 36:69; 38:82; 43:44; 65:10; 68:52; 73:19. The revelation given to
Moses is also referred to as “a reminder” in Q 21:48 and Q 40:54. And the Prophet Muhammad is referred
to as a reminder in Q 65:10–11.
32 Ibn ʿAjība, al-Bah.r al-madīd, volume 7, 255. Here Ibn ʿAjība is employing ʿAbd al-Karīm al-Qushayrī’s (d.
465/1072) interpretation with a slight variation; see ʿAbd al-Karīm al-Qushayrī, Lat․āʾif al-ishārāt, volume 3
(Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1420/2000), 258.
33 The word fit․ra derives from the verb fat․ara, meaning “to cleave, to split” in the sense of brining one thing
out of another. By extension it is thus used to mean “to bring forth, or originate.” One can say, ana fat․artuhu,
meaning, “I began it” or “I originated it.” And God is referred to as fāt․ir al-samāwāti wa l-ard. , “The Origina-
tor of the heavens and the earth” (Q 35:1). Fit․ra is thus understood to indicate the very first uncorrupted
product of this initial act of creation.
34 T ․ abarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān, volume 9, 135
35 Qurtubī, al-Jāmiʿ li ah.kām al-Qurʾān, volume 4, 273.
36 Ibid., volume 7, 351.
37 Ibid.
38 For extended analysis of the manner in which fit․ra is discussed and linked to other aspects of Islam, see
ʿUmar al-Farūq ʿAbdallāh, al-Īmān Fit․ra: Dirāsa lil-īmān al-fit․rī fī al-Qurʾān wa-l-sunna wa kathīr min al-milal
wa-l-nihal (Abu Dhabi: Dar Al-Faqih, 2014).
39 T ․ abarī, Taʾrīkh al-rusul wa-l-mulūk, volume 1 (Cairo: Dār al-Maʿārif, 1990), 151. Although Adam is not found
in the lists of prophets given in several Quranic passages (Q 4:163, 84; 33:7; 42:13; 57:26), he does appear
to be the first “chosen” by God, “Truly God chose Adam, Noah, the House of Abraham, and the House of
ʿImrān above the worlds” (Q 3:33).
40 There is some debate as to whether or not Adam was indeed a prophet. Some scholars maintain that Noah
was the first prophet. A hadith reported on the authority of Maʿmar ibn Rāshid states that Noah was the
first prophet sent. See T ․ abarī, Taʾrīkh, volume 1, 178.
․ abarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān, volume 16, 160.
41 T
67
Joseph E.B. Lumbard
42 Regarding the place of Adam in the Quran and in Islam in general, see Cornelia Schöck, Adam im Islam.
Ein Beitrag zur Ideengeschichte der Sunna (Berlin: K. Schwarz Verlag, 1993).
43 Ibn Qutayba, Kitāb al-Maʿārif, ed. Tharwat ʿUkāshah (Cairo: Dār al-Maʿārif, 1969), 26.
44 Gordon Newby, The Making of the Last Prophet: A Reconstruction of the Earliest Biography of Muhammad
(Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1989), 41.
45 Abū ʿAlī al-Fad.l b. al-H.asan al-T ․ abarsī, Majmaʿ al-bayān fī tafsīr al-Qurʾān, volume 5, ed. Muh.sin al-Amīn
al-ʿĀmilī et al. (Beirut: Mu’assasa al-Aʿlamī liʾl-Mat․būʿāt, 1995/1415), 476.
46 Darnell, “The Idea of the Covenant in the Quran,” 72.
47 Qurt․ubī, al-Jāmiʿ li ah.kām al-Qurʾān, 7/354.
68
6
QUR’ANIC ESCHATOLOGY
Mohammed Rustom
Opening
In his groundbreaking study Ethico-Religious Concepts in the Qurʾān, Toshihiko Izutsu identifies the
Qur’an’s eschatological teachings as the fundamental basis for its ethical and religious worldview.
From the perspective of the Qur’an, Izutsu explains, “the ethics of the present world is not simply
there as a self-sufficing system; on the contrary; its structure is most profoundly determined by
the ultimate (eschatological) end to which ‘the present world’ (al-dunyā) is destined.”1 Izutsu also
describes the manner in which the earliest audience of the Qur’an, namely the pagan Arabs, had a
moral worldview which was in many ways not antithetical to that of the Qur’an.2 While the pre-
Islamic Arabs and the Qur’an shared some common ethical values, they were mainly at odds with
one another when it came to the meaning of death and, by extension, the meaning of life. Contrary
to the general worldview of pre-Islamic Arabia, the Qur’an views all ethical categories in terms
of death and the afterlife. Consequently, the Qur’anic ethical perspective is profoundly rooted in
a transcendent source whose reality some may deny in this life but whom all will encounter after
death.
Yet the inevitability of death is a key Qur’anic notion that would have impressed itself upon its
first listeners, given the abundant references in pre-Islamic poetry to the inescapable nature of “time”
(dahr), “fate” (maniyya), and their analog death. Consider these famous lines by the Jāhilī poet al-
Aswad ibn Yaʿfur al-Nahshalī (act. circa 600 ce), more commonly known as Aʿshā Nashal:3
I do know, without your informing me,

that my path is that of a man upon his bier.
Both Fate and Death ascend on high,
carefully watching over me,
Never pleased with the pledge to offer
all my wealth, without my soul as well.4
The Qur’an seeks to remind its various audiences of the ever present fact of death. In doing so, it
relates death to the sensation of “tasting,” thereby conveying something of the direct and palpable
nature of the experience of dying: “Every soul shall taste death. Then unto Us shall you be returned”
(Q 29:57).5 Since every human being will taste death, there is no point in attempting to escape it, as
it will have the final say, regardless of where one may happen to be: “Wheresoever you may be, death
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-8 69
Mohammed Rustom
will overtake you, though you should be in towers raised high” (Q 4:78); “Say, ‘Truly the death from
which you flee will surely meet you; then you shall be brought back to the Knower of the Unseen
and the seen, and He will inform you of that which you used to do’ ” (Q 62:8).
It will be noted that two of these Qur’anic verses cited speak of death as a kind of return or being
brought back to God. In Islamic thought in general, much of what is implied by the English term
“eschatology” corresponds to the Arabic noun of place maʿād, which literally denotes a “place of
return.” This particular term appears once in the Qur’an: “Truly the One Who ordained the Qur’an
for thee shall surely bring thee back to the place of return” (Q 28:85). The great Islamic philosopher
Ibn Sīnā (d. 428/1037) explains that maʿād is a “place of return” on the logic that it is used in refer-
ence to a place where someone initially has been but thereafter leaves, only to return at a later time.
Thus, by extension, the Return refers to the afterlife, since it is the place to which humans will go
back after having departed from it for a short while.6
The Qur’anic notion of returning to God normally appears in verbal form (the r-j-ʿ and ʿ-w-d
roots being most prominent). In several verses, the concept of a “return” to God is accompanied by
the teaching concerning one’s origin from God: “Just as He originated you, so shall you return” (Q
7:29); “Truly we are God’s, and unto Him we return ” (Q 2:156); “He it is Who originates creation
then brings it back, and that is most easy for Him” (Q 30:27). Other verses that speak of the return
do not pair it with one’s point of origin but rather speak of the fact of the Return in general.7 Yet
another verse directly links the Return to one’s reckoning with God: “Truly unto Us is their return,
then truly with Us lies their reckoning” (Q 88:25–26).
It is often stated that the pre-Islamic Arabs did not believe in an afterlife, which was a radically
new doctrine presented to them by the Qur’an. However, there is a good amount of evidence, both
textual and material, which sufficiently problematizes this understanding. For example, archaeologi-
cal evidence in Southern Arabia points to some kind of belief in an afterlife amongst the ancient
Arabs.8 We also know of ancient Arabian funerary rights which, however vaguely, imply a belief in
posthumous states of existence.9 As for the pre-Islamic poets, a number of their verses also evince
belief in life after death.10 The bard ʿAbīd ibn al-Abras. (act. circa 540 ce), for example, makes
explicit reference to the Resurrection (qiyāma) in these lines:
If Thou leave them, it is Thy grace;

and if Thou slay them, it is no wrong:
Thou are the Lord and Master, Thou,
and they Thy slaves till the Resurrection;
Submissive under Thy scourge are they
as a young dun camel under the nose-ring.11
Be that as it may, the general ethos of the pre-Islamic Arabs was not other-worldly, and for the
most part they did not believe in life after death. This mistaken notion is cited and then refuted in
the Qur’an on a number of occasions. For example, “They say, ‘There is naught but our life in this
world. We die and we live and none destroys us save time’ ” (Q 45:24). Another verse demonstrates
that the rejection of an afterlife by the pagan Arabs was part of their ancestral heritage and that what
they were particularly against was the notion of being brought back to life after death: “They say,
‘What, when we have died and are dust and bones, are we to be resurrected? We and our fathers
were certainly warned of this before. These are naught but fables of those of old’ ” (Q 23:82–83).12
For the pagan Arabs, this world was life, period. To this the Qur’an responds, “the Abode of the
Hereafter is life indeed, if they but knew” (Q 29:64).13 Another strategy employed in the Qur’an
in order to bring its first opponents, and potentially any other denier, to a position of belief in the
afterlife, is to turn their attention to the end of time and the destruction of the cosmic order itself.
70
Qur’anic Eschatology
Apocalypse
Contrasted with the pre-Islamic Arabs’ notion of the permanence of this world is the Qur’anic assur-
ance of the destruction of all things this side of death. Propounded in a number of verses that have
to do with what is known as “the Hour” (al-sāʿa), this Qur’anic teaching is technically concerned
with what can be called the “beginning” of the end, or, more loosely, “doomsday.” This is because
the Hour signals the first phase of a longer process that entails the resurrection, judgment, and final
residence of all human beings in the afterlife.
This first dimension of Qur’anic eschatology comes in the form of a series of catastrophic global
events that ultimately entail all life and even the cosmic order itself being brought to an abrupt
halt.14 Although the Hour will come upon people “suddenly” (Q 6:31), its “portents” (ashrāt․) have
already appeared (Q 47:18), one of which is the coming of the Prophet Muhammad.15 However,
the exact occurrence of the Hour is only known to God: “People question thee concerning the
Hour. Say, ‘Knowledge thereof lies only with God. And what will apprise thee? Perhaps the Hour
is nigh’ ” (Q 33:63).16 When the Hour does arrive, it will be marked by a blast from “the trumpet”
(al-s.ūr) blown by the angel Seraphiel (Isrāf īl). This trumpet blast will usher in nothing short of the
apocalypse.17
One of the functions of the Qur’an’s apocalyptic verses is to complement other Qur’anic verses
that emphasize the fleeting nature of this worldly life (i.e., Q 18:45–46). In other words, the apoca-
lypse envisioned by the Qur’an is the logical conclusion of a world whose fleeting nature can be
experienced by its own inhabitants, provided they can see through the veil of this worldly life, which
is mere “play and diversion” (Q 6:32).18 At the onset of the Hour, the fleeting nature of this life will
become a concrete reality for all to witness, as the trumpet’s blast will set everything in the heavens
and on the earth in motion: “Then when a single blast is blown in the trumpet and the earth and
mountains are borne away and ground up in a single grinding, on that Day the Event shall befall; the
sky shall be rent asunder, for that Day it shall be frail” (Q 69:13–16).19
When the Hour arrives, people will be in a state of great shock and panic, running to and
fro, “like scattered moths” (Q 101:4). Fleeing for their own deliverance amid the chaos, people
will even abandon their most beloved family members: “that Day when a man will flee from his
brother, his mother, and his father, his spouse and his children. For every man that Day his affair
shall suffice him” (Q 80:34–37).20 The various forms of stability that people enjoyed while on
earth will be snatched away from them, and even the mountains, themselves symbols of firmness
and fixity, will now become “like carded wool” (Q 101:5) and will be “pulverized to powder,
such that they become scattered dust” (Q 56:6).21 Despite the disastrous happenings that will
occur in the sea, on land, and in the sky, the earth will act as a kind of terrestrial witness to man’s
actions during his time on earth: “When the earth is shaken with her shaking, and the earth
yields up her burdens, and man says, ‘What ails her?’ That Day she shall convey her chronicles”
(Q 99:1–4).22
It is perhaps better to think of the Hour’s individual instances, recounted as so many nonlinear
“minutes” or components, as part of a greater cosmic occurrence that itself implicates and therefore
transcends serial time. Nevertheless, because the world participates in the order of time and change,
the Hour marks that “moment” when time itself will vanish. This is graphically depicted in the
Qur’an as an enfolding of the cosmic order, just as scrolls are rolled up after having been extended.
This folding up, which has certain parallels with the Bible,23 will dissolve any and all bifurcated expe-
riences of space and time, thereby bringing all things back to their point of timeless origin and hence
their final place of return: “That Day We shall roll up the sky like the rolling of scrolls for writings.
As We originated the first creation, so shall We bring it back – a promise binding upon Us. Surely
We shall do it” (Q 21:104).24
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Resurrection
Whether a person dies before the apocalypse or not, his or her first mode of existence after bodily
death will be in the grave. This time in the grave, which forms a kind of interstitial space between
this world and the afterlife, is referred to in the Islamic tradition as the barzakh (“barrier” or “isth-
mus”).25 Although this term figures three times in the Qur’an, in only one instance is it identified
as a barrier between this world and life in the grave (Q 23:100). However long one remains in the
grave, at the time of the Resurrection, those in the barzakh will feel as though they were in their
graves for “but an hour” (Q 30:55) or “but a short while” (Q 17:52).
The angel’s second blow on the trumpet will signal the commencement of “the Day of Resur-
rection” (yawm al-qiyāma, Q 36:51–52).26 This phrase, which literally translates as “the Day of Ris-
ing” or “the Day of Standing,” appears 70 times in the Qur’an. It also has many other names in the
Qur’an, among which are “the Day of Judgment” (yawm al-dīn, Q 1:4) and “the Last Day” (al-yawm
al-ākhir, Q 2:8).27
The Qur’an’s first line of argumentation to demonstrate the ineluctable logic of a resurrection
of human beings after their deaths is, once again, to appeal to their immediate experience of life on
earth. In their earthly lives, people witness various cycles of birth, death, and regeneration in the
plant and animal kingdoms. The following verses are typical in this regard:
And God is He Who sends the winds; then they cause clouds to rise. Then We drive
them to a land that is dead, and thereby revive the earth after its death. Thus shall be the
Resurrection!
(Q 35:9)
He sent down water from the sky, wherewith We brought forth diverse kinds of vegetation
[saying], “Eat and pasture your cattle.” Truly in that are signs for those possessed of intel-
ligence. From it We created you, and unto it We shall bring you back, and from it We shall
bring you forth another time.
(Q 20:53–55)28
The power that lies behind these various cycles of birth, death, and rebirth is the same power that
brought human beings themselves into existence. Human beings are therefore also subject to this
same life cycle and to the power that governs it.
The Qur’an further attempts to demonstrate the inevitability of a resurrection along implied
lines: “Man says, ‘When I am dead, shall I be brought forth alive?’ Does man not remember that We
created him before, when he was naught?” (Q 19:66–67);29 “He it is Who originates creation then
brings it back, and that is most easy for Him” (Q 30:27);30 “And he has set forth for Us a parable
and forgotten his own creation, saying, ‘Who revives these bones, decayed as they are?’ Say, ‘He will
revive them Who brought them forth the first time, and He knows every creation’ ” (Q 36:78–79).31
From one perspective, the point being made in such verses is that it would be all-the-more easy for
God to recreate human beings at the time of the Resurrection because He had already created them
at an earlier time.32 By extension, if God originated human beings ex nihilo, then there should be
no difficulty in conceiving of a resurrection of these created beings because, a fortiori, it is more dif-
ficult for people to conceive of the origination of something from nothing than for that thing to be
refashioned from an already existing substance, be it bone, dust, or the like.33
Another name for the Day of Judgment is “the Day of Reckoning” (yawm al-h.isāb, Q 38:16). This
is because it is a “time” when man’s deeds, accrued over a lifetime, will be taken into account. Hence
the verse, “O you who believe! Reverence God and let every soul consider what it has sent forth
for the morrow; and reverence God. Truly God is Aware of whatsoever you do” (Q 59:18). While
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man will be questioned by God (Q 15:92–93)34 and informed by Him concerning what he used to
do (Q 75:13), he himself will become keenly aware of his actions on the Day of Judgment by virtue
of being given the “Book” in which his deeds are recorded:
And the Book will be set down. Then thou wilt see the guilty fearful of what is in it. And
they will say, “Oh, woe unto us! What a book this is! It leaves out nothing, small or great,
save that it has taken account thereof.” And they will find present [therein] whatsoever they
did. And thy Lord wrongs no one.
(Q 18:49)35
Most other relevant Qur’anic verses do not speak of a Book that functions as a kind of grand regis-
ter of human actions. Rather, each person is given his own highly personalized book. This book is
conferred upon man so that he may read its content (Q 17:14), thereby allowing him to testify to
his own actions. The man who will attain felicity is given his book in “his right hand” (Q 69:19),36
while the one who will be damned receives it in his “left hand” (Q 69:20) and “from behind his
back” (Q 84:10).
Commenting on Qur’an 100:10, “And [when] what lies within breasts is made known,” the great
Persian Sufi philosopher ʿAyn al-Qud.āt (d. 525/1131) explains that this verse refers to the removal
of the “veil from the face of actions.”37 In other words, on the Day of Resurrection those actions of
ours that were unseen and covered from others will now be put on full display. This is why the Day
of Resurrection is also referred to in the Qur’an as a day in which “you shall be exposed; no secret
of yours shall be hidden” (Q 69:18). At the same time, “man shall be a testimony against himself,
though he proffers his excuses” (Q 75:14–15). The excuses that he will attempt to put forth in his
defense will be defied by the testimony of his own faculties, including his skin and his limbs: “On
the day their tongues, their hands, and their feet bear witness against them as to that which they used
to do” (Q 24:24).38 Needless to say, there is an interesting parallel between the Qur’anic teaching
concerning man’s own limbs bearing witness against him on the Final day and the aforementioned
earth’s bearing witness to his actions at the onset of the Hour.
For the damned in particular, the testimony of their limbs against them takes on an even greater
significance. This is because their mouths shall be sealed up on the Final Day (Q 36:65),39 and they
will be unable to make a case so as to exonerate themselves. Although all human beings on that Day
will “be humbled before the Compassionate,” and not so much as “a murmur” will be heard (Q
20:108), the one who is to be condemned will be rendered so mute as to be made a passive witness
to the active effects of his own actions. This will be symbolized by the closing of his mouth and
the transference of speech to his limbs – the very instruments with which he performed his wrong
actions while alive on earth. God, too, will not speak to him (Q 2:174). For the damned, therefore,
there will be nothing but silent treatment and regret.
A complement to the mute state of the damned in the afterlife is their state of blindness, which
itself mirrors their blindness during their earthly lives: “And whosoever was blind in this [life] will
be blind in the Hereafter, and further astray from the way” (Q 17:72). From another perspective,
the person consigned to damnation will now be able to see the reality of things with crystal clarity
(Q 50:22). This type of existential witnessing is a natural corollary to a general type of sensation
that will be made available to everyone on the Day of Resurrection. They will all see and sense the
eschatological weight of their own deeds, which will be measured out before them on the “scales”
(mawāzīn): “Whosoever does a mote’s weight of good shall see it. And whosoever does a mote’s
weight of evil shall see it” (Q 99:7–8); “Those whose scales are heavy, it is they who shall prosper.
And as for those whose scales are light, it is they who have ruined their souls for having treated Our
signs wrongfully” (Q 7:8–9).40
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Residence
The Qur’an has a great deal to say about the posthumous states of felicity and damnation, which are
depicted as objective realities and the ultimate places of residence for all human beings. The place
of felicity is commonly referred to as “the Garden” (al-janna), that is paradise, or more idiomatically,
“Heaven.” Conversely, the place of damnation is “the Fire” (al-nār), or “Hell.”41 The inhabitants of
Heaven “hear no idle talk therein, nor incitement to sin, save that of ‘Peace! Peace!’ ” (Q 56:25–26).
They will abide in the Garden forever and shall never experience sadness, grief, or loss. Indeed, they
inherit “the Abode of Peace with their Lord, and He shall be their Protector, because of that which
they used to do” (Q 6:127). The inhabitants of Hell, on the other hand, experience death continu-
ally, though they do not actually die (Q 14:17). Each time their skins are burned away, they are given
new ones (Q 4:56). It will be impossible for them to leave Hell (Q 22:22), which is described as “the
Blaze” (al-saʿīr, Q 22:4 et passim) which is fueled by “men and stones” (Q 66:6).
One manner in which the Qur’an depicts the delightful state of residence in the Garden and the
horrible state of residence in the Fire is by way of employing diptychs. This is a literary technique
used to juxtapose one entity with another, thereby throwing their stark contrasts with each other
into greater relief.42 These contrasts in the Qur’an begin at the gates of Paradise and Hell. The people
who are driven to Hell will be met with blame, ignominy, and despair, whereas those entering the
Garden will be greeted by the angels, warm salutations, and congratulatory words (Q 39:71–73).43
Once in their respective abodes, those in Hell will wear “garments of fire,” whereas those in Paradise
will be adorned with “bracelets of gold and pearl,” as well as silk clothing (Q 22:19–23). The latter
will be nourished with all manner of delightful food, but those in Hell will have their exact antipode
(Q 47:15).44 Concerning the eschatological topography of both abodes, Paradise is laden with lush
gardens that have rivers coursing below them (Q 3:15 et passim), whereas Hell will contain “scorch-
ing wind, boiling liquid, and the shadow of black smoke” (Q 56:42–43). Finally, those in Paradise
will have companions in the form of “wide-eyed maidens” who are like “concealed pearls” (Q
56:22–23), and they will also be in the company of the prophets and the righteous (Q 4:69). Those
in Hell will be in “communities of jinn and men” who will cast blame upon one another for being
the catalysts for their descent into Hell’s infernal states (Q 7:38–39).
According to an important Muslim eschatological doctrine believed to be alluded to in Q 1:6,
19:71, and 36:66 and discussed in greater detail in the hadith literature, there will be a “bridge”
(s.irāt․) which people must cross on the Day of Judgment before they are differentiated into Paradise
and Hell.45 This bridge, which is remarkably similar to the descriptions given of “the Bridge of the
Collector” (činwad puhl) in Zoroastrian eschatology,46 is described as being “as fine as a hair and as
sharp as a sword.” Only the righteous will be able to traverse the bridge and enter Paradise, while the
wicked will be unable to do so and will thereby land in Hell. It is also important to note the contrast
between the aforementioned scales and the bridge: heaviness on the scales symbolizes an abundance
of good deeds and hence deliverance, whereas heaviness on the bridge or an abundance of evil deeds
weigh down the individual, causing him to slip off the bridge and be cast into Hell. Despite these
contrasting, though by no means contradictory functions of the scales and the bridge, what is clear
is that the Islamic tradition views the trial upon the bridge as representing a culmination of the kind
of personhood that each individual has cultivated during her or his stay on earth.
Like other eschatological data in the Qur’an,47 many Muslim scholars have interpreted the bridge
in various ways. For the Islamic sages in particular, it is seen as being nothing other than a sensory
manifestation of the real state of the individual human soul in the afterlife. As the influential phi-
losopher Mullā S.adrā (d. 1050/1640) explains it, on the Day of Resurrection, the bridge will be:
spread out for you as a sensory bridge ( jisr mah.sūs) extended over the surface of Hell, its
start being in [this] place, and its end being at the door of Paradise. Whoever witnesses
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it will know that it is of his design and building, and that it is an extended bridge in this
world over the surface of his Hell in the fire of his nature within which is the shadow of
his reality.48
A natural corollary to this kind of approach to eschatological matters is that all of what will take place
in the afterlife is already configured in the human soul. The Day of Judgment is thus an unfolding of
the states of one’s innermost self. Those souls that were negative, dark, and hence “fiery” belong in
Hell, while those souls that were positive, luminous, and hence fragrant like a garden belong in the
Garden. The celebrated poet Sanāʾī (d. 525/1131) effectively explains this perspective so common
in premodern Islamic intellectual culture:
When they lift the veil of sensory perception from your eyes,
if an unbeliever you will find scorching Hell, if a man of faith the Garden.
Your Heaven and Hell are within yourself: look inside!
See furnaces in your liver, Gardens in your heart.49
A step further would be to not only see the states of Paradise and Hell within oneself but to witness
the states of Paradise and Hell by virtue of one’s proximity to or distance from God. This explains
why many authors within the Islamic tradition identified the supreme gift of witnessing God with
the joy of Paradise as such. While the Qur’an refers to this Beatific Vision, which is generally
believed by Muslims to be a real possibility in the afterlife,50 many authors sought to cultivate this
vision in the here and now. This is why some authors identify the vision of God in both worlds
with Heaven itself, and distance from God in both worlds with Hell itself. As ʿAyn al-Qud.āt puts
it, “When His friends see Him, they are in the Garden. But when they are without Him, they are
in Hell.”51
Closing
Let us shift our focus to that one aspect of the Qur’an’s eschatological infrastructure which has thus
far received little scholarly attention, namely “the heights” (al-aʿrāf ).52 Reference to the heights
occurs twice in the Qur’an’s seventh sura (Q 7:46–49), which takes its name after them. The heights
are believed to refer to an intermediary space located on an elevated barrier between the Garden
and Hell, which some associate with the aforementioned bridge.53 A number of Sufi Qur’an com-
mentators have viewed “the Companions of the Heights” (as.h.āb al-aʿrāf, Q 7:48) as occupying a high
spiritual rank by virtue of their knowledge of God, righteous deeds, and profound understanding
of the nature of things.54 However, according to the majority of classical Qur’anic exegetes, the
Companions of the Heights are those whose scales are not heavy enough with good deeds so as to
merit entry into Paradise, nor are they heavy enough with evil deeds so as to merit descent into
Hell. Rather, their scales are, pan-for-pan, equal with the same amount of good deeds as that of bad
deeds.55
Since in Islamic eschatology only the Garden and Hell are described as everlasting, the Heights
are not believed to be eternal. One of the implications of this view is that those in the Heights will
only remain there for a finite duration and after some time will eventually enter Paradise.56 It is
tempting to liken the heights to the Purgatory of Catholic theology,57 but the heights are generally
not seen as a place in which people are cleansed of their sins until they become pure enough to
enter the Garden. Yet the Catholic notion of the Purgatory as containing a “purifying fire” (purga-
torius ignis)58 does find a certain analog in Islamic texts, which see the fire of Hell as itself possessing
purifying properties, thereby allowing those confined to Hell to enter Paradise once their souls have
become sufficiently cleansed.59
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The notion that Hell is a place to which one must go in order to be purged of one’s evil states is
informed by a wider theological perspective in texts of Islamic thought that maintains that Hell in
itself and/or suffering in Hell are noneternal. Various arguments have been brought forth by some
of Islam’s foremost intellectual figures in order to argue in favor of this point.60 After all, the Qur’an
does not speak of suffering in Hell as unequivocally eternal, although it does speak of residing in Hell
eternally, which is not the same thing.61
The main consideration that led a good number of Muslim philosophers, theologians, and mystics
to the view that suffering in Hell cannot be eternal was the basic Islamic belief in the all-pervading
and essential nature of God’s compassion or mercy (rah.ma). That is, if God is all-merciful as repeat-
edly stated in the Qur’an and hadith, then would there not come a time when people’s negative
actions, being as they are finite in scope and consequence, are adequately accounted for in terms of
punishment and retribution?62 It is with this point in mind that Ibn Sīnā states rather emphatically,
“Do not incline to those who maintain that deliverance is restricted to a limited number of people,
turning it away from the ignorant and the sinful forever. God’s mercy is far too expansive!”63
The famous Andalusian Sufi metaphysician Ibn ʿArabī (d. 638/1240) goes to even greater lengths
to explain why God’s all-encompassing mercy demands the ultimate deliverance of all human beings.
From the perspective of reason, Ibn ʿArabī argues, God is not affected by the wrong actions of His
servants, nor does He benefit from their good actions. Thus there is nothing “personal” between
God and His creatures such that they would have to suffer in Hell for all of eternity if they failed
to obey Him. From the perspective of scripture, God’s mercy is said to embrace “all things” (Q
7:156),64 which must also pertain to Hell and to those who are in it.65 These points allow Ibn ʿArabī
to draw a rather natural conclusion: “God has said about Himself that He is ‘the Most Merciful of
the merciful’ (Q 12:56). . . . So how can chastisement be everlasting for those in Hell when He has
this all-inclusive attribute of mercy? God is more generous than that.”66
Notes
1 Toshihiko Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts in the Qurʾān (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2002),
108. It should be noted that, in addition to the present article, several other excellent surveys of eschatology
in the Qur’an have appeared over the past few years. See, in particular, Sebastian Günther, “Eschatology
and the Qur’an,” in The Oxford Handbook of Qur’anic Studies, ed. M.A.S. Abdel Haleem and Mustafa Shah
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020), chapter 30; Christian Lange, Paradise and Hell in Islamic Traditions
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 37–70; Hamza Yusuf, “Death, Dying, and the Afterlife in
the Quran,” in The Study Quran: A New Translation and Commentary, ed. Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Caner Dagli,
Maria Dakake, Joseph Lumbard, and Mohammed Rustom (New York: HarperOne, 2015), 1819–1855.
Among older studies, one may profitably consult Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’ān (Minneapolis,
MN: Bibliotheca Islamica, 1989), 106–120.
2 See the penetrating analysis in Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts in the Qurʾān, 74–104.
3 That is, “the blind poet of the Nashal clan.” See Alan Jones’s superb two-volume work, Early Arabic Poetry
(Reading, UK: Ithaca Press, 1992–1996), 2:138. For a wide-ranging discussion concerning the semiotic
congruence between the Qur’an and pre-Islamic Arabic poetry (with specific reference to a poem by
al-Nashalī), see Ghassan El Masri, “The Qur’an and the Character of Pre-Islamic Poetry: The Dāliyya of al-
Aswad b. Yaʿfur al-Nashalī (d. 600 ce),” in The Qur’an and Adab: The Shaping of Literary Traditions in Classical
Islam, ed. Nuha Alshaar (Oxford: Oxford University Press in association with The Institute of Ismaili Stud-
ies, 2017), 93–135. See also Jaakko Hämeen-Anttila, “Paradise and Nature in the Quran and Pre-Islamic
Poetry,” in Roads to Paradise: Eschatology and Concepts of the Hereafter in Islam, ed. Sebastian Günther and Todd
Lawson, with the assistance of Christian Mauder (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 1:136–161.
4 In rendering these lines, I have taken much help from the translation and commentary in Jones, Early Arabic
Poetry, 2:140–142.
5 See also Q 3:185 and 21:35. Translations from the Qur’an are taken, with occasional modifications, from
Nasr et al. (eds.), Study Quran.
6 Ibn Sīnā, al-Risālat al-Ad. h.awiyya fī amr al-maʿād, ed. Sulaymān Dunyā (Cairo: Mat․baʿat al-Iʿtimād, 1949), 2.
7 See, for example, Q 2:148, 32:11, 36:83, 84:6, and 96:8.
76
8 Carl Ernst, How to Read the Qur’an: A New Guide, with Select Translations (Chapel Hill: University of North
Carolina Press, 2011), 85–89.
9 Jane Smith and Yvonne Haddad, The Islamic Understanding of Death and Resurrection (Albany: SUNY Press,
1981), 147–155.
10 Hafiz Ghulam Mustafa, Religious Trends in Pre-Islamic Poetry (Bombay: Asia Publishing House, 1968), 69 ff.
I am grateful to the late Th. Emil Homerin for bringing this source and the one cited in the next note to
my attention.
11 Translation taken, with minor modifications, from Charles Lyall, The Dı̄ wāns of ʿAbı̄ d ibn al-Abras., of Asad,
and ʿĀmir ibn At․-T․ufayl, of ʿĀmir ibn S.aʿs.aʿah (Leiden: Brill, 1913), 61. Along with Theodore Nöldeke, Lyall
sees this reference to the Resurrection as a later Muslim insertion. Yet there is no good reason to assume
this, especially since many of the great classical Muslim belle-lettrists were of the view that such references
were authentic. See Mustafa, Religious Trends in Pre-Islamic Poetry, 69 ff.
12 Cf. Q 17:51 and 36:78–79.
13 See also Q 28:60.
14 A sensitive and nuanced reading of some of the Qur’an’s main apocalyptic chapters can be found in Michael
Sells, Approaching the Qur’an: The Early Revelations (Ashland: White Cloud Press, 2006), 41 ff. A cogent
case for reading the Qur’an as an apocalyptic text is made in Todd Lawson, The Quran: Epic and Apocalypse
(London: Oneworld, 2017).
15 The general Muslim belief in the coming of the Prophet as marking the onset of the end of time is informed
by several famous hadiths and incidences in the Prophet’s life. For some relevant discussion, see the com-
mentaries by Mohammed Rustom on Q 15:85–86, Maria Dakake on Q 16:77 and 17:51, and Joseph
Lumbard on Q 53:57 and 54:1 in Nasr et al. (eds.), Study Quran. See also Günther, “Eschatology and the
Qur’an” and Yusuf, “Death, Dying, and the Afterlife in the Quran,” 1829.
17 It is interesting to note that, while this is the first of two trumpet blasts announced in the Qur’an (for the
second of which, see the following section of this chapter), the Bible speaks of seven eschatological trumpets
that will be blown by seven angels respectively. See Revelation 8:6–13 and 9.
18 Also at Q 47:36. Cf. Q 29:64 and 57:20.
19 See also Q 39:68, 74:8–10, 81:1–3, and 84:1–5.
20 See also Q 22:1–2. It will be noted that this article does not speak of “salvation” in a Qur’anic context but
rather “deliverance.” For an argument in favor of this point, see Rustom, “Notes on the Semantic Range of
‘Deliverance’ in the Quran,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 138, no. 2 (2018): 361–367.
21 See also Q 20:105–107.
22 The Prophet is reported to have said that “her chronicles” refers to the earth’s testifying against human
beings concerning each and every thing that they did on each and every day that they were alive on earth.
See Lumbard’s commentary on Q 99:4 in Nasr et al. (eds.), Study Quran.
23 See Isaiah 34:4 and Revelation 6:14.
24 Cf. Q 39:67.
25 See William Chittick, In Search of the Lost Heart: Explorations in Islamic Thought, eds. Mohammed Rustom, Atif
Khalil, and Kazuyo Murata (Albany: SUNY Press, 2012), 243 ff.; Günther, “Eschatology and the Qur’an”;
Lange, Paradise and Hell in Islamic Traditions, 122–128; Tommaso Tesei, “The barzakh and the Intermediate State
of the Dead in the Quran,” in Locating Hell in Islamic Traditions, ed. Christian Lange (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 31–55.
Cf. George Archer, A Place Between Two Places: The Qurʾānic Barzakh (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2017).
26 This again parallels the Bible where Paul speaks of the blowing of a trumpet in order to mark the Resur-
rection. See Corinthians 15:51–52. Further details on the second trumpet blast can be found in Lumbard’s
commentaries on Q 39:68, 50:41, and 78:18 in Nasr et al. (eds.), Study Quran. See also Yusuf, “Death,
Dying, and the Afterlife in the Quran,” 1830–1831.
27 For a full listing of these names and their occurrences in the Qur’an, see Günther, “Eschatology and the
Qur’an” and Yusuf, “Death, Dying, and the Afterlife in the Quran,” 1834–1835.
29 See also, inter alia, Q 17:51 and 75:1–6.
30 Cf. Q 75:36–40.
31 See also Q 22:5–7.
32 See the discussion in Yusuf, “Death, Dying, and the Afterlife in the Quran,” 1832.
33 Cf., inter alia, Q 17:49–51, 18:37, and 22:5–7.
34 In Islamic belief, the process of posthumous interrogation begins with questioning by Munkar and Nakīr,
two angels who come to the deceased during their first night in the grave, asking them some questions
pertaining to their faith. See Yusuf, “Death, Dying, and the Afterlife in the Quran,” 1828–1829.
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Mohammed Rustom
3 5 See also Q 83:9.

36 See also Q 84:7.
37 ʿAyn al-Qud.āt, Tamhīdāt, ed. ʿAfīf ʿUsayrān (Tehran: Intishārāt-i Manūchihrī, 1994), 326, § 427. Transla-
tion taken from Rustom, Inrushes of the Heart: The Sufi Philosophy of ʿAyn al-Qud. āt (Albany: SUNY Press,
2022).
38 Cf. also Q 17:36, 36:65, and 41:20–22.
39 Cf. Q 27:85 and 41:21–22.
40 See also Q 21:47, 23:102–103, and 101:7–9.
41 Discussions concerning the Qur’an’s various names for the Garden and Hell can respectively be found in
Muhammad Abdel Haleem, “Quranic Paradise: How to Get to Paradise and What to Expect There,” in
Günther and Lawson, with the assistance of Mauder (eds.), Roads to Paradise, 1:55–57, and Yusuf, “Death,
Dying, and the Afterlife in the Quran,” 1848.
42 For the Qur’an’s use of diptychs, see the discussion in Neal Robinson, Discovering the Qur’an: A Contempo-
rary Approach to a Veiled Text (Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 2003), 105–106.
43 This recounting here of the disbelievers’ rejection of the messages of guidance that came to them during
their earthly lives, and their resultant state of damnation in the afterlife, is a fine example of what Robinson
refers to as a Qur’anic eschatological “flashback” verse. See Robinson, Discovering the Qur’an, 106.
44 See also Q 44:43–46. An interesting treatment of the Qur’anic depiction of Heavenly nourishment can
be found in Ailin Qian, “Delights in Paradise: A Comparative Survey of Heavenly Food and Drink in the
Quran,” in Günther and Lawson, with the assistance of Mauder (eds.), Roads to Paradise, 1:251–270.
45 See Günther, “Eschatology and the Qur’an” and Yusuf, “Death, Dying, and the Afterlife in the Quran,”
1844. For the Qur’anic term .sirāt․, see the insightful discussion in Walid Saleh, “The Etymological Fallacy
and Qurʾānic Studies: Muhammad, Paradise, and Late Antiquity,” in The Qurʾān in Context: Historical and
Literary Investigations into the Qurʾānic Milieu, ed. Angelika Neuwirth, Nicolai Sinai, and Michael Marx (Lei-
den: Brill, 2011), 665–670.
46 See Ahmad Tafazzoli, “Činwad Puhl,” in Encyclopaedia Iranica, ed. Ehsan Yarshater (New York: Encyclopae-
dia Iranica Foundation, 1982–).
47 Various Muslim interpretations of Qur’anic verses dealing with the afterlife can be found in Helmut Gätje,
The Qur’ān and Its Exegesis: Selected Texts with Classical and Modern Muslim Interpretations, trans. and ed. Alford
Welch (Oxford: Oneworld, 1996), 172–186. There are a number of fine, recent studies of eschatology in
Islamic thought. See, in particular, Chittick, In Search of the Lost Heart, 233–257; both volumes of Günther
and Lawson, with the assistance of Mauder (eds.), Roads to Paradise; Lange, Paradise and Hell in Islamic Tradi-
tions, 165–278.
48 Mullā S.adrā, Tafsīr al-Qurʾān al-karīm, ed. Muh.ammad Khwājawī (Qum: Intishārāt-i Bīdār, 1987–1990),
1:122. Translation taken from Rustom, The Triumph of Mercy: Philosophy and Scripture in Mullā S.adrā (Albany:
SUNY Press, 2012), 102. Contrary to the suggestions recorded in Triumph of Mercy, 102 and 203, n. 10, this
passage is reworked from Ibn ʿArabī, al-Futūh.āt al-makkiyya (Beirut: Dār S.ādir, 1968), 3:32.
49 Sanāʾī, Dīwān, ed. Mudarris Rad.awī (Tehran: Ibn Sīnā, 1962), 708. Translation taken, with slight modifica-
tions, from Chittick, In Search of the Lost Heart, 249.
50 See Lumbard’s commentary on Q 75:22–23 in Nasr et al. (eds.), Study Quran.
51 ʿAyn al-Qud.āt, Tamhīdāt, 291, § 381. Translation taken from Rustom, Inrushes of the Heart, chapter 6.
52 Some exceptions include William Brinner, “People of the Heights,” in Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, ed. Jane
McAuliffe (Leiden: Brill, 2001–2006); Lange, Paradise and Hell in Islamic Traditions, 59–60; Rudi Paret, Der
Koran: Kommentar und Konkordanz (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1977), 160. The most extensive discussions
of the Heights are in Dakake’s commentary on Q 7:47 in Nasr et al. (eds.), Study Quran, and her unpub-
lished article, “Cyclical and Linear Conceptions of History in the Qur’an.”
53 A sampling of the various views concerning the Heights can be found in Dakake’s commentary on Q 7:47
in Nasr et al. (eds.), Study Quran. Cf. Lange, Paradise and Hell in Islamic Traditions, 59–60.
54 See Dakake’s commentary on Q 7:47 in Nasr et al. (eds.), Study Quran. Cf. the observations in Brinner,
“People of the Heights.”
55 These points are discussed in Dakake’s commentary on Q 7:47 in Nasr et al. (eds.), Study Quran. See also
Lange, Paradise and Hell in Islamic Traditions, 59.
56 See Dakake’s commentary on Q 7:47 in Nasr et al. (eds.), Study Quran.
57 For the Catholic understanding of the Purgatory, one may consult Alister McGrath, Christian Theology: An
Introduction (Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 2016), 441–442.
58 McGrath, Christian Theology, 442.
59 See Mohammad Hassan Khalil, Islam and the Fate of Others: The Salvation Question (New York: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 2012), chapters 1 and 3; Rustom, Triumph of Mercy, 92.
78
60 For a very useful survey of the diverse views surrounding this question in medieval and modern Islamic
thought, see Khalil, Islam and the Fate of Others. A discussion of the different positions concerning the finite
nature of Hell in early Islamic thought can be found in Feras Hamza, “Temporary Hellfire Punishment and
the Making of Sunni Orthodoxy,” in Günther and Lawson, with the assistance of Mauder (eds.), Roads to
Paradise, 1:371–406.
61 For an analysis of the relevant Qur’anic verses, see Rustom, Triumph of Mercy, 109 ff.
62 For a number of arguments (based on scripture and reason) against the notion of eternal suffering in Hell,
see Rustom, The Triumph of Mercy, chapters 6–7.
63 Ibn Sīnā in Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī and Nas.īr al-Dīn T ․ ūsī, Sharh.ay al-Ishārāt (Qum: Maktabat Āyat Allāh
al-ʿUz․mā al-Marʿashī al-Najafī, 1983), 2:83.
64 See also Q 6:12 and 54, “He has prescribed Mercy for Himself.” Cf. Q 40:7. For extended translations of
commentaries on Q 6:12 by a host of Qur’anic exegetes belonging to a variety of intellectual persuasions,
see Feras Hamza and Sajjad Rizvi, with Farhana Mayer, eds., An Anthology of Qur’anic Commentaries (Volume
1: On the Nature of the Divine) (Oxford: Oxford University Press in association with The Institute of Ismaili
Studies, 2008), chapter 3.
65 See Chittick, The Self-Disclosure of God: Principles of Ibn al-‘Arabī’s Cosmology (Albany: SUNY Press, 1998),
188–189.
66 Ibn ʿArabī, Futūh.āt, 3:25. Translation taken, with slight modifications, from Chittick, Self-Disclosure of God,
188.
79
7
ABRAHAM AND HIS FAMILY
Abraham (Ibrāhīm) is one of the most commonly mentioned prophets in the Qurʾan. He is named
70 times1 and is alluded to throughout the Qurʾanic corpus. The fourteenth sura of the Qurʾan is
now named after him (Sūrat Ibrāhīm). As in the biblical traditions, the Qurʾan posits Abraham as a
patriarchal figure in several modes at once. He is in the most immediate sense the father of other
prophets: Ishmael (Ismāʿīl) and Isaac (Ish.āq). Through these prophetic sons, Abraham is the fore-
father of a tradition of messengers and emissaries sent by God stretching from his grandson Jacob
(Yaʿqūb), great-grandsons Joseph (Yūsuf ), his brothers (banū Isrāʾīl), and many others in later genera-
tions. The family of Abraham has been specifically “chosen over (all) the worlds” (Q 3:33). Larger
still, the Qurʾānic Abraham is painted as the quintessential monotheistic prophet, God’s “friend,”
both the origins and embodiment of the righteous “community” (umma) and upright people’s cul-
ture or “creed” (milla). While claimed by both Jews and Christians as one of their own, the Qurʾānic
Abraham is neither. He is a gentile standing over and before all communities who have received
revelations from God. He is therefore also a direct type of the Qurʾānic Prophet Muhammad, who
is likewise a gentile messenger sent to forge a monotheistic society. Abraham then, at once, links the
Qurʾānic community to the past, verifies their truth in the present, and connects the intervening
centuries with a litany of prophetic descendants.
Abraham is described using a number of terms that are applied to other prophets such as “truth-
ful” (s.iddīq)2 and “forbearing” (h.alīm),3 and he is repeatedly credited for being one of the “doers of
good” (s.alih.īn). Abraham is also given the unique epithet of “God’s friend” (khalīl Allāh, Q 4:125),
calquing the Greek (philos theou).4 Moreover, and rather unusually, he is also referred to as an umma,
literally a “nation” or “community” (Q 16:120), at once alluding to his role as progenitor of a people
of his own and as the founding father of the umma of Muhammad’s people who follow the “creed”
or “culture of Abraham” (millat ibrāhīm).5 Like all of the other emissaries of the Qurʾānic God, he is
repeatedly addressed as a bringer of monotheism: a “messenger” (rasūl) and a “prophet” (nabī). He is
thus featured in the “recorded scripture” of God (kitāb, Q 19:41) and is a human recipient of it (Q
57:26–27).
Within the confines of the Qurʾanic text, there are a number of semi-independent narratives and
references to the history of Abraham and his people. The Qurʾanic Abraham is a multifaceted figure
whose details come together through a series of composite storylines and succinct allusions that are
found throughout the received corpus. His significance in shaping the Qurʾan’s monotheistic mes-
sage and in developing its conceptualization of the prophetic mission cannot be overestimated.
80 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-9
Abraham and His Family
The Qurʾan offers us many glimpses into Abraham’s private family life: from his troubled rela-
tionship with his pagan father, Āzar (the biblical Terah.), to his complicated experiences as a father
himself. We can describe Abraham and his family’s four detailed narratives thematically as follows:
Abraham’s epiphany of the one true God, Abraham and his pagan community, Abraham’s reception
of divine guests, and Abraham’s attempted sacrifice of one of his sons. A fifth episode, significantly
less detailed than these four, also features in the Qurʾan, in which Abraham and his son Ishmael
build a shrine to the one God together, although this account is exterior to the biographical plotline
of the four episodes. As is typical of the Qurʾan, all of these excerpts appear out of chronological
sequence and often in isolation from one another. Some stories are repeated in a number of suras.
With each retelling, various details are provided to the presumably distinct audiences accounting for
their own assumed foreknowledge of the tales.6 For clarity, we will here consider the biographical
details attributed to Abraham within the Qurʾan based on the sequence presented in the biblical and
Islamic exegetical literature.7 This will be followed by a discussion of how these stories speak to the
immediate situations of the Qurʾan’s primary audiences.
Abraham’s Epiphany of the One True God

The Qurʾanic Abraham is celebrated for being the foundational figure of the monotheistic tradition.
He is the “father” of the ancient lineage of “submission” (islām) to the one God. “He has chosen
you, and has not placed any difficulty on you in [the matter] of dīn:8 the milla of your father Abra-
ham. He has named you ‘submitters’ (muslimūn) before and in this” (Q 22:78).
The early life of Abraham, such as the story of his birth, is markedly missing from the Qurʾan.
Instead, his earliest biographical details present his discovery of the oneness of God in the midst of
an idolatrous nation. This particular account appears only once in the textus receptus, in the sura now
referred to as “the Cattle” or “the Livestock” (Sūrat al-Anʿām, Q 6:74–84). This sura is particularly
concerned with emphasizing the contrasts between the affirming believers and those who reject the
Qurʾānic message, “those who associate” God with God’s creations and the creations of human
hands (mushrikūn). Abraham’s discovery of monotheism is woven into this larger message.
The Abrahamic pericope of this sura opens with Abraham at an unclear age confronting his father
Āzar. “Do you take idols as gods? Surely I see that you and your people are clearly astray” (Q 6:74).
This skepticism toward his father’s and their community’s practices then segues into a contempla-
tion of the heavenly bodies, perhaps as a flashback. God has shown “Abraham the kingdom of the
heavens and the earth, and [this took place] so that he might be one of those who are certain” (Q
6:75). Abraham reflects upon the stars, the moon, and then the sun. In turn, Abraham momentarily
entertains the possibility that each of these is “my Lord.” And as they one by one disappear from the
sky, he immediately rejects this possibility. “I do not love things that set” (Q 6:76). After the sun dips
below the horizon, Abraham declares he does not “associate” (shirk) any created thing with God.9
He is a monotheist although he is not the recipient of the (future) revelations of the Jews and the
Christians. He is a h.anīf.10 Thus Abraham breaks with his own people. “My people! Surely I am free
of what you associate. Surely I have turned my face to him who created the heavens and the earth.
[Though I am] a h.anīf, I am not one of the associators” (Q 6:78–79). With this, Abraham is swayed
from the practices of his father and their people.
How precisely the relationship between the ways of Abraham compared to the culture of his
people is to be understood is somewhat unclear due to issues of terminology. Abraham is often
referred to as a h.anīf; a word contested by scholars in both the Islamic tradition and historical-
critical scholarship. The term has no English equivalent. H.anīf is certainly related to the Syriac
term for a “non-Jew,” “a gentile” (hanpē). Yet, unlike the English “gentile,” the Qurʾanic h.anīf has
no ethnic component and is strictly positive; it is a marker of monotheistic virtues. Although later
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Islamic exegetes and historians have variously supposed a historical-cultural community of gentile
monotheists referred to as h.anīfiyya that preceded the arrival of Muhammad – a community entirely
unblemished by association with idols – if there was such a community in the Qurʾanic milieu, it is
not known to us outside of relatively late Islamic sources. It cannot be said whether the Abrahamic
term h.anīf refers to a specific community of gentile monotheists or simply to any given gentile
anywhere who happens to be a monotheist in some way. Complicating the matter further, words
opposed to h.anīf, such as the Qurʾanic term mushrik (“associator”), and the English “pagan” (Latin
paganus, “bumpkin,” “hick”) are explicitly pejorative. No premodern person would have referred to
themselves as either. Similarly, Jewish and Christian terms like goy, ethnikos, and gentile (respectively
Hebrew, Greek, and Latinate for “[of the] nations”), suggest a foreigner; not a self-designation. Fur-
ther still, other Qurʾānic terms for these people’s practices such as “believing in jibt” (Q 4:51) and
“believing in ․tāghūt” (Q 2:256–257, 4:51, 60, 76, 5:60, 16:36, 39:17) are now entirely obscure.11 In
all premodern languages save the Arabic here, “gentile” and “pagan” are synonymous. But in the
Qurʾan, a h.anīf is a gentile who is morally upright and theologically correct.12 The Qurʾanic h.anīf
is certainly a gentile, yet it has a strictly positive sense about it. In an ancient Jewish or Christian
context, a gentile is by definition a pagan, while in the Qurʾan being a h.anīf is diametrically opposed
to being a mushrik; a h.anīf is a gentile who is not a Jew, a Christian, or an idolater, and is a righteous
monotheist.13
Abraham, His Father, and Their Community

Abraham’s dispute with his father and/or community with regard to their “pagan” practices is the
most significant Abrahamic narrative sequence within the Qurʾan. Whereas the account describing
his discovery of monotheism occurs only once, Abraham’s conflict with his people is communicated
multiple times, each varying in length, style, and detail.14 An amalgamated reading of these accounts
foregrounds the following motifs and narrative sequence: as a “youth” (fatā, Q 21:60), Abraham
rhetorically questions his father and/or community or makes a proclamation about their religious
practices, typically beginning with the locution “[Remember] when Abraham said to his father/
people. . . ,” followed by a proclamation or rhetorical question about why they “worship that which
does not see, hear, or benefit anyone in any way?” (e.g., Q 19:42, 29:16, 37:85, 43:26). Abraham
dissociates himself from their gods, and there is a dialogue or system of argumentation that ensues
between the two parties, juxtaposing God with the idols. Abraham emphasizes God’s superiority as
the Creator, while the community insists on worshipping as their “fathers” had worshipped before
them. These narratives thereby serve to critique pagan practices but also to acknowledge the stress
of struggling with one’s idolatrous fathers and forefathers.
The community then turns their backs on Abraham and/or departs from him (fa-tawwalaw ʿanhu
mudbirīn, Q 37:90, cf. 21:57). In their absence, or when their backs are turned, Abraham breaks most
of their idols into pieces, sparing the largest one. In the most explicit depiction of the story, Abraham
mockingly implies that the unbroken idol must have smashed the others, at once underscoring the
ridiculousness of their idolatry and the powerlessness of these fetishes (Q 21:58–66, cf. 37:93). The
community threatens to kill Abraham by throwing him into a fire,15 but God delivers his servant by
having the fire miraculously turn cool (Q 21:68–69, cf. 37:97–98).
Following this, and in a fashion comparable to other disbelieving past communities in the
Qurʾanic histories, God castigates Abraham’s people for their wickedness (Q 9:70, 22:42–44, 37:98),
but the details of their punishment are not provided. Diametrically opposed to his people’s doom,
this narrative arc is typically followed by allusions to Abraham being rewarded with immediate or
future descendants. Abraham is granted children and grandchildren, usually cited as Isaac and Jacob
(Q 19:49, 29:27, 37:101). And Abraham shall further be (or is already) rewarded in the hereafter (Q
29:27), serving as a dramatic foil to his own community’s attempt to throw him into a fire.
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Abraham’s Reception of Divine Guests

References to Abraham’s visitors who bring him good tidings of Isaac and forewarn him about the
destruction of the people of Lot (Lūt․)16 occur three times within the Qurʾanic corpus (Q 11:69–76,
15:51–60, 51:24–36). With the exception of certain differences, the narrative roughly follows the
same pattern that is found in Genesis 18–19. Abraham receives the visitors and serves them food.
The guests give him the good news of a son, Isaac.17 Abraham’s unnamed wife responds with
shock.18 The visitors inform Abraham about the forthcoming doom of the people of Lot, and then
Abraham negotiates with God.19
But the Qurʾanic reports on this scene also diverge from the Genesis story or leave out details
which may have already been known by the primary audiences of the various recitations. The
Qurʾan does not provide the number of visitors, using only the plurals of “guests” (d. ayf, Q 15:51,
51:24) and “messengers” (rusul, Q 11:69). While the Genesis narrative specifies the number at three,
the Qurʾan only implies through grammar that there are more than two. The Qurʾanic Abraham
also fears the visitors, who are described as being from an unknown people. The Qurʾan attributes
the inability to have children (thereby emphasizing the miraculous nature of the birth) to both Abra-
ham’s and his wife’s old age.20 Furthermore, although the Qurʾan notes that Abraham disputed with
God regarding the fate of the people of Lot, it does not give us the details described in Genesis 19.
Instead the Qurʾan uses this as an opportunity to elucidate on the character and faith of Abraham
saying that “Abraham was indeed tolerant, kind, (and) devout” (Q 11:75). The Qurʾan is less inter-
ested in Abraham’s mythic history, but rather it studies Abraham’s inner life and righteous character.
The consort(s) of Abraham are not named in the Qurʾan. However, there is repeated discussion
of his “wife,” who is unanimously named Sarah (Sāra) in both the pre-Islamic biblical lore and the
Muslim exegetical tradition. But, again, the Qurʾan is not particularly invested in presenting the
story of Abraham with all the relevant details, but rather reinterpreting them using the folkloric
foreknowledge of the Late Antique listeners. That is to say, Sarah’s name may have been unfamiliar
in the Qurʾanic milieu, but more likely the Qurʾanic narrator merely assumes her identity is known
and so dwells on the more significant matters of Abraham’s virtues and God’s power.
As noted by Barbara Stowasser, “If the Qurʾanic revelations on [Sarah] are scant, they are non-
existent on Hagar.”21 Hagar (Hājar) is nowhere to be found within the Qurʾan, save perhaps an
elliptical reference in Q 14:37. Abraham says, “I have settled some of my descendants in a valley
(wādī) without any cultivation near your Sacred House.” But even this is conjectural, as “descend-
ants” (dhurriyat) would not apply to wives or consorts, as biblical, para-biblical, and Islamic sources
all claim Hagar was. Although Hagar would come to take on massive significance in Islamic salva-
tion histories, her tales are only clear and developed in later tradition, “where her history became
symbolically intertwined with God’s shrine in Mecca after Abraham and Ishmael had raised up the
foundations of the Kaʿba and purified it for pilgrimage and for prayer” (Q 2:124–129).22
Abraham’s Attempted Sacrifice of One of His Sons

While Sarah and Hagar are minimized in the Qurʾan, slightly more attention is granted to Abra-
ham’s sons, Ishmael and Isaac, both prophets in their own right. Isaac is mentioned more frequently
of the two,23 and his name typically appears as an indication of a blessing/reward to Abraham; Isaac
is referenced in the context of the annunciation as previously discussed, and the Qurʾan repeatedly
informs us that God “granted (Abraham) Isaac and Jacob” (Q 6:84, 19:49–50, 21:72–73, 29:27,
38:45–47), usually following Abraham’s departure from his community. Ishmael does not feature in
the first list of prophets following this locution (Q 6:84). Instead he is mentioned later (Q 6:86) as
separate from the prophets of his own generation (by biblical reckoning) and without any noted con-
nection to Abraham. However, in Q 14:39, Abraham shows his gratitude to God by saying, “Praise
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be to God, who granted to me in my old age Ishmael and Isaac.” Although, Ishmael is more fully
developed in the exegetical traditions, his role in the Qurʾan in shaping the story of Abraham (or
in shaping Abraham’s Qurʾanic legacy) is no less significant. Ishmael does not appear in the longer
narratives attributed to Abraham as Isaac does but is typically alluded to or referenced on matters of
faith and tradition, where his name follows Abraham and precedes Isaac’s (Q 2:133, 2:136, 2:140,
3:84, 14:39).
The story of the attempted human sacrifice of Isaac is the climax of the story of Abraham in
the biblical narrative of Genesis 22. However, in the Qurʾan the comparable account is much less
centralized. At only ten verses, this narrative is a far more condensed and faster moving version than
the one from Genesis. The story only occurs once in the sura now called “the Aligned Ones” (Sūrat
al-S.āffāt, Q 37:101–111). Traditionally most Islamic exegetes have interpreted the would-be sacrifice
of Abraham as Ishmael, but the Qurʾan itself does not specify which son is to be killed, referencing
only a “forbearing boy” (ghulām h.alīm, Q 37:101).
Aside from the differences in length and the obfuscation of the son to be offered up, there are
two other important variations of the Qurʾanic sacrifice story worthy of note here. First, Abraham
learns that he must sacrifice his son in a “dream” (manām, Q 37:102), not directly from the mouth
of God. This may be in further aligning Abraham’s prophetic gifts with his descendants Joseph and
Muhammad, both of whom also receive significant dreams (Q 12:5 and 8:43, respectively). Second,
in the Qurʾanic account, Abraham is forthright with the unnamed son about what is about to hap-
pen. “My son! I saw in a dream that I am going to sacrifice you. So look, what do you think?” Then
the son responds, “My father! Do what you are commanded. You will find me, if God pleases, one
of the patient.”24 When both the man and his son have “submitted” (aslamā), and the son is forced to
prostrate – mimicking the positions of prayer – God relieves them both of the deed. “Now you have
confirmed the vision” (ruʿyā, Q 37:105). It was only a test. And so to ransom the lad and reward his
father, God provides a “great sacrifice” (dhibh. ʿaz․īm, Q 37:107), although this too is not elaborated
upon. However, the pre-Islamic narratives from Genesis onward clearly indicate that the proxy is a
ram or goat. Islamic interpretations continue this trend unto the present, annually commemorating
it on the tenth day of the month of Dhū l-H.ijja as “the Feast of Sacrifice” (ʿīd al-ad. h.ā).
Abraham and His Family in the Qurʾanic Present

Just as the Jewish and Christian lore of Late Antiquity is wont to do, the Qurʾan uses traditional and
original stories typologically to connect the present situation to the sacred past while simultaneously
validating the significance of that past. The Qurʾanic God presents parables: “strik[ing] likenesses
(amthāl) for humanity” (Q 24:35). “We sent our messengers in succession . . . and we turned them
[into] stories” (Q 23:44). Accounts of Abraham and his kin are no different. Abraham and his peo-
ple are as much about the Qurʾanic present as biblical history. The Prophet Abraham is a depiction
of the Prophet Muhammad. Abraham’s flock signify Muhammad’s believers, Abraham’s idolatrous
people, their associating nemeses.
The exact shape of the allegorical connections between the situations of Abraham and Muham-
mad must unfortunately remain conjectural, at least partially. While the Qurʾan certainly underscores
the parallels – as it does with other biblical, para-biblical, and Arabian prophetic figures – where
those parallels are drawn cannot be known with any precision. This is because so much of the his-
tory of Muhammad and his people can only be located in materials significantly removed from the
Qurʾan’s own context. The “anecdotes” (hadith), “biographical-epics” (sīra), and “histories” (tārīkh)
of the paleo-Islamic setting are the recollections of people removed from Muhammad’s world.
While such recollections certainly contain genuine historical survivals, they remain recollections.
For one instance, The Epic of God’s Messenger (Sīrat rasūl Allāh) of Ibn Ish.āq (d. circa 767) and his
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redactors describes a visionary encounter between Abraham and Muhammad in the seventh heaven.
There, the authors have Muhammad declare, “I have never seen a man more like myself. This was
my father Abraham.” We can see within the Qurʾanic declaration comparisons between Abraham
and Muhammad, but whether this sentiment from the Sīra accurately relays the comparisons made
by the historical Muhammad a century and a half earlier is at minimum unclear. What can be
ascertained regarding the Qurʾanic parallels between Abraham, Muhammad, and their respective
societies?
A common Christian reading of Abraham paints him as a righteous man of faith, even though
he was not a follower of the Torah (which by biblical reckoning postdates Abraham significantly).
Therefore, using this point highlighted both by Pauline epistles25 and the Acts of the Apostles,26 an
upright, even ideal human, need not be a member of the Jewish community. The Qurʾan concurs,
but by turning this Christian argument against comparable Christian claims of exclusivity. If a fol-
lower of the one God does not have to be a member of one particular community, it stands to reason
that this applies to the Christians, as well.
People of the Scripture! Why do you dispute about Abraham when the Torah and the Gos-
pel were not sent down until after him? Will you not understand? . . . Abraham was not a
Jew, nor a Christian, but he was a gentile (h.anīf ), a submitter (muslim).
(Q 3:65–67)
Not only can exemplary persons be non-Jews, they need not be Christians. “They say, ‘Be Jews or
Christians, [and then] you will be [well] guided.’ Say, ‘No, [rather, choose] the creed of Abraham the
gentile” (Q 2:135). “Or do you say [that] Abraham, Ishmael, Isaac, Jacob, and the tribes were Jews
or Christians?” (Q 2:140). Abraham and his family were neither Jews nor Christians, and yet God
endowed them with righteousness and even prophecy. Theirs was a straightforward monotheism and
subservience to God alone, regardless of their particular community.
From this line of thinking, the Qurʾanic message and its proclaimer present Abraham himself
as a cultic affiliation to God (dīn), a cultural-creed (milla), and as an emblem of submission (islām).
Abraham is Muhammad’s precedent. “Say, ‘God has spoken the truth, so follow the creed of Abra-
ham the gentile. He was not one of the associators’ ” (Q 3:95). “Who is better in dīn than one who
submits (aslama) his face to God, and is a doer of good, and follows the creed of Abraham the gentile?
God took Abraham as a friend” (Q 4:125).27 In the Genesis narrative, God declares Abraham “the
father of many nations (goyim).”28 This carries within itself the implicit backreading that Abraham’s
descendants are not Jews but rather are of “the nations”: gentiles. The Qurʾan continues this thought
in the Arabic h.anīf, as well as umma (“nation”). Abraham is both the progenitor of Muhammad’s
gentile umma, while at once himself being the rallying point of such virtuous gentiles. Abraham is
not of the Jewish or Christian communities, and therefore he is in a sense a community unto himself.
“Surely Abraham was a community (umma) obedient before God – a gentile – yet he was not one
of the associators” (Q 16:120).
Thus this present umma of gentile believers (ummī, Q 62:2; h.unafāʾ Q 22:31) and its gentile mes-
senger Muhammad (al-nabiyya l-ummiyya, Q 7:157–158) are a better analogy of Abraham and his
people than merely formal adherents of Judaism and Christianity are. This new community is lik-
ened to Abraham because they too are gentiles who reject associating other beings with the Creator.
They are a community of believers, not simply a lineage.29 “Avoid the abomination of the idols and
avoid speaking falsehood – gentiles before God; not associating [things] with him” (Q 22:30–31).
“Surely the nearest to Abraham are those indeed who followed him, and this prophet, and those
who believe” (Q 3:68). God had once “chosen” Abraham and “guided him to a straight path” (Q
16:121), and this new umma is seeking to be guided likewise (e.g., Q 1:6–7). This new gentile
85
prophet, Muhammad, has specifically been charged to walk this same “straight path” of Abraham
now. “We inspired you [speaking in the masculine singular, presumably to Muhammad], ‘Follow the
creed of Abraham’ ” (Q 16:123). Just as the gentile Abraham was once sent the record and pages of
God’s scripture (Q 57:26–27, 87:14–19), now too do his gentile descendants host a prophet who
does the same.
However, this gentile community and its Arabic-speaking Prophet are still Abraham’s children
by blood, as well as by creed. Abraham is still their “father,” and not only in spirit. The Prophet
Joseph, Abraham’s great-grandson by biblical accounts, foreshadows this prophetic-paternal lineage,
saying, “I have followed the creed of my fathers, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob” (Q 12:38) This ancient
prophetic family remains in effect in the Qurʾan’s present. God “has chosen you, and has not placed
any difficulty on you in the dīn, the creed of your father Abraham. He named you submitters before
[now] and in this [moment], so that the messenger might be a witness against you, and that you
might be witnesses against the [other] people” (Q 22:78).
The biological descent of the Qurʾanic audience is repeatedly highlighted in the Abrahamic
origin myth of Mecca. Whether the foundation of Mecca and its sanctum by Abraham and his
family was already a common belief in the Qurʾanic milieu or the Qurʾanic declarations are intro-
ducing the story for the first time is not clear. In either case, the Qurʾan asks its listeners to think
of themselves and their homeland as gifted to them by God through their ancestor Abraham. “The
House” (al-bayt) or “the Sacrosanct Mosque” (al-masjid al-h.arām, both typically interpreted as the
Meccan Kaʿba) was built by Abraham and Ishmael in a valley, and in turn God made it a “place for
gathering” (mathāba), a “place for safety” (amnā), and a “place for prayer” (mus.allā, Q 2:125–126).
Equally, the balad (“city” or “environs”) of the House are secure and blessed with produce (Q
2:126), although they have not before been cultivated (Q 14:35–41). Both the sanctuary and its
locale are to host alien pilgrims, prefigured by Abraham and Ishmael, and a number of rites are to
be performed there in a state of ritual purity, including circumambulation, standing, bowing, and
prostrating (Q 22:26–29).30
The backstory of Mecca and its sanctuary is repeatedly drawn forward into the Qurʾanic present.
When the House is founded, Abraham and Ishmael specifically pray that the place and its rituals be
accepted by God and that their future descendants should reenact this relationship. They, like their
fathers, should worship at that location. They should likewise reject the worship of idols (Q 14:35),
and someday they will receive a prophet of their own. Make “from our descendants a community
submitted to you. . . . Our Lord, raise up among them a messenger from among them to recite your
signs to them, to teach them the Scripture and the wisdom, and to purify them” (Q 2:128–129).
Disbelievers will someday attempt to keep pilgrims from visiting the sanctuary, but God has cre-
ated it for all people, both locals and visitors (Q 22:25–29). Visiting the House and participating in
its cultus is incumbent on the people of Muhammad’s dīn because they are the spiritual and familial
inheritors of Abraham’s dīn.
It follows as well that if the Qurʾan’s affirmers are foretold and validated by their link to Abra-
ham, the enemies and naysayers of this community are the proxies for former peoples as well. Those
ancient people who once followed the ways of Abraham, but later forgot their prayer or followed
their various whims (Q 19:59) is a coded discussion of the wicked amongst the People of the Scrip-
ture: Jews and Christians who forget, misread, or add innovations to the proper dīn (Q 2:130–141).
Abraham’s idolatrous people, such as his own father, are in turn associated with the present moment,
who too are the extended families of Muhammad and his Companions. As Abraham opposed ․tāghūt,
so does the Qurʾanic prophet oppose the ․tāghūt of the associators and at least some of the Scriptured
Peoples (Q 4:51–56, 6:74–83). And in turn, as Abraham was shunned by his family and community,
the adherents of the Qurʾan and its prophet have been rejected by their own kin, with both sets of
sinners doomed to ultimate destruction (Q 9:70, 22:42–44, 37:98).
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Conclusion
The Abraham of the Qurʾan is the prophetic lynchpin for both Muhammad’s present society and
their legendary history. Abraham is a rhetorical device that both connects and critiques. As the
father of this new people and this new prophet, Abraham binds them all to the revealed traditions
of the Jews and Christians. But in the same breath, the gentile Abraham marks a border between
Jews, Christians, and Muhammad’s umma, the proto-Muslims, by distancing the latter from charges
of association. That the quintessential prophet of the past and the father of Jews and Christians is
not himself a Jew or a Christian both pulls all the revealed communities into a common family but
highlights the distinction between those communities. This pattern rippled forward into the Islamic
future. One need only look at the Jaffa Gate in Jerusalem, the shared sacred city of Jews, Christians,
and Muslims. The Ottoman Sultan Sulayman II (d. 1691) had the gate inscribed with a variation of
the Islamic confession of faith (shahāda), “[There is] no god but God [and] Abraham is his friend.”
The sentiment continues in the recent appellation “Abrahamic religions” as a byword for Judaism,
Christianity, and Islam, which is found in most Western languages as well as modern Arabic (adyān
ibrāhīmiyya), Persian (adyān-i ibrāhīmī), and Turkish (İbrahimî dinler).31
Notes
1 The only other prophet who is mentioned more frequently than Abraham is Moses, who is referenced 135
times.
2 Referring to a common quality of all prophets (Q 4:69, 57:19), specifically to Abraham’s great-grandson
Joseph (Q 12:46), and to his son Ishmael, along with the Prophets Idrīs (generally equated with Enoch) and
Dhū l-Kifl (perhaps Ezekiel or Job, Q 19:56).
3 Generally, a term applied only to God (e.g., Q 2:225, 3:155), although on one occasion applied to Abra-
ham’s son Ishmael or Isaac (Q 37:103) and on another to the Arabian prophet Shuʿayb (Q 11:87).
4 James 2:23. Both the Arabic and Greek are preceded in the Hebrew of 2 Chronicles 20:7, “Our God, did
you not drive out the inhabitants of this land before your people Israel and give it forever to the descendants
of Abraham your friend (ōhabkā)?” Cf. Judith 8:22.
5 The Qurʾan gives us anecdotes of Abraham the individual but it also invokes the idea of Abraham to indicate
a larger group or community belonging to him.
6 But leaving contemporary readers and classical/medieval exegetes with a lot of questions, which they have
creatively expanded upon to fill in the blanks.
7 Because the Qur’an employs Abraham as a well-known figure, it requires a comparative analysis to pro-
ceed. This can be done in any number of ways. We could look for the various readings of the Qur’anic
Abraham provided by the long history of Islamic exegesis. Or we could look for references to Abraham in
Late Antique materials that may have been available in some form in the Qur’an’s primary setting. Either
approach would be productive. For this project, the principle comparison will be with those materials that
are commonly considered part of the biblical canons in the West, most especially the book of Genesis. That
is not to say those texts are the Qur’an’s immediate concern. However, the biblical Abraham is presumably
the most familiar to most English readers of this overview.
8 Dīn is often translated as “religion,” and this may be deceptive as “religion” is a particular notion belonging
to the Western modern period (and its colonial impacts around the world). Strictly speaking, a Qur’anic
dīn refers to communal-cultic actions of “repayment” or “recompense” to a god, which requires restitution
in turn via blessings and reward (or condemnation). The English term “religion” is much more centered
around the beliefs of an individual than the Qur’anic notion of dīn.
9 Although without biblical antecedent, comparable accounts can be found in Josephus’s Antiquities of the
Jews 1:7, Philo of Alexandria’s De Abrahamo, and The Apocalypse of Abraham 1:7. There is also an account
of Abraham arriving at monotheism via rational deduction (although not through the heavens) in Genesis
Rabbah 38:13.
10 Uri Rubin, “h.anīf,” in Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, volume II, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe (Leiden: Brill,
2001–2006), 402.
11 A.J. Droge proposes a possible relationship to the Geʾez term for “the gods” (t․āʿōt) but does not elaborate.
The Qurʾān: A New Annotated Translation, trans. A.J. Droge (Sheffield, UK: Equinox, 2013), 27.
87
12 For post-Qur’anic reports of h.anīfiyya as the enemies of Islam, see Uri Rubin, “H.anīfiyya and the Kaʿba: An
Inquiry into the Pre-Islamic Background of the Dīn Ibrāhīm,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 13 (1990):
85–112.
13 For the remainder of this chapter, h.anīf will be translated as “gentile,” although with the limitations of that
term noted.
14 Q 19:41–50, 26:69–104, 29:16–18, 37:83–98, 43:26–28, 60:40, along with various other indirect refer-
ences. See also Joshua 24:2, Jubilees 12, the Apocalypse of Abraham 1:1–7, and the Cave of Treasures.
15 Cf. Abraham’s argument with Nimrod in Genesis Rabbah 38:13.
16 Stories about Lot and his community of “evildoers” appear throughout the Qur’an. Lot is considered one of
the Qur’an’s messengers (Q 37:133) who was given “judgment” (h.ukm) and “knowledge” (ʿilm). Lot’s com-
munity is completely destroyed by God, who sends them showers of “stones” and “baked clay” (Q 11:82,
15:74). Except for Lot’s wife who stays behind, Lot and his family are saved from the devastation.
17 Isaac is named in only one of the excerpts: Q 11:70 when speaking specifically to Abraham’s wife. The son
is unnamed in suras 15 and 51, Abraham receives “good news” (bushrā) of a “learned boy” (ghulām ʿalīm).
18 She laughs in Q 11 and hits her face with disbelief in Q 51; Sarah is not part of the narrative in Q 15, where
Abraham is the one to express his disbelief
19 The reference to Abraham’s negotiation with God on the fate of Lot’s people is in Q 11:74; there is a refer-
ence to the “one who disputed with Abraham” in Q 2:258–260.
20 Q 51:29, for example, uses the phrase, ʿajūzun ʿaqīm, usually translated “old (and) barren.” In Q 15:54,
Abraham expresses his surprise in the annunciation by saying, “Have you given me good tidings when I am
old? What are you bringing good tidings of ?” And in Q 11:72 Abraham’s wife exclaims, “Woe is me, shall
I give birth when I am old and my husband is an old man? Indeed, this is an amazing thing!”
21 Barbara Freyer Stowasser, Women in the Qurʾān, Traditions and Interpretations (Cary, UK: Oxford University
Press, 2014), 43.
22 Ibid., 44.
23 Isaac appears 17 times, Ishmael 12.
24 Comparable details appear in many other para-biblical Abrahamic sacrifice narratives, including Josephus’s
Antiquities of the Jews 1:232 and Genesis Rabbah 56:8.
25 E.g., Romans 4:16–17: “Therefore, the promise comes by faith, so that it may be by grace and may be
guaranteed to all of Abraham’s offspring – not only to those who are of the law but also to those who have
the faith of Abraham. He is the father of us all. As it is written: ‘I have made you a father of many nations.’ ”
26 E.g., Acts 3:25: “And you are heirs of the prophets and of the covenant God made with your fathers. He said
to Abraham, ‘Through your offspring all peoples on earth will be blessed.’ ” For instances of these arguments
closer to the Qur’anic setting, see also Aphrahat․’s Demonstrations 16.
27 Cf. Q 6:161,
28 Genesis 17:5.
29 This seems in particular to concern the proto-Muslim community’s specific dietary laws, which are still
governed by revealed decree but are less strict than their Jewish counterparts (e.g., Q 22:30).
30 The Qur’an also makes reference to the rituals at the hills of S. afā and Marwa (Q 2:158). Later traditions link
these sites with Hagar’s search for water, resulting in the miraculous appearance of the spring of Zamzam.
As pilgrims would recreate her “searching” in the saʿī ritual, this further connects the Hajj to Abraham and
his family. However, the Qur’an does not mention Hagar, the spring, or this backstory explicitly.
31 The authors would like to thank Mehdy Shaddel and Yusuf Gürsey for pointing out the Persian and Turkish
versions of this phrase, respectively, in personal correspondences.
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8
BIBLICAL PROPHETS
Moses, Joseph, Jonah, and Job
Roberto Tottoli
Translated by Jason Welle
Moses, Joseph, Jonah, and Job in the Qur’an

In the economy of Qur’anic discourse, biblical prophets and the events of their lives are recounted
or evoked in close connection with the importance of faith in the one Almighty God, with a role of
support and a point of reference for Muhammad, and with the function of acting as a moral example
for his community of believers.1 Although these passages contain, in the case of Joseph and Moses,
events that allow for a summary biographical reconstruction, the style of Qur’anic discourse and
the dramatic construction of the narratives, which often involves God’s direct intervention, makes
the identification of precise themes, around which verses relating to biblical prophets are dictated,
more significant. These themes thus inspire verses in which historical details are mainly absent, and
references to the lived events of the prophets are secondary to the intentions of Qur’anic discourse.
The tales of the biblical prophets are marked by adversity, opposition, and hardship that each
prophet must be able to resist, trusting in his final victory willed by God. Joseph (Yūsuf ) describes
his dream to his father Jacob (Yaʿqūb), who already forewarns him of the hostility and the trap of his
siblings, inviting Joseph not to tell them of his miraculous vision (Q 12:5). The brothers, as soon as
they hear about Joseph’s dream, consider killing him but instead take him and abandon him in the
well, later telling their father that he had been eaten by a wolf (Q 12:8–18). Here his vicissitudes
continue: he is rescued and sold to an Egyptian, he suffers the wiles of the Egyptian’s wife and finds
himself imprisoned (Q 12:19–35), and he stays there a long time because he relies on two other
prisoners whose dreams he interpreted to get out (Q 12:35–42). At the end of the story, Joseph says
it was Satan who sowed discord between him and his brothers (Q 12:100).
Torment or conflict, and escape from danger, often involving a flight of some sort, is repeatedly
presented as the primary adversaries suffered by the prophets. Job (Ayyūb) likewise calls upon God in
his torment and suffering, which he attributes to Satan (Q 38:41). God, in turn, instructs Job about
how to make water flow and gives him back his lost family, finding him patient and an exemplary
servant of God (Q 38:41–44). Jonah (Yūnus, also dhū l-nūn, “the one of the fish”), frustrated that
God seemed to have no concern with him, became angry, only to have his faith in God affirmed in
his deliverance from torment (Q 21:87–88). Traveling by ship, Jonah was swallowed by a fish. In its
belly, he invoked God who saved him from remaining thus trapped until the Day of Resurrection
(Q 37:140–146).
The story of Moses (Mūsā) begins with his infancy and Pharaoh calling for the slaughter of
the male children (Q 28:4). Moses temporarily escaped Egypt for years, finding refuge among the
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-10 89
Roberto Tottoli
people of Midian (Madyan, Q 28:21–28). But the most commonly cited Qur’anic episode of Moses
is his adult confrontation with Pharaoh, a clash that would come to be the emblematic conflict
between a prophet and his adversaries. Moses presents himself to the Pharaoh, proclaiming that he
is a messenger of God (Q 7:104). Pharaoh, faced with this proclamation and the signs brought by
Moses and his brother Aaron (Hārūn), denies and rejects them outright (Q 20:56). Pharaoh accuses
Moses of being ungrateful, since he had lived with Pharaoh and his house for years (Q 26:18–19).
Having listened to his statements, he calls Moses “insane” or “possessed” (majnūn, Q 26:27). Pharaoh
even goes so far as to threaten to kill Moses if he will not alter his religious stances (Q 40:26). It was
also God who later inspired Moses to flee Egypt by night (Q 26:52) by “opening a way into the
sea” (Q 20:77). The Qur’an also attests to Moses’ difficulties with his own people, the Israelites. In
their disobedience to God, most especially regarding the affair of the Golden Calf, the people are
forbidden from entering the Holy Land for 40 years. At this, Moses distances himself from his people
and is subjected to torment from them (Q 5:26, 61:5). Also, at an indeterminate moment in his life,
Moses’s patience and knowledge are tested in a long episode in which he accompanies a mysterious
unnamed “servant” (ʿabd, traditionally called al-Khid.r, “the Green [One]”) in Q 18:60–82.
In all of these stories, the final triumph is achieved by faith in God and acceptance of God’s will.
This Islamic principle is constantly reaffirmed through the words and deeds of all these prophetic
figures. Jacob foretells to Joseph from the beginning the gifts that God will bestow upon him, fulfill-
ing God’s designs for him (Q 12:6). To overcome adversity, one must know how to accept setbacks
with patience and devotion. It is patience or endurance that Jacob invokes when he hears the lie
that Joseph has been killed by a wolf (Q 12:18). Patience in the name of God – “the best guardian”
– is also invoked when the brothers, having returned from Egypt, ask that their youngest brother
be entrusted to them, as requested by Joseph, whom they had not yet recognized (Q 12:64). Joseph
always turns to God, who is wise and knowing, when he keeps his brother with him (Q 12:83),
telling the other brothers to trust in God’s mercy (Q 12:87). Moreover, it was God who devised
the plan so that, by means of the charge of theft, Joseph could keep his youngest brother with him
(Q 12:76) and thus ensure that Jacob also reached him. Throughout the rest of the twelfth sura, in
numerous dialogues and dramatizations, there is no shortage of other references to God, the one in
whom the “trusting” (mutawakkil) must place their trust (Q 12:67). In the case of Moses, it is God
who determines the events of his life from his birth. God saves him from infanticide, arranging it so
that his own mother may rejoin him by serving as his wet nurse (Q 28:12–13). God then directly
announces to Moses that the one who has chosen him is God, that there is no other god, and that
he is enjoined to worship this one God alone, to pray, and to call upon God’s name (Q 20:13–14).
In return, God always proclaims to his prophets that he is on their side. The Qur’anic God is
the Sustainer of the prophets and everything else. It is God who claims to have given wisdom and
knowledge to Joseph when he came of age, as a reward for his righteous action (Q 12:21). Joseph
calls upon God when the Egyptian woman traps him (Q 12:23); telling his Lord that he prefers
prison to women’s snares (Q 12:33). And after he interpreted the dreams of Pharaoh and asked to
be cleared of the charge for which he had been imprisoned, Joseph nevertheless does not claim
innocence but turns to the mercy of his Lord, who is forgiving and merciful (Q 12:53, cf. 12:6).
Eventually, once Joseph is recognized by his brothers, they too ask for God’s forgiveness for their
sins via their father Jacob (Q 12:97). Joseph, finally reunited with his entire family in Egypt, invokes
God as the Creator of the heavens and the earth, asking to die as a faithful “submitter” (muslim), for
he has now given everything to his Maker (Q 12:101).
The privileged relationship of the prophets with God also emerges in the Qur’anic stories of
Moses and Job. Job appeals to God’s mercy when he is blighted with evils (Q 21:83), and God
returns his family to him as a sign of divine grace and as a warning to the believers (Q 21:83–84).
Indeed, in the case of the people of Jonah, this was the only instance in which divine punishment
is reversed – when people turn to right belief (Q 10:98). God offers merciful pardon even when
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Moses kills an Egyptian because God is the Compassionate, the Merciful (Q 28:16). It was God who
saved the Israelites in the flight from Egypt and drowned Pharaoh’s pursuing army (Q 26:65–66),
thus saving the Israelites not just from Pharaoh, but from punishment (Q 44:30–31). Moses asks his
people to seek help in God and to be patient before they leave Egypt (Q 7:128), but God proclaims
to Moses that if God’s mercy embraces all things, God’s chastisement also strikes whomever God
wills (Q 7:156). At the encounter with God, Moses was not allowed to see God, despite his request
(Q 7:143). He was only allowed to receive the “tablets” (alwāh.) containing guidance and mercy (Q
7:145, 154). Moses and God converse in secret (Q 19:52).
Rather than address people directly, the God of the Qur’an acts and presents “signs” (āyāt)
through his instruments, the prophets, so that people believe. They act as “clarifications,” or “clear
proofs” (bayināt), as affirmed by the magicians whom Moses defeated (Q 20:72). There were nine
clear proofs or signs sent to Pharaoh and his people so that they would believe in Moses and Aaron
(Q 17:101), including the transformation of the rod into a serpent, a hand that became miraculously
white, and other signs such as the arrival of famine and sterility (Q 7:130). Moses turns directly to
God to ask for punishment and to destroy Pharaoh’s riches (Q 10:88). Joseph was likewise sent with
such proofs (Q 40:34), while his story itself and that of his brothers are in turn signs for those who
seek the truth (Q 12:7).
In the face of adversity, trusting in the one God is the only way to remain steadfast. Joseph sur-
renders to the grace of God, and, as a sign of God’s mercy when he leaves prison, he is given the task
of supervising and then administering the storehouses of Egypt (Q 12:55–56). Jacob himself appears
throughout history as the one who remains steadfast in faith in God and who will be rewarded by
rejoining his God in the end of days (Q 12:99–100). It is God who inspires the way of deliverance
and how to escape damnation. It was God who inspired Moses’s mother to entrust him to the river,
and it was God who strengthened her when she was seized with fear (Q 28:7–10).
Conversely, defeat is the failure to submit to God’s will. God mentions by way of example the end
of Pharaoh’s people who refused to believe (Q 27:14) – even declaring that he can save their corpses
from the sea as a sign (Q 10:92). One must believe and understand that everything comes from
God, as seen in the story of the punishment of Korah (Qārūn, Q 28:76–82). One “of the people of
Moses,” Korah and his house are swallowed by the earth for their vainglory and failure to attribute his
worldly successes to God. It is the function of the prophets, in this instance Moses, to remind people
of the grace bestowed by God (Q 5:20). In other passages, however, it is God himself who reminds
the Israelites that God saved them from the harsh trials to which they had been subjected, that God
divided the sea for them and drowned Pharaoh and his people (Q 2:49–50), that God sustained them
in the desert, making shade and giving them “manna and quails” (al-manna wa-l-salwā, Q 2:57), and
that God suggested to Moses to strike the rock to make twelve springs come forth for the tribes (Q
2:60). It is God who saved the people of Moses and Aaron from catastrophe (Q 37:115).
From these threats of torment, the stories of the prophets expose another significant Islamic
theme: the Hour is near. The prophets are warners of final judgment. God announces this to Moses
(Q 20:15). Paradise and Hell are evoked by the magicians defeated by Moses (Q 20:74–76). The Fire
is the destination of the people of Pharaoh (Q 11:98), and against eternal torment, in favor of faith in
the one God, only the voice of a believer of the people of Pharaoh rises up (Q 40:28). Incurring the
wrath of God is a looming threat, as the people of Moses risked before they reached the Holy Land
(Q 20:81). Idolatry always appears as the most serious sin. Joseph proclaims the nature of true faith
when he is in prison: the faith of his fathers was that no other being is to be associated with God –
God is one – and that what others worship are only names given to them by humans (Q 12:38–40).
This is likewise evidenced by the Mosaic accounts of the Golden Calf (Q 20:85–98) or the Pharaoh
who comes to proclaim himself the Lord (Q 79:24).
And, finally, the prophets all act as foreshadowers of Muhammad. All the prophets prefig-
ure Muhammad. God also gave Moses a revelation analogous to the Qur’an: either “scripture”
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Roberto Tottoli
(Q 25:35), “scripture and salvation” to serve as a guide (al-kitāb wa l-furqān, Q 2:53) or, in another
passage, “scrolls” (s.uh.uf, Q 53:36). At the end of the story of Joseph, the Qur’an explains the sig-
nificance of such stories for the functions of future prophets – Muhammad especially, although
unnamed here (Q 12:102–111).2 God’s words to Moses also allude to Muhammad, as when God
mentions “those who will follow my messenger: the Prophet of the Gentiles” (alladhīna yattabiʿūna
l-rasūla l-nabiyya l-ummiyya, Q 7:157). For God sent a messenger to Pharaoh just as God sent him
“to you all” (ilaykum, i.e., the Meccans, Q 73:15). God, in another passage, invites Muhammad to
be patient and not to behave like “the Companion of the Fish” (s.āh.ibi l-h.ūt, i.e., Jonah) who saved
himself only because God’s grace touched him after his reluctance (Q 68:48–50).
Moses, Joseph, Job, and Jonah before the Qur’an

The Qur’anic accounts of Moses and Joseph, as well as the few passages that mention Job and
Jonah, convey the foregoing concepts and meanings. The Qur’an privileges moral intent and the
evocative and emblematic character of their words or of God’s words, which emphasizes themes
that are significant to God’s Prophet Muhammad and his community of believers in the seventh
century. The Qur’an mentions the historical events in their lives in order to highlight how the
sacred history of the biblical patriarchs and prophets parallels the mission of Muhammad. There-
fore, the description of these pre-Islamic people and events bears important relationships with the
biblical texts and traditions prevalent among Jewish and Christian communities before and during
the birth of Islam.
The study of the relationship between the Qur’anic corpus and the Hebrew Bible, Christian
texts, and other precedents from other religious traditions have moved between a number of dif-
ferent approaches and authorial intentions. Although starting with the alleged ‘sources’ of Muham-
mad,3 we have more recently moved on to consider questions of intertextuality and the different
peculiarities of Qur’anic discourse in its ability to engage the cultural history of the region and thus
to represent a particular evolution, not an eccentric evolution. In the case of the stories of Moses,
Joseph, and the other prophets, the parallels with the previous literature are evident. Qur’anic dis-
course, although characterized by a form that favors dramatic confrontation between the protago-
nists of the stories and the direct discourse of God who addresses the Prophet Muhammad, is closely
related to the biblical tradition in the broad sense and represents a particular and specific version
of it. In the case of the biographies of Moses and Joseph, which are the most complete among the
prophetic biographies quoted by the Qur’an, this is evident, although, of course, details are taken up
from apocryphal literature and more obscure materials.
An important key to reading certain Qur’anic passages has been to identify some specific pecu-
liarities of Qur’anic passages common to rabbinic literature rather than in the biblical text. For
instance, research in Islamic Studies has for some time pointed out that the Joseph story – especially
in the part about Joseph and the wife of Potiphar – has parallels to some Midrash,4 although later
studies have pointed out that these sources are late, perhaps postdating the advent of Islam.5 For other
Qur’anic passages that are significantly different from the biblical texts, there is no lack of precise and
sometimes excessive attempts to identify parallels in other rabbinical sources, as in the events preced-
ing Jacob’s recognition of Joseph in Egypt, the description of the movements of Joseph’s brothers,
and the story of Benjamin.6 The story of Moses appears throughout the Qur’an, and many of the
details of those accounts are common to the book of Exodus, rabbinical literature, and Christian
hagiography (although a number of elements are unique to the Qur’an). This is particularly true
for the most enigmatic episodes, such as the story of the character later identified as al-Khid.r (Q
18:60–82) or the passages that mention the story of “the Samaritan” (al-sāmirī) and the Golden Calf
(Q 7:148–154, 20:85–98).7 In the case of Jonah’s story, it has been hypothesized that the profile that
emerges from the few Qur’anic verses referencing him are much more Christian than Jewish.8 Many
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Biblical Prophets
studies – often with prejudicial approaches about the derivations, “confusions,” or “errors” of the
Qur’an with respect to prior religious traditions – have analyzed and discussed these approaches.9
Other studies have abandoned simply identifying Jewish and Christian parallels to Qur’anic
accounts altogether, emphasizing instead different mediations with cultural zones, such as Persia
or Egypt. Others still highlight how the Qur’an reflects reworkings based on theological or liter-
ary intention. The case of the Qur’anic allusions to Haman (Hāmān) and to Pharaoh at the time of
Moses (Q 40:36–37, cf. 28:5–6), for example, reveal Near Eastern cultural and literary paths much
more complex than those of a simple derivation or an invention of details.10 With interpretations
of this kind, it is evident that the Qur’anic text reflects a distinctive religious and literary tradition,
traceable overall to the biblical imaginary, but subjected to mediations of various kinds and from
different directions. As a historical text, the verses that mention Joseph, Moses, Job, and Jonah attest
to all the intricacy of a complex living tradition, enriched by influences from various directions and
later re-elaborated in the Qur’anic revelation by the contingencies of Muhammad’s mission and the
choice of the Qur’anic voice to grant succor to the Prophet through the continuous references to
the lived example of the prophetic figures who preceded him.
Moses, Joseph, Job, and Jonah after the Qur’an

The massive influence of the Qur’an also produced new creative and historical literature about
prophets like Moses, Joseph, Job, and Jonah. Exegetical activity, narrative enrichment, and theo-
logical deepening have generated rewritings, re-explanations, and expansions through every literary
genre prevalent in Islamic civilization. This process continues today but certainly had its formative
moment in the early centuries of Islam. Subsequent exegetical and religious literature has generally
enriched and discussed in detail the Qur’anic passages on Moses, Joseph, Jonah, and Job with narra-
tives of all kinds, but they generally respond to Islamic dynamics and develop themes sensitive to the
community of believers throughout their history. The first narrative need was to fill out the Qur’anic
data – adding details significant to the prophetic accounts not found in the Qur’an itself – which also
increased the parallels and differences with other religious traditions and their literatures. This started
within exegetical literature and then occurred in every literary genre, leading to one genre specifi-
cally dedicated to “the stories of the prophets” (qis.as. al-anbiyāʾ). The progressive and continuous
circulation, discussion, and reworking of these narratives has determined their full and progressive
Islamic connotation and therefore the use of these materials for typically Islamic issues and themes.11
Perhaps the most significant and representative product of this literary and traditional reworking is
the text Stories of the Prophets by Abū Ish.āq al-Thaʿlabī (d. 1032), which includes extensive biogra-
phies of the prophets in a temporal sequence that accompanies human events from Creation to early
Christian history. The extensive chapters he includes on Joseph, Job, Moses, and Jonah12 include
more or less complete biographies, which cite relevant and authoritative Qur’anic passages to define
the centrality of events and aspects of the various figures but which are now a small part of the very
narrative materials that compose them. In this literature, the materials reproduced by exegetical tra-
ditions coexist with the identification of narrative details that complete the Qur’anic data or clarify
obscure aspects of them or that, in the case of Job and Jonah, create a proper narrative framework in
which to place the few Qur’anic passages that hint at these figures. Moses is the principal prophetic
figure – both in leading and guiding the Israelites out of bondage and in the religious-legal aspects
of his mission before his death at the edge of the Holy Land – and episodes of his life are constantly
emphasized. Aspects of Joseph’s intricate story are highlighted that evidence his faith in God and his
ability to lead everyone to the final unveiling of otherwise unseen truths. In post-Qur’anic Islamic
literature, Job embodies the example par excellence of the complex concept of “patience” (s.abr):
the ability to endure hardship and suffering by trusting in God, ultimately leading to restoration
and reward. The Jonah material takes up the unique peculiarities of his having repented from his
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resistance to God and therefore of having been able to avoid punishment and destruction, receiving
in the end the ultimate reward.
Countless are the specific episodes in which these dynamics emerge clearly alongside specific
themes of theological or interpretative relevance for the Qur’anic exegete. For example, the issue
of the sale of Joseph, dealt with by Ibn Jarīr al-T ․ abarī (d. 923), or the role of Pharaoh in frequent
13
Qur’anic quotations and in exegetical interpretation are themes that have been extensively treated
14
since the first exegetical literature and that have aroused interest in both narrative rereading and more
theological speculation. In the case of Jonah, the meagre Qur’anic allusions and their problematic
nature are also reflected in later literature. For example, the symbolic meaning attributed to the
fish has been the subject of various readings by Qur’anic exegesis.15 The story of Jonah specifically
brought the exegetes to respond to the issue of his initial disobedience of God’s will: the issue on
whether or not a prophet could sin or be in error. The apparently sinful character of Jonah and his
seeming anger toward God created a stumbling block to the emerging definition of the impeccable
character of the prophetic figures and was a point of special concern. There is also Jonah’s seem-
ing doubt in God’s omnipotence, which led to theological discussions on the relationship between
human freedom and divine power.16 In the case of Job, on the other hand, subsequent Islamic lit-
erature reworked above all the typical themes of suffering, the Prophet’s innocence, and thus the
theological significance of his troubled life before he finally was granted justice, leading to elaborate
narratives of considerable dimensions.17 The same considerations can be extended to the numerous
other episodes of Moses’s life that are mentioned in the Qur’an and that touch upon themes and
issues suitable for reworking and upon narrative expansions, as well as upon exegetical discussions
that justify their dark or enigmatic aspects of various kinds. The passages on Moses are many, with
various kinds of problems, not only in relation to the aspects of the life and significance of Moses for
Islam but also for some passages involving other figures or alluding to seemingly obscure events.18
Besides meeting exegetical needs, the Islamic community has also shown a strictly literary interest
in describing the events of these figures. Joseph’s story has received particular attention in the Mus-
lim world with literary reproductions and evidence of continuous reworking in various languages,
from the Aljamiado of Muslim Spain to Swahili and Indonesian. These countless versions emphasize
aspects of the Qur’anic text, follow its narrative structure and use its lexicon, but also expand on par-
ticular aspects of the tale. On the whole, they have made the Joseph story one of the most discussed
prophetic events in Islamic literature. Even if they are attentive to the particularities of the figure of
Joseph as it emerges from the Qur’an, these reworkings in nearly all written Islamicate languages are
often poetic remakes.19 Exegetes, theologians, mystics, and other Muslim authors in general have
given different interpretations, both of the story as a whole and of individual episodes, such as the
story with Zulaykhā (the wife of the Egyptian, unnamed in the Qur’an), the question of the inter-
pretation of dreams, the path to unveiling Joseph’s identity, and so on.20 The diffusion and relevance
of the story have generated not only literary reworkings of various kinds but also interpretations and
rereadings offered by every current of Islam, from every theological or sectarian orientation.
The presence of these figures in the Qur’an and the related Islamic exegetical imagination has
continued to prompt the emergence of even more recent interpretations of the stories of Joseph,
Moses, Jonah, and Job. The story of Joseph and Zulaykhā, for example, with its sexual implica-
tions, has received particular attention and has also generated various conflicting interpretations and
controversies about its meaning in relation to more recent developments in the role of women and
sexuality in Islamic societies. In other cases, subsequent exegetical literature has been the object of
contemporary criticism and doubt, generally related to the most recent critical attitudes against post-
Qur’anic narrative traditions considered non-Islamic and presumably of Jewish or Christian origin;
the so-called isrāʾīliyyāt. The paradigmatic use of some specific episodes, such as the case of the
narratives about the staff of Moses that changed into a serpent,21 highlights the now widespread ten-
dency to reject medieval narrative elaborations, in favor of sticking to the Qur’an alone, and to use
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this rejection in a polemical way against allegedly “external” interpretative influences. Alongside this,
however, the survival of oral and folkloric traditions should not be underestimated, which, starting
from the Qur’anic characterizations and the rich medieval narrative and literary tradition, rework
literature on prophetic figures, often proposing more creative versions of various kinds. These ele-
ments are in some cases reused with new sensibilities and meanings. In the case of Job, modern and
contemporary Arabic and Islamic poetic reworkings of his figure highlight how the usual themes for
which he is evoked are considered representative of the contemporary Arab and/or Islamic political
and social condition.22 Beyond the value and relevance of these interpretations, they highlight the
vitality of these prophetic figures and their characterization in the Islamic sphere, which starts from
Qur’anic data but is also accompanied by exegetical rereading and by traditional Islamic literature
that has defined their peculiarities in a discussion that continues widely today. This
attests not only to the centrality of the Qur’an but also to the ever renewed relevance of its
interpretation.
Notes
1 Cf. Roberto Tottoli, Biblical Prophets in the Quran and Muslim Literature (Richmond: Curzon, 2002).
2 M.S. Stern, “Muhammad and Joseph: A Study of a Qur’anic Narrative,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 44
(1985): 193–204.
3 Cf. Heinrich Speyer, Die biblischen Erzählungen im Qoran (Gräfenhainichen and Breslau: Schulze, 1931), repr.
Hildesheim 1961.
4 Ibid., 200–203, also S. Goldmann, The Wiles of Women/The Wiles of Men. Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife in Ancient
Near Eastern, Jewish, and Islamic Folklore (Albany: SUNY Press, 1995); Alfred-Louis de Premare, Joseph et
Muhammad. Le chapitre 12 du Coran (Aix-en-Provence: Publications de l’Université de Provence, 1989).
5 Tottoli, Biblical Prophets in the Quran, 56.
6 Abraham Geiger, Judaism and Islam (Madras 1898) (or Was hat Muh.ammad aus dem Judenthum aufgenommen?
Bonn, 1833). 115–116.
7 Cf. Muhib O. Opeloye, “Confluence and Conflict in the Quranic and Biblical Accounts of the Life of
Prophet Mūsā,” Islamochristiana 16 (1990): 25–41.
8 Speyer, Die biblischen Erzählungen im Qoran, 1931, 409; G. Reynolds, The Quran and Its Biblical Subtext (Lon-
don and New York, 2010).
9 Tottoli, Biblical Prophets in the Quran, 57–59.
10 Silverstein, A., “Hāmān’s Transition from Jāhiliyya to Islām,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 34 (2008):
285–308; Reynolds, The Quran and Its Biblical Subtext, 99–106.
11 Cf. A.F.L. Beeston, Baid. āwī’s Commentary on Sūrah 12 of the Quran (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963).
12 Al-Thaʿlabī, Abū Ish.āq, ʿArāʾis al-majālis fī qis.as. al-anbiyāʾ or ‘Lives of the Prophets’, ed. W.M. Brinner (Lei-
den and Boston: Brill, 2002). 181–235, 254–271, 278–414, 681–688.
13 J.P. Monferrer Sala, “El episodio de la venta de José. Un intento de análisis textual a partir de un fragmento
de al-T․ abarī,” Miscelánea de Estudios árabes y hebraicos 44 (1995): 97–115.
14 I. Zilio-Grandi, “La figura di Faraone nel Corano,” Studi sull’Oriente Cristiano 8 (2004): 51–76.
15 I. Zilio-Grandi, “Jonas, un prophète biblique dans l’islam,” Revue de l’histoire des religions 223 (2006):
318–383.
16 Cf. Reynolds, The Quran and Its Biblical Subtext, 120–122.
17 J.-L. Déclais, Les premieres musulmans face à la tradition biblique. Trois récits sur Job (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2006);
J.-F. Legrain, “Variations musulmanes sur le theme de Job,” Bulletin d’études orientales 37–38 (1985–86):
51–114.
18 Brannon M. Wheeler, Moses in the Quran and Islamic Exegesis (Richmond, VA: Curzon, 2002).
19 Cf. Faïka Croisier, L’Histoire de Joseph d’après un manuscrit oriental (Geneve: Labor et Fides, 1990); Fred Beake
and Ravil Bukharaev, eds., The Story of Joseph. A Translation of Kol Gali’s Kyssa’i Yusuf, with Commentaries
(Folkestone: UK Global Oriental, 2010).
20 Massimo Campanini, Il profeta Giuseppe. Monoteismo e storia nel Corano (Brescia: Morcelliana, 2007).
21 Roberto Tottoli, “La moderna esegesi islamica ed il rifiuto delle Isrā’īliyyāt: le leggende sul bastone di Mosè
mutato in serpente,” Annali di Cà Foscari 21 (1990): 25–35.
22 Jeries N. Khoury, “The Figure of Job (Ayyūb) in Modern Arabic Poetry,” Journal of Arabic Literature 38 (2007):
167–195.
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9
JOHN, JESUS, AND MARY
IN THE QUR’AN
George Archer
John (Yah.ya) and Jesus (ʿĪsā) are Qur’anic prophets, and Mary (Maryam) is Jesus’s mother. The
Qur’an offers them as evidence of a monotheism revealed across a wide history of messengers and
miracles. At the same time, the Qur’an uses the three of them to comment upon Christians and
Jews. The Qur’anic Mary, Jesus, and John affirm certain Jewish and Christian notions, reject others,
and demonstrate that prophecy continues in the present.1 God has indeed chosen Mary, Jesus, and
John to perform special roles (in agreement with Christians and disagreement with Jews); however,
Jesus is in no way a person of a triune God, and neither is he God’s son (in agreement with Jews and
disagreement with Christians). God is one, childless, and unique, but works in history through signs,
prophets, and the miraculous, including these three people.
Which Jesus, Mary, and John?

Like most of the narratives and characters the Qur’an discusses, John the Baptist, Mary of Nazareth,
and Jesus Christ are figures already known to the Qur’an’s primary audience: Arabic speakers in the
first half of the seventh century. At no point does the Qur’an introduce these people as if the listener
was not already somewhat aware of them. At the time of the Qur’an’s appearance, Christianity –
the cluster of practices and worldviews in which Jesus, Mary, and John were principal players – was
already ubiquitous. The Roman/Byzantine and Aksumite Empires had been officially Christian
since the fourth century, and there were sizable Christian populations in Sasanian Persia. Beyond all
of these, there was already a Christian presence in Arabia proper, notably in Najrān in the South and
amongst the Ghassānids and Lakhmids in the North. Even if a member of the Qur’an’s first audience
did not identify as Christian, the larger milieu of which the H.ijāz was just one part was overwhelm-
ingly so. Jesus, Mary, and John, even if they were not major figures in a certain Arabic speaker’s
religious life, were by no means foreign or obscure. The world was Christian, even if much of the
Qur’anic audience was not. Thus, instead of introducing Jesus, Mary, and John to its audience, the
Qur’an reintroduces them, saying how they are to be interpreted, and often revising older accounts
to bring them into line with Qur’anic monotheism.
The Qur’an is a “recitation” on sacred themes, a series of homilies. The Qur’an is an oral per-
formance speaking to an audience living in an oral culture.2 This is significant because written text
is fixed. It does not change on its own. But oral recitations, conversations, and songs are situational.
The reciter purposely introduces the material to match a given moment in time. Therefore, when
the Qur’an invokes Jesus, Mary, John, and other well-known people, it is not referring to singular,
96 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-11
John, Jesus, and Mary in the Qur’an
static images. We must not think that when the Qur’an discusses these familiar names, it is always
assuming the audience has come with identical thoughts in mind. And neither does the totality of
the Qur’anic implied knowledge of these three people add up to the opinions of them held by any
one person.3
Then which versions of Jesus, Mary, and John does the Qur’an assume its audience has in mind?
The most common would have been those available in spoken folklore. That is, the Jesus, Mary,
and John of popular imaginations; the people discussed in personal storytelling and sayings. For
instance, the Qur’an suggests that those who call its message a lie will not enter the Garden, “until
the camel ( jamal) passes through the eye of the needle” (Q 7:40). This expression is an echo of Jesus’s
condemnation of the wealthy who will not abandon their riches. “It is easier for a camel (kamēlos)
to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.”4
While the thoughts are not unrelated, neither is the Qur’an quoting the biblical writ. Lines like this
do not imply textual references, as much as common expressions, thoughts, and stories that lived in
any number of formats. In this specific case, the Qur’an does not mention the Gospel texts or even
Jesus but instead the much larger, much more malleable store of spoken lore available in the Late
Antique Near East. Because such oral lore is not dependent on words frozen on a writing surface, the
folkloric accounts of Jesus, Mary, and John would have been both plentiful and diverse.5 However,
because only a minor fraction of such accounts found their way into any written record that survives,
folklore like this is most elusive to us.
Slightly more detectable, and creating most of this folklore, are the liturgical Jesus, Mary, and
John. Here a Christian priest or monk would have read a written account of these figures in Greek,
Syriac, Coptic, or Geʿez and then explained it orally to a congregation. This would have been
coupled with an act of translation into Arabic from either the liturgist himself, a live translator, or
paraphrased translations among the congregation during the service or afterwards – perhaps long
afterwards. Because there is translation between both formats and languages (written materials in a
foreign language into spoken Arabic) over an uncertain amount of time, there is ample room for the
Arabic speaker to compose an interpretation of Jesus, Mary, or John quite different from the written
source of their information, from which they are now at minimum two degrees removed. However,
these liturgical figures of Jesus, Mary, and John would presumably mirror the textual sources much
more closely than the purely folkloric alternatives that descend from them.6
Moving closer to fixed literatures are the Jesus, Mary, and John of oral formulae: prayers, creeds,
stock phrases, and titles. Again, the sources of these formulae are writings outside of the Arabic
language that have passed into it through mostly (if not entirely) oral processes. However, unlike
the liturgical translation process which is situational, the Jesus, Mary, and John of spoken formulae
are repeated by many people in many situations regularly over a lifetime. Thus they behave much
more like textual sources: they are fixed. A Christian may refer to Mary specifically as “full of grace”
without ever having read Luke 1:28. Jesus could be said to be “begotten, not made, consubstantial
with the Father,” even if the speaker had never heard of the Council of Nicaea (325 ce), its docu-
ments, and their later revisions.
Then finally we have the Mary, Jesus, and John of written texts, most, if not all, of which would
not be in Arabic. The textual Mary, Jesus, and John are the easiest to trace but have the weakest
relationships to the Qur’anic material and its assumptions. These texts would include the narrative
sources such as the various canonical and other noncanonical gospels (injīl), harmony gospels (injīl
al-ribāʿī), hagiographies, written poem-hymns (hymnos, mêmrê), and theological treatises.
Turning now to the Qur’an itself, we must note not only what the Qur’an says about Jesus, Mary,
and John, we must ask whether it is treating folklore, liturgy, formula, or text. All of these different
approaches are addressed by the Qur’anic message, and they are certainly intertwined in their con-
tents, but we cannot make the mistake of thinking the Qur’an is going to act uniformly. Not only
is the Qur’an speaking to a number of distinct Christianities, Judaisms, and polytheisms, it replies to
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George Archer
them by several different means of transmitting these traditions. The Qur’anic audience discussed
John, Mary, and most especially Jesus in various registers, and thus the Qur’an does the same.
The Jesus of the Qur’an and Qur’anic Christology

The Qur’an’s predominant subject matter is the oneness of God and the uniformity of God’s proph-
ets. There is only one God without partner, and that God has sent a long series of messengers and
signs, including those recognized by Jews, Christians, or both. Any issue suggesting that there is
some plurality in the divine or that not all of the prophets and signs are legitimate must be dealt with.
Jesus fulfills both of these criteria, for Jews reject his prophetic validity while Christians consider him
a divine figure. It is therefore a desideratum of the Qur’an to present Jesus both as a valid prophet
granted supernatural information and power, yet as a mere human being.
Although he was still no more than a human, Jesus was born without a father when God’s spirit
cast him into Mary’s womb (Q 2:87, 253; 4:171; 5:110). Like Adam, Jesus was created directly by
God’s command to “Be!” (Q 3:59). Even as an infant, Jesus was gifted with speech and wisdom (Q
3:46, 5:110, 19:29–33). Jesus was taught the scripture, wisdom, the Torah, and the Gospel (Q 3:48,
5:110, 19:30). He was told to be respectful to his mother (Q 19:32) and was righteous (Q 3:46).
Jesus was charged with prayer and almsgiving (Q 19:31). His specific revelation, the Gospel, contains
“guidance and light” (Q 5:46). God told Jesus specifically what he could rightfully eat, including
some things that were previously forbidden (Q 3:49–50). He gathered a number of disciples to his
side who would be “submitters” (muslimūn) to God and who would act as “helpers” (Q 3:52, 61:14).
Jesus also foretold the coming of a messenger after him called Ah.mad (Q 61:6).7
As part of Jesus’s mission to the people of Israel (e.g., Q 3:49, 4:157, 43:59), God granted him
the power to perform miraculous signs (e.g., Q 2:87). By God’s permission, he brought clay birds
to life (Q 3:49, 5:110), healed the blind and lepers, and raised the dead (Q 3:49, 5:110). Jesus suc-
cessfully asked God to send a miraculous table spread down from heaven at his disciples’ request
(Q 5:112–115). However, the people of Israel mistook Jesus’s miracles for sorcery (Q 5:110, 61:6).
They wished to kill him, but God protected Jesus (Q 5:110). The people of Israel believed that
they killed Jesus on a cross, but it only appeared so falsely (Q 4:157–158). In truth, God raised
Jesus up to himself (Q 3:55, 4:158), although Jesus’s (future?) death and resurrection are suggested
(Q 19:33).
Any number of these elements would have been known to Late Antique Arabic speakers, but
there is no single textual source (or even a fixed collection of sources) that draws all these fragments
together and that the Qur’anic audience is supposed to have read. For instance, the Qur’anic Jesus’s
ministry is dominated by “signs” (āyāt), and a similar vocabulary is used by several Gospel authors
where Jesus’s miracles are identified as “signs” (Gk. sēmeiōn, Syr. rôzê).8 This vocabulary is most com-
mon to the Gospel of John, however, the Qur’an has a particular investment in Jesus’s miraculous
birth, which is absent in John’s Gospel. Elements of the Qur’anic infancy stories have parallels in
Luke’s Gospel, as well as in the apocryphal Syriac (or Arabic) Infancy Gospel, such as Jesus’s speech
in the cradle9 and animation of clay birds.10 But the Qur’an’s presentations of these stories are radi-
cally unlike either Gospels’ in theme, style, contents, or function. When the Qur’an mentions Jesus’s
life and ministry, it is not affirming or denying the textual sources of Jesus but rather the folkloric
stories about Jesus.
Of particular note here would be the issue of Jesus’s crucifixion, both because the matter is cen-
tral to the overwhelming majority of Christianities and because the Qur’an’s presentation of it is
quite unlike most Christian textual sources.11 The Qur’anic Jesus appears to have been killed on a
cross by the people of Israel, but he was not (Q 4:157–158). Instead, it only “seemed” (shubbiha) or
“was made to appear” so. The true mechanics of the crucifixion in the Qur’an remain a matter of
debate. Does the Qur’an mean to say that Jesus did not die at all or simply that he was not killed?
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Did someone die in his place, like a doppelgänger? Or was the entire event at the cross an illusion?
Or was Jesus crucified in the immediate sense, but the agent behind the action was God, not the
people of Israel?
The Qur’anic cross is entirely an engagement with folklore. It bears no powerful resemblance to
any previous text. And as folklore must do (and writing cannot do), the story is accounting for the
audience of the particular situation. There are multiple audience members with variant understand-
ings of Jesus’s execution. There are Jews, who within the Qur’anic framework are charged with
actively disregarding a few of God’s signs and messengers. They are here evidenced by some Jews in
the past attempting to kill Jesus and bragging about it. But “they have no knowledge about” the truth
of Jesus. But simultaneously the Qur’an addresses Christians, to whom the crucifixion is central to
soteriology. And keeping with the Qur’an’s larger argument that Christians made too much of Jesus’s
role, the salvific event of Christian history is deliberately obscured. The Qur’anic Jesus remains in
place as a prophet beloved of God (correcting Judaism), but the details of his office are shaky, his
story elusive (problematizing Christian theologies of the cross).
Keeping to this pattern, the most extensive Qur’anic discussion of Jesus does not regard his
ministry or his apparent death but his station. The Qur’an repeatedly reports that Jesus’s nature is a
subject of debate and that the Qur’an itself is clearing up the matter (Q 3:60–62, 4:157–158, 19:34,
37, 43:57–59, 63–65). Countering the Christians, Jesus is not God (Q 5:17, 72), and neither is he
God’s son (Q 4:171, 9:30–31, 19:35). Indeed, in some indeterminate moment outside of time, Jesus
swears to God that he did not instruct anyone to take himself or his mother as “two gods” apart from
God (Q 5:116). Neither is God triune (Q 4:171).
And when countering Jews, Jesus’s status as a true prophet and as a messenger of the Gospel is
frequently accentuated. Jesus is a servant of God (Q 19:30, 43:59) with whom God made a covenant
just as God made with the prophets before him (Q 33:7). He is one of the “ones brought near” to
God or God’s throne (Q 3:45, 4:172). Uniquely of the Qur’anic prophets, he is a “word” from God
and the awaited “messiah” (Q 3:45, 4:171) who confirms the Torah of the Jews (Q 3:50, 5:46).
None of this suggests Jesus’s divinity, but neither is Jesus to be ignored or disrespected.
John’s Infancy and the Names Yah.ya and ʿĪsā

The Qur’anic John is the son of the Prophet Zachariah (Zakariyyā) and his unnamed wife. The
couple is childless because Zachariah is elderly (Q 19:8) and his wife barren (Q 3:40, 21:90). But
Zachariah calls on God to give him a good child (Q 3:38, 19:1–6, 21:89), to which God and/or
his angels reply that this will be granted, and the child will be named John (Yah.ya) (Q 3:39, 19:7).
We are also told that no one has ever had a name like John before (Q 19:7). Zachariah then either
doubts that such a birth is possible or merely asks for a sign from God to confirm this promise of
a miracle. To this God responds that the sign will be that Zachariah must remain silent or will not
be able to speak for three days, communicating by “gesture” (ramzan) alone (Q 3:41, 19:10). God
granted John “wisdom” (h.ukm) even as a child, and he is ordered to “hold fast to the scripture” (Q
19:12). John was good to his parents, was neither tyrannical nor disobedient, and protected himself
from sin and impurity (Q 19:13–14). He is to confirm the coming prophecy of Jesus, while himself
being a man of “honor” (sayyid), “chaste” (h.as.ūr), and “a prophet amongst the righteous” (nabiyyan
mina l-s.ālih.īna, Q 3:39). We are not given any of the specific details of his later career, although like
Jesus, John’s death and future resurrection are implied (Q 19:15).
John’s infancy would have been well-known among Christian communities in Late Antiquity
whether or not a given Christian personally encountered Luke 1, the “canonical” version of the
tale. In the Qur’anic version, there is an echo of the Lukan narrative, but there is no clear evidence
that the textual John found in Luke’s Gospel was present in the Qur’anic milieu. For instance, while
the Qur’anic versions of the story discuss John’s mother and her infertility, her name is absent. But
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Luke repeatedly calls her Elizabeth (Elisabet; Ilīs.ābāt). She is named even more than Zachariah is.
The omission of this textual detail suggests it was not available or significant in the Qur’anic milieu.
Conversely, there are also details found in the Qur’anic account that have no clear precedent in
the gospel text, such as the originality of the name John (Q 19:7). Similarly, while the Lukan and
Qur’anic plots are comparable, there are no direct quotations or other obvious dependencies of the
Qur’an on any known form of the written gospel. This textual John was not the John of the oral
Qur’anic milieu, and so it is not the John that the Qur’an is speaking about.
But if we place the Qur’an into the context of Late Antique liturgy and folklore, its vision of John
reveals itself to us more fully. John’s infancy narrative played a consistent role in the Christian liturgy,
as it still does. There are a number of extant versions of this in Syriac alone. In one of these, “Nativ-
ity Hymn 27” by Ephrem the Syrian (d. 373), we are told that Jesus’s name (Syr. Yēshūʿ) begins with
the letter y (yodh), and Ephrem gives several interpretations of this apparently mundane fact. His
most consistent argument is that through a Christian gematria the letter yodh symbolizes Jesus as the
incarnation of God. Ephrem explains that yodh is numerically the number ten, which is “the queen
of all numbers” and “complete” because it contains within itself all numerals from the lowest to the
highest. It expresses the full range of Jesus’s reality from the depths of humanity to the heights of
divinity. And Jesus passed on the letter yodh to other names as a remembrance of his power. Such
names, like John (Syr. Yoh.anon), are a commemoration of Jesus’s divinity, and they could not have
carried such names unless by Jesus’s power. Notice also that the people here that Jesus names in the
following passage are older than he is, suggesting Jesus’s eternal preexistence as well.
[N]ot even their names could exist without him. He gave the heads of his letters to his
parents who were his heads, and as their bodies were adorned by him, so too, he adorned
their names with his names. Nor again did that John baptize his body with his [i.e., Jesus’s]
power. Yodh bore the name of John as Jesus’ power bore John.12
The initial letter y expresses Jesus’ divinity and preexistence, and therefore other names that start
with this letter are likewise signs of the divine Christ. These would include both John and Jesus’s
surrogate parent, Joseph (Syr. Yosep; who is never referenced in the Qur’an, although the identically
named Prophet Joseph [Yūsuf ] is).
Ephrem’s liturgical arguments about the letter yodh in Syriac passed into the folkloric John and
Jesus that the Qur’an’s Arabic audience had in mind. The Qur’an powerfully rejects the divinity of
Jesus as an affront to pure monotheism, and so the evidence Ephrem provided must be somehow
incorrect. However, there is no reason to think that the Qur’an is speaking to Ephrem’s Syriac
text but rather to folkloric relatives of his arguments in Arabic speech. The most striking example
of this is the absence of the initial letter y (yāʾ) in Jesus’s Qur’anic name: ʿĪsā, not the common
Christian Arabic Yashūʿ.13 The Qur’an never addresses this linguistic oddity, and neither does that
version of his name have any known textual source. This is a pre-Islamic Arabic folkloric dismissal
of the divinity of Jesus which the Qur’an is assuming, affirming, and propagating. After Ephrem
but before Muhammad, Arabic-speakers presented Jesus’s name differently, depending on their
particular Christologies. For Arabic speakers who were either not Christian at all or did not claim
that Jesus was a preexistent divinity, the name ʿĪsā was used, since it breaks the Syriac gematria
of people like Ephrem. And the Qur’an closes the matter further by telling us that John’s name
cannot come from a preexistent Christ and does not refer to one. It comes directly from God’s
command. John’s name suggests John alone and depends on no power other than God’s.14 And to
avoid confusion even further, the Qur’an never names Jesus’s father-figure Joseph, even though
the name Yūsuf appears throughout the Qur’an when referencing the ancient patriarch of the
same name.
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Mary’s Tale
Mary is the only woman who the Qur’anic corpus mentions by name, and she appears there even
more than in the biblical canons. Today the nineteenth sura of the received Qur’an bears her name.
The general arc of her life in the Qur’an follows the diverse Christian textual sources. These include
Mary’s childhood and betrothal as found in the second-century Infancy Gospel of James and the
seventh-century Infancy Gospel of Matthew, the proclamation of Jesus’s supernatural birth found in
Luke 1:26–38, and, to a weaker extent, Jesus’s infancy in Luke 2 and Matthew 1–2. It is possible that
the Syriac (or Arabic) Infancy Gospel was present and being expressed through liturgical translation,
but again the Qur’an does not imply directly or through analysis that it expects its audience to have
read such texts themselves. We have no evidence in the material record or in the Qur’an’s contents
to think any of these specific documents were readily available in the Qur’anic milieu. As in the
cases of Jesus and John, the Qur’anic proclamation assumes knowledge of the life of Mary, but only
in the form of Arabic Christian formulae and folklore as formed (mostly?) secondhand by liturgical
experiences.
The Qur’anic Mary is the daughter of ʿImrān (Q 66:12), and God has purified and honored her
over all other women (Q 3:42). Even before her birth, Mary was pledged to God by her unnamed
mother (Q 3:36). Mary is a “sign” of God (Q 23:50) who confirms the scriptures before her (Q
66:12). She is told to be obedient and to bow down to her Lord (Q 3:43). Mary was raised in the
Temple by John’s father Zachariah, and she was often provided with food by miraculous means (Q
3:37). There was a dispute over who would watch over Mary, and so her would-be guardians cast
their “lots” (aqlām, literally “pens”) to resolve the matter (Q 3:44).15 She then, either literally or
idiomatically, drew a “veil” (h.ijāb) over herself (Q 19:17), left her family, and went to an “eastern
place” (Q 19:16). There Mary was spoken to by the “angels” (Q 4:45) or God’s “spirit” (rūh.) in a
human form (Q 19:17). She is told she will bear a son, but Mary doesn’t understand how this is pos-
sible because she is a virgin. She is told God creates as he pleases by merely commanding things to
“Be!” (Q 4:47, 19:20–21). Mary, now pregnant, went to a faraway (Q 19:22) high place (Q 23:50)
in order to give birth. As labor began, she took refuge under a palm tree (Q 19:23), she was pro-
vided with miraculous food and water, and consoled by the voice of her infant child (Q 19:24–26,
23:50). Juxtaposed to her baby’s supernatural speech, Mary vows to God not to speak to anyone (Q
19:26). Later she presents her son to her people, who address Mary as a “sister of Aaron” (Q 19:28).
The people explain that her family was upright but she has shamed them (Q 19:27–28). This false
accusation of sexual immorality is also strongly implied as still commonly attested amongst living
Jews in the Qur’an’s present day (Q 4:156). After Mary is charged with adultery, the infant Jesus
miraculously speaks and defends his mother (Q 5:110, 19:30–33). Her later life, including her role
in her son’s ministry and her own death, are not discussed.
While most of these details have precedent in other sources, the Qur’an is re-presenting them
in new forms as part of its larger argument for a simple monotheism. Most important would be
the claim that the virgin birth is evidence that Jesus is God and/or the Son of God. The Qur’anic
Mary is presented to reject such conclusions. Mary’s virtue, virginity, and miraculous pregnancy
are acknowledged as true, while their interpretation is shifted dramatically away from those offered
by any living Christianity. However, the Qur’an is also concerned that Jews have not/do not affirm
Mary’s status and miracles, and so the Qur’an must chart a middle course between rejecting Mary
and her son and exaggerating their importance. The Qur’an does this by drawing strong paral-
lels between similar stories attested by either Christians or Jews. This corrects those who doubt
Mary’s story ( Jews) by providing scriptural precedent, while simultaneously dispelling those who
mistakenly think her story is unique and therefore evidence for Christ’s exclusive divine status
(Christians).
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For instance, Mary’s story of a miraculous birth in Q 19:16–34 mirrors the proceeding pericope
of Q 19:2–15, which details the miraculous birth of John. In both narratives, a remarkable pregnancy
is announced, Zechariah/Mary is confused about how this is possible and then cannot speak for a
time, the infant possesses miraculous wisdom/speech, and then is blessed with peace at its birth,
death, and resurrection. By positioning John’s well-known infancy next to and in harmony with
Jesus’, the Qur’an uses standard Christian folklore against Christians’ own theological interpreta-
tions. Christians already believe in multiple miraculous births, so there is no reason to conclude that
just one of them marks the child as divine. Both infancies in Q 19 underscore that God can produce
children however he pleases by simply commanding it (Q 19:9, 21).
Conversely, the Qur’an is drawing connections between Mary and commonly attested Jewish
stories, again using the (now Jewish) audience’s assumed beliefs as evidence against the slandering of
Mary and her son. But rather than using the story of John, which Jews would presumably not have
significant interest in, the Qur’an compares Mary to a litany of prophets the Jews do affirm. Like
Mary, Abraham also fled from his people and had miraculous prophetic offspring (Q 19:48–50). As
Mary is declared a member of the prophetic lineage of Israel by being called “Aaron’s sister” (yāukhta
Hārūna) by the Jews themselves, the evidence of Moses’s blessed status is that God has given him “his
brother, Aaron” (akhāhu Hārūna, Q 19:53). This also intertwines her with the biblical figure of her
same name (Maryam). Mary, like Idrīs, was called up to a “high place” (makānan ʿaliyyan, Q 19:57).
And as Mary was chosen by God and prostrated, so too did all prophetic descendants of Adam,
Noah, Abraham, and Jacob/Israel (Q 19:58).
Name Games and Qur’anic Prophetology

This balancing act of making Christian prophets palatable to Jews while disregarding divine Christol-
ogy is also apparent in the most recurrent mention of the Qur’anic Mary: in matronymics for her son;
either “Jesus, son of Mary” (ʿĪsā ibn Maryam, e.g., Q 5:78, 19:34) or just “the son of Mary” (Ibn Mar-
yam, e.g., Q 23:50, 43:57). While patronymics are still normal in Arabic today, matronymics are signifi-
cantly rarer, and neither is the standard in the Qur’an. By positing Jesus this way repeatedly, the Qur’an
is creating a new formulaic expression for Jesus and dismissing a common but more problematic one.
Christians have called Jesus the Son of God since at least the middle of the first century ce.
Although Christians interpreted this title in a wide number of ways, few Christians would deny its
accuracy. Christians would know to call Jesus the Son of God, even if they are theologically unin-
formed and would not know how their respective authorities understood it. Naturally Jews would
not use this formula when referring to Jesus, as they did not affirm Jesus’s divine or even prophetic
status. There is also reason to believe that other patronymics and matronymics were applied to Jesus
in Late Antique Jewish circles, several of which implied that his mother had committed adultery.16
However, both Christians and Jews, while disagreeing on his father’s identity, would agree that
Jesus is the son of Mary. And here again the Qur’an moves between the two traditions to expose a
middle path. By repeatedly invoking Jesus in reference to his mother, it can introduce a new formula
that is at once agreeable to either community, while subverting both communities’ alleged errors.
Jews are invited to call Jesus by a title that they would endorse but that softly underscores the miracu-
lous virgin birth that the Qur’an critiques them for denying. Christians too could refer to Jesus as
Mary’s son, but in the process shift the emphasis onto Jesus’s humanity.
The Qur’an takes issue with the Christian claim that Jesus is in some sense divine; it also con-
demns the Jewish refusal to accept Christian prophetic lore. As in the case of Mary’s own story, the
retitling of Jesus as “son of Mary” moves him into a space where Judaism and Christianity meet.
This includes both adherence to monotheism and the affirmation of a series of human prophets. The
Qur’an places its own proclamation in this middle ground and thereby also exposes itself as another
link in the long chain of prophecy.
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While the Qur’an does mention that some of the prophets have unique tasks and titles, ontologi-
cally and narratively they are equivalents. All of the prophets are humans who “walk in the market-
places,” preach the oneness of God to their people, and are rejected by most. Every prophet’s mission
reminds the audience of the former prophets and foreshadows new prophets to come – the Qur’anic
prophet, Muhammad, most especially. Typologizing prophetic figures is by no means new with the
Qur’an, but in the Qur’an only one type applies to all and both forward and backward in time.
The Qur’an’s typology of equivalence appears most strikingly in prophetic litanies. These present
the prophets by name, sometimes without further detail (e.g., Q 33:7) and other times with narrative
remarks (e.g., Q 21:48–91). Within the lists there are sometimes subgroups of the Qur’anic prophets
whose stories are related.
And we granted [Abraham] Isaac and Jacob. Each one we guided as we guided Noah
previously. And of [Abraham’s] descendants were David, Solomon, Job, Joseph, Moses,
and Aaron . . . and Zachariah, John, Jesus, and Elijah – each of whom was righteous. And
Ishmael, Elisha, Jonah, and Lot.
(Q 6:84–86)
The audience of the Qur’an may have heard such lists before in the Christian liturgy, such as in the
case of a litany of the saints. There, as in the Qur’an, the plurality of familiar names given in quick
succession exposes a universal theme that all the named people exemplify. The Qur’an’s litanies, like
the shifting of Jesus’s title or the paralleling of Mary with other biblical figures, at the same time pulls
the Christian figures of John, Jesus, and Zachariah into alignment with Jewish prophets (righting the
Jewish minimization of the three) while at once rendering all the named prophets equivalent. Jesus
is in no way pointed out as superior or even distinct from the other prophets provided. “Abraham,
Ishmael, Isaac, Jacob and the tribes, and what was given to Moses and Jesus, and what was given
to the prophets from their Lord. We make no distinction between any of them, and to [God] we
submit” (Q 2:136).
Conclusion
John, Mary, and Jesus are presented as evidence for the Qur’an’s most universal and pressing theme:
simple monotheism proclaimed by a multiplicity of human prophets and miraculous signs. The
Qur’anic message to seventh-century Arabian Christians is that Jesus, Mary, and John are indeed
remarkable figures, but they are not unique. It is correct to praise them because they are amongst
God’s many messengers to the human race, but it is incorrect to deify Jesus or Mary because God is
one. Conversely but simultaneously, the Qur’anic message to seventh-century Arabian Jews is that
God is indeed one, but all of God’s messengers and portents must be heeded, including these three.
Jesus, Mary, and John affirm the legitimacy of the Jews’ own prophets and are likewise foreseen by
them. And, unique to the Qur’an, this typology continues on to the Arabian Prophet who offers
the Qur’an in the seventh-century present, who also is foreshadowed by all prophets and veritable
stories – including John, Jesus, and Mary – and in turn verifies their authenticity.
Notes
1 John also plays a central prophetic role in Mandaeism, but that issue, as well as any relationship between that
tradition and the Qur’an, will not be addressed here.
2 There is no evidence of widespread written literature or manuscript production in Arabic before the Qur’an.
While written Arabic existed in the form of graffiti tags and short messages, most of the Qur’an’s audience
did not encounter or employ literature regularly. Although there are tens of thousands of such inscriptions in
the Late Antique Arabian languages, the overwhelming majority are not in Arabic; with notable exceptions,
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most are not explicit about religious activity; even more rarely are they dated, and there has been no archeo-
logical work done in Mecca, Medina, and their environs. For a short overview of the available epigraphic
evidence, see Ilkka Lindstedt, “Pre-Islamic Arabia and Early Islam,” in The Routledge Handbook on Early
Islam, ed. Herbert Berg (Abingdon: Routledge, 2017), 160–161.
3 This is quite unlike nearly all literate Christianities today in which the many diverse interpretations of Jesus,
Mary, and John are referring to nearly identical texts, which all Christians have either read themselves or
learned from such a reader.
4 Mark 10:25, with synoptic parallels in Matthew 19:24 and Luke 18:25.
5 They would not even have been exclusive to people who identified themselves as Christians. Non-Christian
tellings of these stories, including rejections of them, must also be noted.
6 We can also include here the experience of Jesus, Mary, and to a lesser extent, John, in material works of
art: icons and most especially crosses. Here too an artist with some direct or indirect access to a textual
source creates stable narrative material that can jump the translation barrier into an Arabic speaker’s mind,
accumulating any number of personal interpretations in the process.
7 Considered to be a nickname of Muhammad.
8 E.g., John 2:11, 2:23, 3:2, 4:48, 6:2, 6:26, ff.
9 The Arabic Infancy Gospel of the Savior 1, trans. Alexander Walker in Ante-Nicene Fathers Vol. VIII: Fathers
of the Third and Fourth Century (New York: Cosimo Classics, 2007), 405–415.
10 Ibid.
11 Neal Robinson gives an overview of the suggested Christian precedents for the Qur’an’s crucifixion scene
in Christ in Islam and Christianity (Albany: SUNY Press, 1991), 110–111. Robinson provides three theories.
First, it may be an attempted Qur’anic reconciliation between Nestorians (who held that only the humanity
of Jesus died on the cross) and Monophysites (who held that Jesus’s one conjoined divine/human nature
suffered together). Second, the Qur’anic crucifixion was a nod to the Aphthartodocetae, followers of Julian
of Halicarnassus (d. circa 530 ce), who held that Jesus’s divinity fused with his humanity and thus prevented
that humanity from suffering or dying. Third, the Qur’an is arguing in favor of a gnostic rejection of the full
reality of the crucifixion, mentioned in several ancient sources.
12 Hymns on the Nativity 27:8–10. From Ephrem the Syrian: Hymns, trans. Kathleen E. McVey (New York:
Paulist Press, 1989), 212. Here the m (mīm) of Mary refers to the Jesus title “messiah.”
13 The oddity of Jesus’s Qur’anic name is discussed in Neal Robinson, “Jesus,” in Encyclopaedia of the Qur’ān,
volume 3, edited by Jane Dammen McAuliffe, 7–21. Leiden: Brill, 2001–2006.
14 Likewise, the Qur’anic John is never related with baptism in either name (“John the Baptist”) or action (e.g.,
the baptism of Jesus). Dropping the moniker again removes a title that makes John’s name dependent upon
his relationship to Jesus while also minimizing the significance of the Christian initiation ritual.
15 The precise reference of this story is not clear. Generally, this is assumed to be an allusion to a story like
the one found in the Infancy Gospel of James, chapters 8–9. There, Mary has turned twelve years old and
requires a husband. All of the local widowers are called together to cast their rods, with the victor to be
indicated by a miraculous sign. Out of Joseph’s rod, a dove appears and lands upon his head, marking him
as the winner of Mary’s hand. We may assume that the Qur’anic audience has some story in mind like the
Infancy Gospel’s – for instance the preceding account of Mary receiving food miraculously is also found in
this same source and chapter. However, the Qur’an makes no mention of Joseph at all, and neither can it be
said with certainly that the Qur’an is referencing Mary’s marriage in any regard. Here we can only say that
some folkloric material is assumed of the audience.
16 There is discussion of this matter in Jewish sources close to the time of the Qur’an’s appearance. For instance,
in the Babylonian Talmud, there are several occasions when Mary is said to have cheated on her husband
Stada (or Setada, or Pappos) with a man named Pandeira (or Pantera). One opinion believes that the name
“son of Setada” may mean “son of the adulteress (set․at da).” The rabbis say this man without a given name
was “an inciter” who was “hanged . . . on Passover eve,” “his mother was named Mary,” and he introduced
idol worship to the Jews. The section goes on to discuss how those who practice sorcery ought to be
executed (Sanhedrin 67a, cf. Shabbat 104b).
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10
MUHAMMAD IN THE QUR’AN
Joseph E.B. Lumbard
When the Prophet Muhammad is considered in relation to the Qur’an, discussions usually focus
upon “Muhammad and the Qur’an,” relating to his role in the revelation, composition, or collection
of the Qur’anic text. Discussions of the place of Muhammad in the Qur’an are far less frequent,
particularly in Euro-American studies of the text.1 Even in discussions of “prophecy” (nubuwwa) in
the Qur’an, the Prophet Muhammad is often passed over in favor of discussions of Abraham, Moses,
Jesus, and other prophets.2 The name Muh.ammad is only mentioned four times in the Qur’an (Q
3:144, 33:40, 47:2, 48:29), along with one use of the variant Ah.mad (Q 61:6). There is no Qur’anic
narrative of his life in forms comparable to the other Qur’anic prophets.3 Nonetheless, hundreds
of verses are addressed to the Prophet Muhammad, and the interactions among God, the Prophet,
the early Muslim community, and their opponents are woven into the fabric of the Qur’an. From a
classical Islamic perspective, the text would be incomprehensible without the Prophet. His function
was not only to transmit the revelation and to judge in accord with it (Q 4:105), it was also to teach
his community how to recite it, to purify them, and to teach them “the Book and wisdom” (Q
2:151, 3:164, 62:2).4 The Prophet Muhammad is considered the first commentator on the Qur’an
(Q 16:44) and the exemplar whose actions teach Muslims how live and act in accordance with the
Qur’an (Q 33:21). As his wife ʿĀʾisha said when asked about his character, “His character traits
were the Qur’an.”5 This chapter examines the Qur’an from this perspective, unfolding the manner
in which the Qur’an has been read by generations of Muslims as being intricately interwoven with
the life of the Prophet Muhammad.
Before Birth
Several verses of the Qur’an are understood to indicate that all of the prophets began their pro-
phetic missions before creation when making a covenant with God on the “Day of the Covenant”
(see Q 7:172–173).6 Their missions on earth wherein they deliver revelation, establish divine rites,
and guide humanity are then a manifestation of this covenant. This is alluded to in Q 33:7, “And
[remember] when We took from the prophets their covenant (mīthāq)”7 and in Q 3:81:
And [remember] when God made the covenant of the prophets, “By that which I have
given you of a Book and Wisdom, should a messenger then come to you confirming that
which is with you, you shall believe in him and you shall help him.” He said, “Do you
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-12 105

Joseph E.B. Lumbard
agree and take on My burden on these conditions?” They said, “We agree.” He said, “Bear
witness, for I am with you among those who bear witness.”
Here the prophets are understood as having committed to the mission of delivering messages from
God and guiding humanity to live in accord with the covenant. A component of the covenant that
is particular to the prophets is that they would believe in one another and support one another. Seen
in this light, the following prayer of Abraham and Ishmael is both a hope for a messenger of God
to continue their mission and guide the people of Arabia and an affirmation of the covenant taken
aforetime:
Our Lord, raise up in their midst a messenger from among them, who will recite Your signs
to them, and will teach them the Book and wisdom, and purify them. Truly You are the
Mighty, the Wise. And who shuns the creed of Abraham, save one who fools himself ? We
chose him in the world and in the Hereafter he shall be among the righteous.
(Q 2:129–130)
This supplication foreshadows the arrival of the Prophet Muhammad, establishes his connection to
Abraham and Ishmael, and situates his Arabian context.8 The Qur’an also reports that Jesus foretold
the coming of the Prophet Muhammad, when he said to the Israelites, “O Children of Israel! Truly
I am the Messenger of God unto you, confirming that which came before me in the Torah and bear-
ing glad tidings of a Messenger to come after me whose name is most praised (Ah.mad)” (Q 61:6). In
this vein, the reference to “the Messenger, the unlettered Prophet, whom they find inscribed in the
Torah and the Gospel that is with them” (Q 7:157) is also read as an allusion to the presence of the
Prophet Muhammad in previous scriptures.9
Whereas the Qur’an provides accounts of the trials that previous messengers such as Moses and
Abraham faced before their prophetic missions began, there are only a few allusions to the life of
the Prophet Muhammad before the onset of his prophetic mission.10 The most famous of these is
Sūrat al-D
. uh.ā (“The Morning Brightness,” 93): “Did He not find you an orphan, then shelter, find
you astray, then guide, find you in need, then enrich?” (Q 93:6–8). Other verses, such as Q 42:52,
allude to the Prophet having been unaware of revelation before the descent of the Qur’an: “Thus
have We revealed unto you a Spirit from Our command. You knew not what scripture was, nor faith.
But We made it a light whereby We guide whomsoever We will among Our servants” (Q 42:52,
emphasis added, cf. 12:3).
Prophetic Mission
While Q 3:81 and Q 33:7 are read as allusions to the Prophet Muhammad’s mission beginning
before the dawn of humanity, his mission on earth begins with the first revelation. The majority of
details regarding the nature and process of revelation are found in the biographies of the Prophet,
primarily those recorded in al-T․ abarī’s (d. 310/923) Taʾrīkh and the Sīra of Ibn Hishām (d. 218/833),
both of which rely on the accounts transmitted by Ibn Ish.āq (d. 150/767).11 The Qur’an itself only
provides allusions to the phenomena and process of revelation. The clearest reference is found in
Q 2:97, which indicates that the Qur’an comes down upon the Prophet’s heart via the Archangel
Gabriel and that it reaffirms previous revelations: “Say, ‘Whosoever is an enemy of Gabriel: he it is
who sent it down upon your heart by God’s leave, confirming that which was there before, and as a
guidance and glad tiding for the believers’ ” (cf. Q 26:192–196). The revelation began on the “night
of power” (laylat al-qadr, Q 97:1) during “[t]he month of Ramadan in which the Qur’an was sent
down as guidance to mankind, as clear proofs of guidance” (Q 2:185).12 Other passages emphasize
the congruity between the Qur’anic revelation and previous revelations, as when a group of jinn
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Muhammad in the Qur’an
who overheard the Prophet reciting the Qur’an are reported to have said, “O our people! Truly we
have heard a Book sent down after Moses, confirming that which came before it, guiding to the
truth and to a straight path” (Q 46:30, cf. 2:97, 3:3, 10:37, 35:31, 87:18–19), and the connection
between Muhammad and previous prophets, “Nothing has been said to you, save what has been said
unto the messengers before you” (Q 41:43;13 cf. 13:37–18, 16:43–44, 25:20, 40:78).
Mecca
The function of Muhammad as a messenger of God, a spiritual guide, and a temporal leader unfolds
gradually through the process of the Qur’anic revelation. Some of the earliest revelations reflect
Muhammad’s hesitancy and even doubt regarding his prophetic mission (Q 67:1–5, 93:1–8, 94:1–7),
others allude to God steeling the Prophet for his mission (Q 73:1–6, 74:1–4), and others to God
amending the Prophet’s behavior (Q 18:28, 80:1–10), and guiding him in the processes of receiving
revelation, conveying revelation (Q 20:114, 75:16–19), and guiding the community. Throughout
the historical progression of the Qur’an, the Prophet takes on a wider array of functions. Nonethe-
less, his status is elevated from the beginning in early Meccan passages such as, “truly you are of an
exalted character” (Q 68:1) and “And did We not elevate your renown?” (Q 94:4), as well as in later
Meccan passages such as, “And We sent you not, save as a mercy unto the worlds” (Q 21:107).14
In the Meccan period, the Qur’an focuses more upon the Prophet’s function in relation to deliv-
ering the message. He is to deliver the message to his entire community but bears no responsibility
for whether or not they accept it, as in, “And if they turn away, We did not send you as a keeper over
them. Nothing is incumbent upon you, save the proclamation” (Q 42:48, cf. 4:80, 6:66, 107, 11:86,
10:108, 17:54, 39:41, 42:6). He is commanded to “remind” (dhakkara; e.g., Q 50:45, 52:29, 87:9,
88:21), to “warn” (andhara; e.g., Q 32:3, 35:23, 42:7, 74:2, 79:45), and to “give glad tidings” (bash-
shara; e.g., Q 19:97, 25:56, 34:28, 36:11). In affirming these functions, the Qur’an responds to the
objections of his opponents, who accused him of being a “poet” (shāʿir; Q 21:5, 37:36–37, 52:30,
69:41), or a “soothsayer” (kahin; Q 52:29, 69:42), or of being “possessed” (majnūn; Q 37:37–37,
68:2, 51, 81:22), and maintains that the Prophet has no hand in authoring the message:
Truly it is the speech of a noble messenger and not the speech of a poet. Little do you
believe! Nor is it the speech of a soothsayer. Little do you reflect! It is a revelation from
the Lord of the worlds. Had he ascribed any statements to Us, We would have seized him
by the right hand. Then We would have severed his life vein. And none among you could
have shielded him from it.
(Q 69:40–47)15
In addition to delineating the Prophet’s primary function as a messenger of God and his relationship
to the message he bears (Q 26:224–227, 29:48), passages from the Meccan period emphasize the
human nature of the Prophet. His opponents are portrayed as expecting that a messenger should be
of an angelic nature or be accompanied by angels: “They say, ‘What ails this Messenger who eats
food and walks in the markets? Why is there not an angel sent down unto him to be a warner with
him, or no treasure cast unto him, or no garden for him from which to eat?’ ” (Q 25:7, cf. 6:8–9,
17:94–95). They thus mocked the Prophet for partaking in mundane human affairs, such as walking
in the markets and eating food (Q 23:33, 25:7). In response to such objections, the Qur’an contends
that if the message had been meant for angels instead of human beings, God would have sent an
angel as a messenger, but since this message is for human beings, God sends its messenger in human
form (Q 17:95). The Qur’an further maintains that partaking in human affairs is part of the nature
of prophets: “We did not send any messengers before you but that they ate food and walked in the
markets” (Q 25:20). The Prophet Muhammad is thus enjoined to emphasize his humanness, “Say,
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‘I am only a human being like you. It is revealed unto me that your God is One God’ ” (Q 18:110,
41:6),16 and to deny any angelic function or “knowledge of the unseen,” “Say, ‘I do not say to you
that with me are the treasuries of God; nor do I know the unseen; nor do I say to you that I am an
angel. I follow only that which is revealed to me’ ” (Q 6:50; cf. 11:31).
Verses from the Meccan period also allude to the Prophet’s developing relationship with the
Qur’anic revelation, gradually becoming more accustomed to the manner in which he should
receive it and work with it. Some of the earliest Meccan verses enjoin recitation of the Qur’an (Q
73:1–4). Later Meccan verses, counsel the Prophet to be patient in reciting the verses during revela-
tion, “Do not hasten the recitation (Qurʾān) before its revelation has been completed for you” (Q
20:114). Qur’an 75:16–19 expands upon this injunction, clarifying that God teaches the manner of
recitation, orders the verses, and provides the interpretation: “Move not your tongue therewith to
hasten it. Surely it is for Us to gather it and to recite it. So when We recite it, follow its recitation.
Then surely it is for Us to explain it.” In the later Meccan period, Sūrat al-Kahf (“The Cave,” sura
18) provides detailed instructions regarding the manner in which the Prophet should regard revela-
tion. According to non-Qur’anic historical accounts, the Meccan leaders posed three questions to
the Prophet to which the Jewish leaders of Medina had said a true prophet would know the answers.
The Prophet had responded that he would bring them an answer the next day, believing that God
would provide an immediate response. It was not until 15 days later that a revelation came. Within
these verses God also provided instructions for how to work with revelation. The passage begins by
chiding those who posed these questions for “guessing at the unseen” (Q 18:22). Despite their being
misguided, the Prophet is commanded; “dispute not concerning them, save with clear argument,
nor seek a ruling from any of them about them” (Q 18:22). This injunction indicates that when
hearing misinformation or disinformation regarding matters of the Unseen, the Prophet should
not dispute or seek the opinions of others but should await clarification from God until there is a
“clear argument.” Qur’an 18:23–24 then states, “Say not of anything, ‘Surely, I shall do it tomor-
row – except as God wills.’ ” This specifies that the Prophet should not have promised a response
from God and thus serves to delineate the nature of the relationship between God, the Prophet, and
the revelation, emphasizing that the revelation comes from the realm of the Unseen, whose keys “lie
only with God” (Q 6:59), and that it cannot be hastened by anyone. Qur’an 18:24 expands upon
these commands, indicating that when the Prophet does not know the answer or have a response
from God, he should turn to God “and say, ‘It may be that my Lord will guide me nearer than this to
rectitude.’ ” The discussion ends with the command: “Recite that which has been revealed unto you
from the Book of your Lord. None alters His words. You will not find refuge apart from Him” (Q
18:27). From a chronological perspective, just as Q 73:3 – “Truly We shall cast upon you a weighty
Word” – alludes to God steeling the Prophet to face the challenges of delivering the message dur-
ing the Meccan period, these clarifications regarding the relationship between the Prophet and the
revelation, combined with guidance on how to implement the revelation and derive rulings from
it at the end of the Meccan period, prepare the Prophet to assume a more comprehensive role and
establish a society grounded in Qur’anic principles during the Medinan period.
Medina
In the Medinan suras of the Qur’an, new functions are conferred upon the Prophet Muhammad.
From a political perspective, as the Prophet consolidated his rule, the Qur’an delineated his functions
within the new polity.17 From a theological perspective, within an idolatrous environment, it was
necessary to first emphasize the human nature of the Prophet in the Meccan period, before expand-
ing upon his divinely ordained powers in order to avoid the proclivity of the pagan Arabs to “assign
equals to their Lord” (Q 6:1, cf. 27:60).18 The Medinan verses continue to refer to Muhammad as a
“warner and a bearer of glad tidings” and to underline his humanity (Q 3:144)19 but now emphasize
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that he is to be obeyed and followed: “Say, ‘Obey God and obey the Messenger.’ If they turn away,
then truly God loves not the disbelievers” (Q 3:31). Obedience to the Messenger is even equated
with obedience to God: “Whosoever obeys the Messenger obeys God” (Q 4:80). That obedience to
the Prophet is a component of faith is implied in the Meccan passages of the Qur’an that discuss the
calamities that befell those who failed to obey previous messengers. In Sūrat al-Shuʿarāʾ (“The Poets,”
sura 26) the prophets Noah, Hūd, S.ālih., Lot, and Shuʿayb each enjoin their respective communities,
“reverence God and obey me” (Q 26:108, 110, 126, 131, 144, 150, 163, 179),20 and after providing
a list of 16 prophets Sūrat al-Anʿām (“The Cattle,” sura 6) states, “They are those whom God has
guided, so follow their guidance” (Q 6:90). Nonetheless, it is not until the Medinan period that the
Qur’an provides explicit injunctions to follow the Prophet Muhammad (Q 3:132; 4:59; 5:92; 8:1,
20, 46; 24:54; 47:33; 48:17; 58:13; 64:12).21
While not the most emphatic, Q 59:7 is perhaps the most frequently cited verse in this regard:
“Whatsoever the Messenger gives you take it; and whatsoever he forbids you, forgo.” In its immedi-
ate context, Q 59:7 provides specific rulings pertaining to the distribution of booty after the expul-
sion of the Banū Nad.īr tribe from Medina. Beyond that, it is understood as a reference to everything
that the Prophet enjoins and forbids. Hence commentators often gloss it with a famous hadith that
encapsulates the understanding of the Prophet’s legislative function developed in the Medinan verses:
“Abstain from that which I have forbidden for you, and do as much as you can of that which I have
enjoined upon you. For verily, it was excessive questioning and disagreeing with their Prophets that
destroyed those who were before you.”22
While explaining the qualities of believers, Q 24:51 states that when they received a “ruling”
(h.ukm) from the Prophet, they will obey: “The only words of the believers when they are called to
God and His Messenger, that he may judge among them, is to say, ‘We hear and we obey.’ And it is
they who prosper.” Other verses are more emphatic, indicating that taking the Prophet as an arbiter
of disputes is a condition of “belief ” (īmān): “But no, by your Lord, they will not believe until they
have made you the judge among them in their disputes, and find no resistance in their souls to that
which you have decreed, and submit completely” (Q 4:65). While it may have been implied in the
Meccan period, such verses from the Medinan period make it clear that, as he is a representative of
God, Muhammad and the Qur’an work together to provide the rulings the community needs, as in
Qur’an 4:105, wherein God addresses the Prophet: “Verily We have sent down unto you the Book
in truth, that you might judge among the people according to what God has shown you.”
Several scholars employ Q 4:105 to demonstrate that the Prophet had been given permission to
perform ijtihād – that is, to derive independent rulings from the principles and laws contained in the
Qur’an. The belief that his rulings stand above others is often grounded in the interpretation of the
following verse:
Do not deem the Messenger’s calling among you to be like your calling to one another.
Indeed God knows those among you who steal away under shelter. So let those who con-
tradict His command be wary, lest a trial befall them or a painful punishment befall them.
(Q 24:62)
From this perspective, the Prophet’s words, actions and sunna (“wont,” “custom,” or “normative
legacy”) serve as an extension of Qur’anic teachings and are essential for proper implementation of
its rulings and fully adhering to its teachings. Their preservation is thus a natural outgrowth of the
Qur’anic emphasis upon them.23 In this vein, Ah.mad ibn H.anbal (d. 241/855) is reported to have
said, “The sunna explains the Book and clarifies it.”24
The word sunna is not used in relation to the Prophet Muhammad in the Qur’an. Qur’an 33:21 –
“Indeed you have in the Messenger of God a beautiful example (uswatun h.asanatun) for those who
hope for God and the Last Day, and remember God much” – is, however, understood by most
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Joseph E.B. Lumbard
commentators as a direct reference to the importance of his sunna. In its immediate context, follow-
ing upon a discussion of “the hypocrites and those in whose hearts is a disease” (Q 33:12), who had
abandoned the Prophet in battle (Q 33:9–20), Qur’an 33:21 refers to being steadfast and holding
one’s ground as did the Prophet. Beyond its immediate context, it has broader implications regard-
ing the nature and function of the Prophet.25 Since his “example” (uswa) is considered normative,
the function of the Prophet extends far beyond providing judgments and transmitting the Qur’an,
as when God addresses the community, saying, “We sent to you a messenger from among you, who
recites Our signs to you and purifies you, and teaches you the Book and Wisdom, and teaches you
what you knew not” (Q 2:151, cf. 3:164, 42:52, 62:2). From this perspective, obedience to the
Prophet is not simply a matter of proper conduct; it is a means by which believers draw closer to
God. Thus God enjoins the Prophet, “Say, ‘If you love God, follow me, and God will love you and
forgive you your sins. And God is forgiving, compassionate” (Q 3:31).26
The most detailed list of the Prophet’s functions in the Qur’an occurs in Q 7:156–157:
[God] said, “I cause My punishment to smite whomsoever I will, though My mercy
encompasses every thing. I shall prescribe it for those who are reverent, and give alms, and
those who believe in Our signs, those who follow the Messenger, the unlettered Prophet,
whom they find inscribed in the Torah and the Gospel that is with them, who enjoins
upon them what is right, and forbids them what is wrong, and makes good things lawful
for them, and forbids them bad things, and relieves them of their burden and the shackles
that were upon them. Thus those who believe in him, honor him, help him, and follow
the light that has been sent down with him, it is they who shall prosper.”
This description of the Prophet’s functions occurring after the phrase, “My mercy encompasses
every thing” alludes to the Qur’anic concept that sending messengers is an essential component of
God’s mercy.27 That the Prophet “relieves them of their burdens and the shackles that were upon
them” is interpreted by most as a reference to his lessening the legal restrictions that had been placed
upon previous religious communities.28 More broadly it relates to his universal function, wherein
he is sent as “a mercy to the worlds” (Q 21:107), and to his more particular function wherein he is
“kind and compassionate unto the believers” (Q 9:128), purifies them (Q 9:103), and seeks forgive-
ness for them (Q 60:12). Just as the first part of Q 7:156–157 provides a more detailed account of the
Prophet’s functions, the last sentence provides a more detailed account of the relationship between
the Prophet and the believers. “The light that has been sent down with” the Prophet is interpreted
as a reference to the Qur’an or to his sunna. In other Medinan verses, the Prophet himself is referred
to as “a light,” as when he is referred to as “a luminous lamp” (Q 33:46) and when God says, “There
has come unto you, from God, a light and a clear book, whereby God guides whosoever seeks His
contentment unto the ways of peace, and brings them from layered darkness into light, by His leave,
and guides them unto a straight path” (5:15–16).29 And whereas it is only God who guides the
believers in the Meccan verses, in the Medinan verses, the Prophet Muhammad also brings people
“from layered darkness into light” (Q 14:1, 65:10). In this vein, Qur’an 57:28 promises, “O you who
believe! Reverence God and believe in His Messenger; He will give you a twofold portion of His
mercy, make a light for you by which you may walk, and forgive you.”30
In addition to an expansion of the Prophet’s functions and increased emphasis upon his ability to
guide the community, the Medinan suras present a closer relationship between God and the Prophet.
Of the 68 times that the phrase “God and His Messenger” occurs in the Qur’an, only one is in a
Meccan verse – Q 73:23 – which is from the later Meccan period. In addition, the phrase “God
and the Messenger” only appears in Medinan verses,31 and the community is called to respond to the
Messenger as they would to God, “O you who believe! Respond to God and the Messenger when
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he calls you unto that which gives you life” (Q 8:23). This close association is reflected by the man-
ner in which many attributes of God are also attributed to the Prophet. For example, God is “the
Light” (al-Nūr, Q 24:35), and the Prophet is “a light” (nūrun, Q 5:15); God is “the Truth” (al-H . aqq,
Q 18:44), and the Prophet is “a truth” (haqqun, Q 3:86); God is “The Guide” (al-Hādī, Q 22:54),
and the Prophet guides “unto the straight path” (Q 42:52); God is “The Judge” (al-H.akam, Q 6:114),
and people must take the Prophet as “the judge among them in their disputes” (Q 4:65, cf. 4:105);
God is “The Kind” (al-Raʿūf, Q 3:30) and “The Compassionate” (al-Rah.mān), and the Prophet is
“kind and compassionate unto the believers” (Q 9:128); God is “the Merciful” (al-Rah.īm), and the
Prophet is sent as “a mercy to the worlds” (Q 21:107). Qur’an 8:17 indicates that this relationship
reached the point where the will of the Prophet was subsumed within the will of God. Referring
to an incident when the Prophet threw pebbles at an oncoming army to summon the aid that God
had promised, God addresses the Prophet, “[Y]ou did not throw when you threw, but God threw.”32
The fullest manifestation of God’s will within the person of the Prophet occurs in Q 48:10 where,
when swearing allegiance to the Prophet, the believers are in fact swearing allegiance to God: “Truly
those who pledge allegiance unto you pledge allegiance only unto God. The Hand of God is over
their hands” (Q 48:10). According to Rūzbihān Baqlī (d. 606/1209), this indicates that God made
the Prophet, “a mirror for the manifestation of His Essence and His Attributes.”33 In this same vein
Ibn ʿAjība (d. 1223/1809) interprets this verse as an allusion to the Prophet’s “complete extinction
in God and to his abiding in God.”34
Praise for the Prophet

In addition to these verses indicating the Prophet’s submission to and submersion in the Divine, Q
33:56 states, “Truly God and His angels invoke blessings upon the Prophet. O you who believe!
Invoke blessings upon him, and greetings of peace!” In the context of Sūrat al-Ah.zāb (“The Parties,”
sura 33) in which it appears, this verse answers questions raised by the previous verses as to why the
Prophet is “closer to the believers than they are to themselves” (Q 33:6), why he should be obeyed
(Q 33:33), why he is “a beautiful example” (Q 33:21), and how it is that he is “a luminous lamp” (Q
33:46). That he receives such an honor also explains why his wives are “the mothers of the believers”
(Q 33:6) and have a status above other women (Q 33:31–32).35
While the injunction to “invoke . . . greetings of peace” refers to the now ubiquitous Muslim
greeting, “Peace be upon you,” it also indicates being at peace with the Prophet and thus following
him and living in accord with what he has brought. In order to follow the injunction to bless the
Prophet, his Companions asked him, “We know how to give you greetings of peace, but how do we
invoke blessings upon you?” To which the Prophet responded:
O God! Bless Muhammad and the family of Muhammad as You blessed Abraham and the
family of Abraham. And shower grace upon Muhammad and upon the family of Muham-
mad as You showered grace upon Abraham and upon the family of Abraham in all the
worlds. Truly You are praised, glorious.36
Similar formulas occur in many other supplications. Invoking blessings upon the Prophet is not a
benefit for the Prophet but for the believers themselves and serves as a way in which he remains with
the community at all times. As Shihāb al-Dīn al-Ālūsī (d. 1270/1854) observes in his commentary
on Q 33:56, this manner of calling for God’s blessings upon the Prophet expresses one’s inability to
do anything more than to ask God to shower His blessings upon the Prophet.37 In this sense, to wish
blessings upon the Prophet is a means of participating in and affirming the Divine act of whelming
in blessings upon the Prophet and thus of also drawing the believer closer to God.
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Notes
1 The major exception is Rudi Paret’s Muhammed und der Koran: Geschichte und Verkuendigung des arabischen
Propheten. Nonetheless, Paret is overly focused upon establishing a Jewish/Christian paradigm as the uni-
versal paradigm through which Muhammad’s mission should be understood. Like Nöldeke and others,
Paret cannot conceive of Muhammad implementing a mode of prophethood different from that of the Old
Testament prophets and insists upon the inferiority of Muhammad’s mission to those of Moses and other
Jewish and Christian prophets. This puts his analysis quite at odds with the image presented in the Qur’an
and especially the Islamic tradition. For the diversity of portrayals of Muhammad, see Christiane Gruber,
The Praiseworthy One: Prophet Muhammad in Islamic Texts and Images (Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
2018); Kecia Ali, The Lives of Muhammad (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2014); Annemarie
Schimmel, And Muh.ammad Is His Messenger: The Veneration of the Prophet in Islamic Piety (Chapel Hill: Uni-
versity of North Carolina Press, 1985).
2 See, for example, Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013),
chapter five of which examines prophecy in the Qur’an but gives little coverage to the specific role of the
Prophet Muhammad.
3 For the most recent examination of the manner in which the Qur’an reveals developments in the life of
the Prophet and the early Muslim community, see Juan Cole, Muhammad Prophet of Peace amid the Clash of
Empires (New York: Nation Books, 2018).
4 That these verses include the concept of purification with the phrases, “[who] purifies them” (Q 3:164,
62:2) or “[who] purifies you” (Q 2:151), alludes to the ultimate purpose of the knowledge imparted by the
Prophet.
5 S.ah.īh. Bukhārī, 994, 6310. S.ah.īh. Muslim, 746.
6 For a discussion of the Covenant in the Qur’an, see Joseph E.B. Lumbard, “Humanity in Covenant with
God” in this volume.
7 All Qur’an translations for this essay are a modified version of the translations employed in The Study
Quran: A New Translation and Commentary, ed. S.H. Nasr, Caner Dagli, Maria Dakake, Joseph Lumbard, and
Mohammed Rustom (San Francisco: HarperOne. 2015).
8 Regarding the manner in which the Qur’an brings the Prophet Muhammad and Arabia into the narrative
of biblical history, see Walid Saleh, “The Preacher of the Meccan Qur’an,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 20, no.
2 (2018): 74–111.
9 Whether there are in fact verses in the Hebrew Scriptures and the New Testament that refer directly to the
Prophet Muhammad has become a point of contention in contemporary discussions. Premodern Qur’anic
commentators were also divided on this issue, with some maintaining that specific passages, such as Genesis
16–17 and John 16:7–14, refer to the Prophet Muhammad, and others maintaining that Qur’an 7:157 only
indicates that “the qualities that identify and describe him as a prophet are mentioned in the Torah and the
Gospel.” Maria Dakake, “Commentary on Sūrat al-Aʿraf,” in The Study Quran, 405–481, 461.
10 As will be seen, several other passages address the difficulties the Prophet Muhammad encountered when
facing opposition to his message and in the process of guiding his community.
11 For an account of the manner in which the Prophet experienced revelation, see Muh.ammad Mustafa Al-
Azami, “The Islamic View of the Quran,” in The Study Quran, 1607–1623.
12 Some commentators also interpret Q 44:3–4, “truly We sent it down on a blessed night – truly We are ever
warning – wherein every wise command is made distinct,” as a reference to the descent of the Qur’an dur-
ing the Night of Power. But the majority of commentators prefer the interpretation wherein this passage is
understood as a reference to the 15th day of Shaʿbān, the month before Ramadan, when the Qur’an is said
to have been sent down from “The Mother of the Book” (umm al-kitāb) to the seventh heaven, before it was
sent down gradually to the earthly plain via the Angel Gabriel and the heart of the Prophet Muhammad.
See Joseph Lumbard, “Commentary on Sūrat al-Dukhān” in The Study Qur’an, 1206–1214.
13 Qur’an 41:43 can be read as reference to the insults cast upon the Prophet Muhammad by his opponents or
to the revelation sent to him by God. In either interpretation, it likens his experience to that of the prophets
before him and connects his mission to theirs. In this same vein, the Prophet is commanded, “Say, ‘I am no
innovation among the messengers’ ” (Q 46:9).
14 For a more comprehensive discussion of the manner in which the Prophet Muhammad’s functions expand
in the Medinan suras, see Nicolai Sinai, “Muh.ammad as an Episcopal Figure,” Arabica 65 (2018): 1–30.
15 Qur’an 53:3–4, “He does not speak out of desire. It is but a revelation revealed,” is also understood to mean
that were the Prophet to insert his own ideas into the revelation, it would be a violation of the prophetic
function. Though other commentators interpret it as a more general statement indicating that the Prophet
does not speak based on his whims and desires.
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16 The question of the humanity and mortality of God’s messengers is reiterated in many ways throughout the
Qur’an, as in Q 21:8, which says of all messengers, “We did not make them bodies that did not eat food;
nor were they immortal,” and in Q 5:75, which asserts the human nature of Jesus and Mary: “The Messiah,
son of Mary, was nothing but a messenger – messengers have passed away before him. And his mother was
truthful. Both of them ate food.”
17 For discussions of the manner in which the Prophet Muhammad’s rule expanded in the Medinan period,
see Sinai, “Muh.ammad as an Episcopal Figure.”
18 For a discussion of the manner in which many attributes of God are also attributed to the Prophet Muham-
mad in the Qur’an, see Khalil Andani, “The Metaphysics of Muhammad: The Nūr Muh.ammad from Imām
․ ūsī,” Journal of Sufi Studies 8 (2020): 99–175.
Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq to Nas.īr al-Dīn al-T
19 “Muhammad is but a messenger; messengers have passed before him. So if he dies or is slain, will you turn
back on your heels? Whosoever turns back on his heels will not harm God in the least, and God will rec-
ompense the thankful” (Q 3:144).
20 For an analysis of the manner in which Sūrat al-Shuʿarāʾ develops the paradigm of prophethood, see Sid-
ney H. Griffith, “ ‘The Sunna of Our Messengers’: The Qurʾan’s Paradigm for Messengers and Prophets:
A Reading of Sūrat ash-Shuʿarāʾ (26),” in Quʾrānic Studies Today, ed. Angelica Neuwrith and Nicholai Sinai
(London: Routledge, 2016), 228–246.
21 From one perspective, such verses provide a definitive response to the objections of those who had opposed
prophets, asking, “Shall we follow a single person from among us?” (Q 54:24) or “Has God sent a human
being as a messenger?” (Q 17:94).
22 S.ah.īh. Bukhārī, “Kitāb al-Iʿtis.ām bi’l-Kitāb wa l-Sunna,” 2, 7288; S.ah.īh. Muslim, “Kitāb al-Fad.āʾil” 37, 1337b.
23 As Jonathan Brown writes, “The normative legacy of the Prophet is known as the Sunna, and although it
stands second to the Qur’an in terms of reverence, it is the lens through which the holy book is interpreted
and understood. In this sense, in Islamic civilization the Sunna has ruled over the Qur’an, shaping, specify-
ing, and adding to the revealed book.” Jonathan A.C. Brown, Hadith: Muhammad’s Legacy in the Medieval and
Modern World (London: Oneworld, 2018), 3.
24 This saying is repeated in many sources among other sayings that speak to the relationship between the
Qur’an and the sunna, among them Muh.ammad ibn Ah.mad al-Qurt․ubī’s (d. 671/1272) al-Jāmiʿ li-ah.kām
al-Qurʾān, which has been among the most influential commentaries in Islamic history and thus shaped the
understanding of this relationship in many other commentaries. Al-Qurt․ubī writes, “Al-Awzāʿī reported
that H. assān ibn ʿAt․iyya said, ‘Revelation descended on the Messenger of God, may God bless him and grant
him peace, and Gabriel brought him the sunna which explains that.’ Al-Awzāʿī also reported that Makh.ūl
said, ‘The Qur’an is in greater need of the sunna than the sunna is of the Qur’an.’ Yah.yā ibn Abī Kathīr said,
‘The sunna judges the Book and the Book does not judge the sunna.’ Al-Fad.l ibn Ziyād said that he heard
Ah.mad ibn H . anbal being asked about this report, and he said, ‘I am not so bold as to say it, rather I say that
the sunna explains and clarifies the Book.’ ” Muh.ammad ibn Ah.mad al-Qurt․ubī, al-Jāmiʿ li-ah.kām al-Qurʾān,
20 vols., ed. ʿAbd al-Razzāq al-Mahdī (Beirut: Dār al-Kitāb al-ʿArabī, 2001), 1:74.
25 Commenting upon the entire verse, Joseph Lumbard writes, “Although his function as God’s messenger
is unique and inimitable, the Prophet’s words and actions are considered to provide the archetype of a life
lived in full submission to God. . . . In this context, and remember God much can be seen as a reference to
the heart of the prophetic example, since to live in accord with the prophetic model is to live in constant
remembrance of God,” “Commentary on Sūrat al-Ah.zāb,” in The Study Qur’an, 1017–1041, 1025.
26 In this context, David Marshall’s observation that “obedience and disobedience to God are inseparably tied
up with obedience and disobedience to Muhammad; human response to God is virtually coterminous with
human response to His messenger” applies more to the Medinan verses than to the Meccan verses. David
Marshall, God, Muhammad and the Unbelievers (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 1999), 167.
27 As Ah.mad Ibn ʿAjība writes in his commentary on Q 21:107, “Shaykh Abū l-ʿAbbās al-Mursī says, ‘The
prophets were created from mercy and our prophet is the quintessence of mercy (ʿayn al-rah.ma).’ ” Ah.mad
Ibn ʿAjība, al-Bah.r al-madīd fī tafsīr al-qurʾān al-majīd, 8 vols., ed. ʿAbd al-Salām al-ʿAmrānī al-Khālidī
al-ʿArāʾisī (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2005), 4:289. In the commentary on Qur’an 8:24, Ibn ʿAjība
writes, “It is from God’s grace and mercy that He has placed in every time and era callers who invite human-
ity to that which will bring life to their hearts,” al-Bah.r al-madīd, 3:207.
28 See Maria Dakake, “Commentary on Sūrat al-Aʿrāf,” in The Study Qur’an, 405–481, 461.
29 Qur’an 78:13, which refers to “a radiant lamp” is also interpreted by some as an allusion to the Prophet
Muhammad, as in the reference to “a lamp” in Q 25:61.
30 For a study of the manner in which the “light of Muhammad” has been understood in the Islamic tradition,
see Andani, “The Metaphysics of Muhammad.”
31 Q 3:132, 3:172, 4:69, 8:1, 8:24, 8:27, 61:11.
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Joseph E.B. Lumbard
32 Regarding the relationship this verse shows between God and His Messenger, Ismāʿīl H.aqqī al-Burusāwī (d.
1137/1725) writes, “This pertains to the station of Divine self-disclosure. Thus, if God discloses Himself to
one of His servants with one of His attributes, an action congruent with that [Divine] attribute will manifest
itself in the servant.” Ismāʿīl H.aqqī al-Burusāwī, Rūh. al-Bayān, 10 vols., ed. Ah.mad ʻUbaydū ʻInāyah (Beirut:
Dār Ih.yāʾ al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 2001), 3:416.
33 Rūzbihān Baqlī, Arāʾis al-bayān fī h.aqāʾiq al-Qurʾān, 3 vols., ed. Ah.mad Farīd al-Mazīdī (Beirut: Dār al-
Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2008), 3:318.
34 Ibn ʿAjība, Al-Bah.r al-madīd, 7:136.
35 In Q 33:33, “God only desires to remove defilement from you, O People of the Household, and to purify
you completely is also understood as a reference to the Prophet’s wives or to his extended family” is also
interpreted as a reference to the purification of the Prophet’s wives by some or as a reference to his descend-
ants by others.
36 Bukhārī 6357; Muslim 405; Tirmidhī, Tafsīr, Abū Dāwūd 980; Nisāʾī 1282; Ah.mad 22415.
37 Shihāb al-Dīn al-Alūsī, Rūh. al-maʿānī fī tafsīr al-Qurʾān al-ʿAz․īm wa al-Sabʿ al-Mathānī, 30 vols., ed. ʿAlī
ʿAbd al-Bāriʾ ʿAt․iyya (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2001), 11:254.
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11
THE PRAISEWORTHY
Feryal Salem
A common misconception of the Islamic faith is that its legal ordinances take priority over its spir-
itual and ethical messages. They do not. An examination of some of the praiseworthy and blame-
worthy qualities highlighted in the Qur’an demonstrates quite the opposite. Islam in its scripture
repeatedly emphasizes the importance of cultivating inner virtues of goodness and praises individuals
who do so in a variety of ways. These individuals may be characterized generally as the “praisewor-
thy.” They are praiseworthy because the Qur’an indicates that God loves and praises them for their
embodiment of qualities that the Qur’an defines as aspects of ethical conduct. From the numer-
ous verses in the Qur’an that discuss the inner dimensions of the spiritual connection to God, the
tradition of Sufism flowered and evolved over the centuries in response to the need to understand
principles of the Qur’anic ethics of the soul. Specialists in this field determined the praiseworthy
and blameworthy inner qualities that the Qur’an taught its audiences and worked to find practical
methods of cultivating them within the self.
“The Patient Ones” (al-S. ābirīn)

Among the praiseworthy qualities repeatedly mentioned in the Qur’an is “patience” (s.abr). The
Qur’an mentions the virtue of patience in a variety of different ways, both in individual examples
within verses as well as within the context of parables that teach the importance of this quality.
Among Qur’anic references to patience, there is the verse: “And we appointed leaders from among
them who were guided by Our command when they were patient and were certain of Our signs” (Q
32:24). This verse is referring to leaders from among the Israelites who attained their rank in the eyes
of God and their community through their patience in adhering to divine commands. Ibn Kathīr
(d. 774/1373) comments on this verse saying that the patience of these leaders also consisted of their
patience in abstaining from the temptations of the world. He goes on to conclude that patience is an
essential attribute to attaining a state of virtue and religious leadership.
The Qur’an also states, “O you who believe! Seek help in patience and prayer. Truly God is with
the patient” (Q 2:153). This verse discusses a number of aspects of the importance of the quality of
patience. First, God is making a direct connection between faith and patience. Mamluk-era jurist
Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya (d. 751/1350) described faith as having two halves with one half being
patience and the other half being gratefulness.1 While many have commented that patience with
God’s decree is a sign of faith, the verse here implies that patience itself cultivates faith. Thus faith
and patience have a reciprocal relationship. Second, the preceding verse also pairs faith with prayer
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-13 115

Feryal Salem
indicating that practicing patience in its various forms is also a form of worship. Third, the verse
states that God is with those who are patient, which implies that patience is not only a part of faith
and an act of worship, it is also a means of attaining nearness to God and thus elevating one’s spiritual
rank.
Elsewhere the Qur’an commands believers to “Be patient and vie in patience” (Q 3:200) as a
means to prosper. The concept of racing toward good is not foreign to the Qur’anic worldview, and
the injunction to vie with one another in exhibiting patience demonstrates the significance of this.
The Qur’an addresses the Prophet, saying, “So be patient, and your patience is only by God” (Q
16:127). The qualifier, “patience is only by God,” is interpreted by exegetes to mean that patience is
made possible through the assistance of God in attaining this trait. This implies the weight of being
patient, since its achievement itself is a divine gift and evidence of God’s help. This statement fur-
ther reflects the general Islamic theological principle of virtue and virtuous acts as a nexus between
human and divine agency. While the reference to vying clearly indicates human agency, the Qur’an
is reminding its audience that the capacity to do so is also granted through divine agency.
The Qur’an makes other references to God’s being with those who are patient. For example,
“And God is with the patient” (Q 2:249) and “And be patient. Truly God is with the patient” (Q
8:46). The Qur’an also links God’s love with the praiseworthy quality of patience when it says, “And
God loves the patient” (Q 3:146). The Qur’an describes the reward of patience in the next life by
saying, “And surely we shall render unto those who are patient their reward for the best of that
which they used to do” (Q 16:96); “and indeed we will test you with something of fear and hunger,
and loss of wealth, souls, and fruits; and give glad tidings to the patient” (Q 2:155).
In other words, the Qur’an is reminding its readers that the nature of this world is that it is filled
with difficulties and tribulations. But rather than these hardships being a source of evil to believers,
it is regarded as a source of good when the believer responds with patience. The Qur’an frames this
response as being a source of acquiring God’s love, an elevated spiritual rank, and divine reward.
Thus in the descriptions of the trait of patience we also find elements of how Muslims understand
theodicy when the common question, “Why do bad things happen to good people?” is asked. From
this worldview based in the Qur’an, challenges faced by a believer are not evil, as they may appear,
but rather an opportunity to attain righteousness in the eyes of God through exhibiting patience.
Patience is also portrayed as being a quality of God’s prophets. The Qur’an commands the Prophet
Muhammad, saying, “So be patient, as the resolute among the messengers were patient” (Q 46:35).
The praiseworthy quality of patience is a trait that the Prophet Muhammad is distinguished as shar-
ing with many prophets who came before. The Qur’an notes that the trials of various prophets and
their perseverance in these hardships were an integral part of their mission.
Both the renowned scholar of Islamic spiritual practice al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111) and Ibn Qayyim
al-Jawziyya use their major works on Sufism and Islamic spirituality to examine patience and its
attributes. Ibn Qayyim divides patience into three main forms: patience in abstaining from sin,
patience in maintaining obedience to God and doing good, and finally patience when faced with
afflictions and hardships.2
The Qur’an illustrates patience in the form of stories of prophets; here we will concern ourselves
with those of Joseph, Job, and David. The oft-cited Qur’anic chapter of Joseph (Q 12) is filled
with many examples of patience, and this patience eventually leads Joseph to prosperity in Egypt.
The chapter depicts each of the types of patience just mentioned. The story of Joseph begins with
his dream in which Joseph sees 11 stars, the sun, and the moon prostrating to him. Jacob tells him
not to reveal this dream to his siblings out of fear of their envy (Q 12:5–6). The envy of Joseph’s
brothers, however, gets the better of them as they plot to rid their family of Joseph. This is the
first form of patience that the Qur’an describes in this narrative: Joseph has to withstand the pain
of being a source of jealousy and then losing his connection with his family. He is left in a well
and is later taken as a slave (Q 12:16–21). Furthermore, when Joseph’s siblings return to tell their
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The Praiseworthy
father, Jacob, of the disappearance of their brother, he responds in the manner of a prophet with a
unique spiritual standing by saying, “Beautiful patience!” (Q 12:18). Thus the story of Joseph and,
by extension, of his father is a story of how Qur’anic prophets responded to their hardships through
the act of patience and perseverance.
Next, Joseph is brought to work in a royal household in which his mistress is in love with him.
The Qur’an details the encounter in which she tries to seduce Joseph and he resists. It is said, “She
indeed inclined towards him and he would have inclined towards her, had he not seen the proof of
his Lord. Thus, it was that We might turn him away from evil and indecency. Truly he was among
Our sincere servants” (Q 12:24). This verse indicates that Joseph was also attracted to his mistress,
and it was through his remembrance of God and God’s assistance that he was able to patiently endure
abstaining from this act. Thus in the Qur’anic story of Joseph, we find another of Ibn Qayyim’s
forms of patience: that of patience in keeping away from sin.
When Joseph is eventually thrown into prison, he is patient with yet another tribulation in which
his refusal to do that which is displeasing to God results in another trying circumstance. Yet despite
his hardships, Joseph remains patient with God’s decree by maintaining his commitment to God and
urging his fellow prisoners to believe in the same God. Joseph says in the Qur’an, “And I follow
the creed of my fathers, Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob. It is not for us to ascribe any partners unto
God. . . . O my fellow prisoners! Are diverse lords better or God, the One, the Paramount?” (Q
12:38–9).
When Joseph is eventually freed and attains a high rank in Egypt, he is rewarded for the many
years of patience he exhibited in a variety of ways through this happy end. Joseph also is reunited
with his father who likewise endured with “beautiful patience” both the loss of Joseph and Joseph’s
other full brother. Hence, the dream with which the Qur’anic chapter began is realized in the form
of Joseph’s siblings and parents bowing to him out of respect. There are many lengthy exegetical
works on this story in the Qur’an that derive various meanings from it. One persistent theme, how-
ever, is that of patience. Joseph is patient with all sorts of challenges he is faced with, and at the end
he is rewarded both in this life and the next.
Another less detailed account of a prophetic example of patience in the Qur’an is that of the
Prophet Job. The Qur’an says:
And [remember] Job, when he cried unto his Lord, “Truly affliction has befallen me! And
thou art the most Merciful of the merciful.” So we answered him and removed the affliction
that was upon him, and We gave him his family, and the like thereof along with them, as a
mercy from Us and a reminder to the worshippers.
(Q 21:83–84)
In another sura of the Qur’an, it says:
And remember Our servant Job, when he called upon his Lord, “Truly Satan has afflicted
me with weariness and punishment.” “Strike with thy foot; this is cool water wherewith to
wash and to drink.” And we bestowed upon him his family and their like along with them
as a mercy from Us and a reminder for possessors of intellect. And, “Take with thy hand a
bundle of rushes and strike therewith, and break not thine oath.” Truly we found him to be
steadfast (s.ābir). What an excellent servant! Truly he turned oft [to God.].
(Q 38:41–44)
In these and in other brief descriptions of the story of Job in the Qur’an is a reminder to its read-
ers that life will often have trials and tribulations that will come with it. Few will be tried like Job.
Patience and steadfastness in the face of hardship is a source of great reward from God.
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Feryal Salem
Finally, the story of David and Goliath is another Qur’anic narrative in which the lessons of
patience play a prominent role. The army of David expresses their uncertainty in the face of the far
mightier army of Goliath. The Qur’an describes the conversation between two factions of David’s
army, saying:
So when he crossed it, he and those who believed with him they said, “We have no power
today against Goliath and his hosts.” Those who deemed they would meet their Lord said,
“How many a small company have overcome a large company by God’s leave! And God is
with the patient.” And when they went forth against Goliath and his hosts they said, “Our
Lord, pour patience upon us, make firm our steps, and help us against the disbelieving
people.”
(Q 2:249–250)
In this narrative, the praiseworthy quality of patience is referred to twice. The first time it is in the
context of those who had faith in the power of God and as a result had the capacity for patience.
The second reference is a prayer in which the believers among David’s troops ask God for patience as
a part of their strategy for defeating the enemy. Thus we see in the preceding story that the Qur’an
reminds its readers of the importance of embodying the quality of patience as a source of victory
over hardships along with strength of faith in God.
The Grateful Ones (Shākirīn)

The praiseworthy quality of shukr or an inner state of “gratitude” to God is often paired with that
of patience. The verse previously mentioned in which the Qur’an tells believers to seek help in
patience and prayer is preceded by the following verse: “So remember me and I shall remember
you. Give thanks unto me and disbelieve not in me” (Q 2:152). Thus the praiseworthy qualities of
remembrance of God, gratitude to God, patience, and prayer are shown to be interconnected in
these passages of the Qur’an. In the inclusion of gratitude among these other qualities, we also see
an allusion to its significance. In addition, while kufr is often translated as “disbelief,” its root mean-
ing is derived from “covering up” (k-f-r) or in the context of faith, covering up God’s blessings. The
preceding verse presents “gratitude” (shukr) to God as the opposite of kufr or the denial of God’s
blessings, which amounts to disbelief.
Another verse from the Qur’an asks, “Why should God punish you if you give thanks and
believe? God is Thankful, Knowing” (Q 4:147). Belief and gratitude to God are once again paired
and connected in this verse. What is implied is the perspective that faith leads to gratitude and
gratitude toward God increases faith. Another feature of this verse is the description of God Himself
as “the Thankful” (al-Shakūr), one of the 99 Qur’anic names of God. Thus it is implied that God
reciprocates the believers’ gratitude toward Him with divine reward. The relationship between grati-
tude and divine reward is also found in the verse, “And We shall reward the thankful” (Q 3:145).
Reciprocity of human gratitude toward God with reward is a manifestation of divine “gratitude”
from which God’s name al-Shakūr is derived.
Gratitude toward God and His blessings is also described as a source of increase in those blessings.
The Qur’an says that God said to the followers of Moses, “And when your Lord proclaimed: ‘If you
give thanks, I shall grant you increase, but if you are ungrateful, truly my punishment is severe’ ” (Q
14:7). The section of the verse, “If you give thanks, I shall grant you increase,” has consequently
become one of the most well-known verses in the Muslim world. It is a well-known Qur’anic verse
that is often recited and used in calligraphic designs. Thus the relationship of having the praiseworthy
quality of gratitude toward God and the increase in divine blessings that results is an ethical disposi-
tion of many Muslim cultures.
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The Praiseworthy
The Sincere Ones (al-Mukhlis. īn)

Another praiseworthy quality emphasized in the Qur’an is that of “sincerity” (ikhlās.). It is note-
worthy that one of the most commonly recited suras of the Qur’an is known as “the chapter of
sincerity” (Sūrat al-Ikhlās.). This is despite the fact that there is no direct reference to sincerity in the
chapter itself. The significance of this is that the chapter that reads, “Say, ‘He, God, is One, God
the Eternally Sufficient unto Himself. He begets not nor was He begotten. And none is like unto
Him’ ” (Q 112:1–4), argues for a pure monotheism which is a hallmark of the Islamic faith. This
Qur’anic chapter emphasizes the significance of an uncompromising belief in the oneness of God
that excludes the possibility of any partnership or likeness. The word ikhlās. also has the same root
meaning of that which is “pure” and “unadulterated” (kh-l-s.). This can be seen in the way it is used
in the following verse: “And surely in the cattle there is a lesson for you. We give you drink from
that which is in their bellies, between refuse and blood, as pure milk, palatable to those who drink
[thereof ]” (Q 16:66). The word for “pure” in this context is khālis.an. In a similar light, the under-
standing here is that one’s belief in divine oneness can be adulterated by attributing partners, equals,
or those that share a likeness to God. Similarly, one’s intention to do good can be adulterated with
ulterior motives. Ultimately, as so many prophetic traditions indicate, the reward and punishment
for outward acts are determined by the purity or sincerity that was in the motives behind their
performance.
This theme is also found in the verse, “They were not commanded but to worship God, devoting
religion purely to Him” (wa-mā umirū illā liyaʿbudu llāha mukhlis.īna lahu al-dīn, Q 98:5). In this sec-
tion of the Qur’an, the root kh-l-s. is used to denote worship that is done with an intention “purely”
(mukhlis.īn) for the sake of God. Another verse similarly refers to those who worship God with sin-
cerity – here translated as “entirely” – saying, “Save those who repent and make amends, and hold
fast to God, and devote their religion entirely to God (wa-akhlas.ū dīnahum lillāh). Those are with the
believers and God will grant the believers a great reward” (Q 4:146).
In one of the narratives in the Qur’an regarding the disobedience of Satan to God and his subse-
quent expulsion from Paradise, Satan says, “My Lord, since you have caused me to err, I shall surely
make things seem fair unto them on earth, and I shall cause them to err all together, save your sincere
servants among them” (illā ʿibādaka minhum al-mukhlas.īn, Q 15:39–40). What is often noted in this
particular verse is that the word mukhlas.īn in this grammatical form means “those [that God] has
made sincere,” whereas the word mukhlis.īn, which is the more common form in the Qur’an, means
“those who strive to be sincere” themselves. While exegetes debate the significance of the existence
of these variant forms, what is important is that the concept of sincerity being both acquired from
the Divine and cultivated by the individual within his or herself through effort are both extant inter-
pretations based on Qur’anic verses related to sincerity.
The Trustworthy Ones (al-S. ādiqīn)

Another praiseworthy quality that the Qur’an often references and that is parallel to the virtue of
sincerity is “truthfulness” and/or “trustworthiness” (s.idq). In referring to the covenant God made
with the Prophets Noah, Abraham, Moses, and Jesus, the Qur’an says it is so “that the truthful
may be questioned regarding their truthfulness” (Q 33:8). Similarly, the Qur’an praises some of the
prophets for their quality of truthfulness, saying, “And remember Abraham in the Book – verily
he was truthful, a prophet” (Q 19:41). “And remember Idrīs in the Book. Verily he was truthful, a
prophet” (Q 19:56); also, “And remember Ishmael in the Book. Verily he was true to the promise
(s.ādiq al-waʿdi), and he was a messenger, a prophet” (Q 19:54). The Qur’an demonstrates that the
quality of truthfulness is first and foremost a quality of many Qur’anic prophets. Second, the ethical
laws and teachings that the prophets commissioned by God to bring are, among other things, a test
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Feryal Salem
of the extent of their followers’ truthfulness in regard to their adherence to the truth. This is why
the verse uses this similar characteristic when it describes some of the most loyal Companions of the
Prophet Muhammad, saying, “Among the believers are men who have been true to that which they
pledged unto God” (min al-muʾminīna rijālun .sadaqū mā ʿāh.adū, Q 33:23).
The concept of trust and trustworthiness are both connected virtues that appear in the Qur’an.
Indeed, “trust [in God]” (tawakkul) is found to be yet another praiseworthy trait that appears com-
monly in the Qur’an. The Qur’an tells the Prophet, “And when you are resolved, trust in God. Truly
God loves those who trust” (fa-idhā ʿazamta fa-tawakkal ʿalā Allāh inna Allāha yuh.ibbu al-mutawakkilīn,
Q 3:159). Trust in God is being referenced here on two levels. The first emphasizes the importance
of being decisive in one’s decision making. Thus when one has decided upon a course of action, one
should not waver in his or her steps but rather trust in God and set forth purposefully. The second
reference highlights that this is a praiseworthy quality that makes an individual loved by God. Hence
this not only reemphasizes the importance of decisive action as mentioned earlier in the verse but
also indicates that cultivating in oneself the quality of trusting in God is a means of cultivating God’s
love for oneself.
In the Qur’an, the Prophet Moses also commands his people to trust in God. When they are to
set forth unto the Holy Land, Moses responds to their fears of resistance therein by saying, “And
trust in God, if you are believers” (Q 5:23). “Belief ” and “trust” in God are likewise paired in the
following verse: “Say, ‘He is the Compassionate; we believe in Him and trust in Him, and you will
soon know who is in manifest error’ ” (Q 67:29). Another verse recalls the dangers faced by the nas-
cent Muslim community when confronted in battle by the Meccan idolaters who sought to destroy
them, describing the believers as, “Those to whom the people said, ‘Truly the people have gathered
against you, so fear them.’ But it increased them in faith and they said, ‘God suffices us, an excellent
guardian is He.’” (Q 3:173). The phrase used here, “God suffices us, an excellent guardian is He”
(h.asbuna Allāh wa niʿma l-wakīl), has a direct linguistic connection to the word for trust in God (tawak-
kul). Both wakīl and tawakkul come from the same root implying God’s guardianship and/or trust.
In another verse, the Qur’an links the two concepts just referenced, saying, “And whosever trusts
in God, He suffices him” (wa man yatawakkal ʿalā Allāhi fahuwa h.asbuh, Q 65:3). Thus the Qur’an
links the concept of finding sufficiency in God’s power with the virtuous attitude of entrusting one’s
affairs to God. Based on this paradigm, the phrase h.asbuna Allāh wa niʿma al-wakīl or “God suffices
us and He is the best of guardians” is a commonly repeated invocation in Muslim religious contexts.
Many more qualities and individuals who are imbued with certain traits are regarded by the
Qur’anic worldview as “praiseworthy.” The Qur’an is a religious scripture with numerous lessons,
narratives, and references that highlight to its readers the importance of ethical conduct and the ideal
way in which one should live their daily lives. This study highlights the praiseworthy virtues which
the Qur’an focuses on most commonly.
Notes
1 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Madārij al-sālikīn bayna manāzil iyāka naʿbudu wa-ʿiyāka nastaʿīn (Cairo: Dār al-H
. adīth,
1996), 159.
2 Ibid., 171–176.
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12
THE PEOPLE OF SCRIPTURE
(AHL AL-KITĀB)
Michael Pregill
The phrase Ahl al-Kitāb, often rendered literally in English as “People of the Book,” appears over
30 times in the Qur’an, in more than a dozen suras.1 As it is typically understood and used in later
Muslim discourse, the term refers to the communities who received revelation before the mission
of Muhammad and the advent of the Qur’an. On the basis of some passages in the Qur’an itself,
this category may be interpreted as including not only the Jews and the Christians but also other
communities such as the Zoroastrians (majūs, “Magians”) and the “Sabians” (s.ābiʾūn), a group of
scripturalists usually identified as Manichaeans, Mandaeans, or “Jewish-Christians” more broadly
(cf. Q 2:62, 5:69, 22:17).
However, it is the Jews and the Christians to whom the term Ahl al-Kitāb is most commonly
understood to apply in both Qurʾanic parlance and later Muslim usage, as the main communities
defined by their fidelity to and reverence for the biblical tradition.2 In some instances in the Qur’an,
it is often unclear whether the term is being applied specifically to Jews or Christians. Sometimes it
explicitly refers to both groups at once (as in Q 5:68, where the term kitāb – “scripture” or “book”
– is applied to the Torah and the Gospels alike); in other cases, it seems to be employed indiscrimi-
nately or generically, as in a number of passages in which Ahl al-Kitāb are criticized for rejecting
the Qur’anic prophet and his teachings, depicted as opponents of his community, and so forth.3
It is perhaps not an overstatement to suggest that the term Ahl al-Kitāb epitomizes a fundamental
ambivalence in the Qur’an, and thus in many Islamic cultures afterward, regarding the other, older
monotheist traditions.
Strikingly, the phrase Ahl al-Kitāb appears more often in the Qur’an than direct references to
Yahūd (“Jews”) or Nas.ārā (“Christians”) and other related expressions.4 The other term with which
Ahl al-Kitāb shows some semantic overlap is Banū Isrāʾīl (“Israel” or “Israelites”), likewise a much
more common term than either “Jew” or “Christian,” attested over 40 times in more than 15 differ-
ent suras of the Qur’an.5 The discursive prominence of both Banū Isrāʾīl and Ahl al-Kitāb indicates
the importance and relevance of biblical history to the present in which the Qur’an’s original audi-
ence lived: viewing the contemporary social and religious landscape through a scriptural lens, the
Qur’an sees group identity as determined by these communities’ origins in revelatory moments in
the past, especially their descent from the Israelites as the preeminent recipients of scripture (“scrip-
tuaries”) in pre-Islamic history.
Qur’an 4:153–155 is a paradigmatic passage in this regard. Here, the Ahl al-Kitāb (clearly Jews
in this instance) are chastised for demanding that the Qur’anic prophet bring them a book from
Heaven; by doing so, they recapitulate the sins of their ancestors, who contended with Moses,
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-14 121

Michael Pregill
committed idolatry with the Golden Calf, transgressed their covenant, and slew their prophets.6 In
such passages, asserting that the prophet’s interlocutors are heirs to the kitāb revealed to their ances-
tors establishes their clear continuity not with the Qur’anic prophet’s community but rather with
their erring forebears.
While the terms Yahūd and Isrāʾīl retain ethnic connotations, the term Ahl al-Kitāb generally
seems to transcend such distinctions, even if in some contexts it seems to refer specifically to Jews.7
The Qur’anic noun ahl, attested dozens of times along with the cognate āl, most often denotes a
“family” or “clan” (with a conjectured root meaning of people united by blood ties).8 However,
it can also signify a social grouping of people united by conviction, proximity, or circumstance.
Thus the Sodomites are the ahl of the city in Q 15:67; the Egyptians are the Ahl Firʿawn – those
under Pharaoh’s dominion – in Q 54:41; and the Ahl al-Nār of Q 38:64 are evildoers condemned
to the fires of Hell. Notably, we also sometimes find expressions such as “those to whom scripture
was given” (allādhīna ūtū al-kitāb or allādhīna ataynāhum al-kitāb) standing in for Ahl al-Kitāb. It is
thus likely that the locution is intended to signify a kind of group affiliation and association that
supersedes familial and tribal bonds. In this, it is precisely parallel to the Qur’an’s various locutions
for its in-group, the umma or community following its prophet, membership in which is likewise
understood to transcend genealogy, the primary principle of social organization in the society of
pre-Islamic Arabia, the Jāhiliyya.9
The word kitāb appears in the Qur’an as a signifier for scripture – most often in connection with
the Qur’an itself – over 200 times.10 It has often been understood as denoting an actual physical
book, even if this book exists beyond earthly time and space – as, for example, in the case of the
well-known phrase Umm al-Kitāb (“Mother of the Book,” Q 3:7, 13:39, 43:4), often represented in
traditional commentary as a heavenly codex that is the supernal analogue to and matrix of earthly
manifestations of divine revelation like the Qur’an (as well as the Torah, Gospels, and other scriptures
before it).11 However, nearly 20 years ago, the groundbreaking study of Daniel A. Madigan demon-
strated that in Qur’anic parlance kitāb often refers to both the dynamic process of God’s revelation
to humanity and the multiple aurally and physically manifest artifacts of that process, whether they
are literally or only figuratively “books.”12 This insight solves a number of cruxes presented by the
Qur’an, not least of all the striking fact that Qur’anic discourse seems to refer to the Qur’an itself as
kitāb, although at the time its verses were revealed, those verses were yet to be incorporated into an
actual book, whether a physical object or a complete orally transmitted text.13
This is relevant to the proper understanding of the locution Ahl al-Kitāb because it exposes the
degree to which Jews, Christians, and other communities identified through their association with
one or another kitāb are not only marked by their possession of a literal book of scripture but are
imagined as having originally come into being as communities through particular moments in a
long process of divine self-disclosure through prophetic communication, a process conceptualized
and represented through the figure of writing.14 As this process gave rise to the Jews, Christians,
and other communities in the past, so too is it taking place anew among the Arabs in the prophetic
present of the Qur’an, which is wholly self-conscious of its status as a new instantiation of kitāb that
is bringing a new community into being – as, for example, when the faithful are enjoined to say to
the People of Scripture, “We believe in what has been revealed to us and what has been revealed to
you; your God and our God are one; it is to Him that we prostrate/submit (muslimūn)” (Q 29:46).15
Notably, the next verse continues, in the voice of the Deity: “Thus have We revealed the Book to
you; those to whom the Book has been revealed previously believe in it, and some others; none
but unbelievers reject Our signs” (Q 29:47). Here the word kitāb is invoked twice, referring first
to the Qur’an and then to a previous revelation, and they are, it is suggested, equal and equivalent
manifestations of kitāb.
Taking all this into account, Ahl al-Kitāb would arguably best be rendered “the Scriptured” rather
than “People of Scripture,” “Scripturalists,” or “Scriptuaries” – emphasizing these peoples’ identities
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The People of Scripture (Ahl al-Kitāb)
as being grounded in the experience of a divinely initiated process of “scripturing” in which God
has actively engaged humanity over millennia. It is worth reiterating that the Qur’an sees itself, its
prophet, and his community as part of that process, not qualitatively different from those that came
before.
In about a dozen of the occurrences of the phrase in Qur’anic discourse, Ahl al-Kitāb appears in
the vocative form: “O People of Scripture. . . .” These people are not only a present reality in the
social and religious world of the Qur’anic prophet; they are a living link to the prophetic and revela-
tory heritage of the past, particularly that of the Israelites, to which the Qur’an itself hearkens back
and which it to a large degree assimilates and appropriates. It is certainly noteworthy as well that the
majority of these addresses (most of which are found in a single sura, Q 3) to the Ahl al-Kitāb are
admonitory, chastising them for their excesses and errors: “O People of Scripture, why do you dis-
believe in the signs of God, which you yourselves have witnessed” (Q 3:70); “O People of Scripture,
do not commit excesses in your religion” (Q 4:171); “Say, ‘O People of Scripture, do you resent us
only because we believe in God. . . ?’ ” (Q 5:59). One readily concludes that in the Qur’an’s view,
the Ahl al-Kitāb have failed to live up to the legacy of their ancestors who faithfully followed the
prophets who received revelation and transmitted it to their communities. They are presently in the
process of being supplanted by a new community laying claim to the kitāb, now being revealed again
in a new iteration through the Qur’anic prophet.16
The Late Antique and Formative Islamic Context

Scripturalism is one of the distinctive marks of Late Antique culture. Not only were the centuries
between the advent of a Christian Roman Empire and the Arab conquests instrumental for the
canonization and dissemination of authoritative versions of the Bible and other scriptural forma-
tions, but engagement with scripture as a broad phenomenon, taking myriad forms, became a char-
acteristic aspect of Late Antique religiosity generally, across communal boundaries. What has been
termed “Torahcentrism” became increasingly central to Jewish identity, especially with the destruc-
tion of the Jerusalem Temple and the increasing prominence of members of the rabbinic movement
as communal leaders. At around the same time, a rich Christian culture of the book emerged as a
manifestation of and eventual successor to the sophisticated Greco-Roman literary habitus that was
virtually definitive of civilization in the Augustan Era and afterward. Although the available evidence
is patchier, processes of canonization and discursive engagement with scripture became increasingly
important for other groups as well, for example, Zoroastrians and Manichaeans. This is the phenom-
enon reflected in the Qur’an’s incorporation of numerous groups (and not just Jews and Christians)
under the rubric of Ahl al-Kitāb.
From the western Mediterranean as far east as Iran and Central Asia, the Bible furnishes the
preeminent example of how scripture came to permeate culture, and communities’ self-definition
and articulation of their identity were increasingly expressed through exegetical, liturgical, artistic,
and literary engagement with it, in a variety of cultural registers, geographical settings, and social
environments. As much of the research on the phenomenon of revelation in the manifold forms that
it took in Late Antiquity shows, the concept of revelation was held in creative tension with that of
scripture as a canon, interacting with it in complex ways, for example, in yielding the idea of exegesis
as a renewal of revelation.17 The Qur’an represents a kind of logical conclusion to this trend, insofar
as it presents itself as a revision or renovation of the original kitāb that underlies and is manifest in the
Bible. It is not so much reinterpreting the canonical Bible of the Jews and Christians as restoring it
to its original, uncorrupted, essential state.
Angelika Neuwirth’s wide-ranging studies of the Qur’an over more than two decades repre-
sent the most significant research on the Qur’anic conception of kitāb – in the interrelated senses
of writing and scripture – in its Late Antique context, vividly demonstrating its centrality to the
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transformations in the religion and culture of Arabia that resulted in the emergence of Islam. For
Neuwirth, the concept of kitāb as divine writing – “a new hypostasis of the word, the hypostasis of
language” – wholly undergirds the Qur’an’s sense of itself and self-representation to its audience,
a direct challenge to the theology of the incarnate Word that lay at the heart of Christianity.18 As
an emergent scripture evolving in response to its audience’s needs and reactions to its message, the
Qur’an explicitly and self-consciously adopts a hermeneutic posture vis-à-vis both itself – that is,
the sequential revelations in the unfolding of Qur’anic discourse before its audience over the course
of decades – and the Bible as the preeminent scripture of old, perpetually revising and correcting
the biblical tradition as amplified and modulated through the exegetical and liturgical traditions of
both Jews and Christians. This hermeneutic dynamism is key both to the emergence of the Qur’anic
corpus (and thus to the genesis of the community that arose in response to it) and to its reception
and revision of the legacy of Israel.
Neuwirth’s approach is a deliberate corrective to the dominant trend in older scholarship of
emphasizing the Qur’an’s passive dependence on Jewish and Christian tradition. In her view, the
Qur’an is instead responding to and rearticulating the Bible as a mythic structure, engaging in a pro-
cess concurrent with that of other, older monotheistic communities – what she terms an “epistemic
revolution” in Late Antiquity – of which the transformation of pagan Arabia was perhaps the most
significant result. The culmination of a prolonged process of exposure to and adaptation of the narra-
tives and symbols associated with the legacy of Israel, the Qur’an’s appropriation and reinterpretation
of biblical myth served to reconfigure the social imaginary of pre-Islamic Arabia in a variety of ways.
One important example is the Qur’an’s recasting of Abrahamic myths, directed toward the repu-
diation of the pre-Islamic Arab emphasis on genealogy (nasab) and the prestige it conveyed, in favor
of a notion of spiritual descent in the Abrahamic mode based on piety and covenantal fidelity. The
most obvious consequence of this adoption and adaptation of a biblically-based Abrahamic identity
for the emergent prophetic community is the revalorization of the formerly pagan Kaʿba as a sign of
Abraham’s fealty to the one God, the rites of which any muslim or sincere “submitter” may partake
in regardless of their family ties, social origins, or genealogical descent.19
The assimilation and adaptation of biblical tradition in Arab culture in the form of nascent Islam
in the prophetic period was part of a larger tendency for marginal communities practicing traditional
forms of religion to gradually integrate into the wider Near Eastern and Mediterranean oikoumene
through religious and cultural transformations, especially through monotheization, a conspicuous
trend in both Christian Rome and Sasanian Iran. The notion of divine writing/scripture encoded
in kitāb, the preeminence of the idea of revelation as the basis of communogenesis, the enchanting
of space and time through the overlay of biblical sacred history – these interrelated aspects of nascent
Islam led to other scripturalists (or biblical scriptuaries) being recognized both as having commonali-
ties with the new Arabian prophetic movement and as being its natural rivals, if not inevitable oppo-
nents. That is, the conception of kitāb at the foundation of nascent Islam made other communities
literally legible as Ahl al-Kitāb, fellow “People of Scripture,” living remnants of earlier moments of
revelation, while also simultaneously marking them as deficient and superseded in relation to those
who followed the new dispensation.
At some point in the proto-Islamic movement’s development, it became necessary to draw dis-
tinctions between the followers of the new Arabian prophet and those who cleaved to the older
dispensations; this most frequently took place through interventions into shared – and contested –
sacred history. We have already noted the example of Q 4:153–155 and its alignment of the Peo-
ple of Scripture with the violation of the covenant and the sin of the Golden Calf, presumably
deployed as admonition against Jewish opponents to the Qur’anic prophet. A similar example may
be cited vis-à-vis Christians. As Gabriel Said Reynolds has lucidly demonstrated, the Qur’an’s rejec-
tion of Christian trinitarianism and incarnationism are not simply matters of theological difference,
as expressed, for example, in Q 4:171, which defines the excesses of Ahl al-Kitāb (here clearly
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Christians) as the claims they made about Jesus, son of Mary, and in saying God is threefold and begat
a son. Rather, these errors are understood to stem from momentous events in history, remembered
and recorded differently in the scriptures of various groups. Though their genuine foundation in the
ministry and revelation of Jesus is not contested, the Qur’an holds that some of Jesus’s sincere muslim
(again, in the literal sense of the word, “submitting” to God) followers went astray and distorted his
message, giving rise to the separate religion of Christianity. Christians are thus severed both from the
original faith of their founder and from an authentic recollection of what occurred after their com-
munity’s foundation, since this corruption is recorded not in the canonical (but distorted) scripture
of the Christians themselves but rather only in the Qur’an.20 Christians are thereby established as
part of a stratigraphy of error in the Qur’an, which distinguishes between the hopeless folly of poly-
theists (mostly the umam khāliya or “vanished nations,” but by analogy the contemporary mushrikūn
or “those who associate” created things with God); the Jews as the remnant of the guided people
of Moses who have earned God’s wrath for their ingratitude and disregard of God’s precepts; the
Christians as straying followers of Jesus; and finally the believing followers of the Qur’anic prophet
as the new saved community that supersedes the others.
Because we have virtually no objective historical information about the evolution of the com-
munity and the chronology of the revelation of the Qur’anic corpus, we cannot know for sure what
the particular breaking points were between the Qur’anic community and the Jews and Christians
in their orbit or when these conflicts transpired (although Muslim authors speculated at length on
these matters, especially in seeking to interpret Qur’anic allusions to these events). What can be
said with some certainty is that the schism between them that would later prove so momentous for
the history of Islam and the various communities of the Middle East does not seem to have been a
foregone conclusion.
According to the influential thesis of Fred Donner, the communal boundaries of the umma or
prophetic “community” were originally quite porous. In Donner’s reading of the Qur’anic evidence,
the umma emerged not as a distinct religious formation that sharply distinguished itself from Jews and
Christians. Rather, it was a pietistic and eschatologically minded movement that transcended com-
munal boundaries.21 Jews and Christians of sincere conviction (and who recognized the authority of
the Qur’anic prophet) were enfranchised as members of the community, distinguished primarily by
their fervent faith, by being muʾminūn (“Believers”).22
Donner’s argument hinges on the observation that the term the Qur’an uses for a communal
insider, muʾmin (pl. muʾminūn), appears hundreds of times, much more frequently than muslim, of
which we find only a few dozen instances. He conjectures that muʾmin was the main appellation for
a member of this group – Believer with a capital “b,” in our parlance – and is not simply a generic
term for a person of faith in the Qur’an. Donner postulates that the term muslim was deployed
specifically to refer to Arab Believers who had left paganism; those muʾminūn who were Jewish or
Christian – that is, Ahl al-Kitāb – remained known by those terms, for these identities were not
incompatible with their identity as followers of the Qur’anic prophet, as muʾminūn.23 This explains
the “ecumenical” (admittedly an anachronistic term) quality of numerous statements such as the pre-
viously cited Q 29:47: “Thus have we revealed the Book to you; those to whom the Book has been
revealed previously believe in it.” Similar in import is Q 3:64: “Say, ‘O People of Scripture, come to
a statement we can agree upon (lit., a “common word”) – that we worship only God, and associ-
ate nothing with Him, and we do not elevate any among us as lords to worship to the exclusion of
God,’” as well as a number of other verses that seem to assert the fundamental compatibility of what
the Qur’anic community and the Ahl al-Kitāb believe.24
In Donner’s estimation, these statements of compatibility were not simply ecumenical gestures
designed to promote amity between the different monotheist groups or appeal to the Jews and
Christians to leave their community for the Qur’anic community (i.e., to formally “convert” in
leaving one religion for another). Rather, these statements seem to suggest that in the Qur’anic
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“mindset” the monotheists already were a single community, at least potentially, if the Ahl al-Kitāb in
question were genuine people of faith who upheld what their kitāb prescribed for them. Notably, the
Qur’an explicitly distinguishes between those of the People of Scripture who are faithful and those
who are not, as in the intriguing passage at Q 3:98–114, which admonishes the People of Scripture
for their rejection of and opposition to the Qur’anic prophet, yet concludes by saying:
They are not all the same; some of the People of Scripture are an upright community; they
recite the signs of God all night long, and prostrate themselves; they believe in God and
the Last Day, and command the right and forbid the wrong, and they are quick to do good
works – they are among the righteous.25
It was only over time that the boundaries between groups became more ossified and being a Jew
or Christian and being a follower of Muhammad became mutually exclusive. This process seems
to have begun in the lifetime of the Qur’anic prophet himself and accelerated as the prophetic
movement developed into an imperial elite and eventually into a sharply distinguished religious
formation of its own. It was through this process that the self-identification of its followers specifi-
cally as muslimūn, “Muslims,” and not simply as muʾminūn, “Believers,” came to prevail. The con-
ception of Ahl al-Kitāb as potentially having been part of or overlapping with the early movement
was erased, to be replaced with another conception that became dominant in Islamic culture: that
of erring scripturalists who merit subjugation and subordination on account of their distortion of
God’s message.
Implications in Classical and Medieval Islamic Culture

Again, we have very little evidence outside of the Qur’an with which to evaluate Donner’s concep-
tion of the early community of Believers as being not only open to alliance with Jews and Chris-
tians but in fact deeply imbricated with them on the basis of confraternity, pietistic devotion, and
adherence to a shared scripturalist identity (at least potentially, based on the appeals the Qur’anic
prophet appears to have made to them). One of the main extra-Qur’anic sources cited by Donner
and other scholars of the proto-Islamic movement, a document quoted in an early literary source,
is conventionally termed the “Constitution of Medina.” Its import and underlying intention have
been variously interpreted, but it is generally taken as establishing bonds of loyalty and mutual sup-
port between the Arab (that is, formerly pagan) followers of Muhammad and the Jewish tribes of the
city after the hijra from Mecca to Medina in 622. Viewed in the light of Donner’s Believers thesis,
it appears to support the idea that at this formative stage, communal solidarity on the basis of shared
scripturalist identity was possible.26 Notably, as presented in the Sīra of Ibn Ish.āq (d. 767) the docu-
ment is termed kitāb, which in this context may indicate “covenant” or “compact.”27
If Donner is correct and a common monotheistic enthusiasm did prevail among the early Believ-
ers – both Arab followers of the Qur’anic prophet who had abandoned paganism and Jews and
Christians attracted to his cause – it is not hard to see how this situation would have rapidly become
untenable as the community’s circumstances changed. As its members became both more numerous
and more dispersed, it would have been impossible for the movement to sustain the kind of escha-
tological enthusiasm and pietistic fervor that had fueled it early on. Moreover, with the expansion
of Muslim authority, especially over vast populations who adhered to those other monotheisms with
which the Arab Believers had once putatively made common cause, the institutionalization and
consolidation of Islam as an imperial religion made the hardening of boundaries inevitable.
This shift in perspective is manifest in classical discussions of the status of Ahl al-Kitāb, in which
they were often located in a clearly delineated hierarchy of disbelief. In such a hierarchy, the
pagan mushrikūn are always placed at the bottom. Next come quasi-kitābīs who possess something
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resembling scripture but are outside the tradition of legitimate prophetic revelation primarily asso-
ciated with the Israelites. Then, at the top of the pyramid, yet distant from the true dispensation
of Islam, appear the “classical” Ahl al-Kitāb, the Jews and Christians, who persist in error despite
possessing some remnant of legitimate revelation and being the descendants, however deviant, of
followers of Moses and Jesus.28
In some discussions, Ahl al-Kitāb are not placed in a hierarchy above pagans at all but may be
seen as equivalent to, albeit different from, polytheists. For the early exegete Muqātil ibn Sulaymān
(d. 767), the Ahl al-Kitāb are not so much the opposites of the mushrikūn as their mirror image.
According to Muqātil, while the Arab polytheists refused to believe in God and the Last Day, they
did honor to their ancestor Abraham by preserving the rites of the Hajj he instituted and revering
the Kaʿba; in contrast, the Ahl al-Kitāb (here Jews specifically) authentically believe in God and the
Last Day but have abandoned the Kaʿba and the Hajj, taking Jerusalem as their qibla and place of
pilgrimage.29 The clear implication is that these groups resemble each other more than they do the
Muslims, especially in that they are united in their disbelief in Muhammad, who revives and restores
the entire legacy of Abraham and the prophets who followed him; both groups merit punishment
for this denial.30 Overall, one might say that whereas the Qur’an addresses Ahl al-Kitāb in a spirit
of fellowship, recognizing the fundamental similarity between its message and their beliefs, as Islam
matured, it became imperative for Muslims to assert their difference from such people, even to the
point of casting kitābīs as virtual infidels. As a famous maxim puts it, “all varieties of unbelief are the
same” (inna al-kufr kullahu milla wāh.ida).31
Rather than adduce more of the Qur’anic exegetes’ reflections on the specific passages in the
Qur’an dealing with Ahl al-Kitāb, in the space remaining to us here, it is perhaps more productive
to consider the larger implications of this still pluralistic, yet supersessionist aspect of the Qur’anic
worldview as it has historically conditioned or inflected real relationships between Muslims and
other scripturalists, particularly those under their political control.
Long before the promulgation of the canonical Qur’an and the other initiatives undertaken by
the Umayyad caliph ʿAbd al-Malik ibn Marwān (r. 685–705), at the beginning of the caliphal period
and the advent of the Arab conquests of the Roman and Persian domains, polytheism became largely
irrelevant in the community’s social map, especially with the overcoming of the pagan opposition to
the early community in the establishment of the first state in the Hijaz and the subsequent assertion
of Muslim control over all of Arabia. As those brought under Muslim rule as imperial subalterns at
this stage were overwhelmingly Jewish, Christian, and Zoroastrian – that is, adherents of scriptural
religion, more or less monotheistic – adherence to a different scripture, as concretely applied to the
social and legal environment, was no longer a basis for asserting affinity but rather difference.32 The
Qur’anic passages admonishing Ahl al-Kitāb were read not as corrective and hortatory but rather as
polemical and justifying domination, though also guaranteeing safety and some modicum of toler-
ance under a system of regulated corporatism.
In the early Islamic state during the conquest period, the passages in the Qur’an pertaining to
warfare were interpreted as mandating aggression against polytheists, as most famously expressed in
Q 9:5: “Slay the idolaters wherever you find them . . . but if they repent and perform prayer and pay
the poor tax (zakāt), clear the way for them.” Other verses were understood as legislating protection
for fellow monotheists if they surrendered their arms and claims of sovereignty and acknowledged
Muslim dominion over their communities:
Fight those who believe not in God or in the Last Day [presumably a rhetorical flourish],
nor prohibit what God and His messenger have prohibited, nor accepted the religion of
truth – those to whom scripture was previously brought – until they pay the poll tax ( jizya)
in submission, having been subdued.
(Q 9:29)33
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The Arab Muslim conquerors who established the caliphal state (typically by supplanting previous
ruling elites, often without major social or economic disruption) were well equipped to establish
a new social order based on religious hierarchization, as suggested by these verses.34 Conquered
communities who were eligible for the status of tolerated fellow monotheists or scripturalists were
understood to be under the protection of their Muslim rulers, following the precedent purportedly
set by the second caliph ʿUmar ibn al-Khat․․tāb (r. 634–644).
The social category that Jews, Christians, and other scripturalists were typically placed into
was not that of kitābī, ultimately a theological construct, but rather that of dhimmī, a specifically
legal construct elaborated on the basis of the idea that the early Muslims, especially the caliph
ʿUmar, established a pact of protection (dhimma) in perpetuity between the Muslim umma and its
non-Muslim subjects.35 While the reduction of Ahl al-Kitāb to subalterns may have represented a
significant shift in relations as originally imagined during the prophetic period, this state of affairs
was likely nothing new for many of the communities brought under the rule of the Islamic state.
It is widely recognized that the corporatist system of regulated tolerance employed in the early
state was ultimately derived from that of the Sasanian Empire, down to the borrowing of the poll tax
( jizya) they imposed on subalterns.36 The Sasanian system appears to have been readily recalibrated
for employment under a different but analogous imperial ideology, with the supremacy of Islam
substituted for the divinely appointed dominion of the Sasanian shāhānshāh.37 While some contem-
porary ideologues operating in Europe and America have lamented the discrimination and even
persecution supposedly suffered by the dhimmīs, a more equitable evaluation recognizes in this sys-
tem the legislation of authentic pluralism rooted in an enduring concept of the basic legitimacy of
all revealed religions, a form of “tolerance” not achieved in Europe until the Enlightenment many
centuries later.38
The ossification of social boundaries and attitudes at the point of transition from the early proto-
state to the period of the Arab conquests (and from prophetic to caliphal leadership) is directly
related to changes in the conception and status of scripture in the early Islamic movement. The shift
in understanding from kitāb as a dynamic process to kitāb as a specific textual artifact (the Qur’an as
the earthly manifestation of an eternal heavenly prototype) was encouraged by the transition from
diverse early witnesses to the Qur’anic corpus to an official codex – that is, by canonization. The
formalization of the Qur’an as a discrete physical object, the mus.h.af, transmissible through technolo-
gies of codex reproduction as well as orally, foreclosed on other conceptual possibilities. The most
obvious casualty was that more pluralistic conception of kitāb largely lost to (or ignored by) the
tradition and only recently recovered by scholarly inquiry: the idea of kitāb as something to which
all monotheists could lay claim, something informing their common experience and identities – a
shared kitāb revealed in, underlying, and manifest through both Qur’an and Bible.
Canonization and the conceptual shifts it entailed occurred as part of a larger process through
which Islam became a formally articulated, officially promoted imperial religion under the caliphate
of ʿAbd al-Malik. It can hardly be coincidence that canonization and promulgation of an official
recension of the Qur’an accompanied other initiatives that positioned Islam as superior to other
errant, superseded monotheisms and made concrete progress toward the official subordination of
the Ahl al-Kitāb, especially members of the Christian Levantine elite who had until then managed
to maintain a position of relative prominence in the transition from Roman to caliphal rule while
maintaining their original religious affiliation. The most conspicuous such gesture would have been
the construction of the Dome of the Rock, adorned with Qur’anic verses asserting the error of
Christian belief – including one of the clearest indictments of them addressed as Ahl al-Kitāb, Q
4:171, to which we have referred previously:
O People of Scripture, do not commit excesses in your religion, and speak only the truth
about God; the Messiah Jesus son of Mary was the messenger of God and His Word, which
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He caused to enter Mary, a spirit proceeding from Him; so believe in God and His mes-
sengers. No more saying “Trinity”! Stop! This is better for you – God is one, glory be to
Him; He is far above having a son. What He has is dominion over heaven and earth; put-
ting your trust in Him should suffice for you.39
In this era, if not before, the concept of Ahl al-Kitāb would have been gradually sheared of its more
ecumenical associations from the prophetic period, acquiring a new connotation as signifying those
communities in possession of corrupt and obsolete scriptures who were naturally subject to Mus-
lim rule. A state of limited pluralism (at least defined in relation to other societies, viz., Christian
Europe) was still maintained, though it was to be significantly tempered by a conception of the kitābī
as errant and subordinate.40
Over subsequent centuries, spokesmen of the Sunnī tradition in particular in the classical and
medieval periods commonly adopted a strident attitude of opposition to and disregard for Ahl
al-Kitāb. Major figures such as Ibn H.anbal (d. 855), Ibn H.azm (d. 1064), Ibn Taymiyya (d. 1328), and
Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya (d. 1350) used Jews and Christians as a negative foil for their construction
of an ideal Muslim subject who was the model of orthodoxy and ritual rectitude. To the degree to
which a Muslim cleaved to, exhibited interest in, or held sympathy for Jews and Christians (particu-
larly the former), their religious integrity and personal moral rectitude became questionable, and
their salvation possibly jeopardized.41 Although this is the view that commonly dominated Muslim
discourse, especially in later centuries, there were exceptions, as recent investigation into the works
of the Mamluk-era author al-Biqāʿī (d. 1480) has demonstrated.42
In many cases, it is clear that material and political conditions were simply not conducive to
ecumenism, especially in the post-Mongol era, though material remains and other evidence sug-
gests that a modus vivendi of openness and liberality between Muslims and kitābīs typically persisted
on the ground.43 A distinction must be drawn between the ideologically driven representation of
the ideal found in apologetic and polemical literature – publicly manifest from time to time in the
munāz․ara or “public disputation” – and the conviviality that was no doubt the default in Muslim–
dhimmī relations in most times and places. Nevertheless, it should also be noted that Western observ-
ers often recorded the dismal, impoverished state many dhimmī populations in the lands of Islam had
fallen into by the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The debasement and oppression dhimmīs faced
by this time reflected the general decline in the political and social conditions of many Muslim socie-
ties on the eve of modernity (which was itself due to the stresses induced by European colonialism
and economic exploitation) and not simply an innate persecuting mentality on the part of Muslim
“despots.”44
Conclusion
The ambivalence of Muslim societies toward Ahl al-Kitāb is mirrored by that of Western observers of
Islam in the modern era regarding the concept itself. As noted, some contemporary critics empha-
size the systematic and religiously legislated discrimination against dhimmīs as a sign of Islam’s back-
wardness and incompatibility with Western values.45 An appropriate rejoinder to such criticisms,
duly noted by many scholars, is that Jews and Christians living under Islamic rule during the height
of Muslim dominion over the Middle East and neighboring regions actually enjoyed something
resembling officially recognized status as protected persons whose rights could not or should not be
traduced. This is far better treatment than Jews and Muslims living under Christian rule in Europe
received, when their physical presence was permitted at all. At the same time, the very phrase Ahl
al-Kitāb has become something of a token of an ideal of tolerance, a cipher for a precocious precursor
to modern ecumenism in medieval Islamic culture which is surely exaggerated, if not, at its extreme,
fictitious.46
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It is certainly true that centuries of imperial rivalry with Christian Europe, followed by the
experience of colonial intrusion and economic exploitation, conditioned many Muslims to perceive
their fellow scriptuaries – both those abroad and those closer to home – negatively in the modern
period. Many exegetes, both traditionalists and modern iconoclasts like Sayyid Qut․b (d. 1966), read
the Qur’an’s admonitions against Ahl al-Kitāb as invective, even reading these Qur’anic statements as
directly relevant today. For example, Qut․b interprets Q 9:31, “[T]hey take their rabbis and monks
as lords instead of God,” as a condemnation of Jews and Christians establishing and obeying laws
made by mortal men at the expense of divine law; today, as in the past, the kitābīs give authority to
human leaders arbitrarily (the implication being that this verse applies to secular ideologies and the
states that enforce them as much as to the religious personnel who governed communities of Ahl
al-Kitāb in the past).47 At the same time, it is important to recognize that many spokesmen of schools
of thought in modern Islam who could hardly be cast as advocating Enlightenment-style liberalism
nevertheless emphasize the inalienable rights of Ahl al-Kitāb in Muslim society under the traditional
dictates of the Pact of ʿUmar.48 This is to say nothing of contemporary Muslim scholars working
in a variety of contexts who read the Qur’an against the grain of tradition as actually advocating a
positive ecumenism fully compatible with modern liberal values. In this, they perhaps restore the
concept of Ahl al-Kitāb to something of its original valence in the Qur’an, as a device intended more
to signal genuine pluralism than to assert insurmountable difference.49
Notes
1 See M. Sharon, “People of the Book,” in Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān (Leiden: Brill, 2001–2006), 4.35–44 for
a systematic survey and discussion of the relevant verses.
2 The biblical heritage was much more transparent – and generally relevant – for the Muslim audience, which
thus cemented Jews and Christians as the preeminent or even exclusive kitābīs in their eyes. The status of
Zoroastrians and others (including communities farther afield, such as Hindus) is more ambiguous. In the
legal tradition, the prevailing (but not exclusive) view is that these others qualify as dhimmīs and merit pro-
tection and tolerance the same as Jews and Christians, though they are not technically Ahl al-Kitāb, per se.
The primary issue at hand is often whether communities may legitimately be compelled to accept Islam,
or – conversely – whether some pretext may be found for tolerating them as dhimmīs so as to exploit them
economically. See Yohanan Friedman, Tolerance and Coercion in Islam: Interfaith Relations in the Muslim Tradi-
tion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), esp. ch. 2.
3 E.g., the passage at Q 2:101–113, in which the disbelief attributed to Ahl al-Kitāb is associated with mem-
bers of both communities (“They say, ‘No one can enter the Garden unless he is a Jew or a Christian’,” v.
111). Obviously much more specific is the phrase Ahl al-Injīl, “People of the Gospel,” attested once in a
Qur’anic passage in which Jesus is explicitly marked as confirming the Torah and Christians are called upon
to faithfully uphold that which was revealed to them in their scripture (Q 5:47). The corresponding locu-
tion Ahl al-Tawrāt, “People of the Torah,” is not attested in the Qur’an but does appear in the hadith, as in a
tradition in which Muhammad juxtaposes Ahl al-Tawrāt and Ahl al-Injīl as precursors to his own community
(Bukhārī, al-Tawh. īd: 7467 and parallels).
4 Sidney H. Griffith, The Bible in Arabic: The Scriptures of the “People of the Book” in the Language of Islam
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2013), 15–41 offers a concise and up-to-date treatment of the
Qur’anic portrayal of Jews and Christians. There are about a dozen direct references in the Qur’an to nas.ārā
(“Nazoreans”); the noun yahūd is at times supplemented by the verbal locution allādhīna hādū (“those who
are Jews”), together making up again about a dozen references.
5 Discussed at length in Uri Rubin, Between Bible and Qurʾān: The Children of Israel and the Islamic Self-Image
(Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam 17; Princeton, NJ: Darwin Press, 1999).
6 On the trope of Jews or Ahl al-Kitāb as slayers of the prophets, see Gabriel Said Reynolds, “On the Qurʾān
and the Theme of Jews as ‘Killers of the Prophets’,” Al-Bayan 10 (2012): 9–32.
7 Notably, one sometimes finds the locution Ahl al-Kitāb al-Awwal (“People of the First Scripture”) in early
Muslim authors such as Ibn Ish.āq, seemingly in reference to Jews with knowledge of the Torah in particular;
the Jewish Torah is also called the “First Scripture” or “Foundational Book” in Zoroastrian texts, for exam-
ple the polemical Skand Gumanig Wizar.
130
8 See al-T ․ abarī’s comments ad Q 2:49: ahl and āl are the same, except that āl is more typically used with the
names of well-known people, like āl Muh.ammad. See Abū Jaʿfar Muh.ammad ibn Jarīr al-T ․ abarī, The Com-
mentary on the Qurʾān, Volume I, trans. J. Cooper (Oxford: Oxford University Press and Hakim Investment
Holdings, 1989), 297–298.
9 See the discussion of Donner on the umma as the community of Believers (muʾminūn) later in the chapter.
10 More specifically, the noun kitāb appears just over 200 times, while forms of the root k-t-b appear over 300
times. In several passages kitāb is the term for the Torah of Moses, which, like the Qur’an itself, may be
referred to a number of different ways (see next note).
11 The Gospels (al-Injīl, i.e., euangélion) are mentioned a dozen times in the Qur’an, typically juxtaposed with
the Torah (al-Tawrāt), and thus generally represent the New Testament as opposed to the Old (though nota-
bly the Qur’an seems to reflect no understanding of the New Testament apart from the Gospels themselves).
Rather than being construed as inspired accounts of the life of Christ, the Gospels are clearly imagined as a
revealed source taught by God to Jesus, or given directly to him and then conveyed to his people (cf. Q 3:48;
5:46–47, 110; 57:27). Qur’an 53:36–37 and 87:18–19 refer to the “pages” (s.uh.uf ) revealed to Abraham and
Moses. The Psalms, called al-zabūr, are described as revealed directly to David at Q 4:163 and 17:55; the
term al-zabūr appears again at Q 21:105 in what appears to be a direct quotation of Psalm 37:29.
12 Daniel Madigan, The Qurʾān’s Self-Image: Writing and Authority in Islam’s Scripture (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 2001).
13 While asserting its own authentic divine origin, the Qur’an energetically denies the assertions of its skeptical
opponents that scripture was supposed to be conveyed from heaven by an angel. See Patricia Crone, “Angels
versus Humans as Messengers of God: The View of the Qurʾānic Pagans,” in Philippa Townsend and Moulie
Vidas (eds.), Revelation, Literature, and Community in Late Antiquity (Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism
146; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 315–336.
14 See Madigan’s discussion, “Appendix: The People of the Kitāb,” in The Qurʾān’s Self-Image, 193–213.
15 All translations of the Qur’an here are the author’s. The Qur’an emphasizes its own status as a new revelation
in Arabic being brought to the Arabs by a “gentile” (ummī) prophet (cf. Q 7:157–158, 62:2), hearkening back
to Abraham who, like the Qur’anic prophet, was neither Jew nor Christian (Q 3:67). This is the basis for
both the Qurʾan’s supersessionism – its prophet and community being paradoxically more original and more
authentic than the older communities of Ahl al-Kitāb – and its gestures of kinship with those communities
as remnants of instances of authentic prophetic revelation in the past that likewise hearken back to Abraham.
There is a significant body of literature on the discourse surrounding the terminology of ummī in the Qur’an
and later Muslim interpretation; see Mehdy Shaddel, “Qurʾānic ummī: Genealogy, Ethnicity, and the Founda
tion of a New Community,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 43 (2016): 1–60 and sources cited therein.
16 The rejection of the prophets by their communities is a poignant theme explored by many Muslim authors
in different contexts. For the Shiʿa, the failure of most of the followers of the Israelite prophets to steadfastly
cleave to the guidance that was brought to them foreshadows the rejection of the leadership of the Imam ʿAlī
ibn Abī T ․ ālib (d. 661) and his descendants by the majority of Muslims; see Michael Pregill, “Measure for
Measure: Prophetic History, Qur’anic Exegesis, and Anti-Sunnī Polemic in a Fāt․imid Propaganda Work (BL
Or. 8419),” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 16 (2014): 20–57. The Ottoman-era poet Fuz․ūlī (d. 1556) depicted the
lives of the prophets as full of suffering and tribulation; despite their election by God, they commonly suffered
rejection of their missions, persecution, and even horrible deaths. See Gottfried Hagen, “Salvation and Suf-
fering in Ottoman Stories of the Prophets,” Mizan: Journal for the Study of Muslim Societies and Civilizations 2
(2017), www.mizanproject.org/journal-post/salvation-and-suffering-in-ottoman-stories-of-the-prophets/.
17 On the Late Antique context, see the chapters in Townsend and Vidas (eds.), Revelation, Literature, and Com-
munity in Late Antiquity.
18 Neuwirth’s scholarly output is vast. For a resume of her methodological approach to the Qur’an, see the
introduction to her Scripture, Poetry and the Making of a Community: Reading the Qur’an as a Literary Text
(Oxford: Oxford University Press in association with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2014), esp. xxi–xxiv on
the Qur’an’s location in Late Antiquity (quote appears on p. xxiii). On the Late Antique conceptual revolu-
tion concerning writing as phenomenon and topos as it impacted the Qur’an and its milieu, cf. her “The
‘Discovery of Writing’ in the Qurʾān: Tracing an Epistemic Revolution in Arab Late Antiquity,” Jerusalem
Studies in Arabic and Islam 42 (2015): 1–24.
19 See Angelika Neuwirth, “Locating the Qurʾan and Early Islam in the ‘Epistemic Space’ of Late Antiquity,”
in Islam and Its Past: Jahiliyya, Late Antiquity, and the Qurʾan, ed. Carol Bakhos and Michael Cook (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2017), 165–185.
20 Gabriel Said Reynolds, “The Quran and the Apostles of Jesus,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African
Studies 76 (2013): 209–227.
131
Michael Pregill
21 The intensely eschatological orientation of “proto-Islam,” which eventually metamorphosed into an impe-
rial apocalyptic ideology, was itself an element that linked the movement to other contemporary cultural
and religious formations. On this, see Stephen Shoemaker, The Apocalypse of Empire: Imperial Eschatology in
Late Antiquity and Early Islam (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018).
22 Fred M. Donner, Muhammad and the Believers: At the Origins of Islam (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of
Harvard University Press, 2010).
23 It is in the sense of islām as Donner interprets it (with the term literally referring to the “submission” of the
Arab polytheists who joined the prophetic community) that Islam – as the dispensation revealed through the
Qur’an was later called – may be recognized as a specifically Arab religion. Rudiments of this concept sur-
vived well into the early Islamic period, in a number of forms. As is well known, the legitimacy of conver-
sion by non-Muslims under Arab rule was often challenged in the Umayyad period. Some early authorities
had such a strong conception of Islam as the unique legitimate religion for the Arabs (or rather the religion
of h.anafiyya to which Abraham belonged that preceded and anticipated Islam) that they denied the status
of Ahl al-Kitāb to Arabs who had accepted Judaism or Christianity before the time of Muhammad. This is
the view of the jurist al-Shāfiʿī (d. 820) in his Kitāb al-Umm, who in his discussion of the legality of Muslim
intermarriage with Ahl al-Kitāb limits this category to communities descended from the Israelites, primarily
the Jews and Christians but also including the Samaritans and Sabians. See Muh.ammad ibn Idrīs al-Shāfiʿī,
Al-Umm li’l-Imām Muh.ammad ibn Idrīs al-Shāfiʿī, 11 vols., ed. Rifʿat Fawzī ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib (Al-Mans.ūrah:
Dār al-Wafāʾ, 2001), 4.16–23.
24 Some scholars have plausibly argued that – as is wholly appropriate to the context – the kalīma sawāʾ (“com-
mon word”) that the Qur’an enjoins the People of Scripture to agree upon is the Decalogue, a number
of versions of which are related in the Qur’an itself (perhaps most famously, Q 17:22–39). See Sebastian
Günther, “O People of the Scripture! Come to a Word Common to You and Us (Q 3:64): The Ten Command-
ments and the Qur’an, Journal of Qur’anic Studies 9 (2007): 28–58.
25 This is only one of several passages in which the Qur’an seems to posit the existence of sincerely believing
kitābīs, which would support Donner’s argument significantly. However, Nicolai Sinai has recently contested
many of Donner’s readings of key passages, observing that it is rather ambiguous whether the Qur’an actu-
ally recognizes some Jews and Christians as believers (or Believers) or rather is speaking of such Jews and
Christians hypothetically. Thus pace Donner’s reading of (e.g.) Q 5:65 as “If the Ahl al-Kitāb believe and are
pious. . . .” Sinai argues that the specific appearance of the contrafactual particle law here suggests that a more
accurate reading would be, “Were the Ahl al-Kitāb to believe and be pious . . .” – the clear implication being
that in reality they do not believe and are not pious. See “The Unknown Known: Some Groundwork for
Interpreting the Medinan Qur’an,” Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph 66 (2015–2016): 47–96, esp. 48–51
and 76–80. That said, some of the passages that attribute sincere belief or moral rectitude to Ahl al-Kitāb and
thus may be adduced in support of Donner’s thesis are not ambiguous at all, e.g., Q 3:199 and (regarding
Jews specifically) Q 7:159.
26 See discussion in Donner, Muhammad and the Believers, 72–75 and Appendix A. Judging in particular by its
archaic language, the current consensus is that the document as quoted by Ibn Ish.āq is authentic, though
there continues to be significant disagreement over what exactly it means. For a trenchant discussion that
surveys and critiques previous interpretations, see Paul Lawrence Rose, “Muhammad, the Jews and the
Constitution of Medina: Retrieving the Historical Kernel,” Der Islam 86 (2011): 1–29.
27 Just as kitāb represents the most prevalent but not exclusive term for scripture in the Qur’an, so too does the
term occasionally admit meanings and usages other than “scripture” or “book,” as when it appears with the
meaning of a letter (Q 27:28–29) or as a register of a person’s deeds (e.g., Q 69:19, 25).
28 This is the view of the jurist-commentator al-Māwardī (d. 1058); notably – and disagreeing with al-Shāfīʿī –
he identifies not only the Zoroastrians and Sabians but the conspicuously Mosaic Samaritans as quasi-kitābīs
ranking lower than true Ahl al-Kitāb (cited in Friedman, Tolerance and Coercion in Islam, 71).
29 Muqātil ibn Sulaymān, Tafsīr, 5 vols., ed. ʿAbd Allāh Mah.mūd Shih.āta (Cairo: Muʾassasat al-H.alabī, 1967),
1.291 ad Q 3:95–96. While this presentation of the situation may be dismissed as a mere polemical tactic
on Muqātil’s part, it is worth noting that Q 5:82 characterizes the Jews and the polytheists together as most
hostile to the faithful.
30 As Muqātil puts it: whatever his religion, whoever has disbelieved in the Kaʿba and refused to perform the
required rites of Hajj is an infidel pure and simple (man kafara min ahl al-adyān bi’l-bayt wa-lam yah.ujj wājiban
fa-qad kafara; Tafsīr, 1.291 ad Q 3:97).
31 This is to say nothing of the fact that, as Ayoub and others have observed, the literal semantic field of the
term mushrik itself shifted over time. Formerly used to differentiate between kitābīs on the one hand and
pagans on the other (at least as the Qur’an is traditionally understood, and this distinction propagated in
the early community), the word mushrik came to be openly applied to Christians in particular, obviously
132
due to the “associationism” (the literal meaning of shirk) that the Christian Trinity represents to the Mus-
lim observer. See Mahmoud Ayoub, “Dhimmah in Qur’an and Hadith,” Arab Studies Quarterly 5 (1983):
172–182, 179–180.
32 It is perhaps self-evident that such a shift in perspective may have been natural, given that even by the later
first and second centuries AH few if any Muslims had any contact with or experience of polytheists at all.
The distinction between Ahl al-Kitāb and pagans may have been a totally moot one in social environments
effectively evacuated of the latter.
33 Despite the reference to those who do not believe in God and the Last Judgment – presumably a baseline
criterion for inclusion in the category of Ahl al-Kitāb – this verse was universally understood as mandating
treatment for these people specifically, in distinction to polytheists. There are a number of other passages
in the Qur’an that mention Ahl al-Kitāb explicitly not only in what appears to be a martial context but
specifically in circumstances of direct conflict with the Qur’anic prophet and his community, e.g., Q 33:26
and 59:2. These passages are typically correlated to events in the maghāzī or accounts of Muhammad’s “cam-
paigns” to establish the early Islamic state, in particular his battles against the Jewish tribes of Medina and
their allies.
34 For a survey of the establishment of the caliphal empire and our sources for its history, see Robert G. Hoy-
land, In God’s Path: The Arab Conquests and the Creation of an Islamic Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2015). For a lucid overview of how the relevant Qur’anic passages were correlated to the historical scheme
of Muhammad’s campaigns in order to articulate a coherent “theory” of jihad and the circumstances under
which it could be waged (as well as its limits), see David Cook, Understanding Jihad (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 2005), ch. 1.
35 For a concise overview of the basic concept of dhimma and account of how it evolved from its basis in Qur’an
and hadith into a blanket term for non-believers living under Muslim protection, see Ayoub, “Dhimmah,”
179 ff. On the history and evolution of the shurūt․ or “stipulations” making up the Pact of ʿUmar, see Milka
Levy-Rubin, Non-Muslims in the Early Islamic Empire: From Surrender to Coexistence (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2011). On the evidence for the early concept of dhimma as a guideline for governing
relations between the Arab conquerors and the conquered, see Robert Hoyland, “The Earliest Attestation
of the Dhimma of God and His Messenger and the Rediscovery of P. Nessana 77 (60s AH/680 ce)” (with
Appendix by Hannah Cotton), in Islamic Cultures, Islamic Contexts: Essays in Honor of Professor Patricia Crone,
ed. Behnam Sadeghi et al. (Islamic History and Civilization 114; Leiden: Brill, 2015), 51–71. In Egypt
during the Fatimid period, not only Jews and Christians but also those Muslims who were not among the
faithful elect of believers in the Ismaʿili Shiʿi imamate claimed by the dynasty (self-evidently the majority of
their subjects) were considered dhimmīs under their protection as agents of God’s covenant with humanity;
see Michael Brett, The Fatimid Empire (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2017), 78–79.
36 The Sasanian poll tax on minorities, the gizidag, was instituted as part of the wide-ranging reforms of
Khosro I Anūshervān (r. 531–579). On the collection of jizya in the larger context of early Islamic fiscal
administration, see Abd al-Aziz Duri, Early Islamic Institutions: Administration and Taxation from the Caliphate
to the Umayyads and ʿAbbāsids (Contemporary Arab Scholarship in the Social Sciences 4; London: I.B. Tauris
in Association with the Centre for Arab Unity Studies, 2011), ch. 2, passim. The concept of the Sasanian
sociopolitical order as a regime of regulated tolerance has been scrutinized by Adam Becker; see “Politi-
cal Theology and Religious Diversity in the Sasanian Empire,” in Jews, Christians and Zoroastrians: Religious
Dynamics in a Sasanian Context, ed. Geoffrey Herman ( Judaism in Context 17; Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press,
2014), 7–25.
37 Lena Salaymeh has argued for the importance of payment of zakāt as a “public expression of sociopolitical
membership” for Muslims in the early empire, with this fundamental fiduciary responsibility functioning
as a key index of identity (“Taxing Citizens: Socio-legal Constructions of Late Antique Muslim Identity,”
Islamic Law and Society 23 (2016): 333–367; quote on 342). By the same token, we might construe a similar
function for payment of the jizya by Jews, Christians, and others as dhimmīs in the classic Islamic political
order. To pay zakāt or jizya was not merely symbolic of Muslim or dhimmī identity; rather, payment of the
appropriate tax was in some substantial way actually constitutive of identity, indexing submission to the disci-
plinary political regime of the Islamic state.
38 There is a copious literature on the history, experience, and cultures of the dhimmī communities, both as
they persisted (and even thrived) under Muslim rule for centuries and their decline in the modern age. The
foundational studies remain useful: A.S. Tritton, The Caliphs and Their Non-Muslim Subjects: A Critical Study
of the Covenant of ʿUmar (London: H. Milford, Oxford University Press, 1930) and Antoine Fattal, Le statut
legal des non-musulmans en pays d’Islam (Recherches de l’Institut de Lettres Orientales de Beyrouth 10; Bei-
rut: Imprimerie Catholique, 1958). A number of classic studies are anthologized in Robert Hoyland, ed.,
Muslims and Others in Early Islamic Society (Formation of the Classical Islamic World 18; Hampshire, UK:
133
Michael Pregill
Ashgate, 2004). Regarding the variety of legal issues that came to bear in the dhimmī experience, see Islamic
Law and Society 10:3 (2003), a special thematic issue edited by Ze’ev Maghen, “The Interaction between
Islamic Law and Non-Muslims: lakum dīnukum wa-lī dīni” and Anver M. Emon, Religious Pluralism and Islamic
Law: Dhimmis and Others in the Empire of Law (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012).
39 This passage corresponds to the portion of the inscription that runs from the southeast to the northeast on
the inner octagonal façade of the building. For a concise resume of the inscription, see Bruce Lawrence, The
Qur’an: A Biography (London: Atlantic Books, 2006), 64–70.
40 Most contemporary scholars date the decisive transmutation of the Believers movement into classical Islam –
featuring a corresponding ossification of social and religious boundaries – as the result of processes under-
taken during the reign of ʿAbd al-Malik. Cf., e.g., Donner, Muhammad and the Believers, ch. 5, and Chase F.
Robinson, ʿAbd al-Malik (Oxford: Oneworld, 2005).
41 The germinal, wide-ranging treatment of the subject by Ignac Goldziher is still useful over a century after its
publication: “Ueber muhammedanische Polemik gegen Ahl al-kitāb,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländis-
chen Gesellschaft 32 (1878): 341–387. It may be supplemented by any number of modern studies, especially
Camilla Adang’s Muslim Writers on Judaism and the Hebrew Bible: From Ibn Rabban to Ibn Hazm (Islamic Phi-
losophy, Theology, and Science 22; Leiden: Brill, 1996). A corresponding synthetic survey of classic Muslim
authors on Christianity is still a desideratum, though the interested reader might consult Charles Tieszen, A
Textual History of Christian–Muslim Relations, Seventh–Fifteenth Centuries (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2015).
Studies of individual authors abound, e.g., Jon Hoover, “The Apologetic and Pastoral Intentions of Ibn
Qayyim al-Jawziyya’s Polemic against Jews and Christians,” Muslim World 100 (2010): 476–489.
42 See, e.g., the groundbreaking study of Walid Saleh, In Defense of the Bible: A Critical Edition and an Introduction
to al-Biqāʿī’s Bible Treatise (Islamic History and Civilization 73; Leiden: Brill, 2008).
43 This is the basic historiographic principle observed in Mark Cohen’s classic comparative study, Under Crescent
and Cross: The Jews in the Middle Ages (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), which emphasizes
the relative benefits of the dhimmī system for Jews in the Islamic world as compared to those living under
Christian rule in Europe. The copious information yielded by decades of study of the trove of documentary
evidence preserved in the Cairo Geniza has consistently supported this approach to the dhimmī experience and
guided research into the convivial social and economic relations that were the rule rather than the exception
for non-Muslim communities under Muslim rule. See, e.g., Phillip I. Ackerman-Lieberman, The Business of
Identity: Jews, Muslims, and Economic Life in Medieval Egypt (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2014).
44 Discussions of modernity often describe the fate of the dhimmī communities as a gradual diminution (or
“long twilight” in Stillman’s words), briefly punctuated by advantages brought by favored status through asso-
ciation with and patronage from Europeans but eventually leading to the debasement and near-annihilation
of these communities by the second half of the twentieth century. See, e.g., Norman Stillman, The Jews of
Arab Lands: A History and Sourcebook (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1979), 64–110.
45 This strand in contemporary historiography has its roots in the trend towards what Cohen terms “neo-
lachrymose” history that began in the 1960s and generated a significant bibliography (Under Crescent and
Cross, 9–14) but at present is taking on a more and more conspicuously Islamophobic guise, fueling hostility
toward a subversive and insidious Muslim threat to Western culture percolating from within.
46 Cf. the much lauded bestselling novel of Geraldine Brooks, People of the Book (New York: Penguin, 2008),
which plays upon a dichotomy between Christian intolerance and brutality and Muslim progressivism and
humanity.
47 Sayyid Qutb, Milestones (Indianapolis, IN: American Trust, 1990), 60. See also James Toth, Sayyid Qutb: The
Life and Legacy of a Radical Islamic Intellectual (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), Appendix, part iii.
48 On this strand in modern jurisprudence, see Andrew F. March, “Sources of Moral Obligation to Non-
Muslims in the ‘Jurisprudence of Muslim Minorities’ (Fiqh al-aqalliyyāt) Discourse,” Islamic Law and Society
16 (2009): 34–94.
49 See, e.g., the constructive work of Jerusha Tanner Lamptey, Never Wholly Other: A Muslima Theology of
Religious Pluralism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), who explores the category of Ahl al-Kitāb and
related formations in the Qur’an as not opposed to but rather on a continuum with the historical commu-
nity of Muhammad; she emphasizes that the Qur’an presupposes a basic affinity with other scriptuaries as
authentic moral agents and recipients of divine guidance. Cf. Mun’im Sirry, Scriptural Polemics: The Qur’an
and Other Religions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), which discusses key Qur’anic passages per-
taining to intercommunal relations as problematized by modern reformist exegetes. These continue to be
thorny issues for scholars and critics of the Qur’an in the Islamic world, as illustrated, for example, by the
case of the progressive scholar Nasr Hamid Abu Zayd, who was ruled an apostate by the Egyptian Court
of Cassation in 1996 on the basis of his position (among others) that the prescription of the jizya is a tem-
porally bounded decree of the Qur’an without universal and eternal validity since it cannot objectively be
considered to contribute to the betterment of general humanity.
134
13
QUR’ANIC CREATION
Anthropocentric Readings and Ecocentric
Possibilities
Sarra Tlili
Being a message of “guidance for humankind” (hudan li-l-nās, Q 2:185), the Qur’an is overwhelm-
ingly concerned with human character and destiny.1 Nonetheless, in the process of conveying its
message, the Qur’an engages the nonhuman world in ways that illustrate its complexity, worthi-
ness to God, and instrumentality to the divine message. Themes pertaining to nonhuman creation,
however, have been explored for their theological and anthropological implications more than their
cosmological significance or ecological impact. Students of the Qur’an typically examine them to
learn about God and his attributes and to illustrate human beings’ supposed centrality to the order
of creation. Yet what these themes may reveal about creation’s inner reality and worth to God has
not benefited from the same level of scholarly attention. Similarly, although the Qur’an has shaped
Muslims’ attitudes toward the nonhuman world in noticeable ways, to date the environmental impact
of this scripture has barely been assessed.
This chapter aims to argue that, contrary to prevalent views, Qur’anic creation is far more than
merely the setting where the human drama unfolds. Rather, it is a world populated with vibrant
beings that have agency and particular modes of interacting with God. Furthermore, even though
Muslims do not always take the Qur’anic depiction of the nonhuman world at face value, this
scripture still fostered in them favorable attitudes toward the environment. To this end, I will first
highlight the way anthropocentric readings have obscured the ecological dimension of the Qur’an.
Second, I will explore the Qur’anic motifs of divine oaths, creation’s inner dimension, and creation’s
function as a sign to appraise the status and inner state of the Qur’anic nonhuman world. Finally,
I will give a brief assessment of the ecological impact of these Qur’anic motifs.
The Anthropocentric Veil

The Qur’anic world abounds with nonhuman creatures. Heavens, earth, rivers, thunder, trees,
and animals are among a host of beings and phenomena that fill this scripture’s landscape. More
than a mere backdrop for the human–divine interaction, Qur’anic creatures often come across as
active players with rich modes of existence, particular ways of interacting with God, and important
messages to deliver. The inner dimensions of the Qur’anic nonhuman world, however, are often
eclipsed, particularly in modern scholarship. To cite a few examples, Jamāl Badawi’s chapter “The
Earth and Humanity: A Muslim View” not only has a ten-page discussion of humanity compared
to a one-page discussion of earth, but even in this single page the author emphasizes earth’s value as
a resource for humankind.2 Similarly, one would have expected Angelika Neuwirth’s Encyclopaedia
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-15 135

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of the Qur’an article, “Cosmology,” to make at least some reference to themes that seem to highlight
nonhuman beings’ complexity and intrinsic value, but it does not. Instead, the author focuses on the
universe’s outer structure and its serviceability to humans.3 Fazlur Rahman rightly stresses the theo-
centric dimension of the Qur’an’s treatment of the nonhuman world, yet for him as well, “Nature
exists for man to exploit for his own ends, while the end of man himself is nothing else but to serve
God, to be grateful to Him and to worship Him alone.”4 Indeed, Qur’anic scholarship often conveys
the view that creation’s main or sole purpose is to serve humankind and that, for reasons that remain
obscure, God cherishes the human being more than he does other creatures.5
These readings seem to take the Qur’an’s interest in humankind as a sign of privileged status, but
this interpretation can hardly stand the test of scrutiny.6 While there is no denying that the Qur’an
is deeply preoccupied with human beings, closer reading shows that it generally depicts them in a
negative light, almost uniquely among creation. Whereas the word insān (“human being”) in the
Qur’an evokes mostly negative connotations, other creatures are consistently portrayed as obedient
to God, a quality that the Qur’an values greatly. Among human beings, the Islamic scripture speaks
favorably only of believers who do good deeds, but these, the Qur’an itself asserts, are not the bulk of
the human race. This indicates that rather than being a sign of distinction, the Qur’an’s preoccupa-
tion with humankind can more plausibly be explained by concern for a creature that this scripture
describes as “the most contentious” (Q 18:54) and as “a clear adversary [to God]” (Q 36:77). When
Qur’anic diction is studied closely, one discovers also that the aim is to encourage humankind to join
the ranks of other creatures rather than to establish or confirm human exceptionalism.
There is ample Qur’anic evidence to corroborate these propositions. The fact that God swears by
nonhuman creatures seems to be a clear indication that he values them. The Qur’an also attributes
remarkable complexity to nonhumans. Most importantly, it affirms that they worship God, another
quality that this scripture prizes greatly. The Qur’an’s integrative approach – the fact that it seeks to
place humanity within the order of creation – may be discerned from its instructions to humankind
to do precisely what other creatures are already doing. This integrative strategy suggests that the
Qur’an seeks to “lift humanity up” to the level of, rather than place them atop other creatures.
Another important dimension of this subject is the fact that the Qur’an urges humans to ponder
nonhuman creation to learn about God and the Last Day. In its capacity as a set of signs, creation
plays a pivotal role in the Qur’an, as it is one of the two mediums by which humans may come to
know God (with the other being the prophetic revelation of messages, including the Qur’an). Crea-
tion thus seems to have the same function and, correspondingly, the same status as revealed scripture
itself.
This approach was not without ecological bearings, as it not only often led Muslims to hold
other creatures in high esteem but also inspired them to study nature with a predisposition to find
excellence in it. The Qur’an nurtured feelings of wonder vis-à-vis creation, something that many
environmentalists consider a prerequisite for sound attitudes toward the ecosystem. A close reading
of the motifs of divine oaths, creation’s inner dimension, and creation’s function as a sign can illus-
trate these points.
Divine Oaths
Divine oaths are a substantial subset of Qur’anic oaths wherein God swears by different beings to
validate theological principles, reassure Muhammad about his role as God’s messenger, and make
solemn promises about the hereafter, among several other affirmations.7 The majority of these oaths,
as Zakyi Ibrahim points out, involve “natural and universal phenomena (al-z․awāhir al-kawniyyah)
such as time, places, and things (both animate and inanimate).”8 These include entities ranging from
the heavens and the divine throne at the larger scale to figs and olives at the smaller one. Many of
these oaths are also ambiguous. For example, one oath-cluster states, “By those that scatter swiftly,
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Then bear heavy burdens, And go on running smoothly, And in the end distribute it” (Q 51:1–4).9
Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya (d. 751/1350) maintains that this set of oaths refers respectively to winds,
clouds, stars, and angels, but he acknowledges that other interpretations are possible. For example,
the ones that “go on running smoothly” could also be a reference to ships.10
Besides natural entities and phenomena, God swears also by himself, the Qur’an, and the Prophet.
Remarkably, among humankind Muhammad is the only person who seems to feature explicitly in a
divine oath. The Qur’an addresses him saying, “By your life, they wandered blindly in their intoxi-
cation” (Q 15:72).11 Ibn al-Qayyim comments on this, saying, “The fact that God swears by his
[Muhammad’s] life is one of the greatest signs of distinction and is an honor that the Prophet shares
with no other person.”12 This statement can perhaps be nuanced, since other humans may be alluded
to in ambiguous oaths, but Ibn al-Qayyim still has a point in that the Prophet is the only human
being who seems to be referred to explicitly in a divine oath.13
Naturally, being the object of divine oaths elicited laudatory remarks not only about Muham-
mad but also about nonhuman creation. Citing the early exegete Qatāda (d. 118/737), al-T ․ abarī
(d. 310/923) writes that when God swears by something, this is an indication that he holds that
thing in great esteem (aqsama bi-hi li-ʿiz․ami shaʾnihi ʿindahu).14 The reason why God often swears by
the night and the day (e.g., Q 91:3–4, 93:1–2), Qatāda also maintains, is that “these are two great
signs.”15 Oaths involving figs and olives (Q 95:1) inspired long descriptions showing the excellence
of these fruits. Unlike other fruits, figs have no stones, they are small enough to fit in one mouthful,
their mere sight is pleasing to the eyes, they are wholesome, and they have many healing properties.
Olives, on the other hand, produce the substance from which light can be emitted (oil), among
many other benefits.16 Although these descriptions perhaps inevitably emphasize the excellence of
figs and olives from a human standpoint – an approach that betrays an anthropocentric outlook –
they are still underlain by a desire to find excellence in these fruits.
This praising tone is hardly surprising since being the object of a divine oath clearly has a favora-
ble connotation. Despite the intuitiveness of this conclusion, however, one notes its absence from
many relevant discussions. Modern scholarship in particular often deemphasizes or even completely
dismisses the cosmological and ecological significance of divine oaths. Even though John Kaltner
discusses this motif in a section titled “The Natural Environment,” he explains the Qur’anic use of
oaths by the fact that this “was a common practice among Arabs of the pre-Islamic period,” add-
ing that this is how premodern scholars accounted for this use.17 Neuwirth treats divine oaths as
pure literary devices and draws a distinction between them and “genuine” oaths.18 ʿĀʾisha ʿAbd
al-Rah.mān bint al-Shāt․iʾ goes so far as to dismiss the opinions of earlier scholars who perceived in
these oaths an element of “reverence” (iʿz․ām) for God’s creation as implausible simply because this
reading, in her view, is not supported by stylistic features.19
These views are not completely unjustified. Indeed, Kaltner is right about the fact that oaths are
common in pre-Islamic discourse and that many premodern Muslim scholars saw in this Qur’anic
motif a continuation of the pre-Islamic practice. This, however, is neither the only explanation that
one encounters in premodern texts, nor is it the most fitting in a chapter that discusses the natural
environment in the Qur’an. As noted earlier, premodern scholars also took these oaths as an indica-
tion that God valued nonhuman creation, a conclusion that has clear ecological implications. Like-
wise, considering the rhetorical power of divine oaths, it is suitable to discuss them from a literary
standpoint. However, to limit their significance to their literary function is unwarranted.
The inference of an element of divine regard for creation from these oaths is indeed a plain
enough conclusion had it not been for the anthropocentric presuppositions that shape most readings
of the Qur’an. Someone who is willing to shake off these presuppositions, however, would find it
quite remarkable that Muhammad would share the honor of being mentioned explicitly in divine
oaths with innumerable nonhuman beings and yet not with fellow human beings. As intriguing as
this observation may sound, however, it is fully consistent with other themes encountered in Islam’s
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foundational texts. Muhammad himself has reportedly often stressed the affinity between himself
and other creatures while highlighting disbelieving human beings’ antagonism toward him. In one
tradition, he is reported to have said: “There is no creature between heaven and earth save that it
knows that I am God’s Messenger. Disobedient human beings and jinn are the only exception.”20
This suggests that Muhammad had more fellow feelings for nonhuman than for human beings. For
him, as it is in the Qur’an, devotion to God, rather than species membership, is the foundation for
true kinship.
Divine oaths disrupt anthropocentric presuppositions in another important way. On several occa-
sions God in the Qur’an swears by nonhuman beings to make negative statements about humankind.
In Sūrat al-ʿAsr, he swears by the “late afternoon” to affirm that “Humankind is in loss,” excluding
only “those who believe, do good deeds, recommend to one another the truth, and recommend
to one another patience” (Q 103:1–3). In Sūrat al-ʿĀdiyāt, God swears by the “galloping ones” (Q
100:1–3; according to most exegetes, either camels or horses) and other ambiguous beings to assert
that the human being is ungrateful to his Lord. Divine oaths thus not only convey God’s pleasure
with nonhuman beings – being important enough for him to swear by them – but also his disap-
proval of certain human characteristics and human groups. This, again, shows the implausibility of
the prevalent assumption that humankind in the Qur’an enjoys a privileged status by mere virtue of
being human.
Creation’s Inner State

The Qur’an ascribes to nonhuman beings devotional states and behaviors that are typically imper-
ceptible to human senses. In Sūrat al-Baqara, it affirms that whatever is in the heavens and on earth
is “obedient” to God (qānitūn, Q 2:116). Sūrat Āl ʿImrān states that all beings “submit” themselves
to God (aslama, Q 3:83). Other suras add prostration and humility to the list of qualities valued in
God’s creatures. Sūrat al-Nah.l states that all things cast their shadows to the right and to the left,
“bowing themselves before God in prostration, full of humility” (sujjadan lillāhi wa-hum dākhirūn, Q
16:48), whereas Sūrat al-H.ajj highlights the prostration of the sun, the moon, stars, mountains, trees,
and animals (Q 22:18). Sūrat al-Isrāʾ affirms that the seven heavens and the earth and whatever is in
them glorify God (Q 17:44). A verse in Sūrat al-Nūr suggests that all creatures pray to God: “Do you
not see that everything in the heavens and in the earth glorifies him [God], and the birds spreading
their wings? Each of them knows how to pray to him and how to glorify him” (Q 24:41). Birds and
mountains hymn God’s praises alongside the Prophet David (Q 21:79, 34:10). Thunder is also indi-
vidually named as one of the creatures that hymn the praises of God (Q 13:13). Nonhuman beings’
devotion to God is thus multifaceted, as it includes states such as obedience, humility, and submission
to God and acts such as prayer, prostration to, and glorification of God.
Borrowing words from a human context, the Qur’an often contrasts nonhuman beings’ hyper-
sensitivity to the callousness of humans. Unlike the hardened hearts of some humans, some stones
experience “fear and awe” of God (khashya) to the point of falling down (Q 2:74). The uppermost
heavens are almost rent asunder, presumably under the weight of divine majesty (Q 42:5). The claim
that God has a child is so monstrous, the Qur’an affirms, that “[a]t it the skies are ready to burst, the
earth to split asunder, and the mountains to fall down in utter ruin” (Q 19:90). If a mountain had
been the recipient of the Qur’an, we learn in Sūrat al-H . ashr, “you would have seen it humbled, split
asunder for fear of God” (Q 59:21). These states and reactions are a far cry from the disbelievers’
unresponsiveness to the divine message.
Another feature of the Qur’anic nonhuman world is its seeming ability to make choices. In the
process of creating the world, God addressed the sky while it was still smoke, telling her and the
earth to come “willingly or unwillingly” (iʾtiyā ․tawʿan aw karhan)! The answer of both was, “We
come in obedience” (Q 41:11). While affirming that all creatures submit (Q 3:83) and prostrate
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Qur’anic Creation
(Q 13:15) themselves to God, the Qur’an adds that they do this either “willingly or unwillingly,”
which suggests that all creatures have a will of some kind. God also offered the “trust” to the heavens,
earth, and mountains, yet all of them shied away from it, realizing the momentous responsibility it
entailed.21 It was the human being who volunteered to carry this responsibility, eliciting the Qur’an’s
criticism for this unwise move (Q 33:72).
These depictions indicate that the Qur’an ascribes to nonhumans more agency than humans are
typically able to perceive in them, including emotions, knowledge, and the ability to make choices.
Moreover, nonhuman beings’ obedience to God does not seem to be a matter of mere instinct or
mechanical behavior, as maintained by a vast body of literature. Qur’anic nonhuman creatures are
even able to decline offers, as is the case when the heavens, earth, and mountains deemed the “trust”
to be too burdensome. These creatures also had enough tact to avoid this responsibility without fall-
ing into disobedience to God. All of this suggests that in the Qur’anic worldview, the nonhuman
world possesses more inner complexity than students of the Qur’an tend to acknowledge.
These readings are not unprecedented. The medieval exegete Abū Muh.ammad al-Baghawī (d.
510/1117) affirms that “God created in inanimate beings and nonhuman animals a type of knowl-
edge known only to him” (khalaqa ʿilman fī l-jamādāt wa-sāʾir al-h.ayawanāt siwā l-ʿāqil lā yaqifu ʿalayhi
ghayruhu). According to this reading, nonhuman beings have their own relationships and ways of
interacting with God that are inaccessible to humans. Al-Baghawī affirms also that this is the main-
stream position in Sunni Islam and adduces the Qur’an and the hadiths to corroborate this reading.22
Such interpretations are not unique to Sunni exegesis. Shiʿi texts also ascribe agency and emotions
and, most importantly, states denoting devotion to God to nonhuman beings.23
This reading, however, has not been palatable to all. To solve the tension between the Qur’anic
depiction of nonhumans and the way humans typically experience them, some have opted for figu-
rative interpretations and other solutions. Rahman, for example, proposes the oxymoronic phrase,
“automatic volition,” to describe nature’s ability to choose.24 Of course, one is justified to wonder
how volition – a notion that denotes intentionality – can be automatic, since being automatic implies
mechanical behavior that is devoid of intentionality. Similar solutions are proposed by medieval
thinkers. Abū Mans.ūr al-Māturīdī (d. 333/944) reports that for some, the abstention of the heavens,
earth, and mountains from accepting the trust implies that God created them in ways that precluded
them from carrying out such responsibility. This refusal is thus presented as an “innate predisposi-
tion” (ibāʾ khilqa) instilled in these creatures rather than as a matter of real choice.25 Abū l-H.asan
al-Māwardī (d. 450/1058) reports a view to the effect that God creates consciousness exceptionally
in some nonhuman beings, thus intimating that nonhuman creatures’ agency should be viewed as a
matter of miraculous occurrence with limited implications.26
These two medieval exegetes, however, point out that critics of this approach adduce Qur’anic
diction and prophetic narratives to defend literal interpretations. For these critics, the use of verbs
such as “we offered” (ʿarad. nā), “they refused” (abayna), and “they were afraid of it” (ashfaqna minhā)
when describing nonhuman creatures’ refraining from accepting the trust demands a literal read-
ing. Moreover, the fact that the Prophet himself is reported to have communicated with animate
and inanimate nonhuman beings endorses the view that nonhuman beings have more depth and
complexity than humans can typically sense. It should also be noted that the Qur’an itself ascribes
humans’ inability to grasp nonhuman beings’ glorification of God to limitations in human under-
standing and sensory experience. Substantial Qur’anic evidence thus backs the literal interpretation
that nonhumans have will and agency, though in some unspecified regard.
Close study of Qur’anic diction shows not only that this scripture attributes to nonhuman
beings an inner dimension that is imperceptible to the average human but also that it seeks to inte-
grate humanity in the order of creation. This stance can, for example, be discerned from a verse
that asks: “Do they [i.e., disbelievers] desire a religion other than God’s when to him submitted
all that is in the heavens and on earth?” (Q 3:83). This rhetorical question highlights the oddity
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of disbelievers’ defiance of God particularly in light of the fact that all other creatures have already
surrendered to him. The implied point is that disbelievers should stop their haughty resistance
and join the rest of creation in submitting themselves to God. Indeed, the clearest expression of
this integrative approach consists of the fact that the whole point of the Qur’anic message is to
persuade humanity to offer “submission” to God (islām), affirming that all other creatures have
already done so.
More themes point in the same direction. For example, after affirming that all creatures are
“obedient” (qānitūn) to God (Q 2:116), the Qur’an instructs believers to “stand before God in obe-
dience” (qānitīn, Q 2:238) and tells Mary, mother of Jesus, to submit herself to her Lord in “obedi-
ence” (uqnutī, Q 3:34). Mary and other believers are also told to prostrate themselves to God (Q
3:34, 22:77), an act of worship that nonhuman creation is already performing. The Qur’an instructs
the Prophet and other believers to hymn God’s praises (Q 3:41, 20:130, 25:58, 33:42), another
devotional act that the Qur’an attributes to nonhuman creation. Clearly, then, humans – including
prophets and other pious individuals – are often instructed to do exactly what other creatures are
already doing. The Qur’an expects and encourages humans to follow the example of their fellow
creatures.
This pattern sheds doubt on Rahman’s aforementioned statement, wherein he limits nature’s
value to its serviceability to humankind while presenting humans’ ability to worship God as a unique
faculty and privilege. Rahman is right that the end of man is “nothing else but to serve God,” but
this does not seem to be something that humans are uniquely instructed to do or are exclusively able
to do. Indeed, it seems to be the other way around. Humans (and jinn) seem to be alone in lagging
behind other creatures when it comes to devotion to God, hence perhaps the need for reminders
and messages. The general insistence that what truly count as acts of worship are only devotional
acts of which humans and other so-called discriminating creatures are capable seems to be the result
of deep-seated anthropocentric presuppositions.27 Be that as it may, the integrative dimension of the
Qur’an’s use of the same vocabulary to discuss states that belong to both humans and nonhumans
should not be dismissed as nonexistent or unimportant.
Signs of Creation
Creation in the Qur’an is one of the principal means by which humans can gain certainty about
God’s reality and attributes. The Qur’an, as Rosalind Gwynne points out, defines God as unique,
unknowable, and beyond any human capacity for understanding, yet it also expects humans to
know about God as it instructs them to worship him.28 To solve this tension, the Qur’an calls upon
the created realm as evidence of God, illustrating his attributes, particularly those pertaining to his
omnipotence and mercy. The existence and movement of celestial bodies, the alternation of day
and night, and the transformation of dead land into land thriving with life, point to a transcendent
being whose infinite power inspires awe and wonder. Furthermore, they and other wonders of the
Qur’anic cosmos testify to this being’s care and compassion, for the same phenomena consistently
involve blessings and benefits. Creation thus plays a key role in making God knowable to humankind
and in determining their relationship with him.
Remarkably, the Arabic word for “sign,” (āya) refers both to natural symbols and Qur’anic verses.
This, according to William Graham, is not a mere coincidence of language. Rather, it is an indi-
cation that nature and the Qur’an are both “books” that are full of signs teaching their perceptive
“readers” of God and his purpose in creation.29 Indeed, creation echoes scripture in many ways:
Both are “authored” by the same party. Both testify to their author’s perfection, omnipotence, and
unbounded mercy. Both are awe-inspiring due to their miraculous character. Humans who ponder
them adequately will experience similar states, reach the same conclusions, and reap the same ben-
efits. Creation is also central to the Qur’an’s message. Graham writes that it is “arguably the most
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powerful strain of [Muhammad’s] preaching about God and His sovereignty.”30 Such affinity with
and centrality to the Islamic scripture indicate that the status of nature echoes that of the Qur’an.
These conclusions are hardly a point of contention, but while affirming them unequivocally,
many take them as a further indication of humankind’s privileged status. For example, Parvez Man-
zoor acknowledges that nature is God’s primary miracle and that it is faultless,31 yet he maintains
also that it “is an innocent good placed at the disposal of man.”32 This comment implies that “man,”
the one at whose disposal this impeccable gift is placed, is God’s ultimate preoccupation and the
telos of creation. Manzoor’s comment seems to take the Qur’an’s emphasis on the serviceability of
creation to humankind as an unmistakable sign of humans’ privileged status, but this hypothesis is
contradicted by the conclusions highlighted by the Qur’an itself. Because humans typically fail to
show adequate gratitude in response to God’s favors, the theme of nature’s serviceability often serves
to expose humans’ flaws rather than reveal their distinction. For example, after stressing that it is God
who made serviceable to humankind ships to sail through the sea, rivers, the sun, the moon, the day,
and the night, a Qur’anic passage concludes by declaring “indeed, humankind is most unjust, most
ungrateful” (Q 14:32–34). The Qur’an thus remains critical of humans’ characteristic flaws even as
it enumerates creatures and phenomena that God put at their service. This critical tone controverts
the prevalent view that the serviceability of nature is a sign of God’s partiality toward humankind.
A closer reading of the passages discussing the serviceability of nature shows that the aim is to
remind humans that whatever they find adapted to their needs is in such a state because God made
it so. The aim is thus to draw humans’ attention to the true source of their well-being and to stress
God’s kindness, not humans’ specialness. In view of this, the Qur’an’s emphasis on creation’s service-
ability to people can better be accounted for by the fact that, being a message to them, it stresses
what is relevant and meaningful to their experience.
It should also be added that there is no necessary logical correlation between the principle of
serviceability and the principle of status. Even by human standards, so-called superiors are often
at the service of individuals and groups they may deem their inferiors. If anything, the theme of
serviceability is an indication of creation’s mutual dependence on one another and their ultimate
dependence on God. The theme of creation’s serviceability can indeed become an unequivocal sign
of humans’ distinction only through anthropocentric lenses that turn a blind eye to the innumerable
criticisms that the Qur’an directs at humankind and the favorable light in which it depicts other
creatures.33
Ecological Impact
These anthropocentric readings notwithstanding, the Qur’an still managed to foster positive atti-
tudes toward the environment in observing Muslims. Two approaches contributed to this impact.
Themes highlighting creation’s spirituality inspired the pious to hold it in high esteem and to treat
it with deference, whereas the sign motif nurtured a sense of wonder toward creation. The first
approach was developed in the hadith collections, pious literature, and works of jurisprudence to
become the formal foundation for what may be termed as “Islamic environmental ethics.”34 The
second, to which I turn in this section, provided the emotional foundation for these ethics.
Several scholars have pointed out the role of wonder in developing sound attitudes toward the
environment. The renowned conservationist Rachel Carson (d. 1964) acknowledges that the com-
plexity of the environmental situation of our time requires more than one approach. Nonetheless,
she believes that wonder and humility are a key part of the answer, for they “do not exist side by
side with a lust for destruction.”35 Kathleen Dean Moore elaborates on this point by explaining
that “[a] sense of wonder closes the distance between ‘this is wonderful’ and ‘this must remain.’ ”36
Mitchell Thomashow notes that “wondering about the biosphere summons praise, compassion, and
an ethic of care.”37 Thus, whereas moral codes and legal rules can produce an environmental impact
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by imposing regulations and restrictions, wonder provides the emotional foundation for this impact
through its inspirational power.
The Qur’anic invitation to ponder God’s creation generated a ubiquitous sense of wonder in
Islamic texts. In response to this invitation, Muslims across history have marveled at objects ranging
from celestial bodies to tiny insects.38 This approach also enabled them to perceive divine wisdom
even in objects and phenomena that are typically deemed repulsive or harmful. Excrement, though
seemingly lowly and polluting, is invaluable manure for vegetation.39 Earthquakes and diseases teach
penitence and encourage people to abandon their bad ways.40 In short, everything God has created
is as miraculous as it is beneficial. This approach, combined with this scripture’s relentless invitation
to ponder creation, helped tear the veils of routine, a sentiment that Abraham Heschel considers to
be at the root of humankind’s tragedy for its ability to “dim all wonder by indifference.”41
Conclusion
In this chapter, I have sought to highlight the important status that the Qur’an assigns to the non-
human creation and to question the anthropocentric presuppositions that tend to dim this status.
Analysis of the motifs of divine oaths, creation’s inner dimension, and creation’s sign function indi-
cates that God values the nonhuman world and approves of its way of being, something that stands
in contrast to the Qur’an’s frequent criticism of humankind. Close study shows also that the Qur’an
seeks to integrate humanity into the rest of creation rather than to establish or confirm human
exceptionalism. I have strived to illustrate this point through the theme of creation’s devotion to
God, but the same stance can be detected from other Qur’anic themes, including the sign motif
(both human and nonhuman beings serve as signs of creation).
The arguments cited in this chapter in refutation of anthropocentric readings of the Qur’an are
not the only ones. Elsewhere I have argued against the view that humans are infused with God’s
spirit,42 something that Manzoor, for example, invokes in support of human exceptionalism.43 Simi-
larly, many works have demonstrated the baselessness of the idea that humans are God’s vicegerents,
which further shows the implausibility of associating anthropocentric views with the Qur’an.44 In
conclusion, it is perhaps useful to note that an environmentalist reading of the Islamic scripture is a
worthy endeavor not only because of its ability to reinvigorate Muslims’ respect for the environment
but also because it does more justice to the Qur’anic worldview.
Notes
1 Unless otherwise stated, all translations are my own.
2 Jamāl Badawi, “The Earth and Humanity: A Muslim View,” in Three Faiths, One God: A Jewish, Christian,
Muslim Encounter, ed. John Hick and Edmund S. Meltzer (London: Macmillan Press Ltd, 1989), 87–98.
3 Angelika Neuwirth, “Cosmology,” in Encyclopaedia of the Qur’ān, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe, editor-in-
chief (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 1:440–458.
4 Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an (Minneapolis, MN: Bibliotheca Islamica, 1994), 78–79.
5 For more on this see Sarra Tlili, Animals in the Qur’an (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012).
6 Ibid., 9–11 and chapter 5.
7 For a comprehensive treatment of divine oaths in the Qur’an, see Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, al-Tibyān fī aymān
al-Qur’an (Mecca: Dār ʿĀlam al-Fawāʾid, 2009).
8 M. Zakyi Ibrahim, “Oaths in the Qur’ān: Bint al-Shāt․iʾ’s Literary Contribution,” Islamic Studies 48, no. 4
(2009): 11.
9 Angelika Neuwirth, “Images and Metaphors in the Introductory Sections of the Mekkan Sūras” in
Approaches to the Qur’an, ed. G.R. Hawting and Abdul-Kader A. Shareef (New York: Routledge, 1993), 9.
10 Ibn al-Qayyim, al-Tibyān, 424–426.
11 The relative ambiguity results from the fact that the Qur’an here addresses the Prophet using the second
person singular and masculine pronoun: la-ʿamruka (“by your life”). Exegetes are almost unanimous that the
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pronoun -ka (“your”) here refers to Muhammad, but those who differ suggest that the addressee is Prophet
Lot. Either way, the object of this oath is a prophet.
12 Ibid., 649.
13 One such instance is the oath “by the witness and the witnessed” (wa-shāhidin wa-mashhūd, Q 85:3). Ibn al-
Qayyim’s interpretation of this verse is not very helpful – he maintains that this is a reference to “the knower
and the known or the seer and the thing seen” (al-ʿālim wa l-maʿlūm wa l-rāʾī wa l-marʾī) without identifying
these beings. The proposition that humans may be intended in this oath seems plausible. Ibn al-Qayyim,
al-Tibyān, 140.
14 Ibn Jarīr al-T ․ abarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān ʿan taʾwīl āy al-Qurʾan (Giza, Egypt: Dār Hajr, 2001), 24:455.
15 Ibid.
16 Ibn al-Qayyim, al-Tibyān, 69.
17 John Kaltner, Introducing the Qur’an for Today’s Reader (Minneapolis MN: Fortress Press, 2011), 58.
18 Neuwirth, “Images and Metaphors,” 4.
19 ʿĀʾisha ʿAbd al-Rah.mān bint al-Shāt․iʾ, al-Tafsīr al-bayānī li-l-Qur’an al-karīm (Cairo: Dār al-Maʿārif, 1990),
1:25–28.
20 Abū Muh.ammad al-Dārimī, Sunan al-Dārimī (Riyadh: Dār al-Mughnī li-l-Nashr wa-l-Tawzīʿ, 2000), 1:169.
21 For many exegetes, amāna consists of the bargain to be tested in this life in return for either reward or pun-
ishment in the afterlife. For more on this notion, see Tlili, Animals in the Qur’an, 237–241.
22 Abū Muh.ammad al-Baghawī, Maʿālim al-tanzīl (Riyadh: Dār T ․ ayyiba li-l-Nashr, 1993), 1:111.
23 For more examples, see Abū Zayd al-Thaʿālibī, al-Jawāhir al-h.isān fī tafsīr al-Qur’an (Beirut: Dār Ih.yāʾ
al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 1998), 1:265–266; Abū l-H.asan al-Qummī, Tafsīr al-Qummī (Qum: Muʾassasat al-Imām
al-Mahdī, 2014), 3:836. İbrahim Özdemir, The Ethical Dimension of Human Attitude Towards Nature: A Mus-
lim Perspective (Istanbul: Insan Publications, 2008), 160.
24 Rahman, Major Themes, 65.
25 Abū Mans.ūr al-Māturīdī, Taʾwīlāt ahl al-sunna (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2005), 8:420–421.
26 Abū l-H.asan al-Māwardī, al-Nukat wa-l-ʿuyūn (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1995), 1:147.
27 According to the Mainstream Islamic position discriminating creatures are humans, angels, and jinn.
28 Rosalind Ward Gwynne, “Sign, Analogy, and the Via Negativa: Approaching the Transcendent God of the
Qur’an,” in Sacred Tropes: Tanakh, New Testament, and Qur’an as Literature and Culture, ed. Roberta Sterman
Sabbath (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 53.
29 William A. Graham, “ ‘The Winds to Herald His Mercy’ and Other ‘Signs for Those of Certain Faith’:
Nature as Token of God’s Sovereignty and Grace in the Qur’an,” in Faithful Imagining: Essays in Honor of
Richard R. Niebuhr, ed. Sang Hyun Lee, Wayne Proudfoot, and Albert Blackwell (Atlanta: Scholars Press,
1995), 26.
30 Ibid., 20.
31 Parvez Manzoor, “Nature and Culture: An Islamic Perspective,” in Nature Across Cultures: Views of Nature
and the Environment in Non-Western Cultures, ed. Helaine Selin (Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers,
2003), 425.
32 Ibid., 426.
33 For an elaborate discussion of this point, see Tlili, Animals in the Qur’an, 74–115.
34 Sarra Tlili, “I Invoke God, Therefore I Am: Creation’s Spirituality and Its Ecologic Impact in Islamic Texts,”
in A Global History of Literature and the Environment, ed. John Parham and Louise Westling (New York: Cam-
bridge University Press, 2017), 107–122.
35 Rachel Carson, “Design for Nature Writing,” reprinted in Linda Lear, Lost Woods (Boston: Beacon Press,
1998), 94.
36 Kathleen Dean Moore, “The Truth of the Barnacles: Rachel Carson and the Moral Significance of Won-
der,” Environmental Ethics 27 (2005): 267.
37 Mitchell Thomashow, Bringing the Biosphere Home: Learning to Perceive Global Environmental Change (Cam-
bridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002), 46.
38 For some representative works, see, for example, Abū H.āmid al-Ghazālī, al-H.ikma fī makhlūqāt Allāh (Beirut:
Dār Ih.yāʾ al-ʿUlūm, 1978); Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq, “Tawh.īd al-Mufad.d.al,” in Bih.ar al-anwār al-jāmiʿa li-durar akhbār
al-aʾimma al-at․hār, ed. al-ʿAllāma Muh.ammad Bāqir al-Majlisī (Beirut, Lebanon: Dār Ih.yāʾ al-Turāth
al-ʿArabī, 1983), 3:57–110.
39 Al-Majlisī, Bih.ār al-anwār, 3:136.
40 Ibid., 3:121.
41 Abraham Joshua Heschel, God in Search of Man: A Philosophy of Judaism (New York: Harper & Row,
1955), 85.
143
Sarra Tlili
42 Sarra Tlili, “From Breath to Soul: The Qur’anic Word Rūh. and Its (Mis)interpretations,” in Arabic Humani-
ties, Islamic Thought: A Festschrift for Everett K. Rowson, ed. Shawkat Toorawa and Joseph Lowry (Leiden:
Brill, 2017).
43 Manzoor, “Nature and Culture,” 428.
44 Fritz Steppat, “God’s Deputy: Materials on Islam’s Image of Man,” Arabica 36, no. 2 (1989): 163–172; Wadād
al-Qādī, “The Term ‘Khalifa’ in Early Exegetical Literature,” Die Welt des Islams 28, no. 1/4 (1988): 392–
411; Rudi Paret, “Significations coranique de h alīfa et d'autres dérivés de la racine h alafa,” Studia Islamica
31 (1970): 211–217; Jaafar Sheikh Idris, “Is Man˘ the Vicegerent of God?” Journal of Islamic
˘ Studies 1 (1990):
99–110.
144
14
JINN IN THE QUR’AN
Ali A. Olomi
Introduction
The Qur’an refers to a group of beings known as the jinn living alongside humankind. They are
treated as a separate race, ambivalent in nature, with the capacity for both good and evil. Though
different from humans, the jinn are described as a created race paralleling people. Likely part of the
pre-Islamic fabric of Arabian culture, the jinn were adopted into later Islamic belief through the
spread of the Qur’an’s cosmology.
The Qur’an describes creation as fashioned by a singular deity who made the worlds, plants and
animals, and three types of rational life: angels, humans, and jinn. Angels are frequently treated as
helpers of God; a type of pure servant. Humans are described as corporeal. Jinn are defined as a form
of elemental life, psychic and invisible but not purely spirit. Much the beliefs and interpretations
regarding the jinn are developed by later Muslim thinkers, folklorists, artisans, and theologians, but
a great deal can be drawn from the Qur’an’s own references.
Pre-Islamic Origins
Scholarship on Late Antique Arabia acknowledges that jinn predate Islam and the Qur’an as part of
the common cultural beliefs of the region. While Arabia at the dawn of Islam was home to a variety
of religions and deities, belief in the jinn was ubiquitous. Though their popularity may have varied
by region, the line between jinn, angel, and deity was ambiguous at best. Likely a type of elemental
spirits, or tutelary deities, the jinn were alternatively beneficial and malicious semidivine forces.1
Often treated as the embodiment of the desert itself, full of mystery and essential to the landscape of
the Arabs, stories and legends of the jinn were passed down through oral tradition. Much of what
we know comes from the references of later Muslim writers and a few archaeological mentions.
Etymologically, jinn relate to al-ghayb, the “hidden” and invisible realm of existence. The connec-
tion between a hidden world and an invisible race indicates that perhaps the word jinn was used as
a catchall term for any manner of supernatural phenomenon. In the Syriac world, we find mention
of gyny linked to the broader Mediterranean concept of the genius (Latin, pl. genii); a personal spirit
of inspiration. There may be some link between the gyny and jinn with a shared heritage as tutelary,
tribal, or local deities.
To the ancient Arab, the world around was teeming with invisible life. The desert may appear
barren to the untrained eye, but upon closer examination it is full of unseen powers and entities. It
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-16 145

Ali A. Olomi
is in the desert, with its dunes and mountains, where the jinn made their home. Such jinn could be
mischievous or dangerous, like nature itself. The desert sandstorm and the strange sounds at night
were all viewed as manifestations of the jinn, and the canny traveler knew to be careful.
The jinn were also a part of the ritual life of pre-Islamic Arabs. Experts, known as kuhhan (sing.
kāhin) held positions as “soothsayers” and “clerics” (cf. Q 52:29, 69:42). The kāhin would make
prophetic pronouncements on behalf of the gods in rhyming verse through the agency of the jinn.2
The jinn were intermediaries between the kāhin and their deity acting as a familiar spirit, or genius.
The use of rhyming verse in such oracles brought poetry into the fold of jinn activities. Furthermore,
Arabian poets and soothsayers would convey messages from the jinn answering questions through
divination, providing wisdom, and communications from the divine.
Jinn in the Qur’an

The Qur’an takes this cultural background of the jinn for granted, drawing them into a new Islamic
framework. While the idea of jinn would have been familiar to the contemporaries of Muhammad,
the Qur’an adjusts much of the Arabian lore and Islamizes it. Like many of the themes and references
that the Qur’an assumes of its audience, the discussions of the jinn are often scattered across the text.
The jinn are mentioned in the Qur’an several times with an entire sura traditionally named after
them. In the 72nd chapter – Sūrat al-Jinn – the Qur’an explains the relationship of the jinn with God
and Muhammad. The sura begins by claiming that a group of jinn listened to Muhammad as he
was revealing verses from the Qur’an. Inspired by the message, they reject any and all false associa-
tions with Allah, reaffirming the strict monotheism and unity of God and accepting Muhammad as
a messenger. The Qur’an records the jinn as saying, “When we heard the guidance, we believed in
it” (Q 72:13).3 The Qur’an uses this narrative of the jinn’s conversion to position them as parallels of
humans. If the jinn were pre-Islamic intermediaries of the gods and nature, in the Qur’anic narrative
they are a created race subject to a singular deity, Allah, and like humans could choose to become
believers or unbelievers. In turn, Muhammad’s station is reaffirmed as a messenger for humans and
jinn alike.
The sura continues, using the conversation and speech of the jinn to reinterpret their role within
the monotheism of Islam. In verses eight to nine, the jinn confess that some of them used to eaves-
drop on the affairs of heaven to discover the allotted fate of humans but found the celestial realms
heavily guarded. The sneaky jinn were then driven away from heaven with fiery missiles. In another
sura, the eavesdropping jinn are called “rebellious devils” (shayt․ānin māridin), but no explanation is
given as to the distinction of the titles (Q 37:7). The Qur’an describes jinn as living in tribes and
nations (Q 7:27), although it is not clear if this is a reference to a distinct community of jinn. Later
Muslim writers would expand greatly on the invisible world of jinn, but the Qur’an likely records
the common belief in which jinn social organization mirrored that of the human world.
Returning to Sūrat al-Jinn, the verses allude to the jinn providing prophecy and divination to the
kāhin. The hearer is reminded that some people used to petition the jinn for assistance (Q 72:6). Yet
within the monotheism of Islam, the jinn are stripped of their powers of foresight and intervention,
and the prophecies of the kāhin are dismissed as lies. Pre-Islamic religious practices are reinterpreted
in the Qur’anic narrative, affirming the existence of the jinn but rejecting their elevated status as
spiritual intermediaries. Sūrat al-Jinn continues by claiming that the jinn, now parallel to humans,
are subject to God’s judgment based on their acceptance or rejection of Islam. The Qur’an explicitly
states God created humans and jinn so that they might worship the Creator (Q 51:56).
In the Qur’anic narrative, the jinn are created beings that either deceived humans into worshiping
them, or humans themselves made the mistake of elevating the jinn beyond their allotted station.
The Qur’an repeatedly says both jinn and humans will face the judgment of God, in particular those
146
who associated the jinn with deities. The Qur’an says, “They have invented kinship between God
and the jinn, but the jinn know that they have to appear before God” (Q 37:158).
The sura draws the jinn into the prophetic mission of Muhammad by recording an encounter
between him and this invisible race. Muhammad may have been a new prophet, but even the jinn
were listening to him. To the Arabian audience of the Qur’an, the event would link the message
of Muhammad to forces they would have been familiar with already. Later Muslim theologians and
compilers of prophetic traditions (hadith) would attempt to explain and expand on this experience.
In all instances, Muhammad in his function as prophet provides the jinn with needed information
about God and God’s wants, just as he does for humanity. The story flips the older relationship
between jinn and humans. If in pre-Islamic Arabia the jinn were the ones who passed along mes-
sages from the divine, in the Qur’anic narrative it is Muhammad that is the messenger with the jinn
demoted to an existence parallel to human life.
The jinn’s acceptance of the message of the Qur’an is put forth as a confirmation of the prophet-
hood of Muhummad. Yet unlike the kāhin of the past, Muhammad is not a soothsayer. He is not
inspired by the jinn, but rather his revelation comes from the one God. Prophecy and jinn were all
familiar elements in Arabian society, but through the Qur’an they are redefined within a framework
of monotheism and allegiance to Muhammad as God’s human messenger.
As the pre-Islamic Arabian jinn are drawn into the Qur’anic assertions of Muhammad’s prophetic
role, so too are they woven into the stories of older biblical and para-biblical characters in the text. The
Qur’an, for example, mentions the jinn alongside the prophetic figure of Solomon (Sulaymān). Like
many other biblical individuals, Solomon appears in the Qur’an as a righteous figure of the past and
part of an Islamic prophetic lineage, just as other Jewish and Christian figures are reinterpreted within
an Islamic framework. Solomon is cast in the role of a righteous king and prophet who is granted
dominion over humans, ants, birds, and jinn (Q 21:82, 27:17–19, 34:12–14, 38:35–39). The jinn are
described as servants of Solomon, working as builders and soldiers on his behalf. The story implies
the jinn are inhabitants of the earth alongside humans and also subject to God and God’s messengers.
It is also in the story of Solomon that the Qur’an alludes to a specific type of jinn. When Solo-
mon turns to his servants to ask who can bring the throne of the Queen of Sheba to him, the first
to respond is an ʿifrīt (Q 27:39). No explanation is given for what an ʿifrīt may be, and it is perhaps a
descriptor with some translators interpreting it to mean “a strong one” of the jinn. Yet later Muslim
writers would categorize the ʿifrīt as a subclass of jinn. The Qur’anic verses allude to the ʿifrīt-jinn’s
special powers, perhaps over a form of supernatural travel. The ʿifrīt-jinn volunteers to transport
the throne of the Queen of Sheba from far away to Solomon in Jerusalem. The Qur’anic narra-
tor assumes the hearers are already familiar with the jinn as having different abilities from humans
but rejects their role as spiritual intercessors and instead imagines them as a parallel form of life to
humans and thus under the power of prophets. The jinn of Solomon are described as having such
abilities and as a form of natural but alternative life. Yet despite their capabilities, they are bound by
limitations. When Solomon dies, he is propped up by his staff, and the jinn are unable to tell he has
passed until a termite eats through his staff and the prophet’s body topples over (Q 34:14). The jinn
may be powerful, but they are not all-knowing, according to the Qur’an.
The inclusion of the jinn in the story of King Solomon situate them as beings in history; living
alongside humans throughout time. Such a relationship between jinn and humans is a common
theme of the Qur’an as they are often mentioned alongside one another. “O company of jinn and
humans, did there not come to you messengers from among you, relating to you My signs and warn-
ing you of the meeting of this Day of yours?” (Q 6:130). Jinn and humans both received messengers
from God and will be held to account on the Day of Judgment. While jinn are a different form of
life, the reader is reminded they are still subject to mortality. They will die and have an afterlife just
like humans.
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Ali A. Olomi
In the Qur’an, some jinn may also be treated as the invisible “company” (qarīn) of humans (Q
50:23). While the idea of angels guarding humans and recording their deeds is a common warning
within the scripture, later Muslims have often interpreted the term qarīn as specifically a jinn com-
panion. Humans, then, are believed to be accompanied by angels and jinn both. The qarīn is often
mentioned alongside the idea of temptation. In particular, God in the Qur’an warns humans that in
recompense for wickedness, their qarīn will be devils from among the jinn (Q 43:36).
Iblīs
The qarīn as a wicked companion touches upon the most famous of the jinn: Iblīs. While pre-Islamic
Arabia likely had many named jinn, the Qur’an only refers to this one explicitly. Interpreted as the
Islamic devil, Iblīs is present at the creation of humanity. His story follows the same general narrative
arc of Satan in the para-biblical lore. Iblīs appears most famously in the seven Qur’anic versions of
the story in which Adam is created. In each, the first human is accompanied by angels who are told
to bow to this new creation. Iblīs is present as well, but the Qur’an clarifies that he is not an angel
who falls but is rather one of the jinn. “Behold we said to the angels, ‘Bow to Adam’: they bowed
down except Iblīs. He was one of the jinn” (Q 18:50). Iblīs is differentiated from angels on account
of being a jinn: whereas the angels are obedient, the jinn can choose to be disobedient.
What a jinn is doing among angels is less clear. While the Qur’an does hint at the jinn being
created before humanity, it is less clear if Iblīs is the first jinn or simply a notable one. Muslim theo-
logians would debate the matter with no universally accepted conclusion. Neither does the Qur’an
explain why Iblīs was present in the first place among the angels or what is the relationship between
jinn and angel. Consequently, later Muslim theologians would debate the nature of Iblīs. Some, like
the historian and exegete al-T ․abarī (d. 923), would record Iblīs as an angel of sorts therefore drawing
parallels with the Lucifer/Satan-fallen-angel narrative. Most would settle on Iblīs as a once righteous
jinn who was elevated to live among the angels until his arrogance led to his refusal to bow down to
Adam and thereby to disobey God.
Even the name Iblīs is a point of debate. It is unclear where the Qur’an is drawing the name from
as there seems to be no known reference to Iblīs in pre-Islamic literature. It could perhaps be a prod-
uct of another, unknown Arabic word or an entirely new invention. Despite drawing clearly from
the Christian or Jewish arc of Satan, Iblīs does not seem to be the name of the devil for Christian
Arabs. It is often supposed to be related to the Greek, diabolis (“the one cast out,” the devil), although
the validity and nature of this linguistic relationship cannot be confirmed.
Despite the murky origin and identification, Iblīs is explicitly associated with the wicked shayt․ān:
the “devil” in the Qur’an. A repeated Qur’anic invocation pleads refuge in God from “Satan the
Accursed” (shayt․ān al-rajīm, Q 3:36, 15:17, 16:98, 81:25) Though Iblīs appears repeatedly through-
out the Qur’an as the only named jinn, he does not figure as a major adversary of God but rather as
a subtle and much weaker force of corruption fully under the dominion of the Creator. Iblīs’s fellow
“devils” (shayāt․īn) are discussed similarly. The shayāt․īn are treated as both evil jinn as well as human
followers of Iblīs.
In the Qur’an, when Iblīs refuses to bow before Adam, God rebukes him and prepares to cast
him out. Iblīs begs respite until the Day of Resurrection and God grants it. In the meantime, God
threatens to assign shayt․ān as a qarīn for humans if they turn away from remembering their Crea-
tor (Q 43:36). This office is presented as satanic “whispers” (waswasa) by which the human race is
tempted to sin. The supplication of sura 114 (Sūrat al-Nas) seeks protection from this lure: “From
the mischief of the whisperer who withdraws [after his whisper] and who whispers into the hearts
of humans” (Q 114:4–5). The companions of Iblīs, the shayāt․īn, are likewise depicted as an invisible
force of temptation and corruption, granted some freedom to work their evil by means of these
whispers. Through their subtle influence they encourage humans to doubt and disobey. The role of
148
Iblīs in the community or race of jinn is not clearly specified in the Qur’an itself. In the later Muslim
exegesis of the Qur’an (tafsīr), as well as in other Islamic literatures, Iblīs is assumed to be the leader
of the shayāt․īn, who is sometimes imagined in the role of a father or tribal chieftain.
This crafty, invisible sway is likely a pre-Islamic feature of Iblīs and the rest of the jinn. They were
believed to have the power to drive a person insane with their whispers. Indeed, the word for “mad,”
majnūn, translates literally to “possessed by the jinn.” This particular feature of pre-Islamic jinn is
referenced in the Qur’an where it is Islamized from a “pagan” belief to a monotheistic one. The
evil jinn, the elemental semidivinities of Late Antique Arabia, are transformed and represented as
the tempting and whispering shayāt․īn. It is shayt․ān who whispered into the heart of Adam, tempting
him to the forbidden Tree of Eternity (Q 20:120). Adam and his unnamed wife (traditionally called
H.awwāʾ, Eve) eat from the Tree and therefore disobey God.
However, humans remain responsible for their own actions. While some parallels can be made
between the jinn and demons in Christian theology, where their motives are more directly in oppo-
sition to God than in the Islamic sources, the demonology of the Qur’an is distinct, and the jinn
present a unique perspective. The devils’ power is only to whisper, tempt, and sow doubt, as is
made clear in the Qur’an (e.g., Q 14:22). Despite being a stumbling block for humanity, Iblīs and
his shayāt․īn are not all-powerful forces, often fleeing before supplications of protection and assured
hellfire by God on the Day of Judgment (Q 7:18).
Qur’anic Cosmology
Drawing together the allusive references to the jinn in the scripture, a Qur’anic cosmology emerges
that imagines a universe populated by angels, jinn, and humans. God fashions angels as obedient
servants and helpers. As God sets about creating the universe, angels work alongside and often in
conversation with God. A now famous hadith would state that angels are created out of luminous
light.4 Jinn on the other hand are said to be made from fire. The Qur’an describes it as “a fire from
scorching” wind (nāri l-samūmi, Q 15:27). Elsewhere it is described as a “smokeless fire” (mārijin min
nārin, Q 55:15). Conversely, the same passage mention that Adam and his children are fashioned
from “clay like pottery” (s.als.ālin kal-fakhāri), an embodied creation, tangible and material. Jinn on
the other hand are a type of elemental life. Iblīs even uses his different/superior elemental nature to
explain his refusal to bow before Adam. When God asks him his reason, Iblīs responds, “I am better
than he: You created me from fire, and him from clay” (Q 7:12).
The cosmology that takes shape is one in which an all-powerful Creator fashions multiple types of
intelligent life: obedient spiritual life (angels), tangible life free to choose belief or unbelief (humans),
and invisible life free to choose belief or unbelief ( jinn). Within the broader category of jinn, the
shayāt․īn amongst them operate as unbelievers and deceivers who tempt humans into disbelief. While
they are evil, they are the whisperers of doubt rather than manifestations of sin or evil itself. In that
sense, the jinn therefore are not akin to demons as they are understood in Christian theology as
supernatural embodiments of evil but rather are an alternative type of life. Life as a struggle toward
belief and obedience continues until the Day of Judgment whereupon humans and jinn alike face
an accounting by God. The implication is that while the life of jinn is different from humans, they
too are mortals.
Folklore and Extra-Qur’anic Sources

The Qur’an Islamizes the jinn into a particular cosmology, recasting them from their pre-Islamic
polytheist or henotheist roots into a new monotheistic framework. However, many practices and
beliefs regarding the jinn continue alongside the Qur’an to this day. The jinn feature prominently
in Islamic folklore as ambivalent and mischievous supernatural forces. While Muslims would debate
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Ali A. Olomi
the nature of the jinn, such as whether they had literal existence or were metaphors, orthodox belief
would take their existence for granted given their repeated mention in the Qur’an.
By the tenth and eleventh centuries, Muslim writers would record different categories of jinn,
often drawing from the Qur’an, pre-Islamic beliefs, and all the various cultures of the greater Islamic
world. These include the marīds, powerful fire giants associated with nature and magic, and the
infernal ʿifrīts, who worked evil in the form of disasters. Both marīd and ʿifrīts are directly mentioned
in the Qur’an without explanation. Some have interpreted marīd and ʿifrīt as merely descriptors of
some jinn, rather than a specific subcategory or type. They may have perhaps been alternative names
for jinn or maybe a subtribe of jinn. But by the classical Islamic period, writers used the Qur’anic
terms marīd and ʿifrīt to mean specific types of jinn. The classification of the jinn would also expand
considerably to include various other kinds in no way indicated by the Qur’an. Of note are the
flesh-eating and cemetery-dwelling ghouls (ghūls), the hunted nasnās who live in far-off places, the
seductive siʿlā (or siʿlāt), and the malformed shiqq.
Such classifications of jinn were recorded in stories but also appeared in the geographical works
of Muslim scientists and scholars. Jinn were treated as part of the natural world – another creature
like a lion or rabbit – that could be classified and categorized in biological or zoomorphic terms.
Authors like Zakariyāʾ al-Qazwīnī (d. 1283) with his Book of Wonderous Creatures and Strange Things
(Kitāb al-ʿAjāʾib al-Makhlūqāt wa Gharāʾib al-Mawjūdāt) would record fantastical accounts of islands
and distant lands populated with jinn. This and other encyclopedic works reflect both the under-
standing of the jinn as part of this world and the view that the hidden realms of the jinn and visible
world of the humans overlap. Bedouin stories of the jinn as shapeshifting into animals became part
of the popular understanding of the jinn. Indeed, the connection between jinn and animals is an
enduring trope drawn from pre-Islamic beliefs which continues into classical and modern Muslim
literatures and folklore.
It is in the hadiths and the tafsīr where the Qur’anic cosmology is expanded and the relationships
between humans, jinn, animals, and angels are further explained. What the Qur’an alludes to and
takes for granted as familiar to its first audience, the hadiths and tafsīr elaborate upon in the com-
ing centuries. For instance, the hadiths as a body of literature attest to the connection between jinn
and animals, with Muhammad famously categorizing jinn as those that can fly, those that can move
like humans, and those that appear as snakes and dogs.5 In the tafsīr, too, the jinn are described as
a form of pre-Adamic life who were divided between forces of corruption and forces of propriety.
The angels established order on the jinn by force and from among the righteous, Iblīs is elevated to
live among the celestial court until his fall. It is also in the commentaries that we find debate among
Muslims on the nature of the jinn. Some believed the jinn were a class of fiery angels. A tribe of
angels known as al-Jinn are mentioned, and there is some conflation between the al-Jinn and jinn
more broadly. Eventually, the orthodox belief will come to settle on angels and jinn as distinct.6 The
debate, however, may be a remnant of an older conception of jinn in which the description was
broadly used as an umbrella for all invisible and supernatural phenomenon (cf. janna [“covered up/
over”] or al-jannā [the “gardens” of the afterlife]). It is therefore possible that the theological discus-
sion reflects some of the older folk beliefs and practices, drawing upon them to expand the Qur’anic
cosmology and understanding of the jinn.
The pervasive belief in the jinn also manifests in a variety of practices that are not related directly
to the Qur’an but became part of the popular religion of Muslims: from avoiding whistling at night
to not pouring water down a hole, lest you bring upon yourself the ire of the jinn. Many of these
folk beliefs are a continuation of pre-Islamic ideas of the jinn that are Islamized and understood
within the cosmology expressed in the Qur’an. For example, treating a desert storm as the work of
the jinn remains a common belief in places like Egypt. Stories are told of jinn who kidnap careless
travelers or who infect humans with disease.7 The popularity of the jinn also speaks to the ways in
which the Qur’anic cosmology was localized beyond its original setting in seventh-century Arabia.
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With the spread of Islam into North Africa, Persia, South Asia, and Southeast Asia, preexisting spir-
itual entities like Dev, Per, Churail, and Pūntaynak were reimagined as jinn, thus preserving stories
and beliefs but situating them within a new Islamic worldview. In North Africa, legendary spirits
like Aicha Qandisha were reinterpreted as jinn or jinn-like beings.
Beyond the narratives of the jinn in the Qur’an and elsewhere, the most enduring theme of
the jinn is their relationship to magic. Found both within the Qur’an and in folklore, the jinn are
reputed to teach humans magic (Q 2:102). In practice, the names of jinn would appear on talismans
and in magical treatises taught to the canny so that they might contact and deploy them for sorcer-
ous ends.
Conclusion
The appearance of the jinn in the Qur’an demonstrates the way in which Islamic thought integrates
and reworks pre-Islamic religious beliefs. Though at times allusive, the Qur’anic narrative on the
jinn offers an interesting glimpse into the historical religious milieu that birthed the Qur’an and the
dynamic means by which the Qur’an incorporated previous ideas and absorbed local beliefs into a
new religious framework and cosmology. The Qur’an affirms the existence of jinn while refuting
their role as divine intermediaries to a subtle race living alongside humankind. A feature of ancient
Arabia, the jinn are demoted in the Qur’an from the divine or semidivine status previously attributed
to them – a status that the Qur’an rejects as merely a human fabrication or fallacy – and reconfigured
into a Qur’anic cosmology marked by its three distinct types of intelligent life. The jinn are parallels
to humans who on the Day of Judgment will face an accounting for their belief or lack thereof. To
that end, the jinn in their wicked shayāt․īn role also become the theological mechanism for explain-
ing temptation and disbelief without recourse to secondary divine powers. The Qur’an connects
the jinn to Iblīs, a devil-like figure who takes on the role of tempter and deceiver, as opposed to
the anti-God often appearing in Christian mythologies – an enemy to humans rather than to God.
Notes
1 Amira El-Zein, Islam, Arabs, and the Intelligent World of the Jinn (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press,
2009), 37.
2 Ibid., 55.
3 Qur’an 72:13, translated by Emily Assami, Mary Kennedy, Amatullah Bantley, Saudi Arabia: Dar Abul
Qasim.
4 S. ah.īh. Muslim, Book 55, 78.
5 E.g., S. ah.īh. ibn H
. ibban, 6156.
6 Al-T ․abarī covers the cosmic battle both in his History of Messengers and Kings (Tārīkh al-rasul wa l-mulūk) and
in his Qur’anic commentary, The Summa of Statements of Interpretation of the Qur’an’s Verses ( Jāmiʿ al-bayān ʿan
taʾwīl āy al-qurʾān). He notes the major difference of opinions between Ibn ʿAbbās, Ibn Masʿūd, and other
Companions of the Prophet. Ibn Kathīr (d. 1373) also records these disagreements in his tafsīr.
7 El-Zein, Islam, Arabs, and the Intelligent World of the Jinn, 74.
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15
STYLE IN THE QUR’AN
Devin J. Stewart
The text of the Qur’an shows a great variety of form and style, in large part because the basic units of
the scripture – the 114 suras – belong to a wide array of distinct genres and do not conform to one
common pattern or even to two or three distinct types. Thus, for example, the last two suras of the
Qur’an, Sūrat al-Falaq (Q 113) and Sūrat al-Nās (Q 114), are protective charms. Sūrat al-Fātih.a (Q 1)
is a prayer that resembles the Lord’s Prayer in Christianity. Other suras such as Sūrat al-Mulk (Q 67)
and Sūrat al-Aʿlā (Q 87) resemble Jewish and Christian prayers or hymns. Sūrat al-Kawthar (Q 108)
and Sūrat Abī Lahab (Q 111) appear to be retorts to an insult and a curse, respectively. And many suras,
particularly those that present biblical narratives, resemble sermons or homilies. Because the specific
forms and stylistic features of the text are determined to a large extent by the genres used, it is neces-
sary to take into account the various genres that appear in the text. Taking a broad view in assessing
the Qur’an’s style, it is useful to identify four large bodies of written and oral tradition with which
the text of the Qur’an is related: Arabic poetry, Arabic oratory, religious discourse of the pagan Arabs,
and Jewish and Christian religious discourse. In addition, it is of utmost importance to recognize that
the Qur’an, in drawing on each of these four bodies of material, presents them for the most part in
rhyming text and that it exhibits many stylistic features often associated closely with poetry as a result.
Register
The Qur’an reports that it is written “in a clear Arabic language” (bi-lisānin ʿarabiyyin mubīn, Q
16:103, 26:195), but it is not immediately clear what type of Arabic is intended. Picking up on sug-
gestions in the Islamic tradition that the Qur’an shows signs of being couched in the dialect of the
H.ijāz, Karl Vollers suggested in his 1902 work that the Qur’an was written throughout in Meccan
vernacular, and Paul E. Kahle also supported this view. Most scholars of Qur’anic Studies, includ-
ing Nöldeke, Geyer, and others, have rejected this position, holding instead that the language of the
Qur’an is al-ʿarabiyya, that of the poetic koine, while recognizing that features of the H.ijāzī dialect,
especially the elision of hamza, occasionally affect the text. Examination of the received text suggests
that philologians later rectified it, supplying hamzas that were not originally included. The identifi-
cation of the poetic koine as the language of the Qur’an is a bit misleading. While it is clearly a high
variety of the language (as opposed to a colloquial), including a full system of case endings indicat-
ing the declension of nouns, the connection with poetry in particular has been overemphasized
by a number of modern authors, while the text shows a stronger connection with Arabic oratory
and with the pronouncements of the pre-Islamic soothsayers. The emphasis on Arabic is associated
152 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-17

Style in the Qur’an
regularly with clarity and with the comprehension on the part of the audience. While this is associ-
ated with the special status or sacrality of Arabic in the Islamic tradition, it is obviously intended to
contrast to “foreign” or “outlandish” tongues (aʿjamī, Q 16:103, 41:44) in the original context. The
Qur’an is clear and comprehensible because it is in Arabic and not in Hebrew, Syriac, or Greek, for
example. In addition, the fact that the messages of the Qur’an are called by the Prophet’s opponents
“the tales of the ancients” (asāt․īr al-awwalīn, Q 6:25, 8:31, 16:24, 23:83, 25:5, 27:68, 46:17, 68:15,
83:13) suggests that the register of the Qur’anic pronouncements is recognizably archaic.
Rhyme and Rhythm

Perhaps the most important single literary feature of the Qur’an is rhyme. Roughly 86% of the verses
of the sacred text rhyme. Near rhymes are apparent in many of the remaining 14% of the verses
as well. The verse divisions of the Qur’an were not imposed on the text in an arbitrary fashion,
as was the case with the verse divisions of the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament, but rather
were integral to the text from the beginning, since the rhyme-words provided natural verse divi-
sions. Although later scholars – called “the counters” – argued about particular verse divisions and
disagreed over the total number of verses in this or that sura, they agreed on the placement of verse
endings in the vast majority of cases, and this was so because the rhyme-words were obvious.
Analysis of the poetic aspects of the Qur’an has been hindered by two factors. First, in Islamic tra-
dition, there has been a tendency to downplay the Qur’an’s explicitly poetic features in order to fend
off the criticism that the Prophet was a poet (Q 21:5, 37:36, 52:30, 69:41). The Prophet’s opponents
are supposed to have asked, “Are we to abandon our gods for the sake of a mad poet?” (Q 37:36).
The implications of their accusation are that the Qur’an is poetry and that it is therefore both fic-
tional and unreliable as testimony. In addition, the later doctrine of iʿjāz al-Qurʾān, the “inimitabil-
ity of the Qur’an” or “the miraculous nature of the Qur’an,” militated against framing the Qur’anic
text as closely resembling ordinary literary texts that could be created by ordinary individuals. For
this reason, commentators on the Qur’an and scholars of rhetoric used the term fās.ila (“divider”)
to refer to the verse-final words of the Qur’an expressly in order to avoid use of the general poetic
term qāfiya (“rhyme” or “rhyme-word”). Secondly, the text of the Qur’an, though it clearly exhibits
a strong rhythm, does not conform to the metrical rules of classical Arabic poetry, which is based on
syllabic meter: each verse must follow a set pattern (with some permissible variants) of feet formed
of patterns of long and short syllables, such as the following, which represents the ․tawīl or “long”
meter: ˘ — —/ ˘ — — — / ˘ — — / ˘ — ˘ —. Scholars who sought to show that the Qur’anic
text conformed to quantitative meter were repeatedly frustrated. The meter of the Qur’anic text, in
many passages, conforms more closely to that of sajʿ, usually rendered as “rhymed prose,” but perhaps
better termed “rhyme” and “rhythmical prose.” Sajʿ is a type of accent poetry, which is found in
proverbs, Anglo-Saxon poetry, nursery rhymes, and many other types of poetic text.
In accent poetry, the word accents provide the beats of the meter, and parallel cola generally con-
tain the same number of beats, though the number of syllables in each of the cola may vary widely.
In other words, the basic principle of sajʿ prosody is metrical parallelism between adjacent cola,
but the meter is based on stress or word accent. While the most common types of sajʿ texts in later
Arabic literature are based on series of bicola, the Qur’an shows longer sections of parallel, rhyming
cola, or three, four, or more cola. The adjacent cola generally adhere to stricter syllabic parallelism
at the ends of verses and also to equivalency of form, especially in the last foot but sometimes in the
last two feet.
The text of Sūrat al-ʿĀdiyāt (Q 100), may serve as an example.
1 wa l-ʿādiyāti d. abh.ā
2 fa l-mūriyāt qadh.ā
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Devin J. Stewart
3 fa l-mughīrāti .subh.ā
4 fa-atharna bihi naqʿā
5 fa-wasat․na bihi jamʿā
6 inna l-insāna li-rabbihi la-kanūd
7 (wa-)innahu ʿalā dhālika la-shahīd
8 (wa-)innahu li-h.ubbi l-khayri la-shadīd
9 (a-fa-lā yaʿlamu idhā) buʿthira mā fī l-qubūr
10 wa-h.us..sila mā fī l-s.udūr
11 inna rabbahum bihim yawmaʾidhin la-khabīr
1 By the racers, panting

2 And the producers of sparks
3 And the raiders at dawn
4 They stirred up [clouds of ] dust there
5 And they charged in a group through the middle there.
6 Indeed, mankind is ungrateful to his Lord.
7 And indeed, he is a witness to that.
8 And indeed, he is intense in his love of wealth.
9 Does he not know that, when the contents of the graves are spewed forth,
10 And when that which is hidden in men’s breasts is obtained,
11 On that day, their Lord will be aware of them.
This sura of 11 verses rhymes throughout. There are four sections in the sura, the transition from
one to the other being marked by change in rhyme and also by change in length of the verses or
cola. The sections are a tricolon, bicolon, tricolon, tricolon, differing from ordinary sajʿ, which
tends to favor bicola. The verses within each section show a large degree of syntactic and rhythmical
parallelism in addition to end-rhyme. Several elements show that the quantitative meter of poetry
is not being followed. The colon inna l-insāna li-rabbihi la-kanūd is paralleled by the following cola
(wa-)innahu ʿalā dhālika la-shahīd (wa-)innahu li-h.ubbi l-khayri la-shadīd, which both have an extra syl-
lable since they begin with the conjunction wa-. It is clear that the parallelism is intended and that
it is not disturbed by the extra syllable, whereas poetic meter would not allow the addition of an
extra syllable in this manner. In addition, the phrase buʿthira mā fī l-qubūr, which occurs in the latter
half of verse 9 of the sura, is parallel to the following verse, wa-h.us..sila mā fī l-s.udūr. This indicates
that the first half of verse 9, a-fa-lā yaʿlamu idhā, stands outside the metrical scheme of that section.
Such introductory phrases that stand outside the metrical scheme of parallel cola occur frequently
in sajʿ and represent a prominent feature of sajʿ prosody that differs from the prosody of quantita-
tive poetry.
Many of the Meccan suras exhibit patterns of rhyme and rhythm similar to those seen in Sūrat
al-ʿĀdiyāt. The Meccan suras tend to have short verses with strong rhythm and strong rhythmical
parallelism among adjacent verses. They also show a great variety of rhymes and types of rhyme,
as well as frequent changes of rhyme. In the Medinan suras, rhythmical parallelism is generally not
maintained; this is evident from the fact that adjacent verses contain widely varying numbers of indi-
vidual words, in addition to being too long for a specific rhythm to be contained: 30, 40, 50 words,
or more. Despite this, the verses of Medinan suras still tend to adhere to end-rhyme. Many Medinan
suras exhibit mono-rhyme, even in quite long suras, the most common rhyme being -ūn, -ūm, -īn,
-īm. According to al-Bāqillānī (d. 403/1013), as Angelika Neuwirth has explained, such long verses
may be analyzed as consisting of several cola, and the final colon, as opposed to the entire verse, often
exhibits a cadence or rhythmical pattern that creates satisfactory closure and perhaps also matches
154
with the closing clausulae of adjacent verses. The clausula often provides a moral comment on a
preceding statement in the verse, as in “And do good – God loves those who do good” (wa-ah.sinū
inna llāha yuh.ibbu l-muh.sinīn, Q 2:195) or “And do not be profligate – He does not love profligates”
(wa-lā tusrifū innahu lā yuh.ibbu l-musrifīn, Q 6:141).
In other cases, the clausula may refer to divine omnipotence, providence, or other qualities, as
in “that we might show him our signs. Truly he is the hearer, the seer” (li-nuriyahu min āyātinā,
innahu huwa l-samīʿu l-bas.īr, Q 17:1). In many cases, such as the verses 2:195 and 6:141 just cited,
the clausula exhibits cognate paronomasia with a keyword in the initial statement: “But grant us
mercy from Your presence – indeed You are the Grantor” (wa-hab lanā min ladunka rah.matan – innaka
ʾanta l-wahhāb, Q 3:8) and “as levels from Him, forgiveness, and mercy; Indeed, God is Forgiving
and Merciful” (darajātin minhu wa-maghfiratan wa-rah.matan wa-kāna llāhu ghafūran rah.īmā, Q 4:96), in
which the divine epithet al-wahhāb (“the Grantor”) echoes the root of the imperative hab (“grant”)
and the divine epithets ghafūr (“Forgiving”) and rah.īm (“Merciful”) echo the roots of the nouns
maghfira (“forgiveness”) and rah.ma (“mercy”) in the preceding statements.
The Qur’anic text shows the strong influence of rhyme and rhythm on the rhyme words, on the
clausulae or phrases of two or more metrical feet at the ends of verses, and on the structure of verses.
In contrast with poetry and in keeping with the rules governing sajʿ, the rhyme-words in the Qur’an
generally omit final short vowels, so that the rhyme ends with a consonant (e.g., ah.ad not ah.adun, l-s.
amad not l-s.amadu, ah.ad not ah.adun), rather than extending the short vowel to a long one, as is com-
mon in poetry. However, the indefinite accusative ending -an, as in poetry, is regularly rendered -ā
in verse-final position, and in several cases short -a is rendered -ā in verse-final position as well, as in
al-z․unūnā, al-rasūlā, al-sabīlā (Q 33:10, 66, 67). As in poetry, the long vowels -ū and -ī rhyme with
each other, and the consonants -m and -n rhyme with each other. Cases of near-rhyme often occur
with -l and -r, and also among -b, -d, and -q (Q 111, 113). The ends of rhyme-words are modified for
the sake of rhyme. The final -ī of defective nouns is suppressed (e.g., al-tanādī > al-tanād, Q 40:32).
The first person pronominal suffix -ī is also suppressed (e.g., ʿadhābī wa-nudhurī > ʿadhābī wa-nudhur,
Q 54:16). In other cases, the first person pronominal suffix -ī is extended to -iyah, such as in h.isābiya
(Q 69:20, 26) or sult․āniya (Q 69:29). Geminate consonants are reduced (e.g., wa-tabba > wa-tab, Q
111:1; mustamirrun > mustamir, Q 54:2). In a number of cases, two words are joined together to form
one verse-final, metrical foot (e.g., mā-hiya [“What is it?”] Q 101:10, mā-lahā [“What is wrong with
it?”] Q 99:3, awh.ā-laha [“He inspired it”] Q 99:5). This shows the importance of parallelism in the
quantitative pattern of the rhyme-word.
Particularly striking are verse-final words that have their endings radically modified for the sake of
rhyme: “By the fig trees and the olive trees/and by Mount Sinai” (wa l-tīni wa l-zaytūn/wa-T ․ ūri Sīnīn,
Q 95:1–2). Mount Sinai is ordinarily T ․ ūr Saynāʾ (e.g., Q 23:20), but here it appears as Sīnīn in
order to rhyme with zaytūn (“olives”). Another example is a Qur’anic reference to Elias, the Greek
form of Elijah: salāmun ʿalā Ilyāsīn (“Peace be on Elias!” Q 37:130). The normal form of Elias in
the Qur’an is Ilyās, which is much closer to the Greek and occurs just a few verses later (Q 37:123).
However, Ilyāsīn occurs instead in order to provide the rhyme -īn that occurs throughout this passage.
In some passages, syllabic parallelism is important not only in the ultimate foot of the meter but in
both the penultimate feet. Common quantitative patterns at the ends of verses include a dibacchius,
or ˘ — — / ˘ — —//, which occurs frequently in connection with paired divine epithets in verse-
final position, such as ghafūran rah.īmā. Sūrat al-Qamar (Q 54) shows a regular metrical pattern of
˘ — — / — ˘ —// in the penultimate and ultimate feet of its verses, and one can detect deviations
from common forms in order to make the penultimate foot scan as ˘ — —. For example, malīkin
muqtadir (“a powerful king,” Q 54:55) would ordinarily be malikin qādir. In nah.nu jamīʿun muntas.ir
(“we are a victorious host,” Q 54:44) the word jamīʿ does not mean “all,” as that word ordinarily
would, but rather jamʿ, “host, army,” which appears in the phrases yawma ltaqā l-jamʿāni (“on the
day when the two hosts met,” Q 3:155, 166, 8:41) and sa-yahzamuʾ l-jamʿu wa-yuwallūna l-dubur
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Devin J. Stewart
(“the host will be defeated, and they will turn their behinds,” Q 54:45). However, that form, jamʿun
muntas.ir, would produce the wrong metrical foot, — — instead of the required ˘ — —.
Verb tenses appear to shift for the sake of rhyme as well. A well-known example occurs in a
critique of the Israelites: “Whenever there came to you a messenger with what your hearts do
not desire, did you not grow arrogant, then you rejected one group, and one group you kill?”
(a-fa-kullamā jāʾakum rasūlun bimā lā tahwā anfusukumu stakbartum fa-farīqan kadhdhabtum wa-farīqan
taqtulūn, Q 2:87). Logic and parallelism in the text would require the past tense form, qataltum (“you
killed”), instead of the present tense, taqtulūn (“you kill”) because this is an accusation about their
actions in the past, but the form taqtulūn occurs in the present. Another case occurs in a comparison
of Jesus to Adam: “The example of Jesus in God’s view is like that of Adam: He created him from
dust, then He said to him, ‘Be!,’ then he is” (inna mathala ʿĪsā ʿinda llāhi ka-mathali Ādama khalaqahu
min turābin thumma qāla lahu kun fa-yakūn, Q 3:59). Logic would dictate that the verse end with a
past tense verb fa-kān (“then he was”), which would be in parallel with the other past tense verbs in
the statement: khalaqahu . . . thumma qāla lahu (“He created him . . . then he said to him”). The use
of the present brings this example in line with other occurrences of the same phrase in the Qur’an,
which, however, refer to the present: e.g., “His command when He desires something is merely to
say to it, ‘Be!,’ then it is” (innamā amruhu idhā arāda shayʾan an yaqūla lahu kun fa-yakūn, Q 36:82).
In addition, the use of what looks like the wrong tense in the example with Adam serves to create
the appropriate end-rhyme.
Various forms of periphrasis occur regularly in the text in order to create appropriate end-rhyme.
One type of periphrasis is the use of the phrase min al-fāʿilīn (“one of the doers”) as a substitute for
fāʿil (“doer”). This construction allows the placement of a sound masculine plural ending where one
would expect a singular form. For example, Mary is described as “she was one of the devout people”
(kānat min al-qānitīn, Q 66:12) when one would have expected kānat qānitatan (“she was a devout
woman”). A second type of periphrasis is the use of the past imperfect or continuous kānū yafʿalūn
(“they were doing,” “they used to do”) or kuntum tafʿalūn (“you were doing, you used to do”) for
faʿalū (“they did”) or faʿaltum (“you did”), also providing an ending in -ūn. Consider “Fear not nor
grieve, but hear good tidings of the Paradise which you were promised” (allā takhāfū wa-lā tah.zanū
wa-abshirū bimā kuntum tūʿadūn, Q 41:30).1 Yet a third type of periphrasis is the use of kull (“all,
every”) with a singular in order to express a plural. For example, we find wa llāhu lā yuh.ibbu kulla
kaffārin athīm (“God does not love every ingrate and sinful one,” Q 2:276), as opposed to wa-lā tusrifū
innahu lā yuh.ibbu l-musrifīn (“Do not be wasteful: God does not like wasteful people,” Q 6:141).2
Of frequent occurrence in the Qur’an is what Arabic grammarians designate as “modification”
(ʿadl) but what I have termed “cognate substitution.” In this phenomenon, one morphological pat-
tern is substituted for another, while keeping the root consonants the same. So, for example, the
male given name ʿUmar is said to have been modified from an underlying form ʿĀmir, or Juh.ā from
Jāh.in, or ukhar (“others”) from ākharūn, and so on. Such substitutions of words that maintain the
same root consonants but adopt alternative morphological patterns occur frequently in the Qur’an
for the sake of end-rhyme. A clear example occurs in Sūrat al-Fīl: “Did He not render their strata-
gem in error?” (a-lam yajʿal kaydahum fī tad. līl, Q 105:2). The word tad. līl, which rhymes with the
surrounding verses (fīl, abābīl, sijjīl, maʾkūl), adopts an unusual form, for it would ordinarily indi-
cate “sending something astray,” when the verse already has the causative verb yajʿal (“he rendered,
made”), so that would be superfluous.3
The prominent role of rhyme and rhythm in the Qur’an has many consequences for the structure
of individual verses. There are many instances of inverted word order for the sake of rhyme. Many
of these are examples in which a dependent prepositional phrase is pre-posed in order to create the
appropriate end rhyme. For example, there are many occurrences of the verse-final phrase “that
which they were at it scoffing” (mā kānū bihi yastahziʾūn),4 which would ordinarily be “that which
they were scoffing at” (mā kānū yastahziʾūna bihi). Another example is “and in yourselves do you not
156
look?” (wa-fī anfusikum a-fa-lā tubs.irūn, Q 51:21), which would ordinarily be, “So do you not look in
yourselves?” (a-fa-lā tubs.irūn fī anfusikum).
The effects of rhyme on the presentation of prepositional phrases and word order may be seen
if one looks at examples of the divine epithets (al-asmāʾ al-h.usnā). The following examples are
related to the divine epithet bas.īr, (“seeing” or “having insight into”), which takes the dependent
preposition bi- (“in” or “of ”). The sentence “Know that God of what you do is seeing” (wa-ʿlamū
anna llāha bi-mā taʿmalūna bas.īr, Q 2:223) has the dependent prepositional phrase pre-posed, before
bas.īr, as opposed to the ordinary order “God is seeing of what you do” (wa llāhu bas.īrun bi-mā
taʿmalūn, Q 3:163) or “God is seeing of the worshippers” (wa llāhu bas.īrun bi l-ʿibād, Q 3:20). The
verb kāna (ordinarily “was”) is sometimes used for emphasis (without indicating the past), which
at the same time creates the required ending -ā, as in “God is indeed of his worshippers seeing”
(fa-inna llāhu kāna bi-ʿibādihi bas.īrā, Q 35:45), here also with the prepositional phrase placed before
bas.īra.5
A number of cases of inverted word order involve the use of the separated object pronouns iyyāka,
iyyākum: a-hāʾulāʾi iyyākum kānū yaʿbudūn (“Did those used to worship You,” Q 34:40) or iyyāka
naʿbudu wa-iyyāka nastaʿīn (“You we worship and You we ask for help,” Q 1:4). Similar constructions
occur with reflexive structures in which anfusahum (“themselves”) occurs as a direct object.6
Sūrat T․ āhā (Q 20), a relatively long sura that rhymes throughout in -ā (and sometimes -ī), pro-
vides many examples of inverted word order, especially placing the name of the hero of the story,
Moses (Mūsā), at the ends of verses. In the phrase “Sensed in himself a fear Moses” (fa-awjasa fī nafsihī
khīfatan Mūsā, Q 20:67), Moses is the subject of the verb, and khīfatan is the direct object, so that
the expected order would be “Moses sensed a fear in himself ” (fa-awjasa Mūsā khīfatan fī nafsihi). In
the verse, “The magicians were thrown down prostrate; they exclaimed, ‘We believe in the Lord
of Aaron and Moses!’ ” (fa-ulqiya l-sah.aratu sujjadan qālū āmannā bi-rabbi Hārūna wa-Mūsā, Q 20:70),
Aaron appears before Moses. As al-Bāqillānī points out, Moses should occur before Aaron because
he is more important. When Moses and Aaron occur elsewhere in the Qur’an, they occur in that
order.7 The reversed order here has the advantage of creating the correct rhyme in -ā that would have
been ruined had the name of Aaron occurred in final position. Moreover, the vocative “O Moses”
(yā Mūsā) would ordinarily occur at the beginning of statements addressed to Moses, but in this sura
they often occur at the ends of verses.8
Pagan Religious Discourse

Many stylistic features of the Qur’an may be connected with the conventions of pre-Islamic pagan
religious discourse. Perhaps most striking are the series of oaths, couched in strongly rhythmic sajʿ,
that open many Meccan suras and introduce an oracular message, sometimes followed by consequent
instructions. The oaths swear by day, night, or specific times of day such as dawn or twilight, as well
as by celestial bodies, such as the sun, the moon, and stars, the Morning Star/Venus, and other stars.
Several examples swear by series of feminine plural active participles of the form fāʿilāt, which may
refer to clouds or winds, to horses or camels, or to angels (Q 51, 77, 79, 100). So, for example, the
“runners” (ʿādiyāt) in Q 100 appear to allude to horses in particular. In this case, the argument is
analogical: the oaths introduce a warning of the danger of the Day of Resurrection by referring to
a morning cavalry raid.
Other passages that one may connect with pre-Islamic divination are omens. Some of these are
introduced by series of conditions precedent. These conditions precedent are introduced by the term
idhā (“when”), followed by the predicted event, which is introduced by the term yawma (“on the day
of ”) or yawmaʾidhin (“on that day”). For example, Sūrat al-Zalzala (Q 99) begins “When the earth is
shaken by its quaking” (idhā zulzilati l-ard. u zilzālahā, Q 99:1) and introduces the predicted event as
“On that day, it will relate its accounts” (yawmaʾidhin tuh.addithu akhbārahā, Q 99:4). The term “the
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day of the” is also used to convey an omen about a specific time in the future. The most obvious
examples, which draw on biblical language, are “the Day of Judgment” (yawm al-dīn, cf. Hebrew yōm
ha-dīn), “the Day of Resurrection” (yawm al-qiyāma),” and “the Day of Reckoning” (yawm al-h.isāb).
However, many other examples do not appear to be biblical: “a day in which there is no doubt” (Q
3:9, 25); “the day of the well-known/appointed time” (Q 15:38, 38:81); “the day of separation/the
decisive verdict” (Q 37:21, 44:40, 77:13–14, 78:17); “the day of meeting each other” (Q 40:15);
“the day of calling to each other” (Q 40:32); “the day of gathering” (Q 42:7; 64:9).
Another oracular form is that of the mā adrāka construction, which takes the form “X; What
is the X? And what will have you know what is X?” In this construction, the X is an obscure or
ambiguous term. After the series of three mentions of X is completed, an explanation of the term
is provided. However, the explanation may retain elements of obscurity or ambiguity. It sometimes
occurs in the full form9 and sometimes in truncated form.10 Many of these ambiguous words are
feminine active participles, especially of the form fāʿila, such as al-wāqiʿa (“that which befalls,” Q
56:1), al-h.āqqa (“that which surely comes to pass,” Q 69:1–3) and al-qāriʿa (“that which strikes or
knocks,” Q 101:1–3).
As previously mentioned, the last two suras of the Qur’an, known as al-Muʿawwidhatān, are
examples of protective charms. They evidently draw on an established oral genre, something hinted
at by the signs of parallel conventions in the text. Both open with the statement, “I take refuge,”
meaning, “I seek protection.” Both refer to a “lord” (rabb) as the one who is the potential protector
beseeched in the text. The “lord” in question is specified through a genitive construct, rabbi l-falaq
(“lord of the dawn”) in the first case and rabbi l-nās (“lord of the people”) in the second. Both then
refer to a series of evils that are to be avoided, using the repeated term “evil” (sharr). The types of
evil to be warded off are specified again through the use of a genitive construct. The invocation of
a specified lord is thus mirrored by the list of specified evils. These texts conform to the convention
of protective charms that are known from other traditions such as the Babylonian charms. The use
of “lord” that is then specified is presumably connected with pagan, polytheistic tradition in which
the “lord” is conceived of as one of many possible lords who has mastery over a particular domain
of the world that makes him a likely candidate for serving as protector with regard to the particular
types of evil from which the performer seeks protection. Such uses of the term “lord” in the Qur’an
in a manner that suggests a connection with or hints of the survival of a pagan consciousness are
found in such expressions as “the lord of this house” (rabba hādhā l-bayt, Q 106:3), i.e., the specific
lord who is associated with the shrine of the Kaʿba, and particularly “the lord of [the star] Sirius”
(rabb Shiʿrā, Q 53:49).
Divine epithets play an important role in the Qur’anic text and also represent the continuation
of a pre-Islamic genre. They are already referred to in the Qur’an using a term of art: “the very
beautiful names” (al-asmāʾ al-h.usnā, Q 7:180, 17:110, 20:8, 59:24). They are generally single-word
adjectives, often of the form faʿīl, such as the “hearing” (samīʿ), “seeing” (bas.īr), “wise” (h.akīm),
“knowing” (ʿalīm), “merciful” (rah.īm), and “powerful” or “capable” (qadīr). Other forms are used as
well, such as the faʿūl form such as in the cases of the “forgiving” (ghafūr) or the “merciful” (raʾūf ),
or other forms such as the “almighty” ( jabbār), “subduer” (qahhār), or “grantor” (wahhāb). The text
indicates that they are associated closely with prayer (Q 7:180), as they are in ancient Greek, Indian,
and Near Eastern religions, and even in traditions further afield such as the Norse. They stress aspects
of the deity that are useful for and relevant to the particular request made in the prayer in question,
and they are seen as having the power to render the prayer particularly effective. The divine epithets
occur frequently in pairs and in rhyme position. This is probably not just a feature of Qur’anic style
but may have already been a convention of the use of al-asmāʾ al-h.usnā in pre-Islamic pagan reli-
gious discourse.
Qur’anic passages are frequently presented as indirect address, beginning with the command
“Say!” (qul) – apparently directed at the Prophet. Such commands are prefixed to texts that resemble
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creedal statements such as Sūrat al-Ikhlās. (Q 112) but also to the Muʿawwidhatān and other texts that
present statements or replies that the Prophet is supposed to convey to his audience. One may asso-
ciate these commands perhaps with pre-Islamic traditions according to which poets and soothsayers
were inspired by jinn as familiar spirits. The inclusion of the command qul makes it clear that the
ensuing discourse is not the individual statement of the poet or seer but rather that it comes from a
familiar spirit or from the world of the unseen.
Arabic Poetry
Poetry took pride of place in the view of the pre-Islamic Arabs as the premier form of cultural
production. This view continued into the Islamic period, as the Muʿallaqāt or “Suspended Odes”
assumed the place in Arabic literary history that Shakespeare’s plays hold in English literary history.
Commentators on the Qur’an often resorted to poetry in order to explain obscure vocabulary and
usage observed in the Qur’an. The reasons for the resort to poetry appear to be, first, its prestige
and, second, the fact that it had a reasonable claim to antiquity, making it in some sense a contem-
porary witness of Qur’anic Arabic. However, there are obvious differences between the style of
Arabic poetry and the style of the Qur’an, and the stark difference between the two types of text is
stressed by the absence from the Qur’an of many of the most common terms and concepts of Arabic
poetry, such as qas.īda (“ode”), bayt (“verse”), qāfiya (“rhyme”), nasīb (“amatory prelude”), madh.,
madīh. (“praise, encomium”), hijāʾ (“lampoon”), nawā (“separation” from one’s beloved), was.l, wis.āl
(“union” with one’s beloved), at․lāl (“traces” of the abandoned campsite of the beloved), anshada (“to
recite”) – the list goes on. Angelika Neuwirth has called attention to the Qur’an’s reference to a
number of poetic motifs, pointing out the dramatic rejection of the poetic exaltation of generosity,
“I have destroyed untold wealth!” (ahlaktu mālan lubad, Q 90:6), as a pointed reference to Arabic
poetry. She has also compared the Qur’anic passages connected with the ubi sunt motif with the at․lāl
scene in which the poet, moved by examination of the ruined campsite, experiences a wave of emo-
tional nostalgia and begins his poem. Thomas Bauer has pointed out the poetic use of metonymic
references rather than direct nouns to refer to key objects of the poetic tradition, such as the sword
or the onager. An understanding of this linguistic usage helps the reader of the Qur’an appreciate
the use of similar metonymic epithets in the Qur’an, which stands in stark contrast to Biblical usage.
For example, the female companions in Paradise are referred to as “of modest gaze” (qās.irāt al-t․arf, Q
37:48, 38:52, 55:56) or Noah’s Ark as, “We bore him on a thing of planks and nails” (wa-h.amalnāhu
ʿalā dhāti alwāh.in wa-dusur, Q 54:13). However, Bauer’s overall assessment is that Qur’anic style dif-
fers radically from the style of early Arabic poetry, notably in that poetry depends to a great extent
on simile and metonymy, while the Qur’an depends on metaphor and allegory.
Arabic Oratory
More relevant to the style of the Qur’an is Arabic oratory. The Qur’an features many passages in
which earlier prophets address their peoples in orations. This is stressed by their use of vocative
address, especially the term “O my people” (yā qawmi). For example, Sūrat Hūd (Q 11) presents a
series of stories about prophets interacting with their peoples in the course of salvation history. In it,
Noah addresses his people yā qawmi three times (vv. 28, 29, 30); Hūd addresses his people, ʿĀd, yā
qawmi three times (vv. 50, 51, 52); S.ālih. addresses his people, Thamūd, yā qawmi three times (vv. 61,
63, 64); Lot addresses his people yā qawmi once (v. 78); and Shuʿayb addresses his people, Midian,
yā qawmi six times (vv. 84, 85, 88, 89, 92, 93). The sura on the whole shows the centrality of ora-
tion to authentic prophetic missions. One may argue that many Qur’anic suras, including especially
those that are of middle length and that contain narrative material related to biblical and salvation
history, are in a sense orations or sermons. These suras are generally tripartite in form. They begin
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with an introduction in the present tense that addresses the audience of the Prophet Muhammad.
The middle section presents a narrative or a series of narratives, very often punishment stories from
biblical tradition (e.g., Noah and the Flood, Lot and the destruction of Sodom, the drowning of
Pharaoh and his army), as well as from Arabian tradition (e.g., the destructions of ʿĀd, Thamūd, and
Midian). These are couched in the past tense and are usually presented in order according to the
chronology of salvation history, in which the pre-Islamic prophets are fit into biblical chronology in
particular places. The narrative sections are followed by a concluding section that is again couched
in the present tense and addresses the Prophet Muhammad’s audience.
A form of address clearly connected with the conventions of Arabic oratory is “O assembly of
the jinn!” (yā maʿshara l-jinn, Q 6:128) or “O assembly of the jinn and humans!” (yā maʿshara l-jinni
wa l-ins, Q 6:130, 55:33). The term maʿshar is common in oratory not only because it addresses an
assembled group but also because it evokes the “clan” (ʿashīra), which consists of one’s close relatives
who are joined by blood ties and by the ties of living together (ʿishra). Other forms of group address
that suggest the conventions of Arabic oratory are “O inhabitants of Yathrib!” (yā ahla Yathrib, Q
33:13). The Medinan suras contain many addresses to the audience, which indicate that those suras
in particular are orations. The most common term of address refers to the members of the new reli-
gious community as “O you who believe!” (yā ayyuhā lladhīna āmanū, e.g., Q 2:104), which occurs
in over one hundred instances. Others include “O people!” (yā ayyuhā l-nās),11 “O Israelites!” (yā
Banī Isrāʾīl),12 “O people of the scripture!” (yā ahla l-kitāb),13 and “O you who reject [faith]!” (yā
ayyuhā lladhīna kafarū, Q 66:7).
Claude Gilliot, Angelika Neuwirth, and other scholars have pointed out that the Qur’an is poly-
phonic, for it is in one sense a record of many discussions and debates that occurred in the course
of the Prophet Muhammad’s mission and not simply the direct address of one prophet. The voices
of believers, unbelievers, and others are represented in the text in the courses of various exchanges
and dialogues. On account of this, Gilliot goes so far as to suggest that one may consider the Qur’an
a collective work. The debates portrayed in the Qur’an are hortatory and polemical; their goal is,
on the one hand, to prove the correctness of the messages of the Prophet Muhammad and earlier
prophets and, on the other hand, to represent the counterarguments of skeptics, unbelievers, and
other opponents.
Stylistic Influence of Jewish and Christian Traditions

Jewish and Christian traditions have exerted an important influence on the style of the Qur’an as
well as on its content. This influence derived not merely from the books of the Hebrew Bible,
especially Genesis, Exodus, and the Psalms, as well as the Gospels, especially the Gospel of Luke
and the Diatessaron of Tatian. The Qur’an also draws on extra-biblical literature, including haggadic
commentaries on the Bible, The Life of Adam and Eve, the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, the Alexander
Romance, and various hymns and prayers. Many suras present apocalyptic material that is evidently
related to Christian apocalyptic material, though perhaps not directly to the book of Revelation. In
the Qur’an, nearly all oracular texts are seen to predict the Day of Resurrection and the Day of Judg-
ment. One must understand this as a radical modification and restriction of pre-Islamic divination
to bring it in line with biblical material. The references to a great shout and to the sounding of the
trumpet, both associated with battle imagery, are typical of biblical apocalyptical material.
The influence of Jewish and Christian prayer forms is seen in many passages of the Qur’an.
The terms “to be holy, sanctified” (taqaddasa), “to be blessed” (tabāraka), their cognates, the term
“glory be to Him” (subh.ānahu) and the verb “to glorify” (sabbah.a) are evidently related to Jewish and
Christian religious texts. The terms “the Word” (al-kalima), “the Holy Spirit” (al-Rūh. al-Quddūs),
and “the Christ” (al-Masīh.) are clearly derived from Christian terminology. This may be extended,
however, from individual terms to longer hymnal texts or prayers, both Jewish and Christian. Sūrat
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al-Ikhlās., which pointedly uses the term “one” (ah.ad) to refer to God, rather than the expected
wāh.id, seems to resemble Hebrew “one” (eh.ad) from the shemaʿ prayer of the Hebrew Bible; while
the first sura of the Qur’an, al-Fāt․ih.a, which is used prominently in daily prayer, resembles the Lord’s
Prayer of Christians.
While biblical figures predominate in the historical narratives found in the Qur’an, the narra-
tives of pre-Islamic Arabian prophets, such as Hūd who was sent to his people, ʿĀd, S.ālih. who was
sent to his people, Thamūd, and Shuʿayb who was sent to his people. the Midian, are incorporated
into the same salvation history, which has an overarching, biblical frame. Furthermore, the Qur’an
does not present these stories as entirely novel but rather as myths and tales that should be familiar.
They are often introduced with such phrases as “Have you not seen. . . ?,” “[Do you remember]
when. . . ?,” and “Has the story of X come to you?” (Q 20:9, 51:24, 79:15). Indeed, some of the ver-
sions of biblical stories in the Qur’an appear to require the audience to have substantial background
knowledge in order to understand the text. In Genesis, Abraham has a long argument with God
when he tries to save Sodom and Gomorrah from destruction, haggling over the minimum number
of righteous men in the sinful cities that would deter God from destroying them. In the Qur’an,
the short reference that appears in Sūrat Hūd – “And when the awe departed from Abraham, and
the glad tidings reached him, he pleaded with Us on behalf of the folk of Lot. Abraham was mild,
imploring, penitent” (Q 11:74–75) – hardly makes sense unless one is already aware of the biblical
account. The Qur’an likewise presents the scene in which David is presented with the case of two
litigants, one of whom had 99 ewes and took the lone ewe that the other possessed. The verse then
states, “And David guessed that We had tried him, and he sought forgiveness of his Lord. He bowed
himself and fell down prostrate and repented” (Q 38:24). This verse refers to the repentance of David
in the 2 Samuel 11–12 for marrying Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite, after getting him killed
in battle, but it would hardly be possible for the reader of the Qur’an to deduce that from the text
without prior knowledge.
Beyond the prominence of biblical characters in the Qur’an, a prominent sign of influence is
the presence of “foreign” words in the text, especially Jewish and Christian terms that derive from
Hebrew, Aramaic, Syriac, Ethiopian, or Greek. In some cases, the existence of terms such as mathal
(“parable”) in the Qur’an, which corresponds to the Hebrew mashal, may be due to shared Semitic
etymology. In many other cases, however, Qur’anic terms clearly derive from the biblical tradition,
whether Jewish or Christian. On the Jewish side are the terms al-asbāt․ (“the tribes [of Israel],” cf.,
Hebrew shevat․im), al-T ․ ūr (“the Mount,” i.e., Mount Sinai, cf., Aramaic ․tōrā “mountain”), al-yamm
(“the sea,” cf., Hebrew ha-yamm and Aramaic yammā), sakīna (“the aura [of God],” cf., Hebrew shek-
hina), and yawm al-dīn (“The Day of Judgment,” cf., Hebrew yōm ha-dīn). The plural form nabiyyūn
or nabiyyīn (“prophets”) is a bit odd from the point of view of Arabic morphology, and the plural
form anbiyāʾ would ordinarily be favored. The fact that nabiyyīn is the form more frequently used
suggests the influence of Jewish texts. On the Christian side are the terms al-māʾida (“the table”) and
al-h.awāriyyūn (“the disciples”), which both derive from Ethiopian, as well as al-Injīl (“the Gospel”),
which derives from Greek evangelion, and Iblīs (“the devil”), which derives from the Greek diabolos,
perhaps through Syriac.
The Qur’an contains a limited number of what appear to be direct quotations from biblical texts.
The verse “We have written in the Psalms . . . that My righteous worshippers will inherit the earth”
(Q 21:105) appears to be a direct reference to a text in the Psalms: “But the meek shall inherit the
earth; and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace” (Psalms 37:11). Sūrat al-Aʿrāf includes
the following verse: “Those who deny our verses and scoff at them in arrogance – the gates of
heaven shall not be opened for them, nor shall they enter Paradise until the camel passes through
the eye of the needle. Thus do We reward the sinners” (Q 7:40). This recalls the statement of Jesus
in the Gospels, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to
enter the kingdom of God” (Matthew 19:24; Mark 10:25; Luke 18:25). The Qur’an makes use of
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the form of the “parable” (mathal), and there is evidence that its usage is connected with the biblical
parables of Jesus in the Gospels:
Have you not considered how God presents a parable, making a good word like a good
tree, whose root is firmly fixed and whose branches are high in the sky? It produces fruit all
the time, but through the permission of its Lord. And God presents parables for the people,
that perhaps they will take heed. And the parable of a bad word is like a bad tree, uprooted
from the surface of the earth, not having any stability.
(Q 14:24–26)
Several other passages of the Qur’an provide evidence of close textual connections with biblical
texts. Verses 2–33 of Sūrat Maryam (sura 19), which presents parallel stories of the births of John the
Baptist and Jesus, closely resembles in its structure the beginning of the Gospel of Luke. The story
of Abraham’s guests appears in connection with the story of Lot and the destruction of Sodom and
Gomorrah, as it appears in Genesis. The Qur’an prominently mentions Sarah’s laughter, which
reflects the Hebrew pun in Genesis between the verb “she laughed” and the name of Isaac in
Hebrew – titsh.aq and yitsh.aq – even though the pun between d. ah.ikat (“she laughed”) and Isaac
(Ish.āq) does not work phonetically in Arabic.
If the Qur’an draws on the biblical materials, it shows distinct differences from biblical styles. The
Qur’an for the most part lacks the large numbers of given names and toponyms that appear in the
Bible; there are no “begats” in the Qur’an. There are much fewer numbers of years and specific ages
of figures from biblical history, the chief exception being that of Noah, who is said to have tarried
among his people one thousand years minus fifty – i.e., 950 years (Q 29:14). This accords with the
biblical account, which sets Noah’s age as 950 years as well, with the difference that, in the bible,
Noah was 650 when the flood occurred, so that he would have tarried among his people 650 years,
and 950 was his age at his death, three hundred years after the Flood.
Another difference is the change of the simple, straightforward narration of the Biblical texts to
the fast-moving, dramatic summaries, punctuated by dialogues, that one finds in the Qur’an. One
must understand these as conventions associated with the genre of the Qur’an, not features of Arab
culture or discourse. Arabs, too, like other tribal societies, were fairly obsessed with genealogies and
their numerous given names; this is seen in the Arab science of genealogy and is displayed promi-
nently at the opening of the Sīra as edited by Ibn Hishām (d. 833), which, like the Gospel of Mat-
thew, presents the genealogy of the Prophet Muhammad in great detail. Yet not a single genealogy
is presented in the Qur’an. The main exception to this in the Qur’an’s references to Jesus, whose
frequent designation as “Jesus, son of Mary” (ʿĪsā ibn Maryam), serves to emphasize the extraordinary
idea that he did not have a human father, rather than to provide genealogical information per se.
There are also references to the prophetic family of Abraham, but explicit, long genealogies, espe-
cially genealogies with lists of descendants and their ages, do not occur in the Qur’an.
Qur’anic narratives show the prominent use of dialogue, and in some cases the dialogue is very
carefully constructed in accord with complex rules of logical discourse and polite negotiation.
A salient example of this may be seen in the dialogue in Sūrat Hūd between Noah and God after
Noah’s son was drowned. God promised to save Noah’s household, or “family” (ahl), from the Flood,
but then Noah’s son, who stayed back from embarking on the Ark, thinking that he would be able
to remain safe on high ground, was swept away by the rising water. Noah remonstrated with God:
“Noah called to his Lord, and said, ‘My Lord, indeed my son is of my family, and indeed, Your
promise is true, and You are the most just of judges” (nādā Nūh.un rabbahu fa-qāla rabbi inna bnī min ahlī
wa-inna waʿdaka l-h.aqqu wa-anta ah.kamu l-h.ākimīn, Q 11:45). Noah’s statement is carefully phrased.
On the one hand, Noah feels as though God has gone back on His word, while on the other hand, as
a believer he cannot accuse the omnipotent God lightly. He resorts to indirect statements linked by
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the conjunction wa- (“and”) rather than language that would make the causal connections between
them explicit. He points out to God that his son indeed belonged to his family – this is meant to
refer to God’s command in Q 11:40, “Load on it two of every pair and your family (wa-ahlaka)” as
a promise on God’s part to save Noah’s family. Then, rather than accusing God directly of lying or
failing to keep a promise, Noah makes the positive statement, “Indeed your promise is true, and you
are the most just of judges.” This is an artful way of complaining that God has in fact gone against
His nature and has broken His promise, without using any direct negative statement.
Like many biblical texts, visual elements make up an important aspect of the Qur’anic text. This
is something that is lost on most casual observers, in part because of the relative dearth of pictorial
representation of religious scenes in Islamic tradition in comparison with Christian tradition and in
the Arab world in particular. The visual elements of the text have been stressed by Sayyid Qut․b (d.
1966) in his work Artistic Representation in the Noble Qur’an [al-Tas.wīr al-fannī fī al-Qur’ān al-karīm],14
especially the dramatic panoramas evoked by descriptions of the Apocalypse and the Day of Resur-
rection). A dramatic example among many is the scene previously mentioned in which Noah’s son
is swept away by a tidal wave while Noah is shouting to him from a distance, pleading with him to
embark on the Ark.
Notes
1 See also: fa-dhūqū l-ʿadhāba bimā kuntum takfurūn (“So taste the punishment for what you denied,” Q 3:106,
46:34); wa-llāhu mukhrijun mā kuntum taktumūn (“and God will expose what you hid,” Q 2:72). Here kuntum
tūʿadūn, kuntum takfurūn and kuntum taktumūn are equivalent to the perfect verb forms wuʿidtum (“you were
promised”), kafartum (“you denied”), and katamtum (“you concealed”). Examples with the third person plu-
ral include fa l-yawma nansāhum kamā nasaw liqāʾa yawmihim wa-mā kānū bi-āyātinā yajh.adūn (“So on this day
We will forget them just as they forgot the meeting of this day and just as they denied our signs,” Q 7:51);
fa-mā aghnā ʿanhum mā kānū yaksibūn (“So what they earned availed them not,” Q 15:84); wa-mā z․alamakumu
llāhu wa-lākin kānū anfusahum yaz․limūn (“God did not wrong them, but they wronged themselves,” Q 16:33).
Here again, the verb forms used all convey the meaning of a perfect: jah.adū (“they denied”), kasabū (“they
earned”), and z․alamū (“they wronged”).
2 Also, kadhālika najzī kulla kafūr (“Thus do We reward every ingrate,” Q 35:36), as opposed to wa-kadhālika
najzī l-mujrimīn (“Thus do We reward those who do wrong,” Q 7:40).
3 See also the phrase fa-huwa fī ʿīshatin rād. iya (Q 69:21, 101:7), which would literally mean “he will be in an
approving life” but is clearly intended to mean fa-huwa fī ʿīshatin mard. iyya (“he will be in a pleasing life”).
The verse laqad khalaqnākum fī ah.sani taqwīm (Q 95:4) would ordinarily mean “We created you in the best
formation” but is clearly intended to mean laqad khalaqnākum fī ah.sani qawām (“We created you in the best
form”). Dozens of verses show similar nouns.
4 Q 6:5, 10; 11:8; 16:34; 21:41; 26:6; 39:48; 40:83; 45:33; 46:26.
5 Another example is found in the verse, li-nuriyaka min āyātina l-kubrā (“that We might show you of Our signs
the greatest,” Q 20:33), when one would ordinarily expect the order al-kubrā min āyātinā (“the greatest of
our signs”).
6 In the following verse-final phrases – wa-mā z․alamūnā wa-lākin kānū anfusahum yaz․limūn (“They did not
wrong us, but they were themselves wronging,” Q 2:57, 7:160); wa-mā z․alamahumu llāhu wa-lākin kānū anfu-
sahum yaz․limūn (“God did not wrong them, but they were themselves wronging,” Q 16:33); lā yastat․īʿūna
lakum nas.ran wa-lā anfusahum yans.urūn (“They are not capable of aiding you to victory, nor do they them-
selves aid to victory” Q 7:197) – the ordinary phrasing would be z․alamū anfusahum kānū yaz․limūna anfusahum
or “they were wronging themselves” and yans.urūna anfusahum “they aid themselves to victory.” In the verse
laqad jāʾa āla Firʿawna l-nudhur (“There came to the family of Pharaoh the warnings,” Q 54:41), the order
is verb-object-subject, with the subject nudhur (“warnings”) in final position, when the sentence would
ordinarily be in the form verb-subject-object: laqad jāʾat al-nudhur āla Firʿawna. The much commented
verse in Sūrat al-Ikhlās., wa-lam yakun lahu kufuwan ah.ad (“There was not to Him a peer anyone,” Q 112:4)
is equivalent to wa-lam yakun ah.adun kufuwan lahu (“No one is a peer to Him”). The order as found in the
verse has the advantage of creating the end-rhyme in -ad, matching the earlier rhyme-words ah.ad, al-s.amad,
yūlad.
7 Q 6:84; 10:75; 21:48; 26:48; 37:114, 120.
8 Q 20:17, 19, 36, 40, 49, 57, 83.
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Devin J. Stewart
9 Q 69:1–3, 82:14–19, 99:1–3.

10 Q 74:26–27; 83:7–8, 18–19; 86:1–2; 90:11–12; 97:1–2, 4–5.
11 E.g., Q 2:21; 4:133, 170, 174; 7:158; 10:23, 57, 104, 108; 22:1, 5, 49, 73; 27:16; 31:33; 35:3, 5, 15; 49:13.
12 Q 2:40, 47, 122; 5:72; 20:80; 61:6.
13 Q 3:64, 65, 70, 71, 98, 99; 4:171; 5:15, 19, 59, 68, 77.
14 Sayyid Qut․b, al-Tas.wīr al-fannī fī al-Qur’ān al-karīm (Cairo: Dār al-Shurūq, 1974).
164
16
STRUCTURE AND
ORGANIZATION OF THE
QUR’AN
Nevin Reda
One fact that all scholars of the Qur’an are likely to agree upon, no matter which “Qur’an” they
may be reading,1 is that the “codex” (mus.h.af ) is not organized chronologically. Sura 1 (al-Fātih.a, “the
Opening”) in the Qur’an’s current arrangement is not the first sura to be disclosed and disseminated
among the early Muslim community, nor is sura 2 (al-Baqara, “the Heifer”) the second, nor is sura
3 (Āl ʿImrān, “the Family of ʿImrān”) the third, and so on. If one accepts the traditional Islamic
account, the suras were revealed in a piecemeal fashion over a period of 23 years at various different
intervals that are not reflected in the final composition. Scholars have assumed that the main basis for
the order of the codex is sura length, since, after the short introductory Sūrat al-Fātih.a, the suras are
broadly organized according to decreasing length. Their internal structure has been mostly opaque,
especially for very long suras like al-Baqara and Āl ʿImrān, with scholars not managing to discern a
clear, widely accepted compositional schema for them. However, in recent decades, several studies
have appeared that shed light on organizational techniques of the text in general and of the Qur’an in
particular, which have greatly advanced our knowledge of the Qur’an’s structure and organization.
Accordingly, more can be said about this topic, which is emerging as an important area of scholarly
attention.
This chapter approaches the Qur’an synchronically, as is, without delving into its genesis, exam-
ining the various poetic features that organize text and the meanings that are embedded within it. It
begins with a brief history of such approaches and follows with an overview of aural organizational
techniques, since it is assumed here that the Qur’an is a text that is recited out loud and that its
structuring devices must therefore be of the kind that can be heard. The chapter then examines the
occurrence of these figures in Sūrat al-Baqara and Sūrat Āl ʿImrān, showing how they systematically
organize these suras into smaller units and contribute to shaping their meaning. The chapter con-
cludes with some observations on the Qur’an as a whole, searching for a rationale for the organiza-
tion of suras, one after the other. This presentation is limited by the state of the scholarship, since
research into the poetics and hermeneutics of Qur’anic narrative structure is in its infancy.
Historical Background
The concern for understanding the Qur’an’s structure and organization is largely a twentieth- and
twenty-first-century phenomenon. Classical Islamic scholarship generally approached the Qur’an in
an atomistic fashion, focusing on small segments of text rather than on whole suras or the Qur’an
as a whole, although one should note the important genres of naz․m (Qur’anic “arrangement” or
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-18 165

Nevin Reda
“organization”) and munāsaba (“suitability,” “correlation”). Naz․m is the older of the two, and most
of the works in this category are now lost.2 The most important surviving contribution to naz․m is
Burhān al-Dīn al-Biqāʿī’s (d. 885/1480) Arrangement of Pearls: On the Correlation of Verses and Sūras
(Naz․m al-durar fī tanāsub al-āyāt wa-l-suwar).3 This multivolume Qur’an commentary identifies com-
mon themes for each sura and tries to relate the various parts of a sura to one another. As the title
implies, al-Biqāʿī envisioned his book as falling in both the naz․m and munāsaba categories. Other
than al-Biqāʿī’s work, the most important compositions in the munāsaba genre are Ibn al-Zubayr
al-Ghirnāt․ī’s (d. 708/1308) The Proof on the Organization of the Qur’an’s Suras (al-Burhān fī tartīb suwar
al-Qurʾān), and Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūt․ī’s (d. 911/1505) Harmony of Pearls: On the Correlation of Suras
(Tanāsuq al-durar fī tanāsub al-suwar).4 They mainly explore linear-atomistic connections between
suras, focusing on the end of a sura and the beginning of the next one.
In the twentieth century, several factors led to the emergence of holistic approaches that treat
suras as whole units and/or the Qur’an as a whole and thus have structural implications. In the Mus-
lim world, such approaches arose largely in response to efforts to modernize the interpretation of the
Qur’an or, in other words, to make it more relevant to the needs of the time, since traditional inter-
pretations tended to confine exegetical authority to individuals of the first two or three generations
of Muslims (tafsīr bi l-maʾthūr, “exegesis by transmission”). Such modern holistic approaches have a
place in a traditional hermeneutical framework, often envisioned as falling in the “interpreting the
Qur’an by means of the Qur’an” category, which is generally acknowledged as the most preferred
form of interpretation. Works of this kind include the commentaries of Saʿīd H.awwā (d. 1989),
Amīn Ah.san Is.lāh.ī (d. 1997), Muh.ammad H.usayn al-T ․ abāt․abāʾī (d. 1981), Sayyid Qut․b (d. 1966),
and Muh.ammad Fārūq al-Zayn, among many others.5
In Western academic settings, holistic or structural approaches are often motivated by the desire
to identify the Qur’an’s genre, style, rhetoric, and/or compositional history. Several scholars have
made major contributions. Among the earliest is Angelika Neuwirth, whose important work Studies
on the Composition of Meccan Suras (Studien zur Komposition der mekkanischen Suren) went a long way to
demonstrating the integrity and coherence of Meccan suras.6 Following in the footsteps of Theodor
Nöldeke (d. 1930), she classifies the suras into early, middle, and late Meccan and identifies a tri-
partite composition for the longer suras. Todd Lawson’s work on the question of genre stands out,
exploring the text’s connection to apocalypse and to epic, while Adam Flowers attempts a theory
of Qur’anic genre.7 Devin J. Stewart has examined prosody and structure, identifying important
parallels with the pre-Islamic sajʿ genre (“rhymed prose”), although one should note the differ-
ences between the Qur’an’s style and the sajʿ of pre-Islamic soothsayers in terms of content, length,
purpose, and worldview.8 Several scholars have made major contributions in the area of rhetoric,
including Michel Cuypers, Raymond Farrin, and Nadeen Alsulaimi, who have each examined dis-
tinct rhetorical structures that organize some of the larger Medinan suras.9 While these scholars have
mostly approached the Qur’an synchronically (except for Angelika Neuwirth), others have exam-
ined structure through a diachronic lens, searching for a chronological organization of the Qur’an’s
suras and verses and their relationship to their historical context. Neuwirth, Nicolai Sinai, and Nora
K. Schmid have made contributions in this area, for example, studying the connection between
verse length and sura length and thereby also attempting to explain important aspects of the Qur’an’s
organization.10 Marianna Klar’s work combines both synchronicity and diachronicity and indicates
the importance of aural cues in her exploration of structure.11
Aural Organizational Techniques

Today, we are far more used to visual organizational techniques in texts, such as headings, paragraph
indentation, different fonts, tables of contents, footnotes, and sometimes even color and shading.
All these methods are visible to the naked eye but not to the ear, which is the main organ through
166
Structure and Organization of the Qur’an
which language is sensed. In the auditory realm, a different set of devices comes into play, which
are imparted orally and received aurally. These devices consist of special patterns of repetitions,
which can be in rhyme, rhythm, lexemes, or themes. Occasionally, changes in syntax, such as the
appearance of the vocative or a change in addressee can signal a new unit of text and thus have
organizational implications. The most familiar organizational device for listeners to the Qur’an is
probably the basmala – the phrase “in the name of God, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merci-
ful” (bismillāh al-rah.mān al-rah.īm) – which heads each sura (except for sura 9).12 Hearing the basmala
recited conveys to the listener the beginning of a new sura.13 Accordingly, this formula is the most
important lexical repetition to organize the Qur’an into suras.14
The Qur’an’s 114 suras vary greatly in length, ranging between 3 and 286 verses. Longer suras
have additional organizational devices, based on lexical and thematic repetitions. Lexical repetitions
organize text in multiple ways: they can divide text, tie it together, or emphasize important ideas.
The best known organizational device of this type is probably the inclusio: repeated words, phrases,
or whole sentences at the beginning and end of a text, which act as a frame for the enclosed unit.
They signal closure and cyclic completion. Inclusios occur in literature as old as the ancient Egyptian,
The Shipwrecked Sailor,15 and were identified in the Qur’an as early as 1896 in the work of David
Heinrich Müller (d. 1912).16 Inclusios can also be composed of three or more brackets, which can
occur at the beginning, middle, and end of an enclosed unit, thereby increasing the emphasis placed
on the repeated element. Tripartite inclusios can be incremental or decremental, when more words
or fewer ones are repeated in the last two brackets, thereby increasing or decreasing the emphasis.
Here and elsewhere, I call this movement of increasing and decreasing emphasis “dynamics,” since it
recalls the increasing and decreasing volume of musical compositions.17
Thematic repetitions come in the form of alternations. They can be in the same order or in an
inverted order. When they occur in an inverted order, they are called chiasms or chiastic structures.
Chiastic structures are also well-known in ancient literature and function as memory aids for oral
recitations. Special kinds of chiasms include ring composition, in which themes fan out from a
central element and thereby emphasize the central element. A broken chiasm incorporates irregu-
larities and changes the location of the emphasis. A tripartite chiastic structure has three panels with
the same thematic elements but in an inverted or different order. Like their lexical counterparts,
thematic organizational figures can also incorporate changing emphases, most notably by increasing
or decreasing the amount of space devoted to particular themes and/or the frequency of shifting
themes.
Sūrat al-Baqara
To illustrate what some of these organizational devices may look like, I briefly examine their occur-
rences in Sūrat al-Baqara and Sūrat Āl ʿImrān (the second and third suras of the Qur’an), which also
happen to be the longest and most challenging suras.18 I call this line of investigation “poetics.” I also
examine their effect on meaning, particularly how these new methodologies can impact interpreta-
tion. I call this area “hermeneutics.”
Poetics
Sūrat al-Baqara’s contents are organized through both lexical and thematic repetitions. Its most strik-
ing inclusio is the one that frames Panel 2 (vv. 40–123) – the word “panel” here refers to larger organ-
izational units in contradistinction to the smaller “sections” (Table 16.1). The inclusio consists of the
repeated sentence, “O Children of Israel, remember the blessings with which I have blessed you,”
which signals to the listener to take note and that the enclosed unit has come to an end (Q 2:40, 47,
122). It is augmented in the second and third brackets of this figure with the addition of “and that
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Nevin Reda
I have privileged you over all the people of the world. Be mindful of the day on which no person
will avail another, nor intercession be accepted, nor compensation be taken, nor will they be aided”
(Q 2:40, 47–48, 122–123).19 As a result of this augmentation, the intensity of the emphasis increases,
as does the bracketing effect at the end of the unit, which is more strongly pronounced than at the
beginning. This inclusio stands out because of the length of the repeated element, which covers two
whole verses in the last bracket. It effectively divides Sūrat al-Baqara into three panels (Table 16.1).
Six additional inclusios help organize Sūrat al-Baqara’s text, systematically covering the entire sura
and structuring it in quasi-symmetrical fashion (Table 16.2). Although the inclusios are all different,
they share an important feature: they all emphasize the end of their respective panel or section. The
first inclusio consists of a single word, “guidance,” albeit repeated for emphasis (Q 2:2, 16, 38). The
sura’s midmost section contains two levels of inclusios: one overarching inclusio (Q 2:129, 151) that
covers the section in its entirety and two smaller ones (Q 2:134, 141; 2:142, 144, 149–150) that
divide it into two subsections (Table 16.2). The addition of a second organizational layer highlights
the sura’s midmost section. The inclusios organizing the last two sections of the sura are both interwo-
ven from multiple elements, the first from within its respective section (Q 2:152–3, 164, 228, 234,
236, 238–239, 240, 241–242) and leading up to the final inclusio, which incorporates elements from
the sura in its entirety and thereby signals closure for the sura as a whole (Q 2:284–286).20 Although
Table 16.1 Sūrat al-Baqara’s Thematic Layout
Panel Section Verses Theme Character
Panel 1: §1.1 1–20 Humanity’s reception of the book: people are divided into Test
Humanity as a “believers” (muʾminūn), “ones who cover [their hearts]”
whole (kāfirūn),21 and “ones who go astray” (ḍāllūn)
§1.2 21–29 Monotheism: God’s command to humanity to worship God Instruction
and God alone; God is identified as the creator of everyone
and everything
§1.3 30–39 Adam and Eve: primeval story of election of humanity to Story
become successors on earth, their error, God’s gift of
repentance and promise to send guidance
Panel 2: §2.1 40–48 Instructions to the Children of Israel: keep God’s covenant, Instruction
The Children believe in God’s signs, establish prayer together with
of Israel believers and give charity
§2.2 49–74 The Mosaic covenant: ancient Israelites in the wilderness Story
receive the covenant, err and repent repeatedly, receive
God’s guidance
§2.3 75–123 Jewish responses to the message: believers, rejecters, and Test
hypocrites
Panel 3: §3.1 124–151 The Abrahamic covenant in Mecca: Abraham and Ishmael Story
The emerging build the ancient sanctuary (kaʿba), God promises to send a
Muslim messenger in their progeny; the realization of this promise
nation in the sending of the Prophet Muhammad.
§3.2 152–242 Legislation for the Muslim nation: belief and practice are Instruction
more clearly defined; articles of belief include monotheism,
belief in God’s angels, books, messengers, and the Day of
Judgment; ritual practices include formal prayers, fasting,
alms-giving, and pilgrimage; laws regulate marriage,
divorce, testamentary inheritance, punishments for murder,
war.
§3.3 243–286 Testing of faith: putting wealth and lives in the hands of God Test
168
each of these seven inclusios can be considered an independent figure of its own, together they form
one complex, multilayered organizational device.22
Several alternations and chiasms also have structural implications. Likely the most visible one is
the alternation between belief- and practice-related topics that covers §3.2 (Q 2:152–242) and §3.3
(Q 2:243–286, Tables 16.1–16.2). A broken chiasm fanning out from Q 2:171–172 is layered onto
the alternation in §3.2, while two additional alternations intertwine in §3.3: one between story and
injunction and another one between fighting- and spending-related themes (Table 16.2). These
Table 16.2 Sūrat al-Baqara’s Inclusios and Organizational Levels
Verses Organizational Level 1 Organizational Level 2
1–39 Inclusio 1: formed of the repetition of derivatives of Panel is subdivided into three
“guidance” (hudā) in Q 2:2, 16, 38 and augmented sections: §1.1, §1.2, and §1.3 (See
with a second repetition in Q 2:16, 38 Table 16.1.)
40–123 Inclusio 2: formed of the repetition of “O Children Panel is subdivided into three
of Israel, remember the blessings with which I have sections: §2.1, §2.2, and §2.3 (See
blessed you” in Q 2:40, 47, 122 and augmented with Table 16.1.)
the repetition of “and that I have privileged you over
all the people of the world. Be mindful of the day
when no person will avail another, nor interception
be accepted, nor compensation be taken, nor will
they be aided” in Q 2:47–48 with similar wording in
Q 2:122–123
124–151 Inclusio 3: formed of the repetition of “Our lord, send Inclusio 6: formed of the repetition
them a prophet of their own, who shall recite to them of “This is a nation that has passed
your verses, teach them the book and wisdom, and away; they shall have what they have
sanctify them, for you are the mighty, the wise” Q earned and you shall have what you
2:129 with similar wording in Q 2:151 have earned and you shall not be
questioned about their deeds” Q
2:134, 141
Inclusio 7: formed of the repetition
of “turn” in Q 2:142, 144, 149–150,
which is augmented with the
repetition of “turn your face towards
the forbidden mosque and wherever
you may be turn your faces towards
it” in in Q 2:144, 149–150
152–242 Inclusio 4: formed of the repetition of “remember,” Alternation between belief and
“prayer,” “signs,” “have sense,” “divorced women,” practice spanning the entire section;
“and those of you who die and leave widows,” broken chiasm spanning the entire
“monetary endowments” in Q 2:152–153, 164, 228, section
234, 236, 238–242; interweaves multiple elements
from within this section
243–286 Inclusio 5: formed of the repetition of “give us victory Alternation between belief and
over the ungrateful ones” Q 2:250, 286; Q 2:284–286 practice spanning the entire section;
interweave multiple elements from the entire sura, alternation between story and
thereby forming closure for the sura injunction spanning the entire
section;
alternation between spending and
fighting spanning the entire section
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Nevin Reda
additional levels of organization add complexity and also heighten the intensity in the last two sec-
tions of the sura. They further affirm the distinctiveness of each section.23
Likely the most striking of the sura’s thematic devices are the ones blanketing the sura in its
entirety. Two such figures exist: a ring composition and a tripartite chiastic structure. The ring com-
position fans out from the sura’s midpoint (Q 2:143) and is more or less evenly distributed through-
out the sura.24 The tripartite chiastic structure is composed of the various sections in the sura’s three
panels: each panel contains a story of primeval election, an instruction section, and a test section
(Table 16.1). They occur in an inverted order, thus forming the structural chiasm. Since the panels
are of increasing length, this structure has a rising emphasis.25
In terms of dynamics, both the lexical and thematic structures contribute to an internal equilib-
rium and to a mounting intensity. The symmetrical layout of the inclusios and the ring composition
provide an evenness and a sense of balance. The incremental nature of the inclusios, the increasing size
of the panels, and the additional layers of poetic figures in Panel 3 add to a mounting, crescendo-like
dynamic. It imbues the sura with a sense of heightened expectation.
Hermeneutics
Both lexical and thematic figures communicate meaning, either by means of emphasizing certain
ideas or by connecting them together. Each inclusio highlights important concepts within the framed
unit which contribute to the overall message of the sura. The single-word framing Panel 1, “guid-
ance,” is a leading keyword (Leitwort) that sets the tone for the entire sura.26 Derivatives of guidance
occur in this sura more so than any other sura.27 Moreover, in every instance, they refer to God’s
guidance either directly or via vehicles of some sort, such as prophets, messengers, and divine books,
hinting that a main theme of the sura is “God as Guide.”28 As Daniel A. Madigan has pointed out,
God is the central subject of the Qur’an,29 so having an attribute of God as a running theme does
not surprise.
Within this overarching theme of “God as Guide,” each subsequent inclusio emphasizes key ideas
in its respective section. The second inclusio highlights the relationship between God and the Chil-
dren of Israel, reminding the latter of God’s blessings upon them and warning them of the hereafter
to come (Q 2:40, 47–48, 122–123). The third inclusio centralizes God’s promise to send an Ishmael-
ite prophet within the sura (Q 2:129, 151). The two sub-inclusios fine-tune this message, urging
present-day descendants of Abraham to accomplish good deeds of their own (Q 2:134, 141) and
changing the prayer orientation from Jerusalem to the ancient house in Mecca, which creates a sepa-
rate identity for the nascent Muslim community (Q 2:142, 144, 149–150). The second sub-inclusio
incidentally draws attention the midpoint of the sura (Q 2:143) with its main message of God creat-
ing a new faith-based nation. The midpoint is thus doubly emphasized: first, through the inclusio
and, second, through the all-embracing ring composition previously described. The semifinal inclu-
sio stresses the consequences of being elected to the position of a distinct nation, emphasizing certain
practices that are expected of the emerging Muslim community. The final inclusio closes the sura by
reiterating the ancient Israelite prayer, looking to the triumph of believers over “the ones who cover
[their hearts]” (kāfirīn,30 Q 2:250, 286). The inclusios thereby allow their audiences to grasp the main
crux of their respective sections and follow the train of thought as themes develop.31
The sura’s chiastic structure also embeds meaning. The repeated pattern of connecting the notion
of election to ensuing special instructions and performance reviews sends home the message that
with privilege comes responsibility. This pattern is repeated six times: once structurally in each panel
and once in each of the stories’ sections (Table 16.1). Humanity is thus responsible for its position as
“successors” or “vicegerents” (sing. khalīfa) on earth, just as Adam and Eve were also responsible in
the distant past. Likewise, the Children of Israel are responsible for the Mosaic “Covenant” (ʿahd) in
the present, just as the ancient Israelites were in the distant past, and, finally, the Muslim community
170
is responsible for the Islamic covenant, just as Abraham and Ishmael were in the distant past. These
various structural repetitions highlight the importance of the Muslim community’s covenant with
God, the associated responsibility, and its centrality within the sura.32
Understanding the compositional schema allows one to discern additional patterns and make
meaning out of them. For example, in the story of humanity’s creation, God gave Adam words of
repentance by which he could atone for his mistake, thus completing his learning experience in
the Garden and becoming ready to take up the role of successor on earth (Q 2:30–39). The theme
of mistakes and repentance is repeated five times in the story of the ancient Israelites (Q 2:49–74),
both Adam and the Israelites rising to positions of religious privilege despite their checkered history
because of this ability to be humble and repentant (Q 2:40, 47, 122, also 3:33).33 In the instruction
section to the Muslim community, the focus is not on adhering to laws under ideal circumstances but
when one has to deal with unexpected setbacks, such as divorce, death of a loved one, murder, war,
illness in the case of fasting, fear when performing prayer, and being prevented from completing the
pilgrimage (Q 2:152–242). When taken together, these patterns suggest that what makes for a great
caliber of human being is not how one behaves when things are going smoothly but rather when
one is faced with difficult challenges, one has hit rock bottom, or one has done the inevitable: made
a mistake.34 Other thematic figures also communicate meaning, such as the alternation between
belief- and practice-related topics, which conveys that the two go together.
As one can see, these poetic figures can assist in understanding the flow of ideas within a sura and
its overarching meanings. However, they can also contribute to meaning in other ways. Recently,
Massimo Campanini has highlighted the importance of the connection between structure (as a
philosophical paradigm) and meaning in his “philosophical Qur’anology,” suggesting that structure
can also provide an “orientation” within which one can explore philosophical and theological postu-
lates.35 Along similar lines, one can argue that these large organizational structures and the meanings
they embed can serve as a framework within which one can interpret smaller units of text, or, to use
Campanini’s term, they provide an “orientation” within which one can make meaning of smaller
segments. Structure can thus serve as a hermeneutical framework within which to interpret verses,
passages, and whole suras.36
Sūrat Āl ʿImrān
Poetics37
Like al-Baqara, Sūrat Āl ʿImrān’s structure is delineated by its lexical and thematic repetitions. Three
inclusios frame the sura’s three panels: the first through the repetition of “[There is] no god but
Him” (lā ilāha illā huwa), “the Truth” or “the Real” (al-h.aqq), and “the Mighty, the Wise” (al-ʿazīz
al-h.akīm, Q 3:2–6, 18, 20, 60, 62); the second through the repetition of “O People of the Book” (yā
ahl al-kitāb, Q 3:64–65, 70–71, 98–99); and the third through the repetition of “O you who believe”
(yā ayyuhā alladhīna āmanū, Q 3:100, 102, 118, 130, 149, 156, 200). Like all repetitions, they add
emphasis and thereby hint at each panel’s theme (Table 16.3).
Additional repetitions heighten the intensity of the inclusio while adding a layer of dynamics. In
Panel 1 (vv. 1–63), the incremental effect is accomplished by adding derivatives of “submission”
(islām) and the verb “to dispute” (h.ājja, Q 3:19–20, 52, 61). In contrast, Panel 2 (Q 3:64–99) displays
a decreasing intensity with the addition of derivatives of Abraham, h.ājja, islām, and “rabbis” (arbāb)
in the first two brackets (Q 3:64–68, 73, 80, 83–85, 94). Unsurprisingly, Panel 2 is also shorter
than Panel 1, while Panel 3 (Q 3:100–200) is the longest of all, covering about half the sura. One
should also note the overarching inclusio that covers the sura in its entirety and that also adds an
increasing intensity, formed by the incremental repetition of “the ones with hearts” (Q 3:7, 190),
“He/You never break(s) His/Your promise” (Q 3:9, 194), and “our nurturer” (Q 3: 7–9, 191–194).
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Nevin Reda
Table 16.3 Sūrat Āl ʿImrān’s Panels
Panel Verses Theme
1 1–63 Introduction: the importance of following God’s Messengers as part of belief in God; the
nativities of Mary and Jesus; the ensuing split of the faith community into Jews and
Christians
2 64–99 Address to the People of the Book: warning against excess in following God’s
Messengers, i.e., against worshipping them and taking them up as religious-legal figures
(arbāb) alongside God
3 100–200 Address to believers: the importance of following God’s Messengers as part of belief in
God; the Prophet Muhammad’s Battles of Badr and Uh.ud; the ensuing split of the faith
community into believers and hypocrites; conclusion
Table 16.4 Sūrat Āl ʿImrān’s Ring Composition
Verses | Description §
1–9 Introduction: God’s oneness; sends prophets with books; supplication for salvation A
10–19 Trials of faith and their consequences B
20–22 Critique of previous peoples for diverging from book and killing prophets C
23–30 Dire warnings for deluded people, buttressed by God’s omnipotence D
31–32 Following prophets as a way of attaining God’s grace E
33–63 Lengthy narrative illustrating the previous points F
64–94 Tensions between Muslims and People of the Book G
95–97 Praise for the Muslim umma H
98–99 Critique of People of the Book I
100–4 Hold on to God’s rope; do not disperse J
105–9 Critique of People of the Book I′
110 Praise for the Muslim umma H′
111–20 Tensions between Muslims and People of the Book G′
121–60 Lengthy narrative illustrating the following points F′
161–64 Following prophets as a way for attaining God’s grace E′
165–80 Dire warnings for deluded people, buttressed by God’s omnipotence D′
181–84 Critique of previous peoples for diverging from book and killing prophets C′
185–88 Trials of faith and their consequences B′
189–200 Conclusion: God’s oneness; sends prophets with books; supplication for salvation A′
Accordingly, Sūrat Āl ʿImrān has a tripartite, accelerating structure, although it attempts to slow
things down with the decreasing intensity in Panel 2.
Like Sūrat al-Baqara, Āl ʿImrān also embeds an inbuilt ring composition (Table 16.4), as well as
another one that covers Panel 2. These structures are layered onto Āl ʿImrān’s tripartite composition.
Although simpler than Sūrat al-Baqara, Āl ʿImrān still maintains a level of sophistication in its rhetori-
cal figures that displays multiple levels of organization.
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Hermeneutics
Āl ʿImrān’s lexical repetitions highlight key themes across the sura. Panels 1 and 3 have similar ideas,
highlighting the connection between belief and communal integrity – they each stress the impor-
tance of following God’s messengers as an expression of integrity of belief and introduce a lengthy
narrative that illustrates what happens to a faith community when not all its members adhere to these
messengers (Table 16.3). In the first panel, this narrative is set in the distant past, and the messenger
is Jesus, after whom the faith community split into Christians and Jews. In Panel 3, the narrative
is set in seventh-century Arabia, and the messenger is Muhammad, the community splitting into
believers and hypocrites. Meanwhile, Panel 2 (the sura’s midmost panel) forms an antithesis to Panel
3, since Panel 2 addresses the People of the Book whereas Panel 3 is focused on the Muslim com-
munity, as indicated by the inclusio repetitions. Panel 2 balances things out, since it speaks of how
not to take following prophets too far by giving them undue religious-legal authority or deity-like
status. The midpoint of the ring structure seems to hold the crux of the sura: hold fast onto the rope
of God (i.e., prophets and books) and do not disperse into different sects or religious communities
(Q 3:100–104).
The Qur’an as a Whole

In light of the above, research into the structure and organization of suras is emerging, with signifi-
cant progress in understanding some particularly challenging suras, such as al-Baqara and Āl ʿImrān.
However, what about the Qur’an as a whole? Is it possible to identify a poetic substrate and rationale
for the organization of suras, one after the other? While the state of the scholarship does not allow
one to make definitive claims, it is possible to make some general observations. As previously noted,
the most widespread explanation for the ordering of suras is that they were arranged in accordance
with broadly decreasing length, with the notable exception of al-Fātih.a, which is the Qur’an’s open-
ing prayer. This sura ends in a supplication for guidance to the straight path, the path of the ones
whom God has blessed, not the ones who incur anger or the ones who go astray (Q 1:6–7). The rest
of the Qur’an comes in the form of an answer to that prayer, as can be inferred in the beginning of
al-Baqara, which specifies “this book” as the requested guidance (Q 2:2). Accordingly, the Qur’an
comes in the format of a prayer and a lengthy response. From a performative perspective, it enacts
the God–human relationship in the way it is structured.
Furthermore, while the munāsaba genre has outlined the connections between the end of each
sura and the beginning of the next, there is more to suggest the interconnectedness of suras and the
existence of a poetic substrate in the way they are ordered. H . awwā has noted that the themes of Sūrat
al-Baqara are picked up and elaborated in the beginning of subsequent sūras and in their respective
themes (Table 16.5).38 From a poetics perspective, this repetition is similar to an alternation, since
it is in the same order. One should note that there are also vestiges of a chiastic substrate in the first
few suras, not confined to the beginning of the sura but rather in the rest of its contents (Table 16.6).
However, in both the straight alternation and the chiastic substrate, the parallels are clearer the closer
a sura is to Sūrat al-Baqara, and they become more diffused the farther away one moves from Sūrat al-
Baqara. These very broad observations point to the need to further explore the possibility of a poetic
substrate in the organization of suras, which could be a promising avenue of research.
Finally, on the topic of a possible chiastic substrate, one should note that the Qur’an’s last three
suras seem to reflect the first three groups that are mentioned in al-Fātih.a: Q 112 (al-Ikhlās.) recalls
the “ones whom God has blessed,” and Q 113 and Q 114 link well to “the ones who incur anger”
and “the ones who go astray” (Q 1:7). In fact, all three suras suggest that these groups have reached
an inner realization and an end point in their respective spiritual journeys: the witness of God for the
ones who have reached completion (Q 112) and, for the others, the knowledge that refuge from the
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Table 16.5 Saʿīd H.awwā’s Identification of Correspondences Between Sūrat al-Baqara and the Beginnings of
Subsequent Suras
al-Baqara General Lexical and Thematic Parallels Corresponding Verses
2:1–3 Alif Lām Mīm, book, prior scriptures 3:1–3

2:21 “O Humankind, worship/be mindful of your nurturer, who has created 4:1
you,” mindfulness of God
2:27 Fulfilling covenant/contractual obligations 5:1
2:28 God as creator 6:1–2
2:38 Following God’s guidance 7:2–3
2:217 “They ask you about,” war/booty 8:1
Table 16.6 Chiastic Substrate
al-Baqara General Thematic Parallels Corresponding Sura
2:243–286 Spending and fighting as tests, integrity of belief, Abraham and the 3
Children of Israel
2:124–242 Belief and religious-legal and other material pertaining to prayer, charity, 4
capital offenses, women and orphans, war, and Abraham and the
patriarchs
2:40–123 Relations between Muslims and the People of the Book, Moses and 5
history of ancient Israel
nasty things in life is only in God (Q 113, 114). Q 113 has a slightly darker flavor with the occur-
rences of the evils of darkness, the ones who blow on knots, and the envious, which seems to reflect
the inner state of “the ones who incur anger” (Q 1:7), while the mention of “the evil whisperer who
whispers in the hearts of humankind” (Q 114:4–6) ties in well with the theme of “the ones who
go astray” (Q 1:7). When looking at the Qur’an as a whole, the supplication for guidance and the
three different paths in Sūrat al-Fātih.a and their subsequent elaboration throughout the rest of the
Qur’an hint that the Qur’an is structured as a pathway or spiritual journey, describing the progres-
sion of these three groups toward their end goal (which they may never reach). If one integrates a
spiritual perspective from the domain of Sufism, which describes the various experiential stages and
states of such spiritual journeys, one could envision the Qur’an as a spiritual method, one that leads
individuals or groups from the lowest self that commands to bad things (al-nafs al-ammāra bi-l-sūʾ)
to the highest: the self that is at peace with itself (al-nafs al-mut․maʾinna) or even the completed self
(al-nafs al-kāmila) that is capable of a perfect witness of God. As noted in an earlier publication, each
sura seems to function as a stage in this spiritual journey as the self progresses to completion.39 This
journey, or method, functions as a rationale for the organization of suras, one after the other, as well
as a hermeneutical framework within which to interpret the Qur’an.40
Notes
1 The different Qur’ans allusion refers to the three different approaches to the Qur’an as described in this
volume.
2 Cf. Audebert, al-Hat․․tābī et l’inimitabilité du Coran. Traduction et introduction au Bayān Iʿjāz al-Qurʾān (Damas:
˘ Damas, 1982), 58–64, 193–194.
Institut Français de
174
3 Burhān al-Dīn Abū al-H.asan Ibrāhīm ibn ʿUmar al-Biqāʿī, Naz․m al-durar fi tanāsub al-āyāt wa-l-suwar, 3rd
ed., 8 vols., ed. ʿAbd al-Razzāq Ghālib al-Mahdī (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2006). All translations
from the Arabic are mine unless otherwise stated.
4 Abū Jaʿfar Ah.mad ibn Ibrāhīm ibn al-Zubayr al-Ghirnāt․ī, al-Burhān fī tartīb suwar al-Qur’an, ed. Muh.ammad
Shaʿbānī (Morocco: Wazārat al-Awqāf wa-l-Shuʾūn al-Islāmiyya, 1990); Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūt․ī, Tanāsuq al-
durar fī tanāsub al-suwar, 2nd ed., ed. ʿAbd Allāh Muh.ammad al-Darwīsh (Beirut: ʿĀlam al-Kutub, 1987).
5 See Amīn Ah.san Is.lāh.ī, Tadabbur-ī Qur’an, 8 vols. (Lahore: Faran Foundation, 1967–80); Sayyid Qut․b,
Fī z․ilāl al-Qur’an, 25th ed., 6 vols. (al-Qāhira: Dār al-Shurūq, 1972); Muh.ammad H.usayn al-T ․ abāt․abāʾī,
al-Mīzān fi tafsīr al-Qur’ān, 21 vols. (Beirut: al-Mat․baʿa al-Tujāriyya, 1970–1985); Muh.ammad Fārūq al-
Zayn, Bayān al-naz․m fi al-Qur’an al-karīm, 4 vols. (Damascus: Dār al-Fikr al-Muʿās.ir, 2003–2005). For more,
see Nevin Reda, “Holistic Approaches to the Qur’an: A Historical Background,” Religion Compass 4, no. 8
(2010): 495–506.
6 Angelika Neuwirth, “Sūra(s),” in Encyclopaedia of the Qur’an, 6 vols., ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe (Leiden:
Brill, 2001–2006), vol. 5, 166–176; idem, Studien zur Komposition der mekkanischen Suren (Berlin: Walter de
Gruyter, 1981).
7 Todd Lawson, “Duality, Opposition and Typology in the Qur’an: The Apocalyptic Substrate,” Journal of
Qur’anic Studies 10, no. 2 (2008): 23–49; “The Qur’an and Epic,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 16, no. 1
(2014): 58–92; idem, The Qur’an: Epic and Apocalypse (London: Oneworld Academics, 2017); Adam Flow-
ers, “Reconsidering Qur’anic Genre,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 20, no. 2 (2018): 19–46.
8 Devin Stewart, “Divine Epithets and the Dibacchius: Clausulae and Qur’anic Rhythm,” Journal of Qur’anic
Studies 15, no. 2 (2013): 22–64; idem, “Sajʿ in the Qur’an: Prosody and Structure,” Journal of Arabic Literature
21 (1990): 101–139; Michael Zwettler, “A Mantic Manifesto: The Sūra of ‘The Poets’ and the Qur’anic
Foundations of Prophetic Authority,” in Poetry and Prophecy: The Beginnings of a Literary Tradition, ed. James
Kugel, 75–119 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1990).
9 Nadeen Mustafa Alsulaimi, “Islamic and Western Approaches to the Qur’an: A Rhetorical and Thematic
Analysis of Sūrah 4 ‘The Women’ (al-Nisāʾ)” (PhD diss., The Catholic University of America, 2018);
Michel Cuypers, The Banquet: A Reading of the Fifth Sūra of the Qur’an, preface by Muh.ammad Ali Amir-
Moezzi (Miami: Convivium, 2009); The Composition of the Qur’an: Rhetorical Analysis, transl. Jerry Ryan
(London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2015); Raymond K. Farrin, Structure and Qur’anic Interpretation: A Study
of Symmetry and Coherence in Islam’s Holy Text (Ashland, OR: White Cloud Press, 2014); “Sūrat al-Baqara:
A Structural Analysis,” Muslim World 100, no. 1 (2010): 17–32; “Sūrat al-Nisāʾ and the Centrality of Jus-
tice,” Al-Bayān: Journal of Qur’an and H.adīth Studies 14, no. 1 (2016): 1–17.
10 Nora K. Schmid, “Quantitative Text Analysis and Its Application to the Qur’an,” in The Qur'ān in Context:
Historical and Literary Investigations into the Qur’anic Milieu, ed. A. Neuwirth, N. Sinai, and M. Marx (Leiden,
Boston: Brill, 2009), 441–460; Nicolai Sinai, The Qur’an: A Historical-Critical Introduction (Edinburgh: Edin-
burgh University Press, 2017), 11–137.
11 Marianna Klar, “Text-Critical Approaches to Sūra Structure: Combining Synchronicity with Diachro-
nicity in Sūrat al-Baqara. Part 1,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 19, no. 1 (2017): 1–38; idem, “Text-Critical
Approaches to Sūra Structure: Combining Synchronicity with Diachronicity in Sūrat al-Baqara. Part 2,”
Journal of Qur’anic Studies 19, no. 2 (2017): 64–105.
12 One should note that the early Muslim community was unclear as to whether suras 8 and 9 were to be
considered one sura or two and eventually agreed on two but without the initial basmala for sura 9. Saʿīd
al-H.awwā treats them as a single unit in his analysis. See al-H . awwā, al-Asās fī al-tafsīr, vol. 1, 31.
13 The Shāfiʿī and Jaʿfarī schools generally recite the basmala, whereas the H.anafī, Mālikī, and H . anbalī schools
only recite it with al-Fātih.a (sura 1).
14 In Q 29:30, the basmala begins King Solomon’s letter to the Queen of Sheba. The practice of beginning
formal letters or speeches with the basmala is not uncommon in the Muslim world.
15 Gary A. Rendsburg, “Literary Devices in the Story of the Shipwrecked Sailor,” Journal of the American Ori-
ental Society 120, no. 1 (2000): 13–23, 20.
16 David Heinrich Müller, Die Propheten in ihrer uhrsprünglichen Form (Vienna: Alfred Hölder, 1896), 200–207.
17 For more on dynamics, see Nevin Reda, The al-Baqara Crescendo: Understanding the Qur’an’s Style, Narrative
Structure and Running Themes (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2017), 68–99.
18 The analysis of Sūrat al-Baqara here is based on Reda, al-Baqara Crescendo.
19 Minor change in Q 2:122–123.
20 Neal Robinson calls the final three verses that form this closure “the epilogue.” See Neal Robinson, Discov-
ering the Qur’an: A Contemporary Approach to a Veiled Text (London: SCM Press, 1996), 221–223.
21 There are different ways of translating the word kāfirūn/kāfirīn, including “unbelievers,” “disbelievers,”
“ungrateful ones,” etc. I have chosen the translation of “cover [their hearts]” due to the word’s etymology
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Nevin Reda
from churning the earth (i.e., planting a seed and then covering it with dirt) and the Qur’an’s emphasis on
the heart as a spiritual organ of perception and as the seat of belief and unbelief. See, for example, Q 22:46.
See also Murtad.ā al-Zabīdī, Tāj al-ʿarūs, Tāj al-ʿarūs: min jawāhir al-qāmūs, 20 vols., ed. ʿAlī Shīrī (Bayrūt: Dār
al-Fikr, 1994), vol. 7, 452.
22 For more on the al-Baqara inclusios, see Reda, al-Baqara Crescendo, 68–99.
23 Reda, al-Baqara Crescendo, 100–121.
24 Farrin, “Sūrat al-Baqara.”
26 Ibid., 78–79, 124–125.
27 Ibid., 124–125.
28 Ibid., 122–135.
29 Daniel Madigan, “Themes and Topics,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Qur’an, ed. Jane Dammen
McAuliffe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 79–95.
30 For the different possibilities of translating kāfirūn/kāfirīn, see n. 20.
32 Ibid., 126–157.
33 Ibid., 143–145.
34 Ibid., 147–150.
35 Massimo Campanini, “Towards a Philosophical Qur’anology: Structure and Meaning in the Qur’an,” Journal
of Qur’anic Studies 20, no. 2 (2018): 1–18.
36 For examples illustrating how this may work, see Nevin Reda, “The Qur’an and Domestic Violence: An
Islamic Feminist, Spiritually Integrative Reading of Verse 4:34,” International Journal of Practical Theology 23,
no. 2 (2019): 257–273; “From Where Do We Derive “God’s Law”? The Case of Women’s Political Lead-
ership: A Modern Expression of an Ancient Debate,” in Feminism and Islamic Perspectives: New Horizons of
Knowledge and Reform, ed. Omaima Abou Bakr, in cooperation with the Danish–Egyptian Dialogue Institute
(DEDI) and the Danish Center for Research on Women and Gender (Kvinfo) (Cairo: Women and Memory
Forum, 2013), 119–135, published in Arabic as Min ayna naʾkhudh sharʿ Allāh? Qad. iyyat qiyādat al-marʾa
al-siyāsiyya: ruʾya jadīda li-h.iwār qadīm (Cairo: Women and Memory Forum, 2014).
37 The analysis of Sūrat Āl ʿImrān’s structure here is based on Nevin Reda, “The Poetics of Sūrat Āl ʿImrān’s
Narrative Structure,” in Structural Dividers in the Qur’an, ed. Marianna Klar (London: Routledge, forthcom-
ing). For more on the structure of Sūrat Āl ʿImrān, see Neal Robinson, “Sūrat Āl ʿImrān and Those with the
Greatest Claim to Abraham,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 6, no. 2 (2004): 1–21; “The Dynamics of Sūrah Āl
ʿImrān,” in Saramui Jonggyo, Jonggyoui Saram, ed. Pak Tae-Shik (Seoul: Baobooks, 2008), 425–486; Mathias
Zahniser, “Major Transitions and Thematic Borders in Two Long Sūras: al-Baqara and al-Nisāʾ,” in Literary
Structures of Religious Meaning in the Qur’an, ed. Issa J. Boullata (Richmond: Curzon, 2000), 26–55; “Sūra
as Guidance and Exhortation: The Composition of Sūrat al-Nisāʾ,” in Humanism, Culture, and Language in
the Near East: Studies in Honor of Georg Krotkoff, ed. Asma Afsaruddin and Mathias Zahniser (Winona Lake,
IN: Eisenbrauuns, 1997), 71–85; “The Word of God and the Apostleship of ʿĪsā: A Narrative Analysis of Āl
ʿImrān (3):33–62,” Journal of Semitic Studies 37, no. 1 (1991): 77–112.
38 H.awwā, al-Asās fī al-tafsīr, vol. 1, 339–340.
39 See Nevin Reda, “What Is the Qur’an? A Spiritually Integrative Perspective,” Journal of Islam and Christian-
Muslim Relations 30, no. 2 (2019): 127–148.
40 See, for example, how this hermeneutical framework functions in the interpretation of Q 4:34 (the “beat-
ing” verse) and changes its interpretation completely in Reda, “Qur’an and Domestic Violence.”
176
17
QUR’ANIC KERYGMA
Epic, Apocalypse, and Typological Figuration
Todd Lawson
And if all the trees on earth were pens, and if the sea and seven more added to it were ink,
the Words of God would not be exhausted. Truly God is Mighty, Wise.
Qur’an 31:27
Storytelling is an important element of the Qur’an’s message or kerygma. Kerygma, from Greek,
means “preaching,” “proclamation,” “call,” “summons,” or “mission.” In his three major studies of the
Bible, Northrop Frye relies heavily on an understanding of kerygma as the proclamatory rhetoric of
the Bible, while the vehicle of kerygma is myth.1 According to Frye, the kerygmatic or proclamatory
nature of the Bible is what makes it “more than literature” though it is constructed or composed
according to the laws of literature. Similarly, the Qur’an is literature and more than literature. It
is of some moment that the etymology of kerygma almost perfectly coincides with the frequent
Qur’anic word daʿwa: “call,” “proclamation,” “summons,” “prayer.” The character of the Qur’anic
kerygma is also quite unique in world literature, though it may have some features in common with
the Bible. But this is not a topic pursued here. At the same time, it must be emphasized that story-
telling alone falls very short of covering the totality of the Qur’an’s reality with regard to its élan,
message, and form. We get closer to understanding the reality of Qur’anic communication and liter-
ary energy if we consider its primary, self-acknowledged, and self-defined purpose to be intimately
bound up with a performance or recital and rendition of universal truth at the linguistic level and
the demonstration of the absolute reality of divine revelation. The wordiness of this assertion seems
unavoidable, and it is hoped that by the end of the article, the reader will be able to forgive it. The
perspective here is that divine revelation by, on the part of, and of the one true God and “His” plan
for humanity is the single most important story that the Qur’an is about. Quotations marks are used
here to draw attention to the fact that Islam assigns no gender to God, whose chief name in Arabic
is Allāh, even though the third person male pronoun is typically used in the Qur’an and Islamic
literature in general to refer to the one and only creator deity.
Stories in the Qur’an are typically sequential with a beginning, a middle, and an end. The strik-
ing feature of Qur’anic narrative is that the entire story is susceptible to being told “in a single syl-
lable,” what Norman O. Brown referred to as the totum simul of the Qur’anic apocalypse (see later
in the chapter). Of course, it may also be told in the more normal narrative fashion, along the lines
of the traditional epic. For this we have the sura of Joseph (Q 12) as prime example. Both forms are
discussed here.
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-19 177

Todd Lawson
The reality of divine revelation, as distinct from the details of such revelation, is the all-important
truth being conveyed. Once it is acknowledged that divine revelation has always occurred, the
Qur’an has accomplished 99% of its purpose. The rest, including historical details, laws, prayers,
oaths, prophecies, are simply more occasions to demonstrate the reality and efficacy of divine revela-
tion. The reality and efficacy of divine revelation, the communication of the unknowable God to
humanity through prophets, messengers, and divine signs have as their primary purpose to demon-
strate the simultaneous nearness and remoteness of the one true God. Āyāt (“signs,” sing. āya) is a key
Qur’anic term that means both Qur’anic verse as a quantum of divine communication and a created
thing as a quantum of divine communication. According to the Qur’an, for example at Q 41:53,
God reveals truth through scripture and the totality of creation, which includes the individual in
whose soul signs have also been deposited. These nearly infinite individual instances each represent
a “sign” of God as its utterly transcendent creator.
We will continue to show humanity Our signs in the cosmos and in their own souls until
it becomes clear to them that it is the Truth. Is it not enough that your Lord is a Witness
over all things? (Q 41:53)
Such a supra-logical literary purpose – to demonstrate the simultaneous remoteness and nearness
of God – functions rhetorically as a “paradox that enlightens the mind by paralyzing the discursive
reason.”2 In the Qur’an, the Arabic word Allāh is the most frequent of the numerous “proper” names
of the (one and only) “Reality” (al-H.aqq, another frequent divine name for God mentioned in the
Qur’an) and indicates the most sublime and powerful source of creation and author of the cosmos
who is also the source and author of the Arabic Qur’an. Thus the presence of Qur’anic revelation is
somehow contiguous with the divine presence itself and so it is a symbol of it. The Qur’an is thus
a door to what might be thought, using terminology from another tradition, the Kingdom of God.
The words of Marshall Hodgson help us to understand:
When read as first intended, as a vehicle for worship rather than primarily as an exposition
of truths, [the Qur’an’s] very incongruousness and repetitiousness become virtues; that is,
almost every element which goes to make up its message is somehow present in any given
passage. Its very narratives are not written in the form of stories but in the form of brief,
discontinuous statements, holding before the mind the relevance of stories already known
or elsewhere explained. Its relatively few legal passages lend themselves more readily to start-
ing a ripple of moral reflection than to subserving technical juridical decisions. Wherever
it is opened, the Book is found to be insisting in a single message in every possible context.
The message is such that to reaffirm it with one’s whole will constitutes an act of worship.
So read, the Qur’an reveals itself as a comprehensive cosmic challenge, monumentally deliv-
ered. It is at once more comprehensive in outline and more involved in the details of individual
living than are its closest analogues, the Old Testament prophets. . . . It maintains an ultimate
perspective on every point that arises, large or small. This it does even verse by verse in its
sonorous endings recalling the power and the mercy of God and, more substantially, in the
very mixture of passages exalted and prosaic. In Arabic, at least, the exalted passages manage
to win out in such contests and give their tone to the whole. This can be seen in the Chapter
of Light [Q 24] which contains the most ethereal passage in the Qur’an juxtaposed with what
might seem some of its most sordid, dealing with matters of etiquette, with sexual decency, and
in particular with an accusation of infidelity levied against a wife of the Prophet. The exalted
effect is aided by an effective use of language, which lends an untranslatable dignity even to
quite ordinary ideas, so that the phrases seem to take on a more general reference; much of real
substance is lost when the thought is cast into less noble rhythms in another tongue.
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Qur’anic Kerygma
The Qur’an expresses in this way a total vision of the natural and historical cosmos and
of human responsibility therein. This vision is brought out largely in terms of the experience
of an individual man (Muhammad) and of the entire community about him, an experience
dominated in turn by the challenge of the very Qur’an which is its commentary, an experi-
ence, moreover, which – both during the Qur’anic revelations and afterward – was marked
by a unique historical success. This intimate interweaving with the far-reaching experience
it illuminates, perhaps even more than its single-mindedness and the monumentality of its
formal impact, accounts for the enormous power of the Qur’an as the charter and touchstone
of a concrete historical community which has tried in its generations to express the universal.
The Qur’an in its literary form, then, is to be compared not with the form of the Bible
but with the form of the life of Christ, which was likewise interwoven with the life of
the early community. All the natural features of the life of Christ, as experienced by the
Church, point to a single culminating moment, essentially beyond this world’s life, into
which all believers are to enter at last. On the contrary, though there is development in the
Qur’an, every moment of it is equally devoted to the reorientation of this life in its very
naturalness. The contrast is shown most keenly in comparing what happens to the soul
in a reading of the Qur’an and in a Communion with Christ – the penetrating of divine
admonition on the one hand, on the other the assumption into divine atonement.3
Here we would like to focus on what Hodgson refers to as “the enormous power of the Qur’an.”
This power is seen to be intimately related to the twin literary energies of epic and apocalypse
that circulate ceaselessly through the “text” (oral or written) frequently encountered as actually
combined in what may be thought to resemble a musical fugue,4 especially in numerous occasions
of typological figuration. These elements are key to the Qur’an’s “expressive style,” its “form and
contents.” Their presence in the text, thus isolated, help us to account for the truly unique Qur’anic
intensity which, in the present context, emerges as a distinctive rhetorical profile in the service of
the Qur’an’s demonstration of and insistence upon divine revelation from the one true God as the
central defining reality of human life, collective or individual.
Revelation as Permanent Reality

Imagine that all we knew of what we now call The Qur’an was not a printed text read in conjunc-
tion with that “historical community” previously mentioned, that is, the religio-socio-historical
phenomenon known now as Islam. Rather, imagine a large papyrus scroll recently discovered in a
clay jar in a cave in the desert somewhere in what we now also call the Middle East. Imagine we
had no tradition of variants, canonization, commentary, translation, history, or Muslim community
to help us understand such a scroll. For heuristic convenience, let us allow that this newly found
Arabic scroll is also arranged in the order of the Qur’an as we know it today, the mus.h.af. What
would strike us? We would be struck by the way in which the arrangement and language of the text
appears to approximate the general form and contents of the epic and by the way in which there
is a clear emphasis on what has by now come to be known as apocalyptic imagery and topics. We
would also notice a virtually uninterrupted stream of typological figuration.5 And so we will read
this scroll as the sole surviving record of a long since vanished apocalyptic community that had a
particularly pointed knowledge of Late Antique religion in the Nile-to-Oxus region; that saw itself
as the renewer and renewal of an eternal divine covenant; that believed in divine, authoritative, and
normative revelation, verbal and otherwise, from a supreme deity; and that also saw itself as coming
at the end of a long historical process we normally think of as “epic” because of its grandeur, the
hardships entailed, the knowledge imparted along the way, and the implications it has for the idea
of being human. We would notice that it spoke of time and history, nations and peoples, humanity
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and God, this world and the next in sonorous rhymed prose from the beginning to end, lending
unity and coherence to the vision it propounds. We would further note that it spoke of prophets and
their communities,6 as if they were one organism: prophets persecuted, communities persecuted;
prophets triumph, communities triumph. Moreover, we would see that each prophet, community,
and human being may expect to encounter a series of hardships and tests7 in their missions, lives, and
commitment to God on the straight path, the path of righteousness, which in some ways is simul-
taneously circular in the sense that humanity began in the presence of God and is striving to return
there, from the primordial covenant mentioned frequently in the Qur’an but most dramatically and
explicitly at Q 7:172 to the day of judgment and the hereafter, mentioned countless times in the
Qur’an as the destination to which all are traveling.
Of course, in this thought experiment we are without the witness of the historical triumph and
cultural consolidation of the community primarily addressed in the text and thus one of the more
persuasive evidences of Qur’anic kerygmatic power. Let us cheat and assume that we have heard of
early triumphs but that, today, traces of such have passed away much like those communities frequently
referred to in the Qur’an itself (e.g., Q 2:134, 137; 3:137). Further evidence for such triumphant
kerygmatic power resides in the way in which the Qur’an serenely seems to colonize all history and
time, all space and place, all existence, cosmic or individual, and to speak with compelling reasonable-
ness about the (only) apparent chaos of human and therefore religious variation and multiplicity (Q
49:13). At bottom, the Qur’an preaches through story the fundamental oneness of humanity, religion,
and, of course, God. Tawh.īd (“making one”) the chief Islamic religious teaching is thus seen to com-
bine several unities: theological or spiritual, historical and social. Much of the Qur’an’s persuasive and
aesthetically powerful rhetoric emerges, so we hold, from the narratological braiding (or “fuguing”) of
the genres of epic and apocalypse and their literary culmination or climax (cf. apotheosis) in typological
figuration. The example of the Prophet Muhammad as a defining and controlling instance of Qur’anic
typological figuration demonstrates that he represents a simultaneous and apparently contradictory
interest in honoring tradition and promoting radical change and revolution. He is descended from
a line of God-sent prophets and messengers whose individual epic struggles culminated in a certain
degree of victory and triumph that is celebrated in revelation as a divinely guided historical achieve-
ment. At the same time, the Prophet Muhammad insists that the world is on the edge of a radical spir-
itual revolution for which the literary device of apocalypse is the most faithful and accurate harbinger.
Qur’an as Epic
Just as in ancient Greek literature, the Qur’an combines suras and āyāt of passionate intensity, especially
in the earliest revelations, with straightforward narrative that characterizes the later suras. The Greeks
called the first type dithyramb, which was frequently identified with wine and fertility, two quite un-
Qur’anic topics. The second type was divided into two parts: (1) diegesis, which means telling a story
through epic, and (2) mimesis, which means showing a story through imitation or drama.8 These
two terms are useful here because, with the Qur’an, the story is both told and demonstrated through
Muhammad. In both cases, it is a single authoritative voice that is understood as speaking forth in
describing God and the Qur’an’s relation to the world, humanity’s history, humanity’s future, the trials
and tribulations that may be expected, and humanity’s existential predicament, whether individually or
communally. These are epic preoccupations. In the Qur’anic dithyramb, it is not wine and fertility that
is being celebrated but rather the existence of the one true God who loves humanity unconditionally
(God as “the Compassionate, the Merciful,” al-Rah.mān al-Rah.īm, Q 1:1) and who demonstrates this
love and solicitude by sending prophets and messengers to guide and renew the ancient and, as it turns
out, primordial and precreational covenant.9 The Qur’an is a celebration of itself: it is its own wine
and fertility, however scandalous such a formulation might appear. The ensuing intensity is expressed
and signaled in a variety of ways using various key terms such as death, judgment, suffering, revelation,
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proximity, intimacy, love, wrath, punishment, the straight path and the Hour, the Cause, the End, and,
of course, the deceptively simple and otherwise apparently limited idea of Oneness.10
Epic seems to transcend typical concerns of genre, even though here we are trying to illustrate
what in the Qur’an lends credence to thinking of it as epic. Why should this be helpful in the first
place? A recent study of the problem has summarized salient features of the epic that seem to cor-
respond almost perfectly with the Qur’an:
In potential size, epic is hugely ambitious, undertaking to articulate the most essential
aspects of a culture, from its origin stories to its ideals of social behavior, social structure,
relationship to the natural world and to the supernatural. The scope of epic is matched by
its attitude: as Aristotle noted, it dwells on the serious. (Even its meter, says Aristotle, is
“most stately and weightiest”: stasimôtaton kai onkôdestaton, Poetics 1459b 34–5.) Epic, the
ultimate metonymic art form from the perspective of its pars pro toto performance, is on the
level of ideology a metonymy for culture itself.11
That is to say, epic is synonymous with culture, and a given epic, say the Odyssey, is a symbol and
synonym for ancient Greek culture. The Qur’an is a metonym, (literally, “another name”) for Islam
and the world of Islam. As an epic, granted a particularly distinctive epic, it is understood today as
being distinguished from other literary genres by the degree to which a number of more or less
standard literary features are deployed. A brief list of these would include, in a somewhat hierarchical
order of importance:
1. A luxuriance and privileging of words. Words and their unrivalled importance as conveyers
of the Qur’anic epic may seem self-evident and unworthy of notice. However, if we think of
epic terminology from Greek culture, we note that the most important all mean “speech” or
“words.” Epos, logos, mythos each refers to the units of meaning used to tell the epic and the par-
ticular “mood’ indicated. In the Qur’an, we encounter numerous words that indicate precisely
word, speech, communication/revelation. Beginning with the word Qur’an, which means
“recitation” or “reading,” numerous others come to mind: qāla and its derivatives, qas.as, kitāb,
zabūr, āya, sūra, to name only a very few of possible examples that the text at hand celebrates.
From this angle, an epic is also about literary composition, understanding, and communication.
Words are key to the task at hand; one might say they “interpenetrate with the subject,” causing
a blurring of distinction between subject and object. (See the preceding discussion of Q 41:53.)
In the epic, as the previous quotation from Aristotle indicates, words are typically arranged
in the gravest of rhythms and meters and are of the highest artistic value insofar as expressive
power, descriptive power, and emotional or kerygmatic power are concerned. In short, in Islam
it is the Qur’an with its words, verses, and chapters that represents the presence of God. In this
sense, epic is not only a metonym for culture but a metonym for God as well.
2 An epic is frequently the oldest book in a given culture or society. The Qur’an is the first book
in Arabic.
3 An epic typically begins “in the midst of the action” (in medias res). The Fātih.a, the “opening”
chapter of the Qur’an, and other suras precede the telling of the beginning at Sūrat al-Aʿraf (“the
Chapter of the Heights,” Q 7) where the primordial scene of the covenant is presented in detail,
beginning at verse 172, even though at this point in the Qur’an it has been alluded to from time
to time previously.12 So central is this passage to the Qur’an’s worldview, it will be helpful to
quote it here:
made them bear witness concerning themselves, “Am I not your Lord?” they said, “Yea,
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we bear witness” – lest you should say on the Day of Resurrection, “Truly of this we were
heedless,” or lest you should say, “[It is] only that our fathers ascribed partners unto God
beforehand, and we were their progeny after them. Wilt Thou destroy us for that which
the falsifiers have done?” Thus do We expound the signs, that haply they may return.
(Q 7:172–174)13
4 An epic usually opens with an invocation to a divinity or spiritual reality. In the Fātih.a, liter-
ally “The Opening” or “Overture,” the invocatory element is clear in the repeated invocation
of the divine names “the Compassionate, the Merciful” (al-Rah.mān al-Rah.īm), which are also
repeated in the formulaic invocation, the basmala: “In the name of God, the Compassionate,
the Merciful,” which occurs at the beginning of Q 113 of the Qur’an’s 114 suras. But beyond
this, the entire Fātih.a may be considered a variation of the epic “proem” as described in the next
element.
5 The opening also includes a concise and summative statement of themes (praepositio) in the
opening sura. The Fātih.a so clearly and succinctly articulates the main themes of the Qur’an
that its seven verses are recited millions of times a day throughout the Muslim world. It has been
called The Prayer of Islam because of the way it summarizes humanity’s relationship to God and
God’s purpose for humanity. There is a an oft quoted hadith (q.v.) transmitted sometimes on the
authority of ‘Alī, sometimes on the authority of Muh.ammad, which runs: “All of the scriptures
of all the religions are in the Qur’an, all of the Qur’an is in the Fātih.a, all of the Fātih.a is in the
basmala, all of the basmala is in its first letter, the Arabic bāʾ (‫ )ب‬and all of that is condensed in
the dot underneath it. This statement closes with: ‘And I am that dot (nuqt․a).”14
6. The epic demonstrates divine intervention in human affairs, often including a hero or heroes,
either divine or semidivine, pursuing a mission on behalf of their people. The hero is also
frequently royal or quasi-royal and has a miraculous or near miraculous birth. The hero is also
commanded by a divinity or an emissary from the divinity to assign the task or mission. Ulti-
mately, the hero succeeds in protecting his culture, people, religion, and gods from enemies and
oblivion.15
7 It includes and highlights themes of persecution and departure or exile from home, followed by
a triumphal return. The triumphant hero frequently dispenses largesse or spoils to his commu-
nity on whose behalf his epic contests or trials were engaged. The Qur’an includes numerous
tales of persecution, exile, and rejection, most explicitly in its rehearsal of the struggles of pre-
Muhammadan prophetic or pious figures. Such themes are manifest in the details of Muham-
mad and his community as seen in the extra-Qur’anic Sīra literature.
8 The epic makes use of epic epithets, similes, and figures. In the Qur’an, these features take the
form of multiple divine names and attributes, names assigned to various classes of people, the
good and the bad, as well as the frequent repetition of idiomatic phrases, for example, “life of
the world,” “if only they knew,” “between heaven and earth,” and so on.
9 An epic is characterized by long speeches. The Qur’an is a long speech.
10 It is revealed before or for an audience. In other contexts, this would qualify as performance.
Numerous other factors are found in epics across all cultural and geographic boundaries, and numer-
ous other epic features may be seen to characterize the Qur’an. We have listed ten here in the interest
of brevity. The reader may wish to consider the other elements of epic literature compared with
cognate features of the Qur’an.16 Scholars agree that identity is a major concern of the epic, applied
to both friends and enemies, “us and them.” As such, epics provide a people with a sense of who they
are. The Qur’anic epic represents an important shift in the history of the epic because it asserts that
all humanity is the subject of the epic rather than this or that comparatively limited “ethnic” group
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or religious community. The beginning of history in the Qur’an is not creation but rather the sum-
moning of all humanity to spiritual life in the famous primordial scene recounted at Q 7:172–174
(previously quoted), when all of humanity were gathered – in peace – in the presence of the Lord.
This scene, universally understood to have occurred before creation, before the existence of what we
now know as time and place, asserts that there is no chosen people, that all “the progeny of Adam”
(bani Ādam) are related to one another and share the same status as marbūb or “servants” of the one
true God. Subsequent time and history are seen as a way of engaging the deepest realities of soul
so that they may return, in obedience to the covenant, to that first moment with intensified love,
knowledge and being, along the lines of Eliot’s (d. 1965) famous lines in the Four Quartets:
We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.17
Most importantly, the Qur’anic epic is the epic of humanity as such, and as such, it critiques all other
epics for being parochial, nationalistic, and limited. The oath taken by God during the making of
the primordial covenant is so that at the end of the journey none would be able to claim ignorance
of their reality, their purpose, the covenant, and their duty of obedience to the law of God. So the
epic task or journey of the Qur’an is to establish the knowledge and awareness of the oneness of
humanity and the inculcation of civilized and civilizing behavior that will enable the wide variety
of human societies to live in peace. This is indicated quite unambiguously throughout the Qur’an
and in the self-identity of the early Muslim community who were quite pleased to distinguish their
time in contradistinction to that of the Age of “Ignorance” ( jāhiliyya), where ignorance bespeaks
not merely a lack of information but a lack of wisdom and such essentials of civilization as compas-
sion, justice, patience, forgiveness, generosity (incidentally, all divine attributes in the Qur’an to be
emulated by believers), to name only a few. The epic journey from ignorance to knowledge then
leads us to equate the word Islam, however much it may from a philological point of view indicate
submission, precisely with enlightenment.
Qur’an as Apocalypse
All of the Qur’an is an apocalypse and not merely only those so-called apocalyptic “hymnic” suras
that were the earliest revelations. In this we have no choice if we attend responsibly to the meaning
of the original Greek word apokalypsis: “disclosure,” “revelation,” “unveiling.” Indeed, it is this event
that is at the heart of every Qur’anic utterance. The reality of revelation is the Qur’an’s main theme
and purpose. It is the main event of its narrative, the most important character in the drama. This
distinctive feature whereby the book becomes its own subject or hero is something we typically
consider a defining mark of literary modernism in “the West.” One of the ways this is accomplished
is through the intertwining of epic and apocalypse. Epic bespeaks the stability and conservatism of
a culture, while apocalypse bespeaks radical irruptions and crises in the same culture. The genre
of apocalypse has been the center of a great deal of scholarly activity over the last 50 years, virtu-
ally none of it to do with the Qur’an, to the impoverishment of both Qur’anic and apocalyptic
scholarship.
As is the case with the epic dimension of the Qur’an, the apocalyptic dimension may be traced
with reliability by nonetheless relying upon the results of much of this scholarship. So a catalogue
of attributes and literary features has been distinguished as being consistently represented in apoca-
lyptic literatures of many different languages and cultures. Due to limitations of space, we can only
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mention a few of these here. According to the literature, an apocalypse is characterized by thematic
concern with:
1 Cosmogony/creation: In the Qur’an, God is repeatedly described as the sole creator of the uni-
verse and all that is in it.
2 Primordial events: The most central of these is the Day of the Covenant previously mentioned.
3 Recollection of the past: The Qur’an frequently asks the reader to recall the histories of long van-
ished communities, the stories of the persecution, and the history of prophets and messenger
and to recall the duty owed to God and His messenger.
4 Persecution: The Qur’an is full of stories of the persecution of the prophets and the righteous.
5 Eschatological upheavals: The Qur’an is deeply concerned with the coming of the Hour of Judg-
ment or the time of a great catastrophe. Also, the day of resurrection is a characteristic Qur’anic
theme.
6 Judgment/destruction of the wicked/the world.
7 Resurrection.
8 Angels and demons: The Qur’an frequently refers to angels and other supernatural or invisible
entities who may influence individuals’ behavior.
9 Ambiguity/multivocality: The history of Qur’an “commentary” (tafsīr) clearly shows that passages
of the Qur’an are not always understood in the same way by every reader.
10 Illocution: This is a technical term meaning words that demand some kind of action: commands,
instructions.
11 Glory motif: Glory may be considered a central topic of the Qur’an, first encountered in all its
splendor in the Light Verse (Q 24:35) but may be thought to circulate throughout the entire
book.
12 Aurality: The Qur’an is meant to be heard, not just read.
13 Cultural hybridism: Scholars of the Qur’an from the very earliest times have noted that numer-
ous cultures have contributed words and ideas to the Qur’an. This is one of the reasons it was
recognized and accepted by such a wide variety of humanity in the initial days of its spread
throughout the world.
14 Multiple voices: It is not always absolutely clear who is speaking: God, Muhammad the Messen-
ger, Muhammad the citizen of Mecca, this or that particular character or angel. And when it is
clear, it is also clear that the Qur’an indeed presents a “symphony” of various voices.
15 Periodization of time and history: The Qur’an is certain that history is affected by prophecy and
revelation. The various religions are presented as punctuating history from the beginning of
time until the present.
16 Prevailing concern with diametric opposites (enantiodromia): It has been observed that the Qur’an is
full of oppositions: good≠bad, faith≠disbelief, justice≠injustice, to name only three of dozens of
possibilities. The concern with dualities and oppositions helps to highlight the importance of
oneness in the Qur’an and also to provide a stream of coherence from beginning to end.18
17 An otherworldly revelator: The angel Gabriel.
18 Truth.
19 Closure: Another word for this is certitude, a major theme of the Qur’an.
20 Revelation.
This last item is, of course, what has given a name to the genre. One should beware that some ele-
ments are represented more fully and frequently than others, e.g., revelation, judgment, the glory
motif, multiplicity of voices. But the obvious fact that so many of these represent what most of us
would deem distinguishing features of the Qur’an and the fact that one can find several other apoca-
lyptic features in the Qur’an that have not been listed here due to space constraints should allow
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us to conclude – at the very least – that the Qur’an is susceptible of being mistaken for an apoca-
lypse and may be expected to speak particularly saliently to something described as an “apocalyptic
imagination.”19
Catalogues of elements such as the foregoing have been criticized in the literature for being too
abstract, schematic, and imprecise, and it has been argued that a study of apocalypse should take
into consideration three interlocking spheres of inquiry: genre, eschatology, and social movement.
This will generally reveal that an apocalyptic text speaks of apocalyptic eschatology in the service of
an apocalyptic social (religious) movement along the lines of giving comfort to the persecuted and
assuring this beleaguered community that in time there will be a great reversal of fortune in which
the present enemies will be defeated and the persecuted community will emerge triumphant.20 It
seems that here again we are inexorably led to the original setting (Sitz im Leben) of the Qur’anic
revelation, its major themes, and the social and political history of the community of the Qur’an.
Furthermore, when we include a consideration of typological figuration, we cannot help but discern
a process whereby a population addressed by a rhymed discourse in the most stately and weighty of
tonalities and accents, is led to see itself as a divine remnant charged with the gravest and most press-
ing of historical divine imperatives.
Typological Figuration
Typological figuration is that extraordinarily powerful literary device which renders time and his-
tory an illusion or at least not as ineluctably unidirectional and absolute as we would otherwise
tend to think. It is also a very special kind of repetition which assumes that the original type has
not really ceased but has remained alive and effective even though it may appear that its time has
passed.21 Its central importance, with the regard to the Bible, has been at home in religious studies
ever since Goppelt published his epoch-making book in 1939.22 As Michael Zwettler demonstrated
some years ago, it is a distinguishing feature of the Qur’an where it is every bit as central to mean-
ing generation as it is in the Bible. Through typological figuration in the Bible, Jesus is identified
as the Hebrew Bible’s Lamb of God, Suffering Servant, and second Adam. The ordeal of Jonah in
the whale and his rescue functions as a typological prophecy of the resurrection of Jesus after the
crucifixion. Typological figuration’s extraordinary imaginative and hermeneutic power is at work
when, through epic poetry, Augustus, as antitype, is both Romulus and Aeneas redivivus, the twin
types bespeaking his otherwise unimaginably high status and power. In the Qur’an, the Prophet
Muhammad is the “return” of all previous prophets and especially – though certainly not exclu-
sively – Joseph (see later in the chapter). His brotherhood and identity are not that of the poets but
rather of those whose inspiration comes directly from the one true God. This is why the Qur’an
is not poetry: a poet did not compose it. It is a revelation that relies upon the literary structures
known to its audience, many of which are poetic. This is in line with the Qur’anic principle that a
prophet speaks to his people in their own language (Q 14:4). Typological figuration also functions
powerfully in the Qur’an when its audience, through the combined – or “enfugued” – powers of
epic and the extraordinary intensity of apocalypse, are led to identify themselves with the recipi-
ents of previous divine messages and to identify those who would reject and persecute them with
the enemies of divine oneness who have appeared from time to time in every human community
(Q 10:47) from the very beginning.
Frye’s words are to the point:
Typology is a figure of speech that moves in time: the type exists in the past and the anti-
type in the present, or the type exists in the present and the antitype in the future. What
typology really is as a mode of thought, what it both assumes and leads to, is a theory of
history, or more accurately of historical process: the assumption that there is some meaning
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and point to history, and sooner or later some events will occur which will indicate what
that point is, and so become an antitype of what has happened previously.23
Typological thinking is distinct from causal thinking and infinitely more persuasive. It reverses the
temporal order of causality, therefore demonstrating its power over time and causing us to have the
illuminative experience that what appears to be new is actually – and simultaneously – very old.
Causality depends on reason and says “the past is all that we genuinely . . . know.” Typology depends
on “faith, hope, and vision” and “points to future events that are often thought of as transcending
time.” It has been described as “a revolutionary form of thought and rhetoric.”24 When the Qur’an
evokes typological thinking, as for example when all humanity is presented as the antitype of the
original audience that took part in the day of the covenant at Q 7:17–3, when all were gathered in
peace and mutual recognition in the presence of God, the spiritual or imaginative power is quite
unparalleled. The covenant is renewed each time this act of remembrance is performed or deployed,
and humanity’s true identity is kerygmatically revealed.25 Also, time disappears. Joyce’s “Nightmare
of History” vanishes, and the true responsibility and vocation (arguably, the Qur’anic dīn, frequently
though inadequately translated as “religion”) of being human are brought into focus. The Day of
the Covenant is only one – perhaps ultimately the most persuasive, powerful, and characteristic of
the Qur’anic kerygma – but others abound, as mentioned, including the very dramatic typological
identification of the Prophet Muhammad with Joseph and his followers with Joseph’s reunited family
in sura 12,26 as well as the “typological confusion” in encountering the two Maryams in the Qur’an,
first clarified by Northrop Frye himself.27 As a focus for Qur’anic Studies, typological figuration has
only just begun to attract the attention it so richly deserves. However, we now know enough to
recognize its incalculable effect on the Qur’anic daʿwa, the faith and practice inspired by the Qur’an
from earliest times until today.
Conclusion: Diegesis Becomes Mimesis

This vision is brought out largely in terms of the experience of an individual man
[Muhammad] and of the entire community about him, an experience dominated in turn
by the challenge of the very Qur’an which is its commentary, an experience, moreover,
which – both during the Qur’anic revelations and afterward – was marked by a unique
historical success.
Marshall Hodgson28
The power and glory of the Qur’anic kerygma are enhanced by several factors. Of those indicated
by Hodgson, perhaps the most important is the language, what he has called “The exalted effect . . .
aided by an effective use of language, which lends an untranslatable dignity even to quite ordinary
ideas, so that the phrases seem to take on a more general reference.” To drive the point home, he
continues, “much of real substance is lost when the thought is cast into less noble rhythms in another
tongue.” Our discussion here has largely ignored this more purely linguistic – cum – musically com-
pelling feature of the Qur’anic Arabic. However, when the nearly universally attested power of
that instrument is considered in light of the various structures of meaning generation and poetic
order, we have attempted to sketch here so briefly, then the extraordinarily compelling power of
the “total vision” (cf. Gesamtkunstwerk, Wagner’s famous “Total artwork”) is more readily imagined
and grasped.
We have not discussed another important element of the Qur’an’s “text grammar,” namely
the constant interplay of a vast field of interlocking symmetries, dualities, and oppositions from
the beginning of the text to the end, what was previously referred to with the unusual word
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“enantiodromia.” Among other things, such a feature supplies an endless stream of continuity and
coherence where it may otherwise be difficult to discern. And it sets up a master duality along the
lines of: duality≠oneness. Thus whenever a duality is encountered, the “Qur’anized consciousness”
instantly reaches out for the utterly transcendent, supra-numeric divine oneness and unicity the
Prophet Muhammad was chosen to preach to his community, namely humanity.29
Hodgson also alluded to another feature that we must draw attention, if only briefly and inad-
equately, in closing. When he said “almost every element which goes to make up its message is
somehow present in any given passage,” he in fact identified a key feature of the Qur’anic method
and purpose. Norman Brown, following Hodgson, said the same thing in a slightly different way in
speaking of what he called the Qur’an’s “all-at-onceness” – though he used the classical term totum
simul:
The apocalyptic style [of the Qur’an] is totum simul, simultaneous totality; the whole in
every part. . . . It does not matter in what order you read the Qur’an; it is all there all the
time; and it is supposed to be there all the time in your mind or at the back of your mind,
memorized and available for appropriate quotation and collage into your conversation or
your writing or your action.30
Such a structure is in perfect harmony with physical reality wherein the least feature or element is
teaming with the same life found at the source, circumference, substance, and every atom of the
cosmos. It is, moreover, in perfect harmony with the Qur’anic “theory’ of signs, mentioned earlier
where we quoted the central relevant Qur’anic verse, Q 41:53.
Thus, nature and the self are “read” and “heard” as collections of miraculous, kerygmatic, the-
ophanic signs. With the Qur’an as master or controlling composition, these other two “books” (of
nature and self ) engage the believers’ sensorium with compelling sonorities and rhythms that char-
acterize the paradigmatic revelation, the Qur’an. The literary beauty and meaning of the Qur’an31
conditions the consciousness to behold an analogous beauty and meaning in the realms of nature
and in the souls. The Qur’an is not merely a book of doctrine, dogma, or information, it is rather
a verbal icon with which the believer experiences precisely communion with the divine creative
energy of the cosmos. The sense of intensity and engagement is of the type that Plotinus (d. circa 270
ce) referred to when he described attaining the truth: it is as when you are reading and you forget
you are reading.32 Interpenetration is the word Frye used to symbolize the awareness of the intercon-
nectedness of all things and the absorption or radiation of consciousness with that apperception.33 Or
when Eliot speaks of the deeper music:
Or music heard so deeply

That it is not heard at all, but you are the music
While the music lasts.34
With the mention of music, one cannot forbear turning again to Northrop Frye whose work on the
Bible has opened so many doors of appreciation for the study of the Qur’an’s “literary structures of
religious meaning”:35
Once a verbal structure is read, and reread often enough to be possessed, it “freezes.”
It turns into a unity in which all parts exist at once, which we can then examine like a
picture, without regard to the specific movement of the narrative. We may compare it to
the study of a music score, where we can turn to any part without regard to sequential
performance.36
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Each element of the icon participates in the whole, so wherever one looks, one encounters a door
to transcendence and a closer experience to divine oneness. The apocalyptic, revelational energy
enlivens every letter of the Qur’an, whether it be legal prescription, calendrical principle, relations
between family members, prayers, prophecies, prophetic visions, and, one might say, even the spaces
in between. Of course, there are moments of extraordinary intensity: the Light Verse (Q 24:35), the
Throne Verse (Q 2:255), the Sura of the Night of Power (Q 97), and many others, especially those
early revelations with their poetic intensity and eschatological tension. As Constance E. Padwick
(d. 1968) said many years ago: “[T]hese are not mere letters or mere words. They are the twigs of
the burning bush, aflame with God.”37 This unique literary phenomenon employs the very famil-
iar solemnity and vastness of the epic with the almost pointillistic intensity of apocalypse to such a
degree that at times the roles are blurred and even reversed: epic becomes apocalypse and apocalypse
becomes epic.
The discovery of “Semitic logic,” ring composition, and chiasmus in the Qur’an add to our
understanding of Qur’anic interconnectedness and literary unity. Briefly, these three terms indicate
that the “narratological” phenomenon in which the main point of a work or discourse is found at
its center and not at its end, a feature long recognized to be at work in antique literatures both oral
and written. A splendid example of how the Qur’an conforms to this method is fully elucidated in
Cuypers’s masterful, The Banquet.38 For Islamic belief, this scientific advance also enhances the per-
ception of cosmic interconnectedness, parallel to the Qur’anic theory of signs. The cosmic “book”
(i.e., the cosmos) reflects the Qur’anic book. Both enhance and provide keys to the book of the
individual spiritual reality. The greatness, the monumentality of the Qur’an is a reflection of its epic
élan and form. Incidentally, it also answers the perennial question of why the mus.h.af is arranged in
such a way, the oldest suras last, the more recent and longer ones first.39 And, it explains why this is
all introduced with a typically epic praepositio in the form of a prayer for guidance and summary of
the scope of the epic. Thus the monumentality and the gravitas, the urgency and intensity, the rare-
ness (not absence) of humor also acquire form and content in the lives of the believers and readers,
in their cultures and individual wayfaring.
Finally, we must touch upon, however cursorily, one way in which we may understand the pre-
ceding assertion by Hodgson when he says that the experience of the community and the individual
in fact become commentary on the Qur’an, how diegesis becomes mimesis not only in the preach-
ing of the Prophet Muhammad but in the life of the Islamic world: the Qur’an becomes history now
understood as the epic of the human race. This centers on another literary element, known in Arabic
as h.ikāya, which has been translated as “imitation,” “story,” and “mimesis.” Fifty or so years or so ago,
Henry Corbin wrote of the mystical phenomenon whereby the reader of a poem becomes the very
protagonist of the poem through identifying with the heroics presented. Corbin called this a move
from the heroic to the mystical.40 Though he did not mention it, the very same process, through
especially typological figuration as previously discussed, occurs in the reading and embodiment
of the Qur’an. The Qur’an is the narrative, the story – al-mah.kī ʿanhu – and the reader/believer,
who was, don’t forget, present at the primordial covenant, is al-h.ākī, the relater of the tale. Diegesis
(khabar) becomes mimesis (h.ikāya). The epic dignity of the Muslim is affirmed; history is understood,
and love for God and the Prophet Muhammad is paradoxically made reasonable through a literary
composition that is more than literature. The very act of reading and understanding is heroic.
Notes
1 Northrop Frye, The Great Code: The Bible and Literature (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1982), xvi,
29–30, 231.
2 Ibid., 55; Northrop Frye, Words with Power: Being a Second Study of the Bible as Literature (Markham, Ontario:
Viking, 1990); and a third short book – something of a summary of the two earlier ones and published
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Qur’anic Kerygma
shortly after Frye died: The Double Vision: Language and Meaning in Religion (Toronto: United Church Pub-
lishing House, 1991).
3 Marshall G.S. Hodgson, “A Comparison of Islam and Christianity as Frame-Work for Religious Life,” Dio-
genes 8 no. 32 (December 1960): 49–74; excerpt from 61–63.
4 When two quite different melodies are skillfully played together, previously unknown similarities between
the two are revealed. This is one of the features of the musical form, the fugue. The power and effectiveness
of the fugue challenges “mere” logic, which insists that two things cannot occupy the same space at the same
time. Epic and apocalypse, frequently understood to be at cross-purposes, are combined in the Qur’an and
harmonized in the way that a fugue combines and synchronizes two sometimes opposite musical movements
or ideas.
5 The clearest example of typological figuration in the Qur’an occurs when the reader identifies the prophet
Muhammad, upon whom be God’s blessing and peace, as having the same character, mission, and spiritual
substance as all of the other prophets and messengers mentioned in the Qur’an as distinct from, say, the
poets referred to in the Qur’an. See Michael Zwettler, “Mantic Manifesto: The Sūra of the Poets and the
Qur’anic Foundations of Prophetic Authority,” in Poetry and Prophecy: The Beginnings of a Literary Tradition,
ed. James L. Kugel (Ithaca, NY and London: Cornell University Press, 1990), 75–119.
6 “Communities” means here those who accept the prophet and have faith in the message given by the
prophet. Obviously, the Qur’an speaks repeatedly and at length about the fate of those communities who
rejected the prophets God had sent to them.
7 Such hardships and tests are prominent features of the epic regardless of what culture it is speaking about or
what language it is composed in. The technical term, from the Greek, for this literary feature is peripeteia, “a
sudden reversal of fortune.”
8 A useful reference for this topic, sometimes called “narratology,” is the recent book (which does not mention
the Qur’an) by Kent Puckett, Narrative Theory: A Critical Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2016).
9 Al-Rah.mān, al-Rah.īm are the two most frequent names of God in the Qur’an usually translated, respectively
as “The Most Merciful” and “The Most Compassionate.” They are derived from the Arabic triliteral root
r-h.-m, from which the Arabic word for “womb,” rah.im, is also derived. As such, these two words carry
implications of motherhood and unconditional love, motherhood’s primary feature. The root itself occurs
in various derivations 339 times in the Qur’an, with al-Rah.mān in 57 instances and al-Rah.īm 116. These
two words are also noteworthy as the pair of divine names used in the opening invocation – known as the
basmala – for 113 of the 114 suras of the Qur’an.
10 On epic in general, both ancient and modern, see John Miles Foley, ed., A Companion to Ancient Epic (Mal-
den, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2005) and Margaret Beissinger, et al., eds., Epic Traditions in the Contemporary
World: The Poetics of Community (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999). A very useful brief discus-
sion is S.V. Revard and J.K. Newman, “Epic: I. History and II. Theory,” in The New Princeton Encyclopedia
of Poetry and Poetics, ed. A. Preminger and T.V.F. Brogan (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993),
361–375.
11 Richard P. Martin, “Epic as Genre,” in A Companion to Ancient Epic, ed. John Miles Foley (Malden, MA:
Blackwell Publishing, 2005), 9–19, quotation from 18.
12 Unless otherwise indicated, when discussing the order of the Qur’an, the final edited order is assumed. As is
well known, the Islamic tradition insists that the order of the Qur’an in use by believers, the so-called mus.h.af,
is almost perfectly opposite to the chronological order in which the Qur’an was revealed. That sequence is
referred to by one of the Qur’anic words for the process of revelation namely, tanzīl.
13 English translations of the Qur’an are from The Study Quran: A New Translation and Commentary, ed. S.H.
Nasr et al. (San Francisco: HarperOne, 2015).
14 Such points not only to the centrality of the prophet/messenger or imam but also alludes to the relevance
of Brown’s observation regarding the totum simul previously mentioned. In calligraphy especially, it is under-
stood that the dot “circulates” through all of the other letters indicating that all of the Qur’an is present in
every part.
15 Note the etymological root of the originally Greek word hero is “protector.”
16 Todd Lawson, Quran, Epic and Apocalypse (London: Oneworld Publications, 2017), 1–26.
17 T.S. Eliot, The Four Quartets (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1943), 39: Little Gidding, part v, ll. 26–29.
18 Todd Lawson, Quran, Epic and Apocalypse (London: Oneworld, 2017), 76–93.
19 The title of John J. Collins’ influential book, The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to the Jewish Matrix
of Christianity (New York: Crossroad, 1992).
20 Paul D. Hanson, The Dawn of Apocalyptic: The Historical and Sociological Roots of Jewish Apocalyptic Eschatology
(Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1979), 429–433.
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Todd Lawson
21 “It would perhaps be difficult to prove completely the axiom that objects do not cease to exist when we have
stopped looking at them. Yet it is hard to see how we could maintain a consistent sense of reality without
assuming it, and everyone does so assume it in practice and would even assert it as the first article of common
sense. For some reason it is more difficult to understand that events do not necessarily cease to exist when we
have stopped experiencing them, and those who would assert, as an equally obvious fact, that all things do
not dissolve in time any more than they do in space are very rare.” Northrop Frye, Fearful Symmetry: A Study
of William Blake (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1947), 247.
22 Leonard Goppelt, Donald H. Madvig, and E. Earle Ellis, Typos: The Typological Interpretation of the Old Testa-
ment in the New (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2002). Typological figuration would soon attract the attention
of literary scholars such as Erich Auerbach whose similarly epoch-making work, Figura (see bibliography)
would appear in 1938.
23 Frye, The Great Code, 80–81.
24 Ibid., 82.
25 Todd Lawson, “The Mythic Substrate of Ibn al-ʿArabī’s Immutable Entities (al-aʿyān al-thābita),” The Journal
of the American Oriental Society 136, no. 4 (December 2016): 817–818.
26 This is argued in Anthony Johns, “Joseph in the Qurʾān: Dramatic Dialogue, Human Emotion, and Pro-
phetic Wisdom,” Islamochristiana 7 (1981): 29–55.
27 Frye points out that “Christian commentators” of the Qur’an have failed to appreciate the deeper point
made by the Qur’an in Sura 19 in identifying (not confusing) Mary mother of Jesus with Maryam of the
Hebrew Bible. Frye insists that the Qur’an is not confused here but “makes good sense” because both
“Maryams” are of the same literary-spiritual value and reality. Northrop Frye, The Great Code (New York:
Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1982), 172; Lawson, The Quran, 57–75; 90–93. See also Michael Zwettler for
a masterful discussion of typological figuration at work in the sura of the Poets (Q 26, al-Shuʿarāʾ). On the
literary function of the Qur’an’s Maryam, see now Hosn Abboud, Mary in the Qur'an: A Literary Reading
(New York: Routledge/Taylor & Francis Group, 2014).
28 Marshall G.S. Hodgson, “A Comparison of Islam and Christianity as Frame-Work for Religious Life,” Dio-
genes 8, no. 32 (December 1960): 62.
29 This is discussed at length in Todd Lawson, The Quran, Epic and Apocalypse (London: Oneworld, 2017),
76–93.
30 Norman O. Brown, “The Apocalypse of Islam,” Social Text 8 (1983): 167–168.
31 Navid Kermani, God Is Beautiful: The Aesthetic Experience of the Qur’an, translated by Tony Crawford (Cam-
bridge: Polity Press, 2015).
32 Elmer O’Brien (trans.), The Essential Plotinus: Representative Treatises from the Enneads (Indianapolis, IN:
Hackett Publishing Co., 1981), 30.
33 Northrop Frye, GC, 168. For a study of this in Frye and its Zen provenance, see Robert D. Denham, North-
rop Frye: Religious Visionary and Architect of the Spiritual World (Charlottesville, VA: University of Virginia
Press, 2004), 33–60.
34 T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1943), 27: Dry Salvages, pt. 5, ll. 27–29.
35 This is the title of Issa Boullata’s important, pioneering book: Literary Structures of Religious Meaning in the
Qur’an (Richmond, UK: Curzon, 2000).
36 Frye, The Great Code, 62–63.
37 Constance Evilyn Padwick, Muslim Devotions: A Study of Prayer-Manuals in Common Use (London: SPCK,
1961), 19.
38 Michel Cuypers, The Banquet: A Reading of the Fifth Sūra of the Qur’an (Miami, FL: Convivium, 2009). See
also Michel Cuypers, The Composition of the Qur’an: Rhetorical Analysis (London and New York: Blooms-
bury Academic, 2015). Much of Cuypers’s invaluable work and those seminal insights deriving from it are
summarized in Carl W. Ernst, How to Read the Qur’an: A New Guide with Select Translations (Chapel Hill:
University of North Carolina Press, 2011).
39 Todd Lawson, The Quran, Epic and Apocalypse (London: Oneworld, 2017).
40 Henry Corbin, “De l’Épopée héroïque à l'Épopée mystique,” in Face de Dieu, Face de l’homme: Herméneutique
et Soufisme (Paris: Flammarion, 1983), 163–235, 234. The topic of hikaya is interestingly – though insuf-
ficiently – taken up in Navid Kermani, God Is Beautiful, 169, 184, 212, 231, 272–274, and 314. See also
Todd Lawson, “Review of Navid Kermani,” God Is Beautiful, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 84,
no. 3.1 (September 2016): 853–856.
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METAPHOR, SYMBOL, AND
PARABLE IN THE QUR’AN
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The Qur’an shares with many sacred texts a reliance on concrete imagery within its several styles
of expression, across what contemporary interpreters might classify as various prosaic and poetic
modes. In this respect, it is not unlike texts from other sacred traditions, many of which use sym-
bolism and allegory to convey truths that are universal in their content. What is distinct about the
Qur’an, and perhaps unique among the major sacred texts of the world, is its discussion of the nature
of metaphorical expression as a subject in its own right, making it interesting as an example of sym-
bolic expression and for its self-reflective quality. The Qur’an has its own rich discourse relevant to
the issue of ambiguity and equivocality that is so central to the proper understanding of metaphor,
symbolism, and parable. The most important Qur’anic vocabulary in this regard are āya, mathal,
taʾwīl, and mutashābih.
Āya
The notion of “sign” (āya) is one of the most nuanced and pervasive in the Qur’an, so much so that
what are conventionally called verses (following the rule of labelling the subunits of Bible chapters
as verses) are actually “signs” within the 114 “enclosures” (suras) of the Qur’an, a system of division
that exists only for the Qur’an. Of the signs of God, Q 41:53 states, “We shall show them Our signs
upon the horizons and within themselves till it becomes clear to them that it is the truth.” The “signs
on the horizons” are commonly thought to refer to aspects of the created order, although some have
also interpreted it to mean the future victories that Muslims would have over their distant enemies.
The “signs within themselves” are commonly thought to refer to human beings themselves and to
their makeup and growth through life. The term āya thus has several different kinds of meaning,
including the text of the Qur’an itself, natural phenomena in their variety and regularity, events
past and future, human nature, and miracles. In the Qur’an, many things are called a “sign”: the
inviolable she-camel sent as a test to the Thamūd (Q 17:59); the day and the night (Q 17:12); the
Companions of the Cave (Q 18:9); Zachariah’s lack of speech for three days (Q 19:10); the white
hand of Moses (Q 20:22); Mary and Jesus (Q 21:91); the destruction of Noah’s people (Q 25:37);
the growth of vegetation (Q 26:8); the drowning of the Egyptians (Q 26:67); the destruction of the
people of Lot (Q 26:174); the miracles of Moses (Q 28:36); the creation of the heavens and the earth
(Q 29:44); the request by the disbelievers for a miracle (Q 29:50); our creation from dust (Q 30:20).
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-20 191

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Mathal
The term mathal appears 80 times across 63 verses. It has been variously rendered as “parable,”
“similitude,” “likeness,” and “allegory” but does not correspond exactly to any single one of these
and must be understood on its own terms first before being translated into a familiar concept in
English. Sometimes mathal is a description of something (sometimes but not always by way of direct
comparison), while in other contexts mathal refers to something that bears a resemblance with
something else; that is, a mathal can be a description of likeness or the likeness itself. Usually the
appearance of the word mathal announces a kind of comparison or illustration, and is closest in sense
to the English concept of simile in which the audience is invited to meditate upon some kind of
resemblance between two realities. The Qur’an often compares human beings to various animals or
aspects of the natural world, in order to establish an allegorical situation that highlights an aspect of
the human condition, like the dog that lolls out its tongue whether you strike it or not (Q 7:176) or
like animals who understand speech as nothing but noise. Elsewhere, it is said that a polytheist’s reli-
ance upon others beside God offers no more protection than a spider’s web (Q 29:41) and that those
who read scripture without being guided by it have no more to do with knowledge than a donkey
carrying books (Q 62:5). These are often not full anecdotes but images or vignettes, such as that of a
person trapped in an immobilizing darkness that is illuminated by passing instants of lightning strikes
(Q 2:17) or charitable giving being likened to a grain that produces a multitude of future grain (Q
2:261), whereas ostentatious giving is likened to dust blown off a barren rock (Q 2:264). Belief and
unbelief are likened to sight and blindness (Q 11:24), and a good word is likened to a good tree
with firm roots and with branches in the sky (Q 14:24). One is invited to contemplate the simple
image of a town that is well provisioned but disbelieves in God and is afflicted with hunger and fear
(Q 16:112). A common symbol for knowledge and guidance is light, and the Qur’an speaks of one
who is given light versus one who is in darkness (Q 6:122); and famously the mathal of God’s Light
is given in Q 24:35, in an image of an olive-oil-burning lamp ensconced in a wall.
A typical way in which the Qur’an invokes the term mathal could be translated literally as, “His
mathal is like the mathal of a dog” (mathaluhu ka-mathali al-kalb), whose meaning is essentially, “Such a
one is like a dog,” which would indicate that mathal means something like “likeness” or “similitude,”
but later the verse states, “That is the mathal of people who deny Our signs” (dhālika mathalu al-qawm
alladhīna kadhdhabū bi-āyātinā), which would indicate that mathal refers to a description as opposed to
“likeness” or “similitude.” The phrasing found a dozen times in the Qur’an of “the mathal of x is like
the mathal of y” should be generally understood to be saying, “Here is a description of x: x is like y.”
In The Study Quran, this Arabic syntactic structure was rendered in English as “The parable of x is
that of y,” which means that the parable about y is meant to illustrate something about x.
The sense of mathal as “example” or “illustrative case” can be seen in Q 3:59: “Truly the like-
ness of Jesus in the sight of God is that of Adam; He created him from dust, then said to him, ‘Be!’
and he was” (innā mathala ʿĪsā ʿindaʾLlāhi ka mathali Ādama khalaqahu min turābin thumma qāla lahu
kun fa-yakūn), which explains that the mathal of Jesus, in terms of his origin, is the mathal of Adam,
who was created from clay and to whom it was said, “ ‘Be!’ And he was.” This description of Adam’s
creation, from the point of view of the Qur’an, is not meant to express a loose analogy but rather
is meant to show that Adam and Jesus were created the same way, so mathal in this case points to
a parallel example (two human beings being created the same way) as opposed to an allegorical or
symbolic comparison. Instances of mathal as “example” or similar uses include “the example of those
of old has passed” (Q 43:8); “an example for those of later times” (Q 43:56); “the son of Mary is set
forth as an example” (Q 43:57); and Q 66:11, where “example” or “illustrative case” is the sense of
mathal (“God sets forth as an example for those who believe the wife of Pharaoh.” The Qur’an also
criticizes certain types of mathal used by disbelievers and the Prophet’s enemies, as in, “Set forth no
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Metaphor, Symbol, and Parable in the Qur’an
mathals for God” (Q 16:74) and “Look how they set forth mathals of thee [the Prophet]” (Q 17:48).
In both cases, the sense of description is more apt than that of likeness or parable.
Taʾwīl
The term taʾwīl in its Qur’anic sense should be carefully distinguished from the more technical
notion of taʾwīl as developed in the later intellectual tradition, in which it is understood to mean
“interpretation” or “exegesis,” an especially esoteric, symbolic, allegorical, or anagogical interpreta-
tion. There are indeed instances in the Qur’an in which taʾwīl could be understood to mean some-
thing like “symbolic interpretation,” as when Joseph interprets dreams by decoding the symbols of
the dream and thereby predicting future events. Other instances of taʾwīl may at first glance seem
to bear the connotation of “interpretation” but do not map neatly onto that concept. For example,
taʾwīl is rendered by The Study Quran as “full disclosure” in Q 7:52–3, in the context of the taʾwīl
of the Book that will come to pass on the Day of Judgment. Maria M. Dakake explains that the
Qur’an is here speaking of realities that the Qur’an itself foretells “but whose reality has not been
fully revealed, as they have not yet come to pass.” This is not unlike Joseph’s describing the series of
events that led to his coming into a position of power over his brothers as the taʾwīl of his dream in
which he saw the heavenly bodies prostrating to him, “This is the fulfillment (taʾwīl) of my vision”
(Q 12:100), an instance in which the rendering of taʾwīl as “interpretation” would make little sense.
Rather, what Joseph meant was that the reality corresponding to the symbols or signs he had expe-
rienced in his dream had not yet come to pass. This meaning seems to fit even in the use by the
figure traditionally known as Khid.r in Q 18:78 and Q 18:82, who commits seemingly immoral acts
to which Moses repeatedly objects before knowing the full explanation. Khid.r destroys a boat which
is thus not confiscated by a tyrant; he kills a boy whose parents are thus saved from greater future
grief; and he repairs a wall without taking payment and the inheritance of two orphans thus remains
safely concealed for them. When Khid.r narrates to Moses the taʾwīl of those actions, in a sense he
is describing the culmination or fulfillment of his actions and pointing out their ultimate trajectory.
Taʾwīl sometimes means something like “outcome,” as in Q 4:59 and 17:35, both of which end with,
“That is better, and fairer in taʾwīl” (dhālika khayrun wa ah.sanu taʾwīlan) or which al-Zamakhsharī (d.
539/1144) glosses as ʿāqiba meaning result or culmination, and which one can easily see as having a
common sense with fulfillment or full disclosure.1
In short, the Qur’anic usage of taʾwīl is not necessarily the act of interpretation itself but rather
can be that which is found through the proper interpretation of signs, a subtle but important dif-
ference. In fact, all instances of taʾwīl in the Qur’an could be viewed as falling within the semantic
range of “fullfillment, disclosure, culmination, outcome” or, briefly, “the symbolized reality.” Thus
in Q 12:6 and 12:21, one could render the phrase taʾwīl al-ah.ādīth as “that which dreams symbolize”
rather than “the interpretation of dreams” in the sense that a dream can foretell some future event
or some unseen reality in the soul of the dreamer or at some higher level of reality. In general one
must be aware that taʾwīl can mean both the act of discovering the symbolized reality and also that
symbolized reality itself.2
Mutashābih
The sense of tashābuh, or “mutual resemblance,” from which one gets the participle mutashābih, must
be kept in mind when trying to understand what the Qur’an means by mutashābih, a word that in
the Qur’an appears ten times across nine verses. Relatively straightforward uses of mutashābih include
Q 2:25, in which the denizens of Paradise receive fruit that is mutashābih, or “a likeness” of the fruit
they enjoyed in the world. Its meaning is debated by commentators, but the sense of resemblance or
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likeness is generally assumed. In Q 2:70, the Israelites complain of the tashābuh among cows, mean-
ing that they are similar to each other and not easy to distinguish from one another. In Q 2:118
tashābuh quite clearly refers to the fact that the people of old behaved similarly to the Prophet’s own
doubters, “Their hearts are alike.”
More enigmatic is Q 39:23, which speaks of “a Book consimilar, paired” (kitāban mutashābihan
mathāniya). Of this particular instance, Joseph E.B. Lumbard explains, based on the traditional com-
mentaries, “That it is ‘consimilar’ can be understood to mean that each part is as eloquent as the
next; to allude to the manner in which many parts resemble others, with various recurring phrases;
to refer to the manner in which particular qualities . . . are found throughout; or to mean that each
part confirms other parts.”
Perhaps the most contentious use of both the terms taʾwīl and mutashābih appears in Q 3:7:
He it is Who has sent down the Book upon thee; therein are signs [āyāt, sing. āya] deter-
mined [muh.kam]; they are the Mother of the Book [umm al-kitāb], and other symbolic
[mutashābih]. As for those whose hearts are given to swerving, they follow that of it which is
symbolic, seeking temptation [fitna] and seeking its interpretation [taʾwīl]. And none know
its interpretation save God and those firmly rooted in knowledge. They say, “We believe
in it; all is from our Lord.”
Several questions pertaining to the interpretation of the Qur’an are foregrounded in this verse:
What is the difference between muh.kam and mutashābih? How can one identify which parts of the
Qur’an are which? Who are those described as “firmly rooted in knowledge” and what can they
know? What is the nature of the “temptation” and taʾwīl that certain wrong-hearted people seek?
A comprehensive treatment of these questions is beyond our scope here, but some essential points
can be addressed.
The notion of tashābuh reflects the fact that two things are similar, and from the point of view
of language, this similarity means that the same expression is used for both of them, but that very
fact renders ambiguous the single expression that is used to refer to multiple realities. As al-Rāzī (d.
606/1210) notes in his commentary on Q 3:7, “Tashābuh is that one of two things should resemble
the other, such that the mind is unable to distinguish between them.”
It is helpful to begin with the idea of multiple possibilities of meaning as the operative sense in
mutashābih, while recognizing that the idea requires further elaboration. Ambiguity in language – the
fact that a single expression can be used to refer to more than a single thing – is often taken to be a
defect in language use, but it is precisely because the same signs can be used to refer to different reali-
ties that human language has the rich possibilities it does. This can be seen in the positive framing
that the Qur’an gives to the notion of “varying” (tas.rīf ) of signs (Q 6:46, 6:65, 6:105, 7:58, 46:27)
and also of mathals (Q 17:89, 18:54), a feature of the Qur’an that is understood to refer to how God
displays, deploys, and presents His signs to human beings in varying ways and in different aspects
(see SQ 6:65c, 17:41c).
In Q 3:7 mutashābih is variously translated by scholars as “allegorical,” “metaphorical,” “ambigu-
ous,” or even “equivocal,” terms that all share a common sense. Symbolic, metaphorical, or allegorical
language is by definition ambiguous language; otherwise there would be no way a planet could stand
for a brother, or a grain could be a word, or light could be a Divine attribute. The line that is being
drawn in Q 3:7 is between those expressions about which there can be no doubt as to what is meant
and those expressions about which there is some doubt: herein lies the difference between muh.kam
and mutashābih. The muh.kam verses are those whose meaning is decided or decidable. They are not
waiting to be determined. But a sign that is mutashābih could still mean this, or it could still mean that.
The verse condemns those who seek after the taʾwīl of a sign that is ambiguous (i.e., they can
point to more than one thing) because to do so fails to take proper measure of those signs whose
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taʾwīl is clear (i.e., they point to one thing). Scholars interpret the phrase “Mother of the Book”
(umm al-kitāb) to signify that only on the basis of the correct approach to the muh.kam signs can one
correctly approach and understand the mutashābih signs, meaning that the interpretation of the latter
should be anchored in the former. But in addition to this hermeneutical point, we can also recall
the sense of taʾwīl as “fulfillment” or “full disclosure” or “culmination” of a reality that is to come
at some future time. In this latter respect, one is reminded that elsewhere in the Qur’an human
beings are chastised for their haste and impatience in seeking to have impending realities come to
pass before their appointed time, in particular eschatological events. For example, the Qur’an relates
the Prophet as saying, in Q 6:58, “If that which you seek to hasten were within my power, then the
matter would be decreed between you and me,” or Q 29:54, “And they bid thee hasten the punish-
ment.” It is perhaps worthwhile to read Q 3:7 which speaks of people seeking fitna (“temptation,”
“trial”) as well as the taʾwīl (“fulfillment,” “full disclosure”) in light of Q 51:14 in which those who
enter the Fire after judgment are told, “Taste your trial [fitna]. This is what you sought to hasten!”
This verse also presents the question regarding whether it is only God who has knowledge of the
taʾwīl of the mutashābih signs of the Qur’an or whether the human beings who are “firmly rooted
in knowledge” can also grasp it. In one vocalization of the verse, the sentence ends by saying, “And
none know its taʾwīl except God and those firmly rooted in knowledge, who say. . . ,” while another
vocalization ends the sentence sooner and begins the next sentence earlier, “And none know its
taʾwīl except God. And those firmly rooted in knowledge say. . . .” For Sufis, this elite group consists
of God’s “Friends” (awliyāʾ); for the Shia, it is the Imams; and for some natural philosophers (falāsifa),
they are the true philosophers who have achieved perfected knowledge through “demonstration”
(burhān).
At this point it is worth saying something about the technical term taʾwīl in later Islamic thought
and its use in the Qur’an. While the Qur’anic taʾwīl does have some overlap with the notion of
“hermeneutic” or “interpretation,” it is far from synonymous with it, as the preceding discussion
makes clear. In the developed tradition of Qur’anic commentary, the term taʾwīl came to mean
two things. First, it designated the discipline of explaining the Qur’an in general, including provid-
ing normative views and recording debates about the text. For example, al-T ․ abarī’s (d. 310/923)
commentary is entitled The Comprehensive Explanation: The Interpretation (taʾwīl) of the Verses of the
Qur’an, signifying simply the notion of commentary or exegesis. But for most of Islamic intellectual
history until the present day, taʾwīl came to designate, in contrast to the related term tafsīr, a spec-
trum of allegorical or symbolic interpretations separate from the grammatical, legal, theological, or
historical explications of the sacred text, whether that interpretation superseded the plain sense (as
in the case of some manifestations of Ismaili Shiʿism) or was seen as a possibility in addition to the
plain sense, as was the case with the Sufis.
For each of these groups the mode of symbolism was different. For the falāsifa, the concrete rather
than abstract language of the Qur’an has as its purpose to communicate truth and to persuade people
in accordance with their ability to understand, since the majority of human beings are incapable of
understanding through the kind of demonstration and proof particular to the true philosopher. In
this view, whatever the Qur’an describes in concrete terms the true philosopher is in principle able
to discover and articulate rationally. In practice, this approach meant that the Qur’an was no more
or less than a symbolic and rhetorical parallel to the systematic doctrines of the falāsifa. For the Shia,
the inner meaning and true nature of the Qur’an was given to the Imams by God, who appointed
them to serve as the sole reliable interpreters of the Qur’an with respect to its true inner meaning,
although the mode of this authority and the content of the teachings varied widely between differ-
ent Shiʿi groups such as the Ismailis and the Twelvers. For the Sufis, by contrast, the inner dimension
or possibilities of meaning are not fixed or designated in the same way they are for the philosophers
or the Shia. Rather than reflecting an already rationally comprehensible reality or being a secret
doctrine bestowed only upon a select few, for the Sufis the Qur’an’s deeper levels of meaning are
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open-ended and can be discovered by those who can, as it were, rise to meet them. These differing
approaches to taʾwīl make the Qur’anic text, respectively, a kind of mirrored reflection of rationally
demonstrable realities; a sacred disguise whose true identity is divulged only to the privileged few;
or a gate that can be walked through by those who are worthy and prepared.
The Later Tradition

Thus far concepts drawn from the Qur’an itself have been the focus of our discussion, but questions
related to symbolism and metaphor were discussed extensively in the Islamic intellectual tradition,
often as it related to the interpretation of the Qur’an but also in the context of general linguistic and
philosophical investigations into the nature of verbal utterances. Indeed, among the scholars of gram-
mar, law, and rhetoric, a constellation of conceptual parameters related to linguistic multivalence and
ambiguity have been developed and refined over the centuries. The concepts that were developed
in these fields were extremely important for how the Qur’an would be discussed and understood
in later Islamic thought, since even though some aspects of the study of the Qur’anic style were
unique – such as the genre of studies of iʿjāz al-Qurʾān (literally, the Qur’an’s power to “thwart” chal-
lenges through its inimitability) – typically the categories used to study the Qur’an were the same as
those used for other literature such as Arabic poetry. It is therefore important to discuss, albeit briefly,
the ideas that were typically used in discussions about how to correctly understand the symbolism
and metaphor in the Qur’an. It should be noted that one of the most challenging features of the
scholarly literature about such linguistic matters is that the use of these interpretive categories has
evolved over time and that they are employed somewhat differently by scholars of law (us.ūl al-fiqh)
on the one hand and scholars of language (balāgha, bayān) on the other. Definitions of key terms are
often contested and revised, and categories are frequently fused together and/or further subdivided.
The concept of tashbīh or “simile” was treated essentially as a synonym for tamthīl (related by the
Arabic root m-th-l to mathal or “parable,” see the previous discussion) and means the act of compar-
ing, likening, or analogizing two things, usually distinguished by the use of ka- or mithl- (“like” or
“as”) e.g., “A is like B.” A major feature of pre-Islamic poetry and Arabic poetry in general, simile,
which included the text’s own category of mathal, was recognized as a major stylistic feature of the
Qur’an and widely discussed in the earliest texts on linguistic matters. The capacious category of
istiʿāra (the “borrowing” of a conventional or commonplace utterance for use in a novel context)
encompasses various types of figurative language including metonymy (e.g., referring to a monarch
as “the crown”) and metaphor (e.g., saying “The lion was on the battlefield” when referring to a
brave man). It has been exhaustively elaborated into numerous subcategories detailing the modali-
ties of the nonstandard uses of words and expressions. Istiʿāra is generally distinguished from tashbīh
or mathal by the fact that the transference or transposition is not announced with a “like” or “as.”
For example, Q 2:74 is a blend of istiʿāra and tashbīh: “Then your hearts hardened thereafter (istiʿāra),
being like stones (tashbīh).” The hardening is “borrowed” from something typically said about stones,
while the comparison is announced between stones and hearts in the second phrase. Another impor-
tant linguistic term is kināya (and the related idea of taʿrīd. or “intimation”), referring to implicit
or indirect rather explicit and direct expression, such as referring to sexual intercourse by saying
“having touched women” in Q 4:43 or the description of the women cutting their own hands after
seeing Joseph, without making explicit that they were so captivated by Joseph’s beauty that they did
not even realized they were harming themselves (Q 12:31).
Among the most important and contested concepts is that of majāz, which, in the interpretation
of the Qur’an and hadith (or other kinds of language), is typically understood to mean “metaphori-
cal,” “figurative,” or “tropic” speech and is in this sense the opposite of h.aqīqa (“literal,” “true,” or even
“lexically correct” speech). Although classifying different passages of the Qur’an through the lens of
h.aqīqa/majāz came to be mainstream and almost universal, it is important to note that the use of this
196
conceptual pair is significantly predated by many other linguistic categories. More importantly, the
use of majāz itself as the opposite of h.aqīqa is also a relatively later development, and the early use of
majāz should be isolated from its later crystallization as the opposite pole of h.aqīqa. In its earliest use,
majāz meant something like “explanation” or “interpretation” of the idiomatic sense of an expres-
sion. That is to say, majāz could refer to the explanation of an idiom rather than the idiom itself (i.e.,
a description of how the words of the Qur’an are being employed to convey a meaning; in short,
the majāz of something typically meant its meaning). This early usage was gradually supplanted by
the later idea of majāz as figurative or tropic language that departs from the h.aqīqa or literal and true
sense; this later understanding of majāz was in wide use by the fourth/fifth Islamic centuries. The
original impetus for the widespread use of this distinction likely came from the Muʿtazilites, whose
theological stance of explaining the Divine Attributes in such a way as to make God utterly dissimilar
from creation required a way of distinguishing potentially anthropomorphic attributes assigned to
God in the Qur’an, such as references to His “Hand”; His apparent identification with the “Light
of the heavens and the earth” (Q 24:35); and descriptions of God’s “sitting on” or “mounting” His
Throne (implying that He has a body) or speaking; from unproblematic ones such as descriptions of
God as One, Willing, Powerful, and Knowing.
As previously noted, the basic reality that a single expression could be used to refer to more
than one thing and to more than one kind of thing and that standard and common uses could be
extended to novel contexts was widely known and discussed. The h.aqīqī/majāzī distinction went
beyond the notion of ambiguity and similarity and affirmed that, among the possible meanings of an
expression, one is elevated to the status of “true” or “real” while the others are relegated to another
status. Against the background of Muʿtazilite metaphysics about the nature of God, the world, and
our knowledge of both, this distinction typically elevated the discrete three-dimensional objects of
our bodily experience to the status of “real” while other possibilities were rendered figurative. This
view was held by some grammarians who assumed, metaphysically one might say, that there was a
natural relationship between language and the world such that the structure of language mirrored
or reflected the structure and content of the world, a question related to the debate over whether
language was revealed to human beings or is the result of convention.
The rigid dichotomy between h.aqīqa and majāz has the potential to disguise the fact that the
h.aqīqa sense of a word possesses that status by virtue of being not “true” or “real” but obvious
or evident. The distinction between literal and figurative can obscure that what is at play is the
standard or most commonly expected sense of an expression, which is determined by its correct use
by an authoritative community of users (including lexicographers) regardless of the origin of the
language. An important corollary (or unintended effect) of the literal/metaphorical framing is the
tendency to reduce individual utterances to a single correct meaning. When it came to the Qur’an,
the Muʿtazilites, like the extreme anthropomorphists (on the other extreme), only allowed a single
meaning for an expression at a time. For the Muʿtazilites, the alternation between real and figura-
tive language allowed for a single correct meaning that would not violate the correct conception of
God’s oneness and divinity, while for certain extreme Hanbalites the exclusion of figurative language
from the Qur’an guarantees a single correct meaning of the Qur’an as eternal divine speech, since
the deployment of such nontrue (technically, nonliteral) speech would be tantamount to false-
hood or incoherence. It is thus important to keep in mind that the literal/figurative dichotomy is
typically part of a broader theological project of classifying and understanding language against the
background of a certain view of the nature of God, the world, and human beings. Such a general
metaphysics determines the possible answers to the question: what is God’s Speech, and how do
human beings understand it?
A more layered and multidimensional metaphysics typically forms the backdrop for Sufi inter-
pretations of the Qur’an, which allow for simultaneous meanings at different levels of significance.
An articulation of this approach can be found in Jawāhir al-Qurʾān by Abū H.āmid al-Ghazālī (d.
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505/1111), which mentions what he termed the “hidden connection between the world of domin-
ion (mulk) and the world of domination (malakūt).” Ghazālī makes an analogy to having a true vision
in a dream and notes that the realities of “the Preserved Tablet” (al-lawh. al-mah.fūz․, Q 85:22) cannot
be revealed as they are but must manifest through their likeness (mithāl, related to mathal). Basing
himself on a well-known hadith of the Prophet, which says that people in this world are asleep and
that only when they die do they awaken, he notes that the reality of what people heard or experi-
enced of reality by way of likenesses and examples in this life will become unveiled to them fully
at death, and they will realize that these “likenesses” and analogies channeled the “spirits” of these
realities in the way a shell houses a kernel. In this sense, the “signs” of the Qur’an communicate
something from a higher level of reality (when the malakūt impinges on the mulk, as it were) in the
way that veridical dreams do, for such true dreams are, according to a Prophetic hadith that Ghazālī
notes, “one forty-sixth of prophethood”).3 One must recognize, Ghazālī argues, that there is a taʾwīl
for Divine speech just as there is a taʾwīl for such quasi-prophetic dreams.4
According to the view set out by al-Ghazālī, the symbol is not merely a way of saying something
that could just as easily be said in some other way but has a real relationship with the spirit of the
thing that is symbolized. He uses the example of the much discussed hadith, “The heart of the
believer is between two of the fingers of the Merciful,”5 noting that the “spirit” of fingers is their
ability to manipulate objects (taqlīb, literally “turn over”). The heart (qalb, from the same Arabic
root) of the believer, Ghazālī notes, is situated between the assemblies of the angels and the demons
who seek to either guide or deceive it, and God changes hearts by means of them, just as one
manipulates objects with one’s fingers.
Rather than relying exclusively on transmitted reports about the meaning of the Qur’an and
cleaving to unquestioning trust in authority (taqlīd), Ghazālī invites the reader to recall that such
symbolic interpretation is an intrinsic part of the tafsīr tradition:
Look then at how the commentators discuss God’s words (13:17), “He sends down water
from the sky, so that the riverbeds flow according to their measure and the torrent carries a
swelling froth; and from that which they kindle in the fire, seeking ornament or pleasure, is
a froth like unto it . . .” It likens knowledge to water, hearts to riverbeds, and error to froth
and then alerts you by saying, “Thus does God set forth parables.”6
Conclusion
In light of the Qur’an’s self-awareness of the issues related to the interpretation and use of symbols,
and the Islamic intellectual tradition’s own extensive attention to the interrelated topics of allegory,
metaphor, and signs, contemporary scholars researching these topics as they relate to the Qur’an
and the Islamic tradition would do well to first learn something about what the Qur’an says about
its own interpretation and what Muslim intellectuals – who after all have devoted centuries of seri-
ous attention to the subject – have written about them, instead of relying exclusively upon modern
interpretive frameworks which might have their uses in some domains but can sometimes obscure
rather than clarify issues related to the understanding of the Qur’an. They will be rewarded not only
by knowledge of a new example of a rich and profound tradition of metaphor and allegory but also
will acquire new insights into the nature and range of symbolism itself from a distinct point of view
unique to the Islamic tradition.
Notes
1 Thus a universal definition of taʾwīl might be, “Some reality absent to immediate perception to which one
is led by the correct understanding of some reality present to immediate perception.” With respect to taʾwīl,
that which is “absent” (ghayb) are events that have yet to occur and also realities at higher states of being that
198
are invisible to sensory perception. The taʾwīl of something is “where it ultimately leads or points to” and
in this sense could perhaps be thought of as the “culmination” of its symbolic nature – what event does it
foretell (e.g., the end of the world), or what ineffable reality (e.g., the angelic realm) does it signify? In the
case of a dream, it is an inspiration from the imaginational realm manifested as a dream that symbolizes and
foretells (however cryptically) a future event. In the case of revelation, God’s signs (āyās) point to a reality
beyond themselves that can only be described symbolically.
2 The ambiguity of the tafʿīl form is also exhibited in terms such as tawh.īd, which means both the fact of God’s
unity and the act of deeming God to be one, and terms such as tashbīh, tanzīh, tashkīk, and others, which can
mean either or both the action of a human agent but also the object toward which that action is directed;
e.g., tawh.īd is both the unity that one affirms and also the act of affirming it.
3 E.g., S.ah.īh. Muslim, al-Ruʾyā, 16.
4 It is important to note that Ghazālī does accept the h.aqīqa/majāz dichotomy but uses this dichotomy in a
way that is essentially linguistic and does not confine him to any particular metaphysics.
5 E.g., Sunan Ibn Mājah, al-Duʿāʾ, 8.
6 Al-Ghazālī, 1352:30, tr. 51.
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19
THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN
THE ORAL AND THE WRITTEN
Lauren E. Osborne
It is a common assertion that orality is a key feature of the Qur’anic text and one that may be
examined through different lenses. This has been done by considering the Qur’an’s relationship to
its historical-cultural milieu and the early development of community,1 or the role of orality in the
early processes of canonization,2 or by asking in what ways the text may evidence orality as an aspect
of its origins or compilation,3 or by attesting to its importance as a recitation in the lives of its believ-
ers,4 to name a few possibilities. These types of approaches represent diverse ways in which scholars
have studied the Qur’an but also a variety of ways in which orality is understood, as ranging from a
cultural value (wherein it is understood as having a certain relationship to authoritative knowledge
and truth, and to writing), a practice that one might enact in response to or in relation to a text, or
a stylistic or compositional feature of the text that may evidence oral practices and processes as a part
of its composition or compilation. This is to say, orality has been understood as existing or operating
behind the Qur’an, in the world of the Qur’an, and also in front of the Qur’an. While there may
be overlap between these categories, what is meant by orality may also differ. While recitation has
been taken as an imperative deriving from the words of the Qur’an, that issue is frequently discussed
while looking back through the layers of tradition existing in front of the Qur’an. In this chapter,
I focus on recitation in the world of the Qur’an but ask how the Qur’an discusses recitation – its
own recitation – most specifically.
While the rules governing proper recitation of the Qur’an were canonized in the tenth century
ce,5 they are commonly understood as preserving the sound of the Qur’an as the Prophet recited
it.6 In her seminal study on Qur’anic recitation in modern Egypt, Kristina Nelson relates that to
recite according to the rules of tajwīd (the rules governing pronunciation and elisions, pausing, and
extending syllables) is seen as fulfilling a divine command. Often cited in support of this point is
the second half of Q 73:4, wa-rattil al-qurʾān tartīlan, commonly interpreted as meaning to recite
the Qur’an according to the rules of tajwīd,7 or, translated, as “recite the Qur’an in slow, measured
rhythmic tones.”8 Correspondingly, there is much in the hadith literature and commentary tradition
about the virtues of reciting the Qur’an, the etiquette of doing so, the existence of variant readings,
and some information on how the Prophet would recite, in terms of how he valued the practice, his
preferences regarding recitation, or the quality of his voice.9 Frederick Denny has pointed out that
the sciences of recitation (tajwīd and qirāʾāt, literally “readings,” specifically the seven variant readings
of the Qur’an10) and “interpretation” of the Qur’an (tafsīr and taʾwīl) in fact developed in tandem
in the early centuries of Islamic history, responding to similar concerns regarding proliferation of
200 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-21

The Oral and the Written
multiple readings and understandings of the text.11 As a result of this process of development, by the
end of the tenth century, there existed a finite set of possibilities for variant readings.12
This is all, of course, a separate matter from the text’s own discussion of recitation. While the
Qur’an may be said to provide a basis for understandings and practices of its own recitation, often the
practices that developed in the subsequent centuries are read back into the text. An examination of
the Qur’an’s use of the vocabulary of reading or reciting, especially in relation to itself or revelation
more generally, reveals a rich field of possibilities for how the text may understand or even command
its own recitation. Three roots are used in verbal forms within the Qur’an for reading or reciting:
q-r-ʾ, t-l-w, and r-t-l (hereafter referenced in verbal noun forms, qirāʾa, tilāwa, and tartīl). Within
this chapter, I examine the semantic fields of each of these roots to highlight an understanding of
recitation embedded within the Qur’anic text. In short, qirāʾa and tilāwa are used in distinct ways,
with qirāʾa almost exclusively referring to the recitation of Qur’an only, evoking recitation within
the context of the creative powers of the divine and calling forth a strong sense of visuality, either
employing visual images or evoking sight and visibility. Contrastingly, tilāwa may refer to recitation
of the Qur’an but is also used for recitation of a wide variety of material. Recitation understood
in this way typically shows reactions on the parts of those who hear it, connecting to the idea of
understanding on the part of the listener.
Qirāʾa and tilāwa occur in verbal forms far more frequently than tartīl; the latter only occurs
in two verses (Q 73:4 and 25:32) and in approximately the same construction in both places: “rat-
til . . . tartīlan.” Q 73:4, 25:32, as well as 96:1–5 are the verses that are most often cited as dictating
a Qur’anic imperative to recite. In both Q 73:4 and 25:32, the verb tartīl appears with a cognate
accusative (al-mafʿūl al-mut․laq); a second form verb is followed by its corresponding verbal noun in
adverbial form, both indicating how the action is performed and emphasizing the action, so the
root is heard twice in succession. Qur’an 73:1–19 (Sūrat al-Muzzammil) depicts an evocative picture
of religious practice, directed to a singular addressee (typically understood by exegetes to be the
Prophet) and the place of reciting (tartīl) therein. Qur’an 73:20, typically understood as an addition
from the Medinan period,13 broadens the address to a group of people and describes certain condi-
tions under which religious obligations may be relaxed, referring to recitation with qirāʾa.
Sūrat al-Muzzammil opens similarly to many other early Meccan suras, addressing a singular
individual. Exegetes have typically understood the term of address appearing within the first verse
– al-muzzammil – as meaning, “the one who is wrapped up,” adding that it is being used here as an
epithet to refer to the Prophet, who was at the time of revelation wrapped in his mantle and either
asleep or in prayer.14 The root more generally refers to running while veering to one side, limping,
carrying a heavy load.15 The image of limping or bearing a heavy load anticipates the verses that fol-
low in this sura, however, in which the Qur’anic speaker says to this addressee: “we will cast heavy
speech upon you” (Q 73:5).
The verses between the initial address (“O one who is wrapped up,” yā ayyuhā al-muzzammil) and
the mention of heavy speech direct this person to stay up at night, “except for a little, half of it, or a
little less, or a little more” (Q 73:3–4). The fourth verse then instructs, “recite the Qur’an distinctly”
(rattil al-qurʾāna tartīlan). In pre-Islamic poetry, the root tartīl refers to arranging something evenly,
in good order, and more specifically may refer to teeth being evenly spaced and white, wherein it
becomes associated with the production of speech.16 The assumption would then be that a person
whose mouth contains evenly spaced teeth is likely producing clear, even speech; if we accept that
meaning, the command here becomes one to arrange the Qur’an in a clear and even manner. The
opening verses suggest a solitary, calm mode of religious practice; arranging or reciting the Qur’an
in a clear and even manner is a key component of this.
As previously mentioned, qirāʾa and tilāwa occur more frequently in the text than tartīl. The
verses that are thought to be the first revealed begin with the command to recite: “Recite! (iqraʾ)
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Lauren E. Osborne
In the name of your Lord who created, created the human from a clot” (Q 96:1). This use of qirāʾa
is a command, addressed to a singular individual, with no grammatical object. In The Qur’ân’s Self-
Image, Daniel A. Madigan provides readers with a brief catalog of the use of qirāʾa: it occurs as a
verb 16 times in the Qur’an (tilāwa appears far more frequently); in seven of these cases, qurʾān is the
object (Q 7:204, 16:98, 17:45, 106, twice in 73:20, 84:21). Kitāb (“book/scripture”) is the object
only once.17 In Q 26:199 and 75:18, the object of this verb is a pronoun without a clear referent.18
This pattern of usage is what leads Madigan to describe the verbal use of qirāʾa as “self-contained.”19
The verb form occurs only twice with no object whatsoever, both of these occurrences being at the
opening of Sūrat al-ʿAlaq (Q 96). In his discussion of the different usages of qirāʾa and tilāwa, Madi-
gan observes that these verbs are used quite differently, both in terms of frequency of occurrence
and in relation to the objects to which they typically refer.20 The use of qirāʾa at what is commonly
understood as the earliest moment of the revelation is notable. It occurs twice in rapid succession,
in command form with no object. Nowhere else in the Qur’an is it used in this way. The usage of
the verb without an object would seem to imply that what is to be recited is self-explanatory.21 If
we accept the very common view that this is the initial moment of the unfolding of the Qur’anic
text, this command can be seen as framing the many interlocking layers of discourse found therein.
Another distinctive use of qirāʾa occurs in Sūrat al-Aʿlā: “We will make you recite, and you will
not forget” (sanuqriʾuka fa-lā tansā, Q 87:6). This usage resembles that of Q 96:1 in that there is no
clear indication of what is to be read or recited. Thematically, the openings of suras 96 and 87 are
closely related, both attesting to God’s creation and teaching of humankind. Both suras also exhibit
the tripartite ring structure that is frequently seen in the early and middle Meccan Era. Both open
with imperatives addressed to a single individual, with hymnic introductions. Qur’an 96 opens
with the command to recite and to do so “in the name of your Lord who created” (Q 96:1); Q
87 commands the listener, “[G]lorify the name of your Lord most high” (Q 87:1). In both cases,
the command directs the listener and immediately calls on the name of “your Lord.” Both then
move to discuss God “creating” (khalaqa). Sūrat al-ʿAlaq (Q 96) speaks directly to God’s creation of
humankind; the term from which the title was later taken – al-ʿalaq – denotes the substance of this
creation. The literal meaning of the term indicates “something that clings,” commonly understood
as emphasizing its dependence. The first five verses of Sūrat al-ʿAlaq depict God creating the human
being in this form, teaching “by means of the pen” (bi-l-qalam), “that which he did not know” (mā
lam yaʿlam). These opening verses are typically understood as highlighting humanity’s dependence
on the divine with regard to existence as well as knowledge. The verses that follow highlight the
problem with humanity’s assumed self-sufficiency (Q 96:6–7) in spite of the sura’s opening asser-
tions that God created humanity and taught human beings what they otherwise would not know.
Following the typical ring structure form,22 the sura closes mirroring the material of the beginning,
addressing a singular individual, calling him to “worship” (usjud) “and to come close” (wa-iqtarib, Q
96:19). In this way, the command to recite highlights a key aspect of the divine–human relationship.
As previously mentioned, Q 87 contains a similar use of qirāʾa in that it has no explicit object and
occurs in a similarly themed and structured sura, featuring an imperative and hymnic opening, a “call
for exhortation” drawing on the features of the divine described in the first section, and a third sec-
tion that directly turns back to the audience.23 Q 87:6–7 contain a depiction of divine creating and
ordering similar to that found in Q 96, and the place of reciting in this context: “We will make you
recite [sanuqriʾuka] so you will not forget, except as God wills. He knows what is apparent [al-jahr]
and what is hidden [wa-mā yakhfā].” Here, the verb appears in the fourth form, indicating that the
divine will make or compel the addressee to recite. Just as in Q 96, recitation is linked to knowledge:
God knows, but humans may forget. The subject of that knowledge is not directly specified here, but
this knowledge is conceptualized in connection to the rich sensory imagery that appears elsewhere
alongside the use of qirāʾa. The word I have translated here as “apparent” (al-jahr), connotes not just
what is made apparent to one’s sight, or made visible but also that which is made apparent to one’s
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hearing or said out loud. “That which is hidden” (mā yakhfā) is the opposite: it is something that is
covered up so it cannot be seen.
Vision and knowledge are similarly associated with recitation in Sūrat al-Qiyāma (Q 75). The sura
opens with a six-verse sequence of oaths attesting to God’s ability to create and arrange, as well as the
ability to correspondingly undo those acts, particularly in affirming the truth of “the day of resurrec-
tion” (yawm al-qiyāma). This opening is followed by a sequence of verses that evoke visual images for
the reading and draw on vocabulary alluding to sight and vision. Verses 7–10 describe the events of
that day in extremely visual terms: “when sight (bas.ar) is dazzled, and the moon disappears (khasafa),
and when the sun and the moon are joined together, on that day man will say, where is the resting
place?” (Q 75:7–10). The root illustrating the “dazzling” of man’s sight (bariqa) is the same used for
a flash of light or lightning and can indicate bright light overwhelming the eye, making it difficult
or impossible to see. Contrastingly, the moon will be eclipsed or hidden from vision. In the face of
this visual overload, man will be looking for a place to which he can flee.
In Q 75, vision is also related to witnessing and evidence. Verse 14 states, “rather, man will be
evidence against himself.” The word for “evidence” here – bas.īra – is of the same root as that used for
the sense of “sight” earlier in the sura (bas.ar), and it is through the use of this root that the Qur’an
begins to bring the ideas of sensory experience and knowledge more closely into conversation. The
implication of the use of evidence here in verse 14 is that it has a particularly visual component.
Because it can be seen, it can be known.
Shortly thereafter, however, the text turns to the role of reciting and hearing, saying, “do not
move your tongue about it, to bring it about. It is for us to bring it together, and to recite [qurʾānahu].
When we have recited it [qaraʾnāhu], follow its recitation [qurʾānahu]. Then it is for us to make it
clear” (bayānahu, Q 75:16–19). The referent of the initial “it” (-hu) in this passage is not specified.
The meaning of the verses would seem to imply that it is about the revelation, however. The divine
“we” is speaking, describing something that the figure will bring together and recite and that the
addressee is to follow upon hearing it. Qirāʾa appears three times in rapid succession, attesting to the
orality of the object under discussion. It is also of note that this passage is delivered from the first
person plural perspective but is placed between larger sections of third person narration. The use of
the narrative “we” here is again a significant shift in the delivery of the text’s message.
Following this attestation to orality, the sura returns to focus on visual imagery (and third person
perspective) with more discussion of the day of resurrection and the hereafter. Verses 22–25 describe
existence on that day: “on that day, [some] faces will gleam, looking to their lord” (Q 75:22–23).
The “gleaming” of faces is indicated with the word nād. ira, referring to something that is bright and
beautiful, and it can be used for gold or silver. The image is that of shining beauty, reflecting light.
Turning to the use of tilāwa, we find that, while multivalent in its meanings, it can be used to
mean “reciting” but also “following” – either chronologically or spatially24 – and these two meanings
come together to imply a relationship between reciting and understanding, the latter of which may
be demonstrated through proper action in response to the recitation. There is almost always a reac-
tion shown within the text in response to tilāwa; within the text, those who hear tilāwa either react
positively (e.g., crying, prostrating) or negatively (e.g., denying, turning their backs).
The usage of tilāwa is distinct from that of tartīl or qirāʾa in the frequency of its occurrence and
its grammatical objects. Tilāwa refers most frequently to recitation of God’s “signs” (āyāt). Typically,
these āyāt are recited to people who either subsequently believe properly (sometimes demonstrating
proper belief with behavior such as prostrating or crying)25 or deny (typically shown by arguing).26
In most instances it is in no way clear that these āyāt are necessarily verses of the Qur’an. Rather,
they seem to indicate signs or messages of God in a much more general sense. Tilāwa is also used
to refer to reciting a “book” or “scripture” (kitāb), and it does so when the kitāb may mean God’s
revelations in a general sense – not just the Qur’an. At one point the kitāb to be recited is specified
as the Torah.27 The Qur’an is the object three times, although two of these instances are somewhat
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indirect. Finally, the object of tilāwa may also be stories, “reports” (nabaʾ), or lore of different proph-
ets and occasionally groups of people or other types of figures.28 For example, in Sūrat al-Shuʿarāʾ
(Q 26), the text relates a number of stories about pre-Qur’anic prophets, including long passages on
Moses and Abraham. Verse 69 introduces one narrative as follows: “recite for them [wa-atlu ʿalayhim]
the story of Abraham [nabaʾa ibrāhīm].” The material that follows relates one of the main Qur’anic
accounts about Abraham. When used in this way, tilāwa can be understood not only as introducing
or signaling the beginning of the Qur’anic account that follows about that figure, but it may also
include extra-Qur’anic lore about those figures.
Qirāʾa and tilāwa occur together in Q 17. Qirāʾa occurs in a passage addressing a singular indi-
vidual, stating “when you recite the Qur’an [qaraʾta al-qurʾān] we make an invisible veil [h.ijāb mastūr]
between you and between those who do not believe in the hereafter” (Q 17:45). When the addressee
recites, something will conceal him (a h.ijāb) from the gaze of those who do not believe in the here-
after. This h.ijāb, however, is itself something that is hidden from view (mastūr). This double con-
cealment is perplexing, and the following verses do not entirely clarify what is meant in this verse,
but they do offer more information about the covering. The next three verses bring the sensory
information and deprivation into focus:
And we make a cover [akinna] over their hearts lest they understand it [an yafqahūhu] and
deafness [waqr] into their ears. When you mention [dhakarta] your lord alone in the Qur’an,
they turn their backs, hurrying away. We know with what [bi-mā] they listen when they
listen to you, and when they steal away, the wrongdoers say, indeed you are following a
mere man bewitched [rajul mash.ūr]. Look how they make such comparisons to you; they
stray but cannot [find] the way.
(Q 17:46–47)
While these verses do not solve the puzzle of the double veiling described in Q 17:45, they do con-
tinue the themes of seeing and hearing and bring in that of knowledge as well. The Qur’an turns
to the first person plural narration, and the speaker describes how those who were described in the
previous verse cover their hearts and are not believing in the hereafter. While the addressee is doubly
concealed with the invisible veil, this concealment is taken even further here by covering the hearts
of those who are not meant to see. The combination of concealment from vision with reference to
the heart suggests that the Qur’an is alluding to sight and seeing in a broader sense. The eyes are not
the only organ of sight; in this case, the heart is “covered,” preventing perception via that organ, as
covering the ears or the eyes would. The Qur’anic narration then renders these individuals deaf as
well, making the organ of perception ineffective, even further than merely blocking or covering it.
The following sentence describes them running away when the addressee mentions the lord in the
Qur’an; whether their perception is still prevented is not made clear. The section closes by alluding
to their failure to find the path. They cannot find the way, be it with their eyes, ears, or hearts. The
initial preventing of perception is done in order to ensure that those individuals do not understand or
acquire knowledge from what they might hear of the recitation. Contrastingly, the passage also notes
that the “we” speaker knows “with what means” (bi-mā) those people listen when they do listen to the
recitation. This would seem to suggest that they are able to hear, either on other occasions or through
some other means, but even despite this, they still sneak away and call the reciter a man bewitched.
The sura continues with the polemic and reminders, or examples, of signs and past instances of
denial, including one that relates the Iblīs story,29 and eventually turns to a discussion of the day of
reckoning and the role of prophets therein.30 In the following verses, the text commands regular
prayers, including the recitation of the Qur’an. Although neither qirāʾa nor tilāwa appears as a verb
here, the verses do use the word qurʾān twice, although not necessarily as a proper noun, rather as
a verbal noun meaning recitation: “stand in prayer for sunset to the dark of night, and the qurʾān of
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dawn. The qurʾān of dawn is witnessed” (mashhūd, Q 17:78). The use of qurʾān here would seem to
suggest an event or an action, given that it is described as taking place at particular times, rather than
the name of a text, suggesting that it is referring to the recitation of that text, rather than its message
as a whole or its name as one of the examples of scripture. It is worth noting that the connection
between reciting and sight appears here as well, for the verse ends by stating that qurʾān (“reciting”)
at dawn is always “seen” or “witnessed” (mashhūd) but the seer or witness is not specified.
Tilāwa appears in the final verses of Q 17, as the text turns to a final affirmation of the Qur’an,
bringing in “recitation” (tilāwa) alongside what is presented as an example of a proper reaction to the
recitation. Verse 105 states:
In truth we have sent it down, and in truth it came down. We sent you, only as a bringer
of good news and a warning, and a Qur’an that we divided for you to recite [li-taqraʾahu]
to people unhurriedly [ʿalā mukth]. We sent it down in pieces [nazzalnāhu tanzīlan].
(Q 17:105–106)
Similar to the Qur’anic use of tartīl, these verses affirm the role of the Qur’an within the context
of warning and describe its revelation with the same grammatical structure – the cognate accusative
(al-mafʿūl al-mut․laq) – that appeared in that context as well (here, nazzalnāhu tanzīlan). This cognate
accusative describes the manner in which the Qur’an has been sent down; it is literally rendered
“we sent it down sending down” (emphasizing the sending down), although it is often explained by
commentators and translators as meaning “we sent it down in parts.” Recitation is the purpose of the
sending down, in this case, and the recipient is directed to recite it for people ʿalā mukth. The root
m-k-th refers to staying in one place, slowness, or patience. The form of mukth appears in this verse
only in the Qur’an, but other forms are used referring to staying in one place or waiting, and in light
of this use, commentators have typically understood ʿalā mukth in this context as dictating that the
recitation should be performed “slowly” or “at intervals.”
The final verses of Sūrat al-Isrāʾ (Q 17) refer to recitation yet again:
Say, whether you believe or not, those who were previously given knowledge [al-ʿilm],
when it is recited before them [yutlā ʿalayhim], fall on their chins in prostration [sujjad],
saying glory to our lord [subh.āna rabbinā], the promise of our lord has truly been fulfilled.
They fall on their chins crying, and it increases them in humility.
(Q 17:107–109)
Here the verses indicate the proper reaction to hearing recitation.31 The depiction here can be
contrasted with that found earlier in the sura, where the potential hearers were described as not
believing in judgment day and were deprived of seeing and hearing the recitation (denoted there
by qirāʾa) lest “they understand it” (yafqahūhu). The listeners at the end of the sura are described
as having previously been given “knowledge” (ʿilm), which would seem to facilitate the subsequent
reaction of prostration and crying.
In contrast to the use of qirāʾa as reciting the Qur’an specifically, with a strong visual component
and connected to nighttime prayer, tilāwa denotes recitation that is connected to knowledge or
understanding on the part of the listener, as evidenced by the reactions described within the text. It
may also reference recitation of a wide range of materials besides the Qur’an and appears particularly
in passages featuring disputation (taking place both within and outside the text, as it directs its read-
ers, “say . . .”) and relating material or stories about past historical figures (prophetic and otherwise),
presumably including extra-Qur’anic lore.
Bracketing the idea of orality as understood traditionally and associated practices that have devel-
oped since the time of the Qur’an (orality in front of the text), as well as the issue of orality behind the
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text – either in cultural context or as it may have played a role in processes of compilation – allows
for a consideration of an understanding of orality as recitation within the Qur’anic text. Herein,
I show that the Qur’an’s own discourse about recitation reveals a rich field of possibilities between
the overlapping semantic fields of the three verbs used to denote this action. Returning then to
the points that opened this chapter, it is apparent that the conversation between the Qur’an’s own
discourse on its recitation and the traditions that have developed since early Islamic history is quite
complex and not necessarily traced in a linear or direct fashion. This is not to say that the tradition
has developed in spite of what the text says but rather that the relationship may not be as straight-
forward as one might assume. But understanding this can help examine the rich field of discourse
within the Qur’an on its own orality, so that we may begin to ask questions about the connections
between these words and the tradition. Tartīl, the verb used least frequently for referring to recita-
tion in the Qur’an, in fact appears in those verses that are most commonly cited in support of claims
that the Qur’an commands its own recitation. Considering the two other verbs used in the Qur’an
to refer to recitation, qirāʾa and tilāwa, expands the Qur’anic understanding of recitation to include
mixing of imagery of sight and sound, as well as expanding the Qur’an’s understanding of recitation
to include other types of material, such as stories or information, or other religious texts.
Notes
1 The following citations from this paragraph are not intended to be exhaustive lists of works in each area
but rather to give a sense of where further reading may be found. Neuwirth, “From Recitation Through
Liturgy to Canon: Sura Composition and Dissolution During the Development of Islamic Ritual.”
2 Burton, “The Collection of the Qurʾān.”
3 Bannister, An Oral-Formulaic Study of the Qur’an.
4 Nelson, The Art of Reciting the Qurʾan; Graham, EQ, “Orality [Supplement 2016].”
5 Denny, “The Adab of Qur’an Recitation: Text and Context.”
6 Nelson, The Art of Reciting the Qurʾan, 14–15.
7 Ibid.
8 Q 73:4, trans. Abdullah Yusuf Ali.
9 Denny, “Qur’ān Recitation: A Tradition of Oral Performance and Transmission,” 8–11.
10 Leemhuis, “Readings of the Qurʾān.”
11 Denny, “Exegesis and Recitation: Their Development as Classical Forms of Qur’anic Piety.”
12 Gade, “Recitation of the Qurʾān.”
13 Neuwirth, Studien Zur Komposition Der Mekkanischen Suren, 214.
14 Penrice, A Dictionary and Glossary of the Koran, with Copious Grammatical References and Explanations of the
Text, 63.
15 Lane, An Arabic–English Lexicon, 3:1252.
16 Ibn Manzur et al., Lisan Al-ʻArab, 1578.
17 Q 10:94, “If you were in doubt of what we sent down to you, ask those who recite [yaqraʾūn] the book
[al-kitāb] from before you.”
18 Q 26:199, “Had he recited it [qaraʾahu] to them, they would not believe in it”; Q 75:18, “When we have
recited it [qaraʾnāhu], follow its recitation [qurʾānahu].” Q 26:199 follows in a sequence of verses beginning
with verse 192, wherein a singular masculine pronoun without a clear antecedent (“it,” in the translation
of the verse appearing here) is carried through a series of statements describing the Qur’anic revelation.
Qur’an 75:18 similarly appears in a series of verses repeating a pronoun without a clear antecedent, in this
case beginning in v. 16.
19 Madigan, The Qur’ân’s Self-Image, 138–139.
20 Ibid.
21 Madigan reminds us that the tradition has offered its own explanation, being that the Angel Gabriel was
holding a cloth embroidered with the beginning of the revelation. Ibid., 139 no. 41.
22 Here I reference ring structure as understood and developed by Angelika Neuwirth most specifically, in
Studien Zur Komposition Der Mekkanischen Suren. See page 231 for the structural outline of Q 96.
23 Ibid., 225.
24 Q 91:1–2 may serve as one example of this meaning: “By the sun and her clear brightness; by the moon as
he follows her” (wa l-shams wa-d. uh.āhā / wa l-qamar idhā talāhā).
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2 5 E.g., Q 17:107–109.
26 E.g., Q 83:13.
27 Q 3:93: “All food was lawful for the children of Israel, except that which Israel made unlawful for itself
before the Torah was sent down. Say, bring the Torah and recite it [fa-atlūhā] if you are truthful.”
28 The examples of lore about prophets – Qur’anic, biblical, and those not mentioned in either scriptural
canon – are plentiful. The contrasting example of another type of figure whose story is introduced in this
way (involving use of tilāwa) is Dhū l-Qarnayn. This reference is in Sūrat al-Kahf (Q 18): “They ask you
about Dhū l-Qarnayn. Say, I will recite for you [saʾatlū ʿalaykum] a remembrance [dhikr] of him” (Q 18:83).
Interestingly, this verse represents the only place where the material recited is a “remembrance” (dhikr) rather
than a story (nabaʾ) about a person.
29 Q 17:61–65.
30 Q 17:71–78.
31 In this case the recitation is denoted by tilāwa; it is worth noting that the Qurʾan is the object of the verb
only directly, although the preceding context heavily implies that it is still the object of recitation here.
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PART III
The World in Front of the Qur’an

20
ASBĀB AL-NUZŪL
The (Good) Occasions of Revelation
Ahmed Ragab
Introduction
Asbāb al-Nuzūl constitutes one of the least studied genres of exegetical literature despite scholarly
acknowledgment of its significance and its ubiquitous presence in many other genres of exegetical
literature.1 The asbāb al-nazūl, sometimes defined as “occasions of revelation,” are composed of anec-
dotes concerning the circumstances that surround the revelation of particular sections of the Qur’an.
The asbāb are, as a result, found in almost all tafsīrs, as well as in a number of other texts of sīra or
maghāzī.2 In addition to this presence in texts from a variety of other exegetical genres, a number of
scholars collected some of the most famous and important asbāb into specialized collections.3
In these collections, verses are presented in their order in the canonical text, then each is fol-
lowed by its asbāb. For each of these verses, the asbāb consists of one or more anecdotes or reports
explaining the context in which a specific verse was revealed or the incident to which the Qur’an
responded. While most of these anecdotes involve Muhammad and his Companions, some asbāb
mention ancient prophets and saints. In these cases, the sabab (singular form of asbāb) does not
engage the reason or the occasion for the revelation of the actual verse qua verse but rather that of
the anecdote or the occasion behind the interaction described in the verse. In the context of the
asbāb, the exact or approximate dating of the revelation of a particular verses is not of much concern
to the authors.4 Instead, it is the context of the incident or divine intervention described in the
verse that is the subject of analysis. This is clear in the cases where the sabab relates to the life of a
previous prophet or a pre-Islamic event, as there would be little connection between the revelation
and the incident addressed in the verse. But even when the sabab involves specific incidents from
Muhammad’s life and the experience of his Companions, many of these anecdotes are not signifi-
cant enough on their own to make their way into the necessarily selective compilations of sīra or
maghāzī. As such, it becomes difficult to place with any accuracy such incidents in the chronology
of Muh.ammad’s life. Similarly, while some of these anecdotes can be found in hadith collections,
others are not included in these collections – probably because they were considered part of the
para-Qur’anic text that was not always an object of collection for hadith scholars.5 In all these cases,
the interest of the collectors and authors of asbāb was firmly placed around these verses and how said
occasions can better help interpreting them.
One of the more significant features of the asbāb literature is that it is inherently selective, imbued
with clear judgments about which asbāb are important or worth mentioning and which are not;
this judgment, however, often occurs outside the text and without any justification offered to the
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-23 211

Ahmed Ragab
readers.6 As a practical matter, each and every verse in the Qur’an was understood to be revealed
in a context that could be dated or linked to a particular incident in Muhammad’s life. Even verses
that were revealed to Muhammad during his sleep could be dated to specific moments in his life,
or, at least, their moment of disclosure could be dated.7 However, asbāb collections hardly attempted
to fully account for all the verses in the Qur’an. These collections chose instead to elaborate on a
limited number of verses, whose occasions appeared to be more important in the eyes of the scholars
and their readership.
As such, asbāb literature positions itself in a utilitarian space, at least in comparison to the more
totalizing tafsīr. While the latter is motivated by the pietistic and theological obligation to understand
each and every verse and thus to arrive at a full picture of the word of God,8 the former is interested
in adding particular glosses that either explain specific verses that cannot be fully comprehended
without their context or elaborate on the context of verses, where such context would have signifi-
cant impact on legal and theological thinking.9 A consideration of asbāb literature therefore requires
us to keep an eye on the selectivity and utilitarianism that influence these collections’ composition
and readership. Yet an analysis of the asbāb should not be restricted to the specific anecdotes inside
the collections, their relations to other exegetical literature, or the making of all para-Qur’anic texts.
Instead, asbāb literature also needs to be understood in its totality and in a manner that reveals its
importance – as a full body of texts, not simply specific anecdotes – in the making of the world of
the Qur’an.
This chapter will start by analyzing how context becomes commentary. That is, this chapter will
examine how the asbāb literature, both in its anecdotes as well as in its totality, is used to create a dis-
cursive exegetical environment. It then moves to discussing how asbāb allow the Qur’an to intervene
in its own context and create its own historical environment, in addition to discussing the signifi-
cance of these particular moves. Finally, the chapter concludes by considering chronology, its role in
the making of the asbāb, and its function in the creation of this exegetical genre, asking whether the
Qur’an’s chronology could or should be discovered.
Context as Commentary
In their totality, the asbāb serve important historical and theological functions. On one hand, the
presence of these accounts show that the Qur’an was indeed revealed gradually, in verses correspond-
ing to specific moments in the Prophet’s life (munajjam).10 This peculiar manner of revelation validates
Muhammad’s prophetic career and contributes to the theological role played by the early community
as a site of constant divine care and intervention. Such care and providence were often seen as central
to Muhammad’s prophecy and to the evolving conceptions of his relation to God. The care and pro-
tection from either error or harm that were promised to Muhammad in the Qur’an and that were in
many ways at the heart of the growing concept of ʿis.ma (“protection” from sin; blamelessness) became
all the more evident through these proofs of consistent divine intervention.11 ʿIs.ma, as a theological
concept, was developed by Imāmī Shiʿis who argued that Imams were protected from sin and error
after they assumed their vocation as Imams. The concept then extended to include the prophet as
well as other prophets and to also cover the lives of Imams and prophets before and after assuming
their vocation. Sunni scholars restricted ʿis.ma to Muhammad and other prophets, and some believed
that ʿis.ma also included protection from physical harm to the prophets’ body in reference to the verse:
“God will protect thee from men” (Q 5:67).12 In all cases, the consistent divine intervention in the
Prophet’s life provided additional evidence of these multiple meanings of ʿis.ma.
On the other hand, this theological underpinning of Muhammad’s life and community that links
them on multiple occasions with the Qur’an creates a paradox that doctrinally supports the miracu-
lous nature of the Qur’an as well as the authoritative position of the early Muslim community.13
By the classical period, the Qur’anic text was seen as having been composed in eternity; that is,
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regardless of whether it was the created or uncreated word of God, the Qur’an was believed to have
existed in its totality well before Muhammad’s time, if not before the time of humanity.14 As such,
it is miraculously able to address peculiar and unique occasions in a particular time, all while main-
taining its timelessness and suitability to all times and all places. At the same time, these occasions
addressed by the Qur’an, most of which naturally occurred within the confines of Muhammad’s
early community of Muslims, subtly emphasize the guided nature of this community. The commu-
nity was literally guided by divine providence, a fact that recreates the history of this community as
an extended parable, illustrating legal and theological issues for all Muslims of all time.15 As such, the
mere existence of these asbāb texts highlights specific points about the nature of Qur’anic revelation
and the nature of Muhammad’s early community.
In addition to the theological implications of the text as a whole, the actual asbāb qua anecdotes
and occasions play specific roles in animating the Qur’anic texts. Scholars have shown that the asbāb
play two important functions: narrative and legal.16 At the narrative level, the asbāb provide glosses
and explanations to elucidate particular verses in the Qur’an. The anecdotes that relate to specific
verses and show the reasons for or occasions on which these verses were revealed provide informa-
tion vital for proper interpretation of these verses and layer them with meaning.17 This narrative
function also legitimizes a specific exegetical approach that claimed the lucid interpretability of the
Qur’an by relying on its own text and the circumstances surrounding its revelation, many of which
were deduced from the sunna and did not require that exegetes use extratextual tools.18
Consider, for instance, Abraham’s query that God show him how he resurrects the dead:
And when Abraham said, “My Lord, show me how Thou wilt give life to the dead,” He
said, “Why, dost thou not believe?” “Yes,” he said, “but that my heart may be at rest.” Said
He, “Take four birds, and twist them to thee, then set a part of them on every hill, then
summon them, and they will come to thee running. And do thou know that God is All-
mighty, All-wise.”
(Q 2:260)
The sabab, which engages not the revelation of this actual verse but rather the occasion of the
conversation between God and Abraham reported in the verse, recounts the story in greater detail,
thus allowing for a more coherent (and theologically consistent) narrative. Abraham’s question is
explained in two ways. In the first, Abraham wonders about the workings of nature, and God affords
him a look at the miracle of resurrection. In the second, Abraham responds to the news that God had
chosen him as a “friend” (khalīl) by asking a question almost never asked by a human before – a ques-
tion that God decides to honor with an impressive answer. Both accounts dismiss the immediate and
apparent interpretation that would suggest either doubt on Abraham’s part or resentment – a possible
motive for God’s rhetorical question to Abraham – on God’s. While the sabab thus created “a good
yarn,” it also allowed the exegete to sidestep and circumvent potential questions about faith, infal-
libility, and even resurrection.19 By imposing an exegesis derived from the text itself, exegetes moved
the text beyond a space for potential questioning and cemented a text-based interpretive method.
At the same time, the asbāb provide clarifications that can serve as points of entry and engage-
ment for legally oriented exegesis, as the sabab might allow for interpretations and elaborations that
may not be directly connected to the verse itself. Andrew Rippin demonstrates these two connected
legally oriented functions in his analysis of the sabab provided for the verse Q 2:232:
When you divorce women, and they have reached their term, do not debar them from
marrying their husbands, when they have agreed together honourably. That is an admoni-
tion for whoso of you believes in God and the Last Day; that is cleaner and purer for you;
God knows, and you know not.
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Here, the reported sabab presents an anecdote narrated by Maʿqil ibn Yasār, where he explained
that the verse was indeed about his sister. Maʿqil’s sister was divorced from her husband. When the
husband wanted to remarry her, and she agreed to this, Maʿqil refused: “I let you marry, I supported
you and honored you, then you divorced her. Now you come to propose to her. No, by God, you
may never return.” The sabab thus provides a legally based explanation for this revealed rule that a
woman and a man may remarry after divorce if they so desire. In addition to this immediate legal
function, the sabab provides an “entry point” to engage legally at another level. Rippin explains that
al-Qurt․ubī (d. 1273) used the anecdote to elaborate on another legal point that was not necessar-
ily intended within the verse – that even a divorced woman required the permission of her “[legal]
guardian” (walī) for marriage. Although this particular legal gloss was not the point of the anecdote,
nor was it the point of the verse, the sabab itself provided the opportunity for such legal elaboration.
This elaboration and the sabab that legitimized it were so significant and intertwined that H.anafi
scholars, who argued that divorced women did not need permission to remarry, rejected the entire
sabab based on isnād (“chain of transmission”) in order to disprove the point made by al-Qurt․ubī and
like-minded scholars.20
Here, the sabab’s anecdote provided not only a legal explanation or elaboration but itself became a
text worthy of analysis that permitted the deduction of even more rules than were either apparent or
immediately available in the original verse. In other words, the asbāb find their way into the collec-
tion of traditional texts on the basis of which law might be derived, inserting themselves not only as
exegetical glosses but as occasions or materials ready for and worthy of further exegesis. Just as other
anecdotes in sīra and the maghāzī literature may present themselves as sources of legal thinking, the
asbāb also stimulates legal thinking and halakhic interpretation.
Text Generating Context

In their narrative and legal roles, the asbāb also provide a background to the Qur’anic text where
new relations between different verses are created and where new meanings, elaborations, glosses –
either narrative or legal – arise alongside new connotations that affect readers’ perception of the
verses’ meaning. In their capacity as historical accounts and anecdotes, the asbāb yield a different
organization and arrangement of the Qur’anic narrative. Although this different arrangement is
never realized (or attempted) – due partly to the theological underpinnings guarding a particular
understanding of the revelation process – this potential historical arrangement creates an extratextual
environment where some verses are linked to other verses because of their historical context (and
not their textual location) and where the asbāb link specific iterations of the Qur’anic narrative in a
manner that elicits new connotations and textual context. Here, the multiplicity of asbāb, and even
the contradictions between some asbāb connected to a specific verse, which could pose problems on
both the narrative and, especially, legal levels, connect the different signifiers and symbols included
in these stories, further complicating the textual environment in which the Qur’an lives.
While these reports may create contradictory information about the occasions and reasons for,
as well as meanings of specific verses, these contradictions are problematic only from a specific epis-
temic disposition – one that is interested in a level of certainty not necessarily entertained by these
medieval collections and their authors. These varying and often contradictory anecdotes link the
objects of these anecdotes through the particular verse, providing layers of connotative meaning that
are immediately available in the text.
Take, for instance, Q 2:26–27:
God is not ashamed to strike a similitude even of a gnat, or aught above it. As for the
believers, they know it is the truth from their Lord; but as for unbelievers, they say, “What
did God desire by this for a similitude?” Thereby He leads many astray, and thereby He
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guides many; and thereby He leads none astray save the ungodly, such as break the covenant
of God after its solemn binding, and such as cut what God has commanded should be
joined, and such as do corruption in the land – they shall be the losers.
Al-Suyūt․ī (d. 911/1505) mentions four different anecdotes explaining this verse.21 Common among
all the anecdotes was the theme of the verse being revealed after some objections were raised against
one or more other verses that constructed similes through using animals, insects, or natural phe-
nomena. In all the anecdotes, the objectors slyly claimed that such similes were not worthy of
God, casting doubt on the authorship of the contested verse and, in turn, on the truthfulness of
Muhammad’s prophecy itself. This verse was thus revealed to silence the detractors and vindicate
Muhammad. The anecdotes differed, however, on the identity of the detractors. In one anecdote,
the detractors are the “hypocrites” (munāfiqīn) of Medina, while, in the other three anecdotes, they
are the infidels of Mecca. Al-Suyūt․ī adds that al-Wāh.idī (d. 468/1076) had written another version
where Medinan Jews were the perpetrators of the offense. Even though he mentioned three reports
about the infidels, al-Suyūt․ī doubted these accounts because the verse is Medinan.22 He considered
al-Wāh.idī’s version implicating Medinan Jews to be the most probable, despite its not having a clear
isnād. Perhaps what convinced al-Suyūt․ī was that the verse following verse 26 mentions violating
the covenant of God – something more likely to describe Jews rather than hypocrites. Not only do
the detractors differ in the four accounts, the verses being mocked are also different: one discusses
thunder, another, spiders, and a third flies. The multiplicity of these references, both to verses and
to detractors, allows the reader to realize a more general purpose behind this verse. The verse stands
to protect and defend any parable that could be seen as not worthy of God. At the same time, the
multiplicity of anecdotes helps construct the combative environment around Muhammad, linking
hypocrites, infidels, and Jews as enemies equally capable – and guilty – of deriding and mocking the
Qur’an and Muhammad.23
While each sabab serves to place the verse within a particular historical context, the multiplicity
of these asbāb does the exact opposite by providing a more general purpose for the verse that rises
above all these anecdotes even though no particular anecdote is entirely denied. In the same vein,
this multiplicity allows the verse to serve as an attack against hypocrites, infidels, and Jews, all of
whom are now connected by their hatred of the Qur’an and their inability to see the larger meanings
in the verses. As previously explained, the multiplicity of anecdotes creates a textual environment
that allows the verse to have a more general meaning that is not limited to one group.
Qur’an 3:188 offers another interesting example of these textual connections. The verse reads:
“Reckon not that those who rejoice in what they have brought, and love to be praised for what they
have not done – do not reckon them secure from chastisement; for them awaits a painful chastise-
ment.” In discussing this verse, al-Suyūt․ī reported some of the questions asked about the sabab.24 The
verse seemed to condemn all those who would rejoice in what God gave them and who sought to be
thanked and praised – all of which are fairly common behaviors and thus seemingly endangering the
fate of almost everyone. For this reason, the tafsīr attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās (d. circa 687) explained
that the verse was revealed in relation to the Jews, who refused to share the knowledge they had from
God and wanted to be praised for their knowledge and piety. As such, the threat implied in the verse
was no longer an issue for everyone but rather for the Jews thought to be addressed by this verse.
Another report, which seemed to be similarly motivated, discussed a completely different sabab. In
the second sabab, the verse was seen as referring to the hypocrites who took pride in their possessions
and sought exemption from fighting with the prophet, all while demanding to be praised for all the
reasons for which other Muslims were praised.
The two anecdotal interpretations differed so widely that al-Suyūt․ī needed to address this dif-
ference by citing Ibn H . ajar al-ʿAsqalānī (d. 1449), who argued that the two anecdotes might both
be correct and that the verse might have been revealed in relation to both groups. Al-Suyūt․ī adds
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Ahmed Ragab
yet a third sabab, also related to Medinan Jews. Here, the Jews are reported to have said “We are
the people of the First Book, of prayers and obedience [to God],” therefore justifying not following
Muhammad and claiming a privilege of their own. Al-Suyūt․ī seemed to have favored this particular
account, reported by a number of scholars. Yet he ended his note by remarking that the verse may
have been revealed in relation to all these asbāb.25 The multiplicity of anecdotes is not reduced to
varying reports or discussed in terms of which is most accurate. Instead, the multiplicity provides for
variable meanings attached to the same verse. The notion that the verse might have been revealed
in relation to all these occasions links these occasions, creating the textual environment mentioned
previously and therefore links Jews with hypocrites. For different reason, both groups were satisfied
with what they already had and were thus warned that this would not protect them from Hellfire.
The last verse of the sura entitled “The Children of Israel” or “the Night Journey,” makes an
important theological proclamation that hardly needs any explanation: “And say: ‘Praise belongs to
God, who has not taken to Him a son, and who has not any associate in the Kingdom, nor any pro-
tector out of humbleness.’ And magnify Him with repeated magnificats” (Q 17:111). Here, the sabab
does not intend to provide a clarification or to explain the reasons behind a specific rule. Instead,
the sabab creates a gloss that situates this particular proclamation – one that is hardly controversial or
unclear – in relation to pre-Islamic and non-Islamic practices.26 Al-Suyūt․ī wrote:
Ibn Jarīr [al-T․ abarī (d. 310/923)] reported [on the authority of ] Muh.ammad ibn Kaʿb
(d. circa 112/730) . . . that the Jews and Christians said that God has taken a son, and the
[polytheist] Arabs [used to] say: “Glory be to You! You have no partner! Except for one
partner, whom you own and He does not own you!,” and the Zoroastrian and Sabians
said, “If it were not for God’s friends, He would have been humiliated.” So God revealed,
“Praise belongs to God, who has not taken to Him a son, and who has not any associate.”27
Here, the sabab is not an anecdote-in-history but rather a reference and textual context for revela-
tion. The sabab creates a strong connection between all these groups of nonbelievers, all of whom
were accused of holding idolatrous beliefs, condemned for their failure to follow the command-
ments of God and to worship Him properly. While their proclamations in this same sabab are
different, they are all equated in violating Qurʾānic monotheism. In this view, Islamic monothe-
ism stands in contradistinction to all these beliefs. While Christians and Jews held different legal
positions than polytheists, such a sabab serves to create a more central distinction between Islamic
monotheism and all others. In all these incidences, the connections created by the multiplicity of
anecdotes, which become available for communication and propagation through sermons and in
public presentations, underwrites a connotative meaning that emphasizes these connections (such
as the connections between Jews and hypocrites). As such, the multiplicity of these asbāb creates a
textual environment that serves to organize religious and pietistic knowledge by linking different
signifiers used in multiple incidents, thus providing clear views of the self in relation to a collec-
tive other.
In some instances, verses (and their asbāb) recount incidents that have been witnessed in person
by many in the immediate audience of the verse. Take, for example, the verses describing the stories
situated in Muhammad’s different wars, which were witnessed by the Companions who themselves
shared and reported stories about their own experiences. Here, the asbāb stand not in relation to
other asbāb but rather in relation to another textual environment: maghāzī literature.28 In this case,
the sabab – derived in many ways from the actual Qur’anic verse and acquiring legitimacy from its
para-Qur’anic nature – serves to regulate and organize the production of a collective history. In
other words, these verses and their asbāb complement historical literature, providing it with meaning,
which serves to create the official history of the nation by unifying varying narratives surrounding
significant events.29 Although these verses are provided with a context through their asbāb, just like
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other verses, they are also enabled, by these asbāb, to intervene in the creation of their own context.
Instead of the context serving to elucidate the verse, the verse serves to construct the context, rec-
reating the order of events and their significance in a manner that becomes imbued with Qur’anic
textual power as articulated through the asbāb. In recognizing how these verses were revealed in
direct connection to the events they describe, the asbāb literature further legitimizes a Qur’anic read-
ing of these events by insisting on their immediacy and by locating the Qur’an itself among those
who witnessed these very events.
One should note here the difference between Qur’anic verses describing anecdotes and events
that happened to Muhammad and his Companions, on one hand, and those describing events that
happened with previous prophets or with previous nations. In the latter, the Qur’anic narrative
creates a sanctioned version but is often also the only source of these anecdotes (especially with
the gradual filtering out and exclusion of Jewish narratives in exegetical literature).30 In the former
(events in Muhammad’s life), the Qur’anic narrative is located within a much richer textual envi-
ronment in which many Companions narrate and attest to variable versions of these stories. The
Qur’anic narrative thus becomes responsible not only for informing its audience of this sanctioned
story but also for policing other narratives and corralling them into a single sanctioned narrative. The
exegetical literature, in general, helps both types of verses to achieve their role, whether by connect-
ing and informing the nation about episodes in the history of salvation or by controlling and policing
a narrative about Muhammad’s and the early nation’s history. The asbāb literature – a subgenre of
exegesis in all cases – serves to provide needed validity and connection to the latter type of verses as
is necessary for them to perform their legitimizing and policing functions.
The first example can be shown in the verses describing the incident in which the “direction [of
prayer]” (qibla) is shifted from Jerusalem to Mecca. Scholars have shown how this event marked a
significant departure for Muhammad’s early community from an overwhelmingly Abrahamic orien-
tation to one more rooted in (and directed toward) the Arab tribes and communities in Arabia. The
verses of Q 2:142–144 describing these events read:
The fools among the people will say, “What has turned them from the direction they were
facing in their prayers aforetime?” Say: “To God belong the East and the West; He guides
whomsoever He will to a straight path.” Thus We appointed you a midmost nation that
you might be witnesses to the people, and that the Messenger might be a witness to you;
and We did not appoint the direction thou wast facing, except that We might know who
followed the Messenger from him who turned on his heels – though it were a grave thing
save for those whom God has guided; but God would never leave your faith to waste –
truly, God is All-gentle with the people, All-compassionate. We have seen thee turning
thy face about in the heaven; now We will surely turn thee to a direction [qibla] that shall
satisfy thee. Turn thy face towards the Holy Mosque; and wherever you are, turn your faces
towards it. Those who have been given the Book know it is the truth from their Lord; God
is not heedless of the things they do.
The main function of the asbāb here was to affirm the connection of these verses to the incident of
the change of the qibla. Also, they served to change the order of the verses to match the order of
events.31 In the order laid out by the asbāb, Muhammad’s tacit request for a change of qibla preceded
the objections of “the fools” and God’s promise that those who died before the change of qibla would
not be denied the reward of their prayers. Even more significant in this particular incident is how the
verses allowed for additional details that may have not been necessarily observable by Muhammad’s
Companions (such as his requests of God) to be included within the sanctioned canonical narrative.
These antecedent details allow for this significant incident in Islamic history to acquire even more
meaning by positioning them in the narration of Muhammad’s relation with God.
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The role played by the Qur’anic narrative in providing an official canonical account of important
incidents witnessed by the Companions becomes clear in the sabab connected to Q 3:121–125,
which narrates the story of the Battle of Uh.ud in 3/625.32 In this battle, Muslims led by Muhammad
were defeated by the Qurayshī armies, Muhammad was injured, his uncle H.amza killed, and many
other important figures in the community were also killed or injured. At many levels, this battle
was a significant change of fortune for Muslims and required a deep and careful analysis and under-
standing of what went wrong. In al-Suyūt․ī’s asbāb, ʿAbd al-Rah.mān ibn ʿAwf (d. circa 34/655) was
asked about the story of the Battle of Uh.ud and responded by saying “read after [verse] 120 of [the
third sura] and you will find our story.”33 Here, Ibn ʿAwf had relinquished the story entirely to the
Qur’anic narrative, which provided what appeared to be a coherent and a more sanctioned version
of the story.34 The sabab mentioned by al-Suyūt․ī served to link the Qur’anic narrative to one of those
who witnessed this battle in a manner that affirmed the veracity and the supremacy of the Qur’anic
narrative over all other renditions of the story.
A more complex “retelling” can be observed in the asbāb attached to Q 8:17: “You did not slay
them, but God slew them; and when thou threwest, it was not thyself that threw, but God threw,
and that He might confer on the believers a fair benefit; surely God is All-hearing, All-knowing.”
The more common story, according to al-Suyūt․ī, is related to the Battle of Badr in 2/624.35 In this
anecdote, the verse serves to evaluate the battle and explain how Muslims succeeded in defeating the
armies of the Quraysh due to God’s direct intervention. Here, the verse adds a gloss to the known
story of the victory by explaining what could not be seen by the Companions who witnessed the bat-
tle – namely, direct divine intervention. Thanks to this verse and its role in the narrative construction
of the Badr story, this divine intervention made its way into all of the narratives related to the battle.36
Additional asbāb link the verse to the later Battle of Uh.ud. In one of them, Muhammad himself
struck a man with a lance, but the strike hit a bone and hardly drew any blood. Yet the seemingly
insignificant injury was extremely painful, leading eventually to the man’s death and thus prompt-
ing the divine proclamation, “You did not slay [him], but God slew [him].” The same verse is also
linked to an arrow that the Prophet shot during the Battle of Khaybar (628), an arrow that missed its
target but was said to hit another person in his home and kill him.37 As previously explained, linking
all these events to the same verse creates a textual environment whereby a single narrative of divine
intervention and aid as Muhammad and Muslims slay their enemies is distributed and recalled. Here,
the victorious events of the Battle of Badr are linked to incidents of marginal victory in the defeat of
Uh.ud and are used to recall divine care for the Muslims at the Battle of Khaybar.
Some of the anecdotes or stories mentioned in the asbāb serve the same purpose previously out-
lined – that is, creating a canonical story – but instead of recounting anecdotes witnessed by other
Companions, they add glosses and details, or explanations for events and incidents that link these
events to major themes of the canonical narrative of Muhammad’s life. An interesting example can
be found in the beginning of sura 13 (traditionally called “Thunder”), where the first few verses
recount God as he struck with lightning a number of people who attempted to kill Muhammad or
who mocked God and his power.38 In this case – and in other similar cases where the stories nar-
rated would not have necessarily been part of the reported sīra narratives – the Qur’anic narrative
as explained through the connected asbāb created additional narrative that would be part of the sīra
narratives in a manner that created a context based on the text itself. The sabab here not only serves
to locate the verse inside the early history of the umma but also uses the verse to insert itself into
this history.
In the case of other verses, the asbāb serve to create a thick event-based narrative that would allow
for articulating finer theological points – like those concerning Muhammad’s relation to God, his
human nature, and the miracles that supported his prophecy. For instance, slightly different versions
of the same sabab are mentioned for four different verses (Q 2:164, 3:190–191, 17:59, 21:3).39 In
the sabab given for all these verses, the polytheists of Mecca demanded Muhammad ask God to turn
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the Mount S.afā into gold as a miracle that would match the miracles of those prophets before him.
While God agreed to execute this miracle, He warned that the Meccans would be severely punished
should they fail to follow Muhammad after this miracle takes place. Fearing for his people, Muham-
mad chose not to have the miracle take place, instead continuing his efforts to convert his people at
a slower pace. The verses, all of which were claimed to be revealed for the same reason, discussed a
number of natural miracles like the creation of the heavens and earth or the order of the universe or
warned how previous nations did not follow their prophets after they produced (unnatural) miracles
and were severely punished as a consequence. The sabab explaining these verses provides a context
to illustrate a general position on miracles. This position explains that the absence of miracles in
Muhammad’s prophetic career was not due to any deficiency in his prophecy or in God’s support
but was more conducive for the well-being of his people. At the same time, these verses offered
natural phenomena, such as the movement of heavenly bodies or the shape of the earth, as mira-
cles that should be considered of equal magnitude to other supernatural or more dramatic miracles
(like turning a mountain to gold). The asbāb, in this way, create a detailed and animated context for
articulating important theological points.40
Similarly, the asbāb connected to Q 5:67 was an opportune moment to provide a context for
explaining questions concerning Muhammad’s relation to God, his duties as a prophet, and the
divine protection granted him. The verse reads: “O Messenger, deliver that which has been sent
down to thee from thy Lord; for if thou dost not, thou wilt not have delivered His Message. God
will protect thee from men. God guides not the people of the unbelievers.” Two sets of asbāb were
provided for the verse.41 The first set explains the first half of the verse, warning Muhammad against
not delivering God’s word. The second set locates the promise of divine protection. The sabab for
the first part mentions Muhammad’s initial hesitation in carrying out the arduous task of deliver-
ing the message of God. Although the sabab does not refer to a specific incident or time, it can be
inferred that it refers to the beginning of Muhammad’s career and his early struggles with the duties
of prophecy. The sabab recalls a common trope in sīra literature that describes the difficulty of proph-
ecy and paints Muhammad’s early prophetic days as ones of hesitation and fear. On one hand, the
fear and hesitation affirm the difficult nature of the task. On the other hand, the prophet’s fear and
hesitation further show his human nature – a significant theological concern for Muslim scholars in
almost all time periods.42
The second half of the verse, which discusses the promise of divine protection, is linked to two
different asbāb. In the first, a man attempted to attack Muhammad as he slept under a tree. As the
man stood over Muhammad with his sword, he asked the Prophet who protected him from death
at that moment. Muhammad responded that it was God who protected him. The verse (presumably
its second part) was revealed to reiterate what the Prophet knew to be true. The second sabab casts a
bit of doubt on whether Muhammad knew with certainty that God would protect him from physi-
cal harm. This sabab, in two slightly different versions, narrated how the Companions appointed to
guard the Prophet were dismissed once this verse was revealed, as they were no longer needed. Like
the previous examples, the sabab served to illustrate a theological point (that of divine protection of
Muhammad – even physically) through specific stories and anecdotes that animate and make more
palpable theological discussions.
Conclusion
The ostensible promise of the asbāb is to imbed the Qur’anic verses in history, link them to spe-
cific incidences and events, and rediscover the original arrangement of the text that was linked to
Muhammad’s life. Yet this original arrangement is by definition an accidental one – meaning that
it is only secondary to the “real’ divine arrangement that can be retrieved from the mus.h.af (the
written Qur’an in canonical arrangement) and does not serve the Qur’an’s ultimately timeless role.
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Therefore, despite their potential to allow for the rearrangement of the Qur’anic text, the asbāb
authors were never occupied with this mission and only viewed their writings as additional glosses,
part of an expanding exegetical tradition. On one hand, the asbāb provided evidence for the peculiar
nature of Qur’anic revelation: that it is munajjam, or organized based on historical events, and yet is
perfectly legible and relevant in its new (original) organization and for all eternity. On the other, the
asbāb imbued the text with additional meanings by often providing a specific context that would help
readers understand the intentions behind and connotations within the text. Scholarship has shown
how the asbāb literature provided context for verses, which was important for both haggadic and
halakhic reasons. Evidence shows that these exegetical considerations within the asbāb continued to
be of extreme importance throughout the history of the asbāb literary genre in its different iterations.
Moreover, the multiplicity of asbāb linking specific verses to events allows for the deployment
of a given verse in a variety of situations. Without denying the veracity of any of these reported
anecdotes, readers are left with the potential that the verses were either revealed multiple times or
deployed several times after they were revealed, adding more context to a given divine iteration.
In this view, these multiple events are linked to one another because Muhammad deployed a given
verse in each situation; this creates a web of meaning that connects different events and different
people. Some of the most common and obvious examples are found in reference to Jews. Through
a multiplicity of anecdotes and asbāb, Jews were joined to Meccan polytheists and to hypocrites in
a manner that emphasized their otherness and collected these othered groups under the banner of
their attempts to undermine Muhammad and, in so doing, elicit a consistent response to all these
groups at once.
When addressing major events in the history of the early nation, the asbāb afford the verses entry
points into this history, allowing the verses to consolidate the canonical version of this historical nar-
rative. The verses’ accounts are linked to eyewitnesses who, on the one hand, legitimize the Qur’anic
account and on the other, are policed by this account that serves to regulate the memory and the
history of the early community. As such, verses are creating their own context in their ability to
regulate the writing of an official story that legitimizes the early community and creates the collec-
tive history of the following, later umma.
The relationship between text and context is always a complex one. On one hand, texts are
authored within specific contexts and serve to explain and portray these contexts. At the same
time, they inform our (historians’) knowledge of their own context and influence how their con-
temporaries understand their own context. The Qur’an, seen as the eternal unadulterated word of
God, poses even more complexity because its version of history is intertwined with its theologically
determined veracity and accuracy. The incidents of history told in the Qur’an, which are in fact told
in the asbāb rather than in the verses themselves, cannot be refuted or modified historically but are
rather theologically focused on divine intention and the meaning of the word of God. In this sense,
the Qur’anic text, through the deployment of its asbāb, creates its own context and solidifies specific
canonical versions of its own history and, in turn, the history of Muhammad and the early nation.
Notes
1 See Kenneth Cragg, “The Historical Geography of the Qur’an: A Study in Asbāb Al-Nuzūl,” Journal of
Qur’anic Studies 1, no. 1 (1999); M.J. Elmi, “The Views of Tabataba’i on Traditions (Ahadith) and Occasions
of Revelation (Asbab Al-Nuzul) in Interpreting the Qur’an,” Journal of Shia Islamic Studies 1, no. 1 (2008);
A. Rippin, “The Exegetical Genre ‘Asbāb Al-Nuzūl’: A Bibliographical and Terminological Survey,” Bul-
letin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London 48, no. 1 (1985); idem, “The Function
of “Asbāb Al-Nuzūl” in Qur’ānic Exegesis,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of
London 51, no. 1 (1988); Andrew L. Rippin, The Qur’anic Asbab Al-Nuzul Material: An Analysis of Its Use
and Development in Exegesis (1983). See also Sahiron Syamsuddin, “Bint Al-Shāti’ on Asbāb Al-Nuzūl,” The
Islamic Quarterly 42, no. 1 (1998).
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Asbāb al-Nuzūl
2 On the relation between the asbāb, maghāzī, and sīra literature, see, among others, Rizwi Faizer, The Life of
Muhammad: Al-Waqidi’s Kitab Al-Maghazi (London: Routledge, 2013); Rizwi S. Faizer, “Muhammad and
the Medinan Jews: A Comparison of the Texts of Ibn Ishaq’s Kitab Sirat Rasul Allah with Al-Waqidi’s Kitab
Al-Maghazi,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 28, no. 4 (1996); Cragg, “The Historical Geography
of the Qur’an: A Study in Asbāb Al-Nuzūl”; Michael Lecker, “Wāqidī’s Account on the Status of the Jews
of Medina: A Study of a Combined Report,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 54, no. 1 (1995); idem, “ʿAmr
Ibn H . azm Al-Ans.ārī and Qurʾān 2,256: ‘No Compulsion Is There in Religion’,” Oriens (1996).
3 Abū l-H.asan ʿAlī ibn Ah.mad Al-Wāh.idī, Asbāb nuzūl al-qur’ān, ed. Ah.mad S.aqr, al-T ․ abʿah. 1st ed. (Cairo:
Dār al-Kitāb al-Jadīd, Lajnat Ih.yāʾ al-Turāth al-Islāmī, 1969); Jalāl al-Dīn Al-Suyūt․ī, Lubāb al-nuqūl fī asbāb
al-nuzūl (Cairo: Dār al-Tah.rīr lil-T ․ abʻ wa-al-Nashr, 1963).
4 Rippin, “The Exegetical Genre ‘Asbāb Al-Nuzūl’: A Bibliographical and Terminological Survey.”
5 Ibid., 3, 14. See also Elmi, “The Views of Tabataba’i on Traditions (Ahadith) and Occasions of Revelation
(Asbab Al-Nuzul) in Interpreting the Qur’an.”
6 Rippin, The Qur’anic Asbab Al-Nuzul Material: An Analysis of Its Use and Development in Exegesis.
7 William A. Graham, Divine Word and Prophetic Word in Early Islam: A Reconsideration of the Sources, with Special
Reference to the Divine Saying or Hadîth Qudsî, vol. 7, Religion and Society (The Hague: Mouton, 1977).
8 See Walid A Saleh, The Formation of the Classical Tafsīr Tradition: The Qur’ān Commentary of Al-Thaʻlabī (d.
427/1035) (Leiden: Brill, 2004), vol. 1.
9 Rippin, “The Function of ‘Asbāb Al-Nuzūl’ in Qur’ānic Exegesis.”
10 Daniel A. Madigan, “Revelation and Inspiration,” in Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān. General editor: Jane
Dammen McAuliffe, Georgetown University (Washington, DC: Brill Online, 2015); Nasr Hamid Abu
Zayd, “Everyday Life, Qurʾān In,” Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān. General editor: Jane Dammen McAuliffe,
Georgetown University (Washington, DC: Brill Online, 2015).
11 Diāri Bidgoli, Muh.ammad Taqi, and Mahdi Jaddi, “Al-Kuleyni and Narrations About the Prophet’s Mis-
take,” Hadith Mysticism Studies, no. 10 (2013).
12 All verses in this article are cited from the Arthur Arberry translation: A.J. Arberry, The Koran Interpreted:
A Translation. 1st Touchstone ed. (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996).
13 The authority of the early community in the view of Sunni scholars also developed gradually from the
eighth to the tenth centuries and was connected to the development of hadith sciences (or the study of pro-
phetic traditions). See N. Khalek, “Medieval Biographical Literature and the Companions of Muh.ammad,”
Der Islam 91, no. 2 (2014): 272–294.
14 See Jane Dammen McAuliffe, “The Qur’anic Context of Muslim Biblical Scholarship,” Islam and Chris-
tian–Muslim Relations 7, no. 2 (1996); William A. Graham, “The Earliest Meaning of ‘Qurʾān’,” Die Welt
des Islams 23/24 (1984); Andreas Christmann, “ ‘The Form Is Permanent, but the Content Moves’: The
Qur’anic Text and Its Interpretation(s) in Mohamad Shahrour’s ‘Al-Kitab Wa ‘L Qur’an’,” Die Welt des
Islams, New Series 43, no. 2 (2003).
15 See Konrad Hirschler, Medieval Arabic Historiography: Authors as Actors (London: Routledge, 2006).
16 Rippin, “The Exegetical Genre ‘Asbāb Al-Nuzūl’: A Bibliographical and Terminological Survey,”; idem,
“The Function of ‘Asbāb Al-Nuzūl’ in Qur’ānic Exegesis”; idem, The Qur’anic Asbab Al-Nuzul Material: An
Analysis of Its Use and Development in Exegesis.
17 Rippin, “The Function of ‘Asbāb Al-Nuzūl’ in Qur’ānic Exegesis,” 8.
18 See John Wansbrough, “Majaz Al-Qur’an: Periphrastic Exegesis,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African
Studies, University of London 33, no. 2 (1970); Andrew J. Lane, A Traditional Muʿtazilite Qur’an Commentary
the Kashshaf of Jar Allah Al-Zamakhshari (D. 538/1144) (Boston and Leiden: Brill, 2006); Cornelis Henricus
Maria Versteegh, Arabic Grammar and Qur’anic Exegesis in Early Islam, Studies in Semitic Languages and Lin-
guistics, 19 (Leiden: Brill, 1993).
20 Ibid., 14–15.
21 Al-Suyūt․ī, Lubāb al-nuqūl fī asbāb al-nuzūl, 10–11.
22 Ibid., 11.
23 On the asbāb for this verse, see Rippin, “The Function of ‘Asbāb Al-Nuzūl’ in Qur’ānic Exegesis,” 11. On
self-referentiality in the Qur’an, see Daniel A Madigan, The Qur’ân’s Self Image: Writing and Authority in
Islam’s Scripture (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001) and Stefan Wild, ed., Self-Referentiality in
the Qur’ān (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz Verlag, 2006), vol. 11.
25 Ibid., 47.
27 Al-Suyūt․ī, Lubāb al-nuqūl fī asbāb al-nuzūl, 114.
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Ahmed Ragab
28 On maghāzī and their connection to Qur’an and hadith, see Faizer, “Muhammad and the Medinan Jews:
A Comparison of the Texts of Ibn Ishaq’s Kitab Sirat Rasul Allah with Al-Waqidi’s Kitab Al-Maghazi”;
Muh.ammad Qasim Zaman, “Maghāzī and the Muhaddithūn: Reconsidering the Treatment of ‘Histori-
cal’ Materials in Early Collections of Hadith,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 28, no. 01 (1996);
Harald Motzki, Nicolet Boekhoff-Van Der Voort, and Sean W. Anthony, Analysing Muslim Traditions: Studies
in Legal, Exegetical and Maghazi Hadith, vol. 78, Islamic History and Civilization (Leiden and Boston: Brill,
2010); Faizer, The Life of Muhammad: Al-Waqidi’s Kitab Al-Maghazi.
29 On canonical history, see Angelika Neuwirth, “Qur’an and History – a Disputed Relationship: Some
Reflections on Qur’anic History and History in the Qur’an,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 5, no. 1 (2003):
1–18; Adis Duderija, “Evolution in the Canonical Sunni Hadith Body of Literature and the Concept of an
Authentic Hadith During the Formative Period of Islamic Thought as Based on Recent Western Scholar-
ship,” Arab Law Quarterly 23, no. 4 (2009).
30 Biblical materials were relied on in Quranic exegesis to elaborate on various stories related to biblical proph-
ets or on narratives of moral significance. Such materials were often introduced by converted Jews or Arabs
with connections to the Jewish community in Arabia and beyond. Key authors, who were influential in
introducing these materials, include ʿAbd Allāh ibn Salām, Kaʿb al-Ah.bār, and Wahb ibn Munabbih, who
was reported to have authored a book titled Kitāb al-mubatadā and known as kitāb al-isrāʾīliyyāt (“the Book
of Jewish/Israelite Materials”). While these materials came to be more or less universally condemned by the
fourteenth century and beyond as evident in the work of Ibn Kathīr and al-Sakhāwī, rendering the term
isrāʿīliyyāt virtually synonymous with fabrications and fanciful accounts, this growing antagonistic attitude
could be traced as far back as Ibn Qut․ayba (d. 276/889) among other authors of the late ninth century.
For an overview, see G. Vajda, “Isrāʾīliyyāt,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., ed. Th. Bianquis Bearman,
C.E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, and W.P. Heinrichs. Consulted online on June 10, 2019, http://dx.doi.
org/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_SIM_3670 First published online: 2012
32 See C.F. Robinson, “Uh.ud,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., ed. Th. Bianquis Bearman, C.E. Bosworth,
E. van Donzel, and W.P. Heinrichs (Brill Online, 2015).
34 See Muzaffar Iqbal, “Living in the Time of Prophecy: Internalized Sīrah Texts,” Islamic Studies 50, no. 2
(2011).
36 See W. Montgomery Watt, “Badr,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., ed. Th. Bianquis Bearman, C.E. Bos-
worth, E. van Donzel, and W.P. Heinrichs (Brill Online, 2015).
38 Ibid., 104.
39 Ibid., 20, 45, 110, 118.
40 On miracles, see Jonathan A.C. Brown, “Faithful Dissenters: Sunni Skepticism About the Miracles of
Saints,” Journal of Sufi Studies 1, no. 2 (2012); Iqbal, “Living in the Time of Prophecy: Internalized Sīrah
Texts”; Judith Loebenstein, “Miracles in Šīʿī Thought: A Case-Study of the Miracles Attributed to Imām
Ǧaʿfar Al-S.ādiq,” Arabica (2003); Richard C. Martin, “The Role of the Basrah Muʿtazilah in Formulating
the Doctrine of the Apologetic Miracle,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 39, no. 3 (1980): 175–189.
42 It is worth noting that Twelver Shiʿi authors offered a different sabab for the verse that related to the Proph-
et’s fear of revealing the divine appointment of ʿAlī as his successor. The verse warns the Prophet that he was
obliged to report such divine appointment.
222
21
THE EARLY COMMENTATORS
OF THE QUR’AN
S.R. Burge
For Muslims, the Prophet Muhammad was both the deliverer of the revelation of the Qur’an and the
figure who provided explanations of the revelation itself. However, after his death, members of the
community had to seek explanations of obscure words and phrases used in the text, as well as more
general guidance about what the Qur’an meant, by asking members of the community who had
been present when the Qur’an had been revealed or who had heard the Prophet explain a particular
verse. Over the decades that followed, these interpretations and explanations were passed down from
one generation to another. When Islam became established as a dominant force in the Near East and
had begun to develop its scholarly tradition, Muslim scholars began to reflect on what Islam was,
what its laws should be, what its theological positions were, and so on. Part of this process involved
the production of literary, written texts that discussed such ideas, but ones that also engaged with the
oral traditions that had been inherited.
The Muslim intellectual and literary response to the interpretation of the Qur’an and this large
body of interpretative information that had been passed down from generation to generation was
the development of a genre of interpretation or exegesis of the Qur’an, known in Arabic as either
tafsīr or taʾwīl. In the early period, these two terms, which both roughly mean “interpretation” and
“elucidation,” were interchangeable.1 However, in later Muslim thought, taʾwīl came to be used of
more esoteric forms of revealed interpretation, particularly by the Shiʿi Ismāʿīlīs.2 Meanwhile, tafsīr
came most commonly to be used to describe a work that explained and interpreted the whole of
the Qur’an from beginning to end, verse by verse. By the end of the ninth century, Muslim scholars
were beginning to produce large tafsīrs of the Qur’an, often covering a large number of volumes. By
the tenth century, a specific form and way of writing tafsīr was established, and this has been main-
tained into the contemporary period.
The monumental tafsīr of Abū Muh.ammad ibn Jarīr al-T ․ abarī (d. 923), entitled Jamiʿ al-bayān fī
taʾwīl al-Qurʾān is commonly regarded as something of a milestone in the development of exegesis
in Islam, and many scholars often regard the genre or discipline of tafsīr as beginning with al-T ․ abarī,
or at the very least his work established the form the genre was going to take in Classical Islamic
literature.3 However, it is important to acknowledge that al-T ․ abarī did not invent tafsīr or the meth-
odological approaches that came to define the genre; rather, al-T ․ abarī was one of the first scholars to
write a tafsīr that approached the entirety of the Qur’anic text using methods that became the estab-
lished norm. Furthermore, it was a work that was held in extremely high regard by medieval Mus-
lims, as can be seen in biographical dictionaries such as al-Suyūt․ī’s (d. 1505) T ․ abaqāt al-mufassirūn.
4
This chapter will look at the world of tafsīr before al-T ․ abarī and the methodological problems that
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-24 223

S.R. Burge
arise when studying early tafsīr texts.5 Such works have received attention, particularly by Andrew
Rippin,6 and discussions of early tafsīr continue to be studied and to generate much debate.7
This chapter will begin by looking at the figure of Ibn ʿAbbās (d. circa 687) and will use him as
a figure to explore some of the problems associated with exploring early tafsīr in general. Following
on from this case study will be a presentation of some of the tafsīr works that remain extant. The last
section of this chapter will look at the use of hadiths and hadith transmitters in early exegesis, since
hadiths came to have a dominant role in later tafsīr works, including that of al-T․ abarī.
Some Problems Concerning Early Qur’anic Exegesis

The figure of Ibn ʿAbbās has generated much discussion within the scholarly literature and typifies
many of the scholarly debates about early tafsīr texts. A vast number of hadith have been attributed
to Ibn ʿAbbās, which has made him something of a mythic figure,8 and a number of issues about him
and his exegetical statements are problematic and warrant discussion. First, what can be known about
the authenticity of the hadith attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās? Second, what was the role of the “school”
of interpretation developing out of Ibn ʿAbbās’s exegetical statements? And third, what is the tafsīr
given his name (the so-called Tafsīr Ibn ʿAbbās), and how was it received? These debates cross over a
number of different fields of scholarly enquiry, which are all equally contentious in Western scholar-
ship. As an early figure, dying in the first century of Islam, debates about Ibn ʿAbbās are embroiled
in those about early Muslim history, for which there are very few contemporaneous sources. Con-
sequently, the figure of Ibn ʿAbbās and the early tafsīr more generally are highly conjectural fields
of enquiry. The texts that have been preserved may or may not be authentically attributable to the
exegetes themselves, and beyond this they are also subject to later interpretations of their respective
histories and views.
Ibn ʿAbbās’s exegetical comments were transmitted through the genre of hadith, and therefore
the debates about Ibn ʿAbbās have become intertwined with the broader discussions about the
authenticity of hadiths. These concerns were first mooted in the modern period by Ignaz Goldziher
(d. 1921) in the late nineteenth century and have since remained the main focus of hadith studies.9
Through his studies of the hadith material attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās and their chains of authorities
(isnāds),10 Herbert Berg concludes that the material attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās cannot be assumed to be
authentically attributed to him, but rather it came to be attributed to him by later exegetes.
Another theory concerning the exegetical material attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās is whether or not it
represented a “school” of early exegesis, something proposed by Fuat Sezgin.11 In other words, while
it may not be possible to associate the material directly to Ibn ʿAbbās himself, could it be understood
to represent his general views? In a recent article, Berg has argued that even this position is hard to
defend. For instance, there are a number of occasions where his students, such as Mujāhid (d. circa
722) and al-Dah.h.āk (d. 723), relate material that lies in conflict with Ibn ʿAbbās’s own apparent
position.12 This suggests that a “school” of Ibn ʿAbbās is less likely than many scholars have assumed.
There are also occasions when Ibn ʿAbbās transmits conflicting material. For example, he transmits
three different meanings for the word falaq (Q 113:1).13 Does he transmit three conflicting glosses for
falaq to give a range of possibilities, or does the fact that all three readings are attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās
indicate that the attributions of these hadiths to Ibn ʿAbbās are unreliable? Claude Gilliot argues that
the different positions attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās suggest that he became a mirror or focus for exegeti-
cal debates and that the different positions were attributed to him by later exegetes.14 It is possible
that these questions will remain unanswerable, but this is an area that does require more research
within the field of Tafsīr Studies, especially the way in which hadith are used within the genre.
In many respects, the Tafsīr Ibn ʿAbbās, with the full title Tanwīr al-miqbas min tafsīr Ibn ʿAbbās,
is the simplest problem to deal with, since there is a generally accepted consensus among scholars
that this is not the work of Ibn ʿAbbās.15 It was attributed in some manuscripts to the much later
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The Early Commentators of the Qur’an
exegete al-Fīrūzābādī (d. 1414), but many scholars have rejected this attribution outright, and this
attribution seems to have been introduced into printed editions in the nineteenth century because
of a defective text.16 John Wansbrough argues that the form of the work means that it could not
have been written by Ibn ʿAbbās’ since it takes the form used by much later exegeses.17 Wansbrough
refers to the work as the Tafsīr al-Kalbī,18 attributing the work to Ibn al-Kalbī (d. 763).19 Wansbrough
also argues that another work, the al-Wād. ih. of al-Dīnawarī (d. 920), was a later recension of the
Tafsīr al-Kalbī.20 Andrew Rippin sees the large similarities to the al-Wād. ih. as evidence that the Tafsīr
al-Kalbī/Tafsīr Ibn ʿAbbās dates from the tenth century.21 More recently Michael Pregill has argued
that the Tafsīr al-Kalbī/Tafsīr Ibn ʿAbbās should be attributed to al-Dīnawarī, rather than using the
work as a comparative text to date it by. Pregill argues that al-Wād. ih. incorporated elements of a text
that could be considered al-Kalbī’s exegesis with that of Muqātil ibn Sulaymān (d. 767).22 This text,
evidently, has a complex textual history, but it reveals some of the problems that can be encountered
when dealing with early works of tafsīr and the way in which certain early personalities act as figures
of exegetical authority.
There are other collections that contain exegetical material attributed to early exegetes, which are
largely hadith-based or hadith-derived, but the extent to which such works can really be called tafsīrs
is debatable, since many have more in common with the Kitāb al-Tafsīr sections within hadith col-
lections like the S.ah.īh. of al-Bukhārī (d. 870) than with a systematic treatment of the Qur’an seen in
the tafsīrs of Muqātil ibn Sulaymān or al-T ․ abarī. For example, there are tafsīr works attributed to early
figures such as Mujāhid,23 al-D . ah.h.āk,24 Zayd ibn ʿAlī (d. 740),25 and Sufyān al-Thawrī (d. 778),26
amongst others; however, these do not conform to the form of later tafsīrs, and they are collections
of the material they transmitted by later Muslim scholars rather than works that were intentionally
written as tafsīrs.
Early Exegeses: Some Examples

A number of tafsīr works can be found both in print and online27 that were written before al-T ․ abarī’s
Tafsīr. Some of these are viewed by scholars as being authentic works, which predated al-T ․ abarī;
others are seen as being falsely ascribed to authors of this early period; and yet others remain subjects
of debate. This section will provide a short description of a selection of these works, along with
respective examples of such tafsīr and a very brief summary of some of the scholarly material that
exists about them. Some exegetes and works will undoubtedly be overlooked in this overview, but
other, more detailed surveys are available.28
The Tafsīr of Muqātil ibn Sulaymān29 is often regarded as the earliest full tafsīr whose authenticity
is verifiable.30 The edition published by ʿAbd Allāh Mah.mūd Shih.āta includes a long introduction in
Arabic including a biography and a summary of his views.31 Muqātil was a murjiʿī theologian,32 and
his theological beliefs manifest themselves in places, but only in those instances where the Qur’an
allows for it. In the vast majority of the work, his murjiʿī views are unapparent.33 The Tafsīr itself takes
the form of a running commentary or an interpolative commentary, in which the Qur’anic text
is reproduced. Wherever it is deemed necessary, explanations or stories are inserted into the text.34
Take as an illustration, Muqātil’s exegesis of Q 2:115. He begins by relating an account of when the
verse was revealed in which a group of Muslims were travelling on a very cloudy day. He continues:
When the sun rose, they realized that they had not prayed in the direction of the qibla.
Upon their arrival in Medina, they informed the Prophet of this. God then sent down [the
following verse]: “And to God belong the east and the west; so withersoever you turn,”
[i.e., withersoever] you turn your faces during prayer, “there is the face of God,” [i.e.] there
is God. “God is indeed All-embracing,” in having given them the dispensation to abandon
the qibla when they did not know which way it was; “All-knowing,” of what they had
225
S.R. Burge
intended: [in this respect] God also sent down [the following]: “It is not piety that you turn
your faces to the east to the west,” to the end of the verse.
(Q 2:177)35
This section illustrates the way in which Muqātil interpolates short explanatory phrases into the flow
of the Qur’anic text, rather than dealing with each part in turn. He also often adds, as in the preced-
ing example, a wider contextual frame into which to place the interpretation.
As in this short extract, Muqātil very rarely gives multiple interpretative options. Instead he tends
to just give a single explanation. This is seen particularly often in his dealings with lexical issues but
can also be found elsewhere.36 For example, in his interpretation of the word falaq in Q 113:1, he
simply states, “ ‘Seek protection with the Lord of the falaq’ meaning, [seek protection] with the Lord
of Creation [khalq].”37 The most common interpretation of falaq is “daybreak” or “dawn” (s.ubh.), but
Muqātil does not include this in his interpretation, despite the fact that in all likelihood, given the
prevalence of the gloss .subh. meaning “dawn,” he was aware of competing interpretations. The recep-
tion of Muqātil in later Muslim exegesis has also been of interest to scholars.38
For some of these early commentators, there is scant information about their lives, and the tafsīr
attributed to them is often the only extant work. This is the case for the early Kharijite exegete Hūd
ibn Muh.akkam al-Hawwārī (fl. circa tenth century).39 He was a Berber from North Africa, and he
wrote an important but partially lost commentary that is of interest for its expression of Kharijite
views. Given the political context that the work was written in, such sources add to our under-
standing of the period. However, like Muqātil ibn Sulaymān and his murjiʿī views, Hūd is only able
to express Kharijite beliefs where the text enables him to do so, and in many places these are not
manifested.
Hūd follows a hybrid exegetical method. He will often paraphrase the Qur’anic text with inter-
polated comments, as seen in Muqātil ibn Sulaymān’s Tafsīr, but he will also add some more detailed
discussion. Take Hūd’s exegesis of Q 2:115:
His words, “And to God belong the east and the west;” so witherosever you turn, that is,
[turn] your faces in the prayer [s.alāt], “there is the face of God,” that is to say, there is God.
Some have said [that it means]: there is the qibla of God. “God is indeed All-embracing,
All-knowing.”
Some of the commentators have said that when the Messenger of God was in Mecca,
they [the Muslims] used to perform the canonical prayers [facing] towards the Bayt al-
Maqdis, [“the Holy House,” that is, Jerusalem]. After the Messenger of God emigrated to
Medina, for sixteen months he performed the prayer [facing] towards the Holy House [of
Jerusalem]. The God directed him, after that [period of time], to [face towards] the Kaʿba,
al-bayt al-h.aram [the Sacred House, that is, towards Mecca]. So He said in another verse [Q
2:144]: “Turn your face towards the Holy Mosque.”40
This example shows the blending of a periphrastic, interpolative form of exegesis with a more
detailed discussion. Hūd allows the introduction of interpretative competition and also uses other
verses of the Qur’an (here, Q 2:144) to aid understanding of the verse in question.41
Early exegeses can, at times, throw up some surprising interpretations. This is partly because the
genre of tafsīr has been retroactively dominated by the form refined by figures like al-T ․ abarī. Some
early Shiʿi exegeses can exhibit vociferous anti-Sunni polemic, and Meir Bar-Asher has noted this as
a distinctive feature of early Shiʿi exegesis.42 In contrast, anti-Sunni polemic is not often encountered
in later Shiʿi exegetical works, such the Kitāb al-Tibyān fī tafsīr al-Qurʾān of Abū Jaʿfar Muh.ammad
․ ūsī (d. circa 1068). Early Shiʿi exegesis is freer in the way in which it uses tafsīr to engage in apol-
al-T
ogeticism, attacking other parties within the Muslim community and defending its own positions.
226
For example, the partial exegesis of ʿAlī ibn Ibrāhīm al-Qummī (fl. ninth century) contains examples
of harsh Shiʿi anti-Sunni polemic.43 Take his interpretation of the word falaq, already seen in the
discussion of Muqātil ibn Sulaymān. Al-Qummī writes:
The falaq is “a pit in Hell” [jubb fī Jahannam]. The inhabitants of the Fire seek protection
from the intensity of its heat, and so ask God that He may give them permission to have a
break from it. [God] gives them permission to have a break from it, and Hell is set on fire.
[Al-Qummī] said: The pit is a chest [s.undūq] of fire, and the people of the pit seek protec-
tion from the flames of that chest. It is a “chest’ [tābūt] and in that chest are six people.44
Al-Qummī then lists the six people or peoples as being Cain, Nimrod, Pharaoh, al-Sāmirī, the
Christians, and the Kharijites, with Ibn Muljam, the murderer of ʿAlī, being singled out specifically.
This passage highlights the freedom that early exegetes had to express their own views but also the
ease with which they can use the Qur’an as a springboard for polemic, in this case anti-Kharijite
polemic. The interpretation that al-Qummī gives is not one that would necessarily come to mind
from reading Sūrat al-Falaq (Q 113), but the interpretation of falaq as a place in Hell enables him to
insert the heavy polemic.
The two Shiʿi exegetes, Furāt ibn Furāt al-Kūfī and Abū l-Nad.r al-ʿAyyāshī (both fl. late ninth
century) use only hadith in their exegeses.45 The method was not particularly common but was
utilized by other exegetes (both Sunni and Shiʿi) such as Ibn Mardawayh (d. 1020) and most impor-
tantly by al-Suyūt․ī in his al-Durr al-manthūr fī l-tafsīr bi l-maʾthūr.46 It can be quite difficult to read
such works, since the absence of any direct personal comments means that there is a need to interpret
the way in which the exegete has presented the material, but it is possible to make some judgments
about what the exegete’s opinion is through a close reading of the text.47 The vast majority of the
authorities of the hadith included by Furāt are two Shiʿi Imams: Muh.ammad al-Bāqir (d. 733) and
Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq (d. 765).48 Furāt, like al-Qummī and al-ʿAyyāshī, presents a selective exegesis, and
none of these three scholars go through the Qur’an systematically, verse by verse. Furāt will often
include limited material on a verse, and the absence of much detail can be surprising. For example,
in his exegesis of Q 2:185, which discusses the legislation concerning the Ramadan fast, the only
hadith Furāt includes to interpret the verse is this:
Furāt ibn Ibrāhīm al-Kūfī [reported from] Jaʿfar ibn Muh.ammad al-Fazārī [who reported
from] Ah.mad ibn al-H.usayn [who reported from] Muh.ammad ibn H.ātim [who reported
from] Yūnus ibn Yaʿqūb [who reported from] Abū ʿAbdallāh Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq concerning his
words “God desires ease for you, and desires not hardship for you” and the rest of the verse;
he said: For that ease, the Commander of the Faithful is ʿAlī ibn Abī T
․ālib.
49
Given the number of ideas and issues that are generated by Qur’an 2:185 and the wider pericope on
fasting (Q 2:183–185), this short hadith is both surprising and intriguing. His reaction to the text
and the focus on the role, position, and status of ʿAlī ibn Abī T ․ ālib shows the importance of assert-
ing such claims about ʿAlī and the family of the Prophet through Qur’anic exegesis in the context
of early Shiʿi discourse and theology.
It is also essential to note the development of early mystical exegesis, such as that of Sahl
al-Tustarī (d. 896). Writing at the end of the ninth century, Sahl al-Tustarī was working a genera-
tion before al-T ․ abarī. In this period, as has already been seen in the exegesis of Hūd al-Hawwarī,
there was a movement away from interpolative exegesis toward a more sophisticated and devel-
oped commentary. Sahl al-Tustarī’s exegesis is important because it provides the type of detailed
analysis of the Qur’an that is seen in the later tafsīr literature, alongside Sufi elements.50 However,
the concept of a strictly mystical or Sufi exegesis of the Qur’an would only be developed by later
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authors, particularly figures such as al-Qushayrī (d. 1072)51 and the Persian mystic Maybūdī (d.
after 1126).52
Consider Sahl al-Tustarī’s exegesis of Q 113:1. This verse is most closely associated with the
bewitchment of Muh.ammad by a man called Labīd. This sura and the following (Q 114), known
together as the Muʿawwidhatān (“the two [suras] of protection”), were sent down by God to release
Muh.ammad from the spell.53 Sahl al-Tustarī’s opening comments allude to this event but take it in a
deeper, metaphysical direction:
“Say, ‘I seek refuge in the Lord of the Daybreak,’ ” He said: Truly God, Exalted is He,
commanded him [the Prophet] in these two sūras [113 and 114] to take refuge [iʿtis.ām]
in Him, seek help [istiʿāna] from Him, and show [his] need [faqr] for Him. He was asked,
“What is showing [one’s] need?” He replied, “It is the [substitution of one] state by another
[huwa’l-h.āl bi’l-h.āl], for the natural disposition [t․abʿ] is dead [in and of itself ] and its life is
in displaying this.” He also said: “The best form of purification [t․ahāra] is that the servant
purifies himself from [the illusion of ] his own power [h.awl] and strength [quwwa]. Every
act or saying that is not accompanied by the words: ‘there is no power or strength save in
God’, will not have God’s support, Mighty and Majestic is He.”54
This mystical reflection on the verse is also accompanied by some detailed lexical analysis of the
word falaq:
[Sahl] said: “According to Ibn ʿAbbās, al-falaq means ‘the morning’ [s.ubh.] while according
to al-D. ah.h.āk it refers to a valley in the Hellfire. [On the other hand], according to Wuhayb
it refers to a chamber in Hell, and according to al-H.asan it refers to a well in Hell. It has
also been said that He intended by it all people [jamīʿ al-khalq]. Or it has been said that it
refers to the rock from which water springs forth.
Sahl al-Tustarī does not give a singular opinion on the meaning of the word here, but instead there
is a move toward the listing of a variety of interpretive options within a tafsīr. Norman Calder has
highlighted the importance of such choices and also the ways in which exegetes present and manipu-
late choice.55 In the formative period of exegesis, the move away from the opinion of an individual
toward the presentation of exegetical options is therefore already quite visible.
Hadith and Exegesis

The presentation of choice, which becomes the main way in which tafsīr is written, is largely devel-
oped through the use of hadiths, so it will be beneficial to present briefly the function of hadiths in
the exegetical literature, particularly in the early period of engagement with the Qur’an. It should be
noted that the hadith was the way in which the vast majority of early interpretation of the Qur’an
was transmitted. This has already been seen in the preceding discussion of Ibn ʿAbbās (as well as
some of the intendent problems with this material). However, it is important to note that the had-
ith literature on the Qur’an is much broader than the genre of tafsīr. The hadith literature includes
material relating to the “variant readings” (qiraʿāt), “the occasions of revelation” (asbāb al-nuzūl), “the
merits of the Qur’an” (fad. āʾil al-Qurʾān), “language” (lugha), “grammar” (iʿrāb), “metaphor” (majāz),
“law” (fiqh), the “abrogating and the abrogated” (nāsikh wa-mansūkh),56 and so on. There are many
works from these subgenres dating to the early period of Qur’anic exegesis, and these subsequently
fed into the tafsīr genre. Works such as the Majāz al-Qurʾān of Abū ʿUbayda (d. 822), a lexico-
graphical work, and the legal exegesis Tafsīr al-khams miʾat āya min al-Qurʾān al-karīm of Muqātil ibn
Sulaymān are also important contributions to the field of early exegesis. They do, however, remain
228
understudied, and further research needs to be done on these types of work and how they related to
the wider tafsīr literature.
Some recent research by Christopher Melchert has also highlighted the fact that the hadith lit-
erature often preserved interpretations of words in the Qur’an that are not found in the later tafsīr
literature.57 This phenomenon can also be seen in lexicographical works, such as the Kitāb al-ʿAyn
of al-Khalīl ibn Ahmad (d. circa 792), which do not always follow the interpretations seen in the
hadith literature.58 This means that there is a need to read early tafsīrs in light of the other sources
that were being written at the same time, allowing the aims and ideas within early tafsīr works to be
seen more clearly.
Although some early exegetes, such as Muqātil ibn Sulaymān, do not include much in the way of
hadiths in their exegeses, exegetical hadiths came to form the backbone of the genre. Even for those
exegeses that do not include hadiths frequently, such as al-Zamakhshārī’s (d. 1144) Kitāb al-Kashshāf,
a comparison between that exegesis and the wider tradition shows that often the debates found
within the work are driven by the ideas found in hadith literature. For example, al-Zamakhshārī’s
discussion of the word falaq includes all of the definitions provided in the hadith literature, even
though he does not acknowledge it openly.59 The question of the relationship between hadith and
exegesis is therefore extremely important to consider.
Exegetical hadiths also appear in the “canonical” collections of hadith, such as the S.ah.īh. of
al-Bukhārī,60 and other key compilations of hadith, such as the al-Muwat․․taʾ of Mālik ibn Anas (d.
796)61 and the al-Mus.annaf of ʿAbd al-Razzāq (d. 827).62 However, as Marston Speight has shown
quite clearly, “exegetes” (sing. mufassir) and “hadith compilers” (sing. muh.addith) had very different
objectives in approaching these hadiths, and one needs to be cautious when approaching exegetical
hadiths in works such as these.
The mufassir was concerned primarily, if not wholly, with the elucidation of the revealed
text, for whatever purpose that might serve, and to achieve that end, he was open to several
possible sources of interpretation. The muh.addith, on the other hand, was concerned pri-
marily with reporting the sunna of Muh.ammad, and when the reports he brought involved
the Qurʾān text, his effort joined that of the mufassir.63
A certain degree of caution is needed not to conflate the worlds of hadith collections and tafsīrs:
although they both use and engage with hadiths, they do so in different ways and with varying
intentions. Indeed, exegetes appear to have been fairly ambivalent to such hadith collections in the
writing of their exegeses.64
Tafsīr works, both before and after al-T ․ abarī, utilize hadith in their exegesis; consequently, some
scholars, particularly Herbert Berg, have discussed the authenticity of the Prophetic hadith found in
tafsīr works. It should be noted, however, that the earliest collections of hadith that include exegetical
material usually include hadiths attributed to the Companions rather than to the Prophet, such as
can be seen in ʿAbd al-Razzāq al-S.aʿānī’s (d. 827), al-Mus.annaf.65 With more material being attrib-
uted to the Companions and Followers, the question of authenticity becomes less of a concern. The
material that has been passed down, whether authentic or not, suggests that different muh.addiths had
particular interests and areas of expertise, since the hadiths attributed to them seem to have a narrow
focus. For example, Kees Versteegh shows that al-D . ah.h.āk had an interest in matters relating to Hell
and abrogation.66 Other examples of exegetes’ specific interests are Ibn Masʿūd’s (d. circa 650) focus
on the textual history of the Qur’an, with many hadiths attributed to him discussing textual vari-
ants (although not necessarily qiraʿāt in the strict sense),67 and Ibn ʿAbbās’s interest in the meaning
of words. As Versteegh notes, it is difficult to establish whether such specialisms reflect the actual
interests of the hadith transmitters themselves or later collectors’ interests and perceptions of earlier
hadith transmitters;68 indeed both are plausible and possible.
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S.R. Burge
Shiʿi sources use hadiths in much the same way as their Sunni counterparts, and the early exegesis
of Shiʿi figures such as al-ʿAyyāshī and Fūrat Ibn Fūrat al-Kūfī make use of hadiths, as can be seen in
the principal study of early Shiʿi exegesis by Meir Bar-Asher.69 However, as in the wider Shiʿi had-
ith literature, the available material also includes the statements of the Imams, with the fifth Imam,
Muh.ammad al-Bāqir and the sixth Imam, Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq, being particularly strongly associated with
exegetical statements. Shiʿis also do not transmit hadiths given on the authority of ʿĀʾisha bint Abī
Bakr (d. circa 678).
One of the most controversial aspects of hadith and exegesis concerned material that was believed
to be of Jewish or Christian origin, which was known as the Isrāʾīliyyāt. There is undoubtedly much
material in tafsīr which has been transmitted from Jewish and Christian sources, this is particularly
the case when the verses of the Qur’an refer to biblical characters, especially the more obscure
Qur’anic prophets such as Ilyās (Elijah). The lacunae in the Qur’anic text, which can often provide
little information, were filled in with hadith that looked to the biblical tradition. This material was
often attributed to Jewish and Christian converts to Islam, most notably Wah.b ibn Munabbih and
Kaʿb al-Ah.bār.70 There was a movement in later periods against this kind of material, and thereafter
it was treated with much suspicion and was later rejected outright by many scholars.71
Toward al-T.abarī
The study of early exegesis of the Qur’an is complex for a number of reasons, but three are worthy
of note here. First the sources that are available are relatively small in number so the ability to make
any general comments about early exegesis is actually much more problematic. From the late ninth
century, many more works of tafsīr are extant, and it is easier to gain an idea of the trajectories the
genre of tafsīr was taking but, more importantly, of how individual authors deviated from that central
core approach. Furthermore, a number of questions surround the authenticity of some of the earliest
works of tafsīr, particularly those ascribed to early authorities. A certain degree of caution is needed
when studying them, since even if these texts were to be authentic, they are likely to have been
mediated through others. Lastly, many early exegeses are partial, either by intent or because they
have been lost. Again, this makes it much more difficult to assess the field of early tafsīr.
Second, the importance of hadith in early exegesis, both in formal exegetical works entitled tafsīr
and also in those supplementary exegetical genres, presents some difficulties. The field of hadith
studies has questioned the reliability and authenticity of the chains of transmission, and this has had
a subsequent effect on the way in which scholars have understood the material transmitted through
hadiths. The issue of the authenticity of hadith will remain a part of the study of tafsīr, those written
both before and after figures like al-T ․ abarī, but it does tend to lurk in the background in studies of
Muslim exegetical literature. However, it is important to bear these issues in mind when looking at
early exegetical sources, whether formal or informal.
The greatest difference between the early exegetical material and the developed genre of tafsīr
is fluidity in approach. Early exegetes exercise much more independence, as has been seen with
scholars like Muqātil ibn Sulaymān placing the authority of his exegetical comments in himself and
in al-Qummī’s use of tafsīr as a launch pad for polemic. It is wrong to suggest that this idea of the
authority of the exegete disappears in the later tafsīr tradition because exegetes like al-T ․ abarī still
give their readers their opinion and preferences, but this is done at a later stage, after the exegetical
material found in the hadith(s) has been presented.72 The sense of fluidity is also seen in the plethora
of types of text that are available: although tafsīr existed as a genre in the early period, it was part of
a wider group of sources that engaged with the meaning of the Qur’an, such as works of early lexi-
cography.73 It is not until the later period that the full-fledged genre of tafsīr emerged and relegated
these other forms of exegetical comment to a supplementary status.
230
In the early period it is possible to see tafsīr beginning to make a move toward the form that
tafsīr was to take: hadiths are integrated into the text more frequently over time, and direct personal
comment is increasingly reduced. This can be linked to debates about “commentary from [personal]
opinion” (tafsīr bi l-raʾy) and “commentary from transmission” (tafsīr bi l-maʾthūr), although such
distinctions are misleading – an exegete always expresses his opinion. In many respects, it is more
profitable to place this move toward the inclusion of hadiths in tafsīr within the context of the legal
debates about sources and authority between the ahl al-sunna and the ahl al-raʾy: the move toward
hadith in legal theory is mirrored in the tafsīr literature.74
This is only natural as tafsīr did not operate in a scholarly vacuum. Early exegesis is marked by a
greater freedom of interpretation and of personal authority and by fluidity in form; but over time
this develops and changes into the form of tafsīr typified by al-T ․ abarī. In the developed genre,
authority becomes part of a more complex interaction with hadith and scholarly consensus. But
the personal authority and freedom of the exegete to interpret, as seen in the exegeses of the early
period, are never truly lost within the genre of tafsīr. The given exegete’s creativity, opinions, and
priorities are still seen in the ways in which he gives, arranges, and presents the information and thus
shapes the tafsīr itself.
Notes
1 See Karen Bauer, “A Study of the Introductions to Classical Works of Tafsīr,” in Aims, Methods and Contexts of
Qur’anic Exegesis (2nd/8th – 9th/15th C.), ed. Karen Bauer (Oxford: Oxford University Press [in association
with the Institute of Ismaili Studies], 2013), 39–65, 42–45. The word tafsīr means “elucidation” or “explana-
tion”; ‘taʾwīl is usually given the English “interpretation” or “explanation” and is related to the concept of
returning to the original meaning of the text.
2 See Diane Steigerwald, “Ismāʿīlī Taʾwīl,” in The Blackwell Companion to the Qur’an, ed. Andrew Rippin
(Oxford: Blackwell, 2006), 373–385.
3 See Norman Calder, “Tafsīr from T ․ abarī to Ibn Kathīr: Problems in the Description of a Genre, Illus-
trated with the Reference to the Story of Abraham,” in Approaches to the Qur’an, ed. G.R. Hawting and
Abdul Kader A. Shareef (London: Routledge, 1993), 101–140; Feras Hamza and Sajjad Rizvi, with Farhana
Mayer, An Anthology of Qur’anic Commentaries – Vol. 1: On the Nature of the Divine (Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, in association with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2008), 28–29; Walid A. Saleh, “Some
Preliminary Remarks on the Historiography of Tafsīr in Arabic: A History of the Book Approach,” Journal
of Qur’anic Studies 12 (2010): 6–40.
4 Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūt․ī, T․ abaqāt al-mufassirīn (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, n.d.), 82–84.
5 This chapter largely follows the chronological divisions in the history of tafsīr described in Claude Gilliot,
“Kontinuität und Wandel in der ‘klasischen’ islamischen Koranauslesung (II./VII.-XII./XIX/ Jh.),” Der
Islam 85, no. 1 (2010): 8–153.
6 Andrew Rippin, “al-Zuhrī, naskh al-Qur’an and the Problem of Early tafsīr Texts,” Bulletin of the School of
Oriental and African Studies 47, no. 1 (1984): 22–43; idem, “Ibn ʿAbbās and the Criteria for Dating Early
tafsīr Texts,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 18 (1994): 38–83; idem, “Studying Early tafsīr Texts,” Der
Islam 72, no. 2 (195): 310–323.
7 Michael Pregill, “Isrāʾīliyyāt, Myth and Pseudepigraphy: Wahb b. Munnabih and the Early Islamic Version of
the Fall of Adam and Eve,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 34 (2008): 215–284; idem, “Methodologies for
the Dating of Exegetical Works and Traditions: Can the Lost Tafsīr of Kalbī be Recovered from Tafsīr Ibn ʿAbbās
(also known as al-Wād. ih.)?,” in Aims, Methods and Contexts of Qur’anic Exegesis (2nd/8th – 9th/15th C.), ed. Karen
Bauer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, in association with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2013), 393–453;
Nicolai Sinai, “The Qur’anic Commentary of Muqātil b. Sulaymān and the Evolution of Early Tafsīr Litera-
ture,” in Tafsīr and Islamic Intellectual History: Exploring the Boundaries of a Genre, ed. Andreas Görke and Johanna
Pink (Oxford: Oxford University Press, in association with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2014), 113–143.
8 See Claude Gilliot, “Portaite ‘mythique’ d’Ibn ʿAbbās,” Arabica 32, no. 2 (1985): 127–184.
9 See Jonathan A.C. Brown, Hadith: Muhammad’s Legacy in the Medieval and Modern World (Oxford: Oneworld,
2009), 197–239.
10 Herbert Berg’s numerous studies of Ibn ʿAbbās applied the methods of hadith criticism employed by G.H.A.
Juynboll and Harald Motzki to Ibn ʿAbbās and his exegetical material. Berg’s monograph, The Development
231
S.R. Burge
of Exegesis in Early Islam generated much debate, including two responses by Motzki himself: Harald Motzki,
“The Question of the Authenticity of Muslim Traditions Reconsidered: A Review Article,” in Method and
Theory in the Study of Islamic Origins, ed. Herbert Berg (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 211–258; idem, “The Origins
of Muslim Exegesis. A Debate,” in Analysing Muslim Traditions: Studies in Legal, Exegetical and Maghāzī Had-
ith, ed. Harald Motzki with Nicolet Boekhoff-van der Voort and Sean W. Anthony (Leiden: Brill, 2010),
231–303.
11 Fuat Sezgin, Geschichte des arabischen Schrifttums (Leiden: Brill, 1967), vol .1, 26.
12 Berg, “The ‘School’ of Ibn ʿAbbās,” 84.
13 See S.R. Burge, “Authority and the Defence of Readings in Medieval Qur’anic Exegesis: Lexicology and
the Case of Falaq (Q 113:1),” in Burge (ed.), The Meaning of the Word, 157–193, 161–166.
14 Gilliot, “Portaite ‘mythique’ d’Ibn ʿAbbās,” 177–184.
15 Sezign, however, suggests that the work amounts to the reception of Ibn ʿAbbās’s ideas and interpretation of
the Qur’an; Sezgin, Geschichte des arabischen Schrifttums, vol .1, 22–26.
16 See Pregill, “Methodologies for the Dating of Exegetical Works and Traditions,” 396.
17 John Wansbrough, Qur’anic Studies: Sources and Methods of Scriptural Interpretation (New Edition) (Amherst:
Prometheus Books, 2004), 130–137, 140–146, 158.
18 Ibid., 130.
19 His full name was Abū l-Nad.r Muh.ammad ibn S.āʾib al-Kalbī.
20 Wansbrough, Qur’anic Studies, 146.
21 Rippin, “al-Zuhrī, naskh al-Qur’an and the Problem of Early tafsīr Texts,” 23–24.
22 See Pregill, “Methodologies for the Dating of Exegetical Works and Traditions,” 429.
23 Claude Gilliot, “Mujāhid’s Exegesis: Origins, Paths of Transmission and Development of a Meccan Exegeti-
cal Tradition in Its Human, Spiritual and Theological Environment,” in Görke and Pink, Tafsīr and Islamic
Intellectual History, 63–112.
24 See Claude Gilliot, “A Schoolmaster, Storyteller, Exegete and Warrior at Work: al-D . ah.h.āk b. Muzāh.im
al-Hilālī,” in Bauer (ed.), Aims, Methods and Contexts of Qur’anic Exegesis (2nd/8th – 9th/15th C.), 311–392.
25 See C.H.M. [Kees] Versteegh, “Zayd b. ʿAlī’s Commentary on the Qur’an,” in Arabic Grammar and Linguis-
tics, ed. Yasir Suleiman (London: Routledge, 1999), 9–29.
26 See Gerard Lecomte, “Sufyān al-Tawri: Quelques remarques sur le personnage et son oeuvre,” Bulletin
d’études orientales 30 (1978): 51–60.
27 E.g., www.altafsir.com, which includes online editions of the exegeses of Muqātil ibn Sulaymān, Furāt ibn
Furāt al-Kūfī, al-Qummī, al-Tustarī, al-Jabarī, and Hūd al-Hawwarī, amongst others (accessed February 15,
2016).
28 Especially, Rippin “Studying Early tafsīr Texts,” and Gilliot, “Kontinuität und Wandel.”
29 Muqātil b. Sulaymān (ed. ʿAbdallāh Mah.mūd Shih.āta), Tafsīr Muqātil b. Sulaymān (Cairo: al-Hayʾa al-
Mis.riyya al-ʿĀmma li l-Kitāb, 1967).
30 Hamza, On the Nature of the Divine, 22.
31 Muqātil (ed. Shih.āta), vol. 1, 9–85; see also Hamza, On the Nature of the Divine, 21–23.
32 The murjiʿa (“postponers”) were a theological school that argued that those who committed grave sins were
not excluded from the community, as judgment against them was “postponed” until the afterlife.
33 See Claude Gilliot, “Muqātil, grand exégète, traditioniste, et théologien maudit,” Journal Asiatique 279
(1991): 39–92.
34 See Sinai, “The Qur’anic Commentary of Muqātil b. Sulaymān and the Evolution of Early Tafsīr Literature,”
114–117.
35 Hamza, On the Nature of the Divine, 73. The Anthology of Qur’anic Commentaries uses the Qur’anic translations
of Arberry, Pickthall, and Qarāʾī, with modifications where necessary; see On the Nature of the Divine, xv.
36 C.H.M. [Kees] Versteegh, “In Search of Meaning: Lexical Explanation in Early Qur’anic Commentaries,”
in Burge (ed.), The Meaning of the Word, 43–66, 47.
37 Burge, “Authority and the Defence of Readings in Medieval Qur’anic Exegesis,” 160.
38 e.g., Mehmet Akif Koç, “A Comparison of the References to Muqātil b. Sulaymān (150/767) with the
Exegesis of al-Thaʿlabī (427/1036) with Muqātil’s Own Exegesis,” Journal of Semitic Studies 53, no. 1 (2008):
69–101. Other early murjiʿī exegeses are extant, such as that written by Yah.yā ibn Sallām (d. 815), although
they remain largely unstudied. See Hamza, On the Nature of the Divine, 2.
39 The Kharijites (Khawārij) were a theological (and political) school of thought, who argued that those who
committed grave sins were excluded from the community.
40 See Hamza, On the Nature of the Divine, 74–75.
41 Hūd has been the subject of some limited study, most notably by Claude Gilliot, “Le commentaire cora-
nique de Hūd b. Muh.akkam/Muh.kim,” Arabica 44 (1997): 179–233; and Sulaiman al-Shuaily, “Ibād.i Tafsīr:
232
A comparison of Hūd al-Hawwārī and Saʿīd al-Kindī” (Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Edin-
burgh, 2001).
42 Meir M. Bar-Asher, Scripture and Exegesis in Early Imāmī-Shīʿīsm (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 73.
43 See Hazma, On the Nature of the Divine, 24–25; Bar-Asher, Scripture and Exegesis in Early Imāmī-Shīʿīsm,
33–38.
44 Burge, “Authority and the Defence of Readings in Medieval Qur’anic Exegesis,” 164.
45 Furāt ibn Furāt al-Kūfī (ed. Muh.ammad al-Kāz․im), Tafsīr (Beirut: Muʾassasat al-Nuʿmān 1412/1992);
al-ʿAyyāshī (ed. Sayyid Hāshim al-Rasūlī al-Mah.allātī), Kitāb al-Tafsīr (Qumm: Chāpkhāna-yi ʿIlmiyya,
1961–1962).
46 S.R. Burge, “Scattered Pearls: Exploring al-Suyūt․ī’s Hermeneutics and Use of Sources in al-Durr al-manthūr
fī’l-tafsīr bi’l-maʾthūr,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 24:2; 251–296; see also Saleh, “Some Preliminary
Remarks on the Historiography of Tafsīr in Arabic,” 32.
47 See Burge, “Myth, Meaning and the Order of Words.”
48 See Bar-Asher, Scripture and Exegesis in Early Imāmī-Shīʿīsm, 30.
49 Furāt, Tafsīr; this is my own translation.
50 See Kristin Zahra Sands, Sufi Commentaries of the Qur’an in Classical Islam (London: Routledge, 2006),
67–78.
51 Martin Nguyen, Sufi Master and Qur’an Scholar: Abū’l-Qāsim al-Qushayrī and the Lat․āʾif al-ishārāt (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, in association with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2012).
52 Annabel Keeler, Sufi Hermeneutics: The Qur’an Commentary of Rash.id al-Dīn Maybūdī (Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, in association with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2006).
53 See S.R. Burge, “Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūt․ī, the Muʿawwidhatān and the Modes of Exegesis,” in Bauer (ed.), Aims,
Methods and Contexts of Qur’anic Exegesis, 277–307, 283–288.
54 Sahl al-Tustarī (trans. Annabel Keeler and Ali Keeler), Tafsīr al-Tustarī (Louisville, KY: Fons Vitae/Royal Aal
al-Bayt Institute for Islamic Thought, 2011), 318.
55 Calder, “Tafsīr from T ․ abarī to Ibn Kathīr,” 101–103.
56 The Qur’an was revealed over a period of years, but the Qur’an is not ordered chronologically. There are
occasions, such as the verses concerning the consumption of alcohol (Q 2:219 and 5:90–91), which take
different stances. In Islamic law and the interpretation of the Qur’an, scholars understood that the first verse
was “abrogated” (mansūkh) by subsequent verse, the “abrogating” (nāsikh) verse replaced the original position.
57 Christopher Melchert, “The Interpretation of Three Qur’anic Terms (Siyāh.a, H.ikma and S.iddīq) of Special
Interest to the Early Renunciants,” in Burge (ed.), The Meaning of the Word, 89–116.
58 Burge, “Authority and the Defence of Readings in Medieval Qur’anic Exegesis,” 174–177.
59 Ibid., 167–171.
60 al-Bukhārī (ed. S.uhayb al-Karmī), Jāmiʿ al-s.ah.īh (Riyadh: Bayt al-afkār al-dawliyya li’l-nashr wa’l-tawzīʿ,
1419/1998), Kitāb tafsīr al-Qur’an (§65), 845–1004. See Melchert, Christopher, “Bukhārī’s Kitāb Tafsīr
al-Qurʾān,” Journal of the International Qur’anic Studies Association 1 (2016): 149–172.
61 See Roberto Tottoli, “Interrelations and Boundaries Between Tafsīr and Hadith Literature: The Exegesis of
Mālik b. Anas’s Muwat․․taʾ and Classical Qur’anic Commentaries,” in Görke and Pink (eds.), Tafsīr and Islamic
Intellectual History, 147–171.
62 ʿAbd al-Razzāq al-S.anʿānī (ed. H . abīb al-Rah.mān al-Aʿz․amī), al-Mus.annaf (Karachi: al-Majlis al-ʿIlmī,
1390–1392/1970–1972).
63 R. Marston Speight, “The Function of h.adīth as Commentary on the Qur’an, as Seen in the Six Authori-
tative Collections,” Approaches to the History of the Interpretation of the Qur’an, ed. Andrew Rippin (Oxford:
Clarendon, 1988), 63–81.
64 Tottoli, “Interrelations and Boundaries Between Tafsīr and Hadith Literature,” 162; see also Burge, “Scat-
tered Pearls,” 262–266.
65 C.H.M. Versteegh, Arabic Grammar and Qur’anic Exegesis in Early Islam (Leiden: Brill, 1993), 65–68; cf.
Harald Motzki, “The Mus.annaf of ʿAbd al-Razzāq al-S.aʿānī as a Source of Authentic Āh.ādīth of the First
Century A.H.,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 50, no. 1 (1991): 1–21.
66 See C.H.M. Versteegh, “The Name of the Ant and the Call to Holy War: al-D . ah.h.āk ibn Muz․āhim’s Com-
mentary on the Qur’an,” in The Transmission and Dynamics of the Textual Sources of Islam: Essays in Honour of
Harald Motzki, ed. Nicolet Boekhoff-van der Voort, Kees Versteegh, and Joas Wagemakers (Leiden: Brill,
2011), 279–299.
67 The qirāʾāt are used to refer to different ways of pronouncing and reciting the Qur’an that are acceptable
and permissible; the tafsīr tradition also perpetuated “noncanonical” variations, that is, variations that are not
permissible to use when reciting the Qur’an. There are often used by exegetes to help explain what a word
in the Qur’an means.
233
S.R. Burge
6 8 Versteegh, “In Search of Meaning,” 46.

69 Bar-Asher, Scripture and Exegesis in Early Imāmī-Shīʿīsm, 73.
70 Roberto Tottoli, Biblical Prophets in the Qur’an and Muslim Literature (Richmond, VA: Curzon, 2002), 89–95.
71 See Roberto Tottoli, “Origin and Use of the Term Isrāʾīliyyāt in Muslim Literature,” Arabica 46, no. 2
(1999): 193–210; Michael Pregil, “The Hebrew Bible and the Qur’an: The Problem of the Jewish ‘Influ-
ence’ on Islam,” Religion Compass 1, no. 6 (2007): 643–659.
72 See Burge, “Authority and the Defence of Readings in Medieval Qur’anic Exegesis,” 177–183.
73 See Andrew Rippin, “Lexicographical Texts and the Qur’an,” in Approaches to the History of the Interpretation
of the Qur’an, ed. Rippin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 157–174.
74 Cf. David R. Vishanoff, The Formation of Islamic Hermeneutics: How Sunni Legal Theorists Imagined a Revealed
Law (New Haven, CT: American Oriental Society, 2011).
234
22
FAKHR AL-DĪN AL-RĀZĪ
SEEN THROUGH HIS GREAT
COMMENTARY ON THE QUR’AN
Michel Lagarde
In a famous passage of al-Manār, Rashīd Rid.ā (d. 1353/1935) writes: “In the Qur’anic commentary
of Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī we find everything but Qur’anic commentary.” A rather severe judgment,
especially when we know that the one who pronounced it sometimes borrowed from the one he
criticized without citing him. Admittedly, his al-Tafsīr al-kabīr (The Great Commentary), also known as
Mafātīh. al-ghayb (Keys to the Unseen), is an encyclopedic work, where “the keys of the unseen” open
doors onto very broad horizons. The author plays various characters across his work. Here, we shall
treat five of these roles – the rationalist scholastic, the skilled polemicist, the creative linguist, the
initiator, and the spiritual mystic – in order to reveal himself in a sixth: as a man.
The Rationalist Scholastic

In the many works devoted to Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (d. 606/1209), people emphasize above all his
role as a rationalist scholastic, only touching on or often ignoring others. This occurs so much that
his Great Commentary is cited as the model of the genre tafsīr bi l-raʾy – commentary based on the
exercise of reason and personal reflection. This is an important aspect that we want to emphasize
first, with an excerpt from his commentary on Q 2:3–5. The verse reads:
Those who believe in the unseen, who perform prayer and who spend in alms what we
have provided for them. Those who believe in what has come down to you, what has come
down before you and who have certainty about the hereafter: Such people are following
guidance from their Lord and such people, they are the ones who succeed.
Al-Rāzī writes in his commentary on this verse:
The proponents of the threat (al-waʿīdiyya) take these verses from one point of view, and
the proponents of abstention (al-murjiʾa), according to another.
1 The Waʿīdīs take two approaches:

a First: [God’s] saying: “Such people, they are the ones who succeed” (ūlāʿika hum al-
muflih.ūna, Q 2:5) {necessarily connotes (yaqtad. ī) a restriction} (1); therefore (fa) it is neces-
sary (wajaba) that whoever observes neither prayer nor almsgiving will not succeed. And
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-25 235

Michel Lagarde
this logically requires (yūjibu) a definitive decision (al-qat․ʿ) in favor of the reality of the
threat [of divine punishment] against anyone who abandons prayer and almsgiving.
b Second: {Basing the status [of being successful] on a certain quality indicates that the quality
is the cause (ʿilla) of the status} (2). Therefore (fa-) it must follow (yalzamu) that the cause
(ʿilla) of success is the carrying out of faith, prayer, and almsgiving. Therefore (fa-), for
anyone who does not observe these things, the cause (ʿilla) of success is lacking. Therefore
(fa-) it is necessary (wajaba) that there be no success.
2 As for the Murjiʾa, they argue (ih.tajjū) from the fact that God determines the success of those to
whom the specific qualities mentioned in this verse are attributed. Therefore (fa-), [they claim]
it is necessary (wajaba) that anyone who has these specific qualities will succeed, even if such a
person were to commit adultery, or steal, or drink wine. And if it is proven (thabata) that this
category of person has a right to forgiveness, it is necessarily (d. arūratan) proven (thabata) for oth-
ers as well, since (idh) there is no one to say that there is a difference.
1′/ 2′ The answer [to both]: {Each of the two arguments (ih.tijājayni) being the opposite of the
other, they cancel each other out} (3).
1′ a′ Then the answer to the opinion of the Waʿīdīs: [God’s] word: “Such people, they are
the ones who succeed” indicates (yadullu) that they enjoy success completely. Therefore
(fa) it follows (yalzamu) that someone who commits a serious sin does not enjoy complete
success, and we maintain this of necessity (bi-mūjibihi). In fact (fa), how would a person be
said to enjoy success completely, when he is not sure of being safe from punishment, and
it is possible (yajūzu) that he fear it?
b As to the [Waʿīdī’s] second point: {The negation of only one cause (sabab) does not
necessitate (yaqtad. ī) the negation of the effect (musabbab)} (4). According to us, among the
various causes (asbāb) of success, there is the forgiveness of God, may He be exalted!
2′ The answer to the opinion of the Murjiʾa: The fact that they have the quality of reverential fear
(taqwā) suffices to obtain the reward, because it involves fear (ittiqāʾ) of disobeying and fear
(ittiqāʾ) of failing in one’s obligations. God knows best!1
This very concise text is a perfect example, among many hundreds of others, of the rationalist
scholastic process used by al-Rāzī, not in an absolutely original way but still so masterfully that few
commentators could match him.
First, it should be noted how the author digests the point of view of the other – in this case that
of the Waʿīdīs and Murjiʾa – making them conform to his own categories and presenting them
within the framework of his own method of exposition. This is why, secondly, even in such a brief
space he utilizes four linguistic and logical principles among the many that he cannot avoid using
on any occasion.2
Then, thirdly, he insists on using vocabulary appropriate for logical demonstration (yadullu) and
argumentation (ih.tijāj), namely: the consecutive fa- (“hence,” “therefore,” used seven times), idh
(“since,” used once), and li-anna (“because,” once), as well as terms that qualify the logical link
and content of speech: connotation (yaqtad. i, used twice), necessity (wajaba, five times), definitive
decision (qat.ʿ, once), consequence (yalzamu, twice), certainty (thabata, twice), obligation (d. arūratan,
once), possibility (yajūzu, once), and the relationship between cause (ʿilla, sabab, five times) and
effect (musabbab, once).
Then, fourthly, he develops his discourse according to the two classic pivots of the scholastic ratio:
the objection and the answer. For each in qīla . . . (“If it is said that . . .”), there is a fa-naqūlu . . . (“We
answer that . . .”). Here, both objections are presented as theses.
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Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī
Moreover, fifthly, it proceeds from the “global” to the “detailed” (ijmālan wa tafs.īlan). Here, the
answer to the two currents is first global – thanks to the use of the third principle, that of logical
noncontradiction – and then it is detailed, namely the answer to the two Waʿīdī points of view and
the answer to that of the Murjiʾa.
Finally, sixthly, al-Rāzī indirectly reminds us that, although he often acts as a theologian-
philosopher with a polemical tendency, he nonetheless remains a commentator on the Qur’anic text;
that is why he begins and ends here with two linguistic observations. The first, at the very begin-
ning, emphasizes what he enunciates elsewhere as a principle, namely that in the formula “Such
people, they are the ones who are successful” (ūlāʾika hum al-muflih.ūna), the hum (“they”), when
placed between a subject and a predicate, introduces a restrictive meaning. The second remark, at
the end, consists in his relying in his argument on the fact that taqwā (“piety” or “[reverential] fear”)
and ittiqāʾ (“fear”) share the same root (w-q-y).
As a last remark on the Rāzīan process, let us note how efficient his language is. Even in a pas-
sage like this, it would be very difficult to dispense with even a short sentence – so functional is his
language. This is not surprising since a diligent reading of the Great Commentary convinces us that its
author is so steeped in Qur’anic discourse that his ideal is to practice a “penetrating word” (qawlan
balīghan, Q 4:63) to be rewarded with “persuasive wisdom” (h.ikmatun bālighatun, Q 54:5) and to
handle “effective argumentation” (al-h.ujjat al-bāligha, Q 6:149). This is seen in his insisting time and
time again on the Qur’an’s “rhetorical form” (balāgha) and also in the fact that, although himself a
Persian, he uses perfectly clear and limpid classical Arabic – though he does use versification and
assonance himself when it is appropriate.
The Skilled Polemicist

Among the Waʿīdīs, al-Rāzī obviously includes the Muʿtazilīs (al-muʿtazila al-waʿīdiyya)3 who, in
the name of justice, defend the reality of divine retribution against the sinful believer even though
it is severe, as opposed to the Ashʿarīs who are unconditional defenders of divine mercy. Without
going into all the issues on which al-Rāzī is in disagreement with the Muʿtazilīs,4 we choose to
focus on the character he almost always refers to, ʿAbd al-Jabbār (d. 415/1025), the great thinker of
Muʿtazilism, whom he most often calls the Qadi (“the Judge,” al-qād· ī).5 This gives us an opportunity
to point out briefly the role of polemicist assumed by al-Rāzī. It is well-known that he played this
role; he deploys it widely in his work al-Munāz· arāt (The Disputations), especially against the Karrāmīs.
Of course, in the majority of cases, al-Rāzī disagrees with ʿAbd al-Jabbār. He can even treat him
harshly, for example, concerning the problem of human action, by ranking him among the “pro-
foundly ignorant” ( jāhil mutajāhil).6 However, in many cases, his attitude is either mixed or even in
agreement. In general, he classifies the Muʿtazilīs and explicitly the Qadi among the ahl al-qibla with
the Ashʿarī Sunnis.7 He sometimes manages to find in the Muʿtazilī position – for example, regard-
ing the definition of faith – something that is in keeping with the essence of his own definition, in
this case “assent” (tas.dīq).8 He even sometimes takes exactly the same position as ʿAbd al-Jabbār, for
example, when he nuances the rigid positions of those who maintain that Qur’anic passages con-
taining “O people!” are Meccan, while those that contain “O you who believe!” are Medinan.9 As
he does with many other authors, he sometimes takes the position of the Qadi in order to prolong
it in an argument ad absurdum. Concerning Q 2:21–22, ʿAbd al-Jabbār argues that the reason for
the obligation of adoration lies in the fact that God has created us and granted us His favors. From
there, the companions of al-Rāzī conclude that the servant would not deserve a reward for his just
action, such as worship, since it is obligatory. The Qadi obviously cannot accept such a conclusion.10
Often it happens that al-Rāzī relates the theological positions of the Qadi without discussing
them, while elsewhere he contests them. This is the case with the theological view that the fact of
having followed the guidance (Q 2:38) confers a right to paradise.11 Al-Rāzī at times even explicitly
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Michel Lagarde
approves what he holds to be true in ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s positions. For example, Rāzī maintains that
the content of Q 2:72–73 – Moses’s argument about the man he had killed – does not apply to a
murderer who argues for their inheritance. Not only does Rāzī approve of the Qadi’s positions, but
he often develops this or that opinion of the Qadi with a series of additional arguments. For instance,
using the basis of Qur’an 83:14, which says evil deeds “rust” onto peoples’ hearts, Rāzī comes to the
more general conclusion that “Yes, libertines are in Hell.”12 Also following the Qadi, when Qur’an
2:99 mentions “signs” (āyāt) descending onto the world, this can be understood as the “verses” (also
āyāt) of the Qur’an.13 At a certain stage in the development of his commentary, al-Rāzī does not
even bother to repeat the positions of ‘Abd al-Jabbār on certain acts, considering the issue to have
been dealt with once and for all in previous parts of the commentary. “Discussion of this theme has
been already been undertaken in an authoritative and detailed way on several occasions and many
times.”14 Even this small sample may indicate that al-Rāzī does not have a systematic opposition to
ʿAbd al-Jabbār in particular or to the Muʿtazilīs in general, and this lends him a certain appeal as an
able and intelligent polemicist.
The Creative Linguist

If al-Rāzī excels in the exercise of scholastic reasoning, as we have just seen, he doesn’t stop there.
He also knows how to use his creativity and imagination, allowing him to see the Qur’anic text from
new angles that previous exegetes rarely considered. To illustrate this aptitude, we can consider his
commentary on “God has made you grow a [wonderful] growth from earth” (wa llāhu anbatakum
mina l-ard.i nabātan, Q 71:17).15 We can summarize his discussion as follows: the verb anbata (“he
caused to grow”) is in the fourth form, while its object nabātan (“a growth”) is in the first form. This
lack of correspondence represents a linguistic difficulty for our author. But, according to al-Rāzī,
this apparent error actually produces a very fine meaning. It ought to be understood as “God made
you grow and you have grown a [wonderful] growth” (Allāhu anbatakum wa nabattum nabātan). Thus
we can resolve the seeming discrepancy between the verb anbata understood as the fourth form and
its absolute object nabātan.
Behind this purely grammatical mechanism, there lies a surprising, more meaningful discussion.
If the absolute object had been in the fourth form (inbātan), it would have meant that growth was
solely God’s work and not man’s. But since it is in the first form (nabātan), this growth also becomes
the act of man because this object corresponds to the verb nabattum (“you have grown”). In the first
case, we would have known that this growth is marvelous only by revealed tradition; in the second,
we also know it directly from sensible experience. However, the Qur’anic context in which this
verse is found relates to the demonstration of the perfection of divine power. We cannot prove this
perfection by evidence of revealed tradition; otherwise we would fall into a vicious circle. We must
therefore demonstrate it by induction, from our visible and sensible experience.16 This is why this
Qur’anic verse ensures the passage from the fourth verb form anbata, where it is God who really
acts, to the first form nabātan where it is man who acts metaphorically. This makes possible a cor-
rect demonstration, through induction, of the perfect divine power. We now understand that in this
grammatical disparity between the verb and its absolute complement is a great semantic finesse and
not a gross error, as some have claimed.
Thanks to this ingenious mental elaboration, al-Rāzī exceeds the normal and ordinary meaning
of the text, without betraying its literality. But it must be said that he sees here a difficulty in the text
that in reality does not exist because this kind of disparity between the verb and the complement
is part of normal and habitual language. Regardless of the rules of a given language, proper form is
ultimately consecrated by usage. Our author, in wanting to leave the well-worn track of the usual
commentary, acts as a renewer of thought and an animator of meaning, convinced that the Word of
God is semantically inexhaustible. As al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111) said a century earlier in paraphrase
238
of Qur’an 31:27: “The hidden meanings of the Word of God are infinite. If the sea becomes ink and
the trees change into pens, the former will dry up and the latter will disappear, even before its secret
senses are exhausted.”17 Given the numerous references that al-Rāzī made to his predecessor, we can
suppose he took this teaching to heart.
The Initiator Into the Inexpressible

To think of al-Rāzī as only a rationalist scholastic is not only inadequate, but it is also misleading.
His Great Commentary teems with “secrets” (asrār), “subtleties” (lat․āʾif ) and “nuances” (daqāʾiq) that
he claims to have discovered in the Qur’anic text and into which he initiates his reader.18 Access to
these realities of the text is not the domain of reason but that of the more allusive senses. On several
occasions our author recalls that he is attentive to the words of “the partisans” or “the masters of
allusion” (ahl al-ishāra, arbāb al-ishāra). He laments that few commentators have been sensitive to such
realities, while congratulating himself for having been the beneficiary of their discovery:
How sublime are the subtleties of the Qur’an! But although long periods have already
passed, no one has noticed and paid attention to it. Praise be to God! Only that is appro-
priate to his greatness and to the unveiling of what he has reserved for the poor man that
I am, by means of the knowledge of these secrets.19
Generally speaking, in earlier literature, as well as literature contemporary to al-Rāzī, references to

“secrets” is merely a conventional literary genre without much meaning; so many books are entitled
The Secrets . . . of this or that. Al-Ghazālī, in his Ih.yāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn (Revival of the Religious Sciences),
speaks at length about the secrets of prayer, almsgiving, and so forth. But for Ghazālī, “secrets” means
only “the deeper meaning.” And because of this, Ghazālī’s “secrets” do not leave the normal semantic
plane of language. On the other hand, al-Rāzī in this case breaks with the normal system of mean-
ing, as we will see in the following two examples.
Concerning the commentary on the introductory Qur’anic formula: “I take refuge in God . . .”
(aʿūdhu bi-llāhi, Q 2:67, 12:34) and its use of the letter b (bāʾ), al-Rāzī says:
Proponents of allusion say that the bāʾ [i.e., ‫ ]ب‬is a flat letter; but when she binds herself in
writing to the expression Allāh, she stands up and rises [‫ ب‬becomes ‫]با‬. So much so that we
hope that if the heart is bound to the service of God – be He magnified and glorified – its
state will rise and its condition will rise.20
It is therefore no longer the conceptual content of the text that functions here in terms of meaning,
but the visual allusion suggested by the graphic transformation of the letter bāʾ, when it binds to the
initial alif of Allāh. We must not forget, for the allusion to be complete, that the last letter of “heart”
(qalb, ‫ )قلب‬in Arabic is also the letter bāʾ.
Here is another example relating to the letter l (lām, ‫ )ل‬and the etymology of the name of Allāh,
which uses two l’s in a unique combination:
“For the masters of allusion and spiritual combat, we have here a nuance (daqīqa) in the fact
that the lām of the article [i.e., al-] which determines knowledge and the lām of the root of
the expression Allāh meet, so that the first is assimilated to the second [two ‫’ل‬s merge as ‫]هللا‬.
Thus, the lām of the article which determines knowledge falls, while the lām of the expres-
sion Allāh remains. This draws our attention to the fact that when knowledge comes into
the presence of the Known, it falls, and vanishes, while the Eternal Known remains as He
is, without addition or diminution.”21
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Michel Lagarde
Here the allusion is a phenomenon, at once both graphic and phonetic, which suggests the ecstatic
experience of fanā’ that no clear and logical conceptual language can signify; hence the necessity of
resorting to this process. In this role of initiator and in the next one assumed by our author, we sup-
pose the not-so-direct influence of Ibn ʿArabī (d. 639/1240), in spite of the problematic epistolary
contact that there would have been between them.22 The indirect influence of the Andalusian mystic
was already wide spread in the time of al-Rāzī. It would be easy to show how frequently this process
of allusion appears in Ibn ʿArabī’s famous work, al-Futūh.āt al-Makkiyya (Meccan Openings). From the
beginning of this text, the author presents an evanescent young man he met in Mecca, near the black
stone. He gave him an allusion by means of an enigmatic sign, for he had been created to speak only
by allusive signs. If you have the knowledge, he says, realize and understand my allusive sign; you will
know then that neither the eloquence of the people who speak can equal it, nor can the skill of those
who are well versed in oratory be used to pronounce it.23 The allusion is therefore an extraconceptual
meta-language that has nothing to do with scholastic ratiocination. It must be admitted that we are
surprised to see the same author handling two such heterogeneous languages in the same work.
The Spiritual Mystic

Without reaching a level of interpretation that we might describe as esoteric, al-Rāzī often resorts
to interpretations of the Qur’anic text that have a distinctly spiritual and even mystic flavor.24
One feels in him the will to go beyond the literal meaning that sometimes leads to pure ritualism,
to reach a meaning that can revive the faith of the community. For this reason, his references to
al-Ghazālī are relatively numerous, and he likewise relies on the testimony of more controversial
Sufis like that of H.usayn Mans.ūr al-H.allāj (d. 309/922). Here too, we could produce a multitude
of examples; but we will content ourselves with one that concerns the dawn prayer discussed in
Qur’an 17:78. The text says, “Establish regular prayer from the decline of the sun, to the darkness
of the night and the recitation at the dawn,” and then concludes with, “[Y]es, the recitation at the
dawn is witnessed” (inna qurʾāna l-fajri kāna mashhūdan). We will not quote the full text of al-Rāzī’s
commentary on this verse, which is far too long for our needs here, but rather we will summarize
it in substance.25
The term that requires the most explanation is mashhūd (“witnessed”). Ibn Manz․ūr (d. 712/1312),
in his famous dictionary, Lisān al-ʿarab, suggests that the term carries a secondary meaning of
“attended” by a large presence of angels. But, al-Rāzī specifies that, according to the prophetic tra-
dition, this dawn prayer is mashhūda, that is to say, maktūba (“recorded”); in other words, the angels
frequent this prayer to “inscribe” the reward. As we will see, al-Rāzī also departs from here to raise
us to an even more expansive spiritual atmosphere.
The angels of the night and those of the day, therefore, gather at the dawn prayer behind the
imam; the latter arrive very early, before the first leave. After ascending, the nocturnal angels report,
saying, “Lord, we have left your servants praying.” To which the diurnal angels answer, “Lord, we
have found your servants praying.” Then God said to the angels, “Tell them I forgive them.” He who
is endowed with spiritual sense will begin his prayer while it is still dark and prolong it with a long
Qur’anic recitation until the day comes up; thus he will favor the maximum presence of the angels.
Moreover, he will penetrate the deep sense of the passage from darkness to light. Darkness is
death and nothingness, while light is life and existence. During prayer, this passage is lived first at
the personal level and then at the cosmic level. This is an astonishing and marvelous thing; only the
Creator, with unlimited power, can realize such a reversal. Then reason is flooded by the light of
knowledge and the doors of the divine unveiling open before it. Also, prayer, which is a simple act
of adoration with gestures and words, becomes an extraordinary celebration because of this holy
unveiling, following which the one who prays in the space between night and day will find in his
heart calm, repose, a more enlightened knowledge and the strength of certainty.
240
This is the meaning of this prayer on a personal level, but it also has a community dimension
because mashhūd also means “frequented” by a large presence of the faithful. When the community
gathers together at dawn, everyone’s heart is illuminated as we have just seen. And by virtue of this
gathering, it is as if the light of the knowledge of God issued from the heart of each worshipper,
to go toward that of others, all being like mirrors arranged face to face. Then this light shines in all
directions and continues to intensify, reflecting, to produce a blinding light. From this example one
can imagine the inner spiritual depth of the commentator emerging from the exegetical methodol-
ogy to share an experience.
The Man
A great classical scholar, after reading the work of one of his contemporaries, declared: “We expected
to see an author, and we find a man.” That is what happens when one reads the Great Commentary.
Certainly, a priori, we can expect the discourse of the “characters” we have just mentioned, especially
the first, but not that of “the man” who is all the while perceived directly or in the background. As
commentators like al-T ․ abarī (d. 310/923) or al-Zamakhsharī (d. 539/1144) never do, our commen-
tator, al-Rāzī, gives us glimpses of his humanity.
We know that al-Rāzī was born in Rayy (Tehran) in 543/1149 and died in Herat in 606/1209.
Initiated into all the sciences of his time, he traveled a great deal and was very close to the repre-
sentatives of power. It is sure that, in addition to his philosophical and theological preoccupations
that have often been expressed politically,26 he dedicated a very large part of his life to commenting
on the Qur’an.27 Without being exhaustive, we can say that we meet several categories of autobio-
graphical clues in the Great Commentary.
First, dates and places are recorded at the end of the commentary on some suras. For example,
sura 3 was completed on Thursday the first of the month, Rabiʿ al-Ākhir 595/1198; sura 17 on
Tuesday the 20th of Muh.arram 601/1204, at the end of the afternoon, in the city of Ghaznīn
(Ghazna in Khurasan); sura 14, at the end of the month of Shaʿbān 601/1204, in the desert of
Baghdad. We could continue this list. It goes without saying that these connotations are important
in many ways. For example, the last one makes us understand that his commentary on Q 88:17–20:
“Do not they consider how camels were created, how the sky is high, how mountains were placed,
and how the land has been flattened?” probably stems from a personal experience of so repeatedly,
traveling on camel-back. At first glance, these elements stated by the Qur’an, namely camel, sky,
mountains, and flat earth, have nothing to do with one another. Here is how al-Rāzī puts them in
relation to one another, perhaps also describing his own way of traveling:
The Qur’an has been revealed in the language of the Arabs who are great travelers, because
their country is not cultivable. Their travels are mostly camel trekking in the desert where
they lead a wild and solitary life. But when he is alone, a man tends to think about the
things he sees, because he has no one to talk to and nothing to distract his ear and his eyes.
So, being in such a state, he must take care to think. And while reflecting, his gaze first falls
on the camel he is mounting; if he raises his head, he sees nothing but the sky; if he looks
on both sides, he sees only the mountains; and if he looks down, he sees only the flat earth
beneath him.28
The second kind of personal observations concern important events for which al-Rāzī was present,
for example, an earthquake in Zazna (Kashmir):
The day I wrote these pages on the commentary of the Sura of the Bees [Q 16], a Sunday
of the month of Muh.arram 602[/1205], there was, in the morning, a strong earthquake
241
Michel Lagarde
accompanied by a terrible subterranean roar. I heard screaming people praying and implor-
ing God. But as soon as calm returned and things returned to order, they forgot this calam-
ity and returned to their first state of heedless insouciance.29
The third category of autobiographical elements reflects an event that touched him very closely
and personally. On several occasions, he evokes, always extremely painfully, the death of his son,
Muh.ammad, in the war between Shihāb al-Dīn Ghūr (d. 603/1206) and Khwārazmshāh Muh.ammad
(d. 617/1220). Here is the most developed account of this misfortune:
The commentary of Sura Hūd [Q 11] was finished before sunrise, the night of Monday,
this month of Rajab 601[/1204]. I had a good son of excellent conduct; he died abroad, in
the vigor of youth. Because of this, my heart is ravaged by the burning of pain. In the name
of God, I implore my brethren in religion, my companions in the search for the truth and
all who will consult this book and derive some benefit from it, to remember this boy with
feelings of mercy and forgiveness. May they also remember in their prayer the wretch that
I am. Lord, do not turn away our hearts after guiding us. You, the Generous, grant us the
mercy that comes from you.30
This touching passage also sheds light on another in the commentary in which al-Rāzī seems to
meditate on his own death. In his commentary on Qur’an 12:101, in which Joseph is at long
last reunited with his father Jacob, al-Rāzī says of himself in the first person: “I myself am deeply
advanced in this state [of longing for death].”31 Because the completion of his commentary on sura
12 (Sūra Yūsuf ) is dated Wednesday, the seventh of Shaʿbān in the year 601/1204, we know this
remark was written shortly after the death of his son. At the end his commentary on the sura, he
concludes with an elegiac poem in which he says of his pain and his loss:
I swear, anyone who touches the mortal remains of my corpse,

Will still feel the fire of pain in the depths of my bones.
Life and death are all the same to me after your departure;
But death is preferable to an affliction that never ends.32
The impression left by reading the Great Commentary is that of having met a man with phenomenal
capacities of memory, intelligence, and creativity. It is the same impression that one has when reading
other great classical authors. One would easily imagine that he had, consequently, a high opinion
of his own importance. But if one believes the spiritual testaments that he left to posterity, it seems
that it was the opposite. And one may likewise be tempted to think that perhaps this tafsīr is only a
conventional literary work in a mundane genre without great significance. Be that as it may, Ibn Abī
Us.aybīʿa (d. 668/1270), in his ʿUyūn al-anbāʾ (Sources of Information), has al-Rāzī say:
In the end, reason is an obstacle and, most of the time, the path of scholars leads to mis-
guidance. Our mind is prisoner of our body, so that our life here below is only pain and
tribulation. From the intellectual research of our whole life, we derive as profit only a set
of uncertain and improbable opinions.33
Notes
1 Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, al-Tafsīr al-kabīr (Mafātīh. al-ghayb) (Beirut: Dār al-Fikr, 1981), vol. 2, 38 (line 27) to
39 (line 15).
242
2 We have noted in our full reading of al-Tafsīr al-kabīr, 55 categories of principles that are used in 489 different
formulations. Obviously, we are not at all sure of having been exhaustive. Michel Lagarde, Index du Grand
Commentaire de Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 15–53. In the excerpt from al-Rāzī’s commentary
previously cited, the four principles mentioned are placed between {}.
3 al-Rāzī, al-Tafsīr al-kabīr, vol. 3, 68 (lines 13–14).
4 Statistically speaking, the problem most often encountered in opposition to Muʿtazilīs is the question of the
creation of human acts, of a person’s responsibility or otherwise, of freedom of choice or determinism.
5 It does not seem necessary to recall that the man he refers to as S.āh.ib al-Kashshāf, that is, al-Zamakhsharī
is for al-Rāzī the almost undisputed authority to appeal to on most of the linguistic problems posed by the
Qur’anic text. One could also be interested in other Muʿtazilī personalities, such as Abū Muslim al-Is.fahānī
(d. 322/934), who “holds admirable positions and immerses himself fully in the exploration of the Qurʾan’s
subtleties and nuances.” Al-Rāzī, al-Tafsīr al-kabīr, vol. 8, 44 (line 23).
6 Ibid., vol. 2, 53 (line 3).
7 Ibid., vol. 2, 26 (line 22).
8 Ibid., vol. 2, 29 (line 1).
9 Ibid., vol. 2, 90.
10 Ibid., vol. 2, 95.
11 Ibid., vol. 3, 29.
12 Ibid., vol. 3, 158.
13 Ibid., vol. 3, 215.
14 Ibid., vol. 3, 138 (line 23).
15 Ibid., vol. 30, 140.
16 Indeed, wanting to show that God is powerful by claiming that he himself affirms that he is powerful,
is to beg the question. To prove it correctly, one must resort to rational or sensible proofs apart from
revelation.
17 Al-Ghazālī, Ih.yāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya: 1986) vol. 1, 341.
18 We have tried to make an exhaustive presentation of these significant and quantitatively important aspects
in Michel Lagarde, The Secrets of the Invisible. Essay on The Great Commentary by Fakhr al-Din al-Rāzī (Paris
and Beirut: Albouraq, 2008).
19 al-Rāzī, al-Tafsīr al-kabīr, vol. 31, 18.
20 Ibid., vol. 1, 113.
21 Ibid., vol. 1, 111.
22 Ibn ʿArabī, Rasāʾil Ibn ʿArabī (Beirut: Dār Ih.yāʾ al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 1367/1948).
23 Ibn ʿArabī, al-Futūh.āt al-makkiyya (Cairo: al-Hayʾa al-Mis.riyya al-ʿAmma li’l-Kitāb, 1405/1985), vol. 1,
216–218, no. 323–328.
24 This aspect is reported by Süleyman Uludağ in Fahrettin Rāzī (Ankara: Kültür Bakanliği, 1991), 92–108 in
the chapter entitled “Rāzī ve tasavvuf.”
26 Even with regard to the Arabic language, al-Rāzī lends himself to controversy. “During my stay at Khawārazm
there was a group of very great scholars. I told them of the difficulty represented by the expression kāna in
verse 280 of the Sura of the Cow,” al-Rāzī, al-Tafsīr al-kabīr, vol. 7, 109. In this exposition, he contradicts the
general opinion that kāna is sometimes a defective verb and sometimes a veritable verb of existence, deciding
for the latter solution in all cases. This recurring tendency to controversy manifests itself, as we have already
said, in all its dimensions in his Munāz․arāt.
27 For the classical sources of the biography of al-Rāzī, see Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil fī l-tārīkh (Cairo: Idārat
al-T․ ibāʿa al-Munīriyya, 1348/1930), 23–301 (for the years corresponding to the life of al-Rāzī 544/1150–
606/1209); Ibn al-Qiflī, Tārīkh al-h.ukamāʾ (Leipzig: Julius Lippert, 1903); reprod. (Baghdad: Al-Muthannā,
n.d.), 291–293; Maulānā Mināj-ud-Dīn, Abū ʿUmar-I-ʿUs.mān, T ․ abakāt-i-Nās.irī, A General History of the
Muhammadan Dynasties of Asia, trans. Major H.G. Raverty (New Delhi: Oriental Books Reprint Corpora-
tion, 1970), vol. 1, 385 n. 9, 429 n. 4, 485 n. 3; Ibn Abī Us.aybīʿa, Kitāb ʿUyun al-anbāʾ fī ․tabaqāt al-at․ibbāʾ
(Beirut: Dār al-Fikr, 1377/1957), t. 2, 42–45; Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-Aʿyān (Beirut: Dār al-Thaqāfa,
1391/1972), t. 1, 200; t. 4, 248–252, 268, 271; t. 5, 18, 76, 312; t. 6, 269; t. 7, 329; al-Juvayni, The History
of the World-Conqueror, trans. John Andrew Boyle (Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press, 1958),
vol. 1, 277; Ibn al-ʿIbrī, Mukhtas.ar tārīkh al-duwal (Beirut: al-Mat․baʿa al-Kāthūlīkīya, 1958), 240 and 254;
al-Hamadānī, Jāmi al-tawārīkh (Cairo: Dār Ih.yāʾ al-Kutub al-ʿArabiyya, n.d.), t. 1, 159; t. 2, 67 and 132;
al-Safadī, al-Wāfī bi l-wafayāt (Steiner: Wiesbaden, 1959), vol. 4, 248–259; al-Subkī, T ․ abaqāt al-shāfiʿiyya
al-kubrā (Cairo: al-Mat․baʿa al-Husayniyya, 1906), t. 5, 33–40; Ibn H.ajar, Lisān al-Mīzān (Beirut: Muʾassasat
243
Michel Lagarde
al-Aʿlamī li l-Mat․būʿāt, 1971), t. 4, 426–429; Ibn al-ʿImād al-Tanbalī, Sadarāt al-Dhahab, akhbar min dhahab
(Beirut: al-Maktab al-Tijārī li l-T ․ ibāʿa wa l-Nashr, n.d.), t. 5, 21–22.
29 Ibid., vol. 20, 53.
30 Ibid., vol. 18, 84.
31 Ibid., vol. 18, 225 (line 14). In fact, these words are recorded by a disciple who wrote down this part of the
master’s work after his death, probably al-Qād.ī al-Huwayyī, in these terms: “Imam Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī,
whom the mercy of God be upon him, that is, the author of this book, God makes his probative value lumi-
nous, said . . .” Ibid., vol. 18, 225 (line 13). See, on this subject, Jacques Jomier, “Who Commented on All
of the Suras al-ʿAnkabut Through Yasin in the Tafsir of Imam Fakhr al-Din al-Rāzī?” In International Journal
of Middle East Studies 11, no. 4 (1980): 467–485.
33 Ibn Abī Us.aybīʿa op. cit., t. 3, 42–43.
244
23
TAFSĪR IBN KATHĪR
A Window Onto Medieval Islam and a Guide to
the Development of Modern Islamic Orthodoxy
Younus Y. Mirza
Studies on the tafsīr of Syrian scholar Ibn Kathīr (d. 774/1373) often lead to discussions of “Salafism”
or “conservative scholarship” because his exegesis tends to be associated with Saudi Arabia and the
so-called Wahhabi movement.1 Ibn Kathīr is further seen as merely the student of famed Damascene
theologian, jurist, and firebrand Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328). Ibn Taymiyya provided the theol-
ogy and hermeneutic – the belief goes – and Ibn Kathīr simply implemented it.2 However, I will
demonstrate that the tafsīr developed out of a theological struggle within the Shāfiʿī school of law
in Damascus and has been appropriated by an array of modern movements, from the partisans of
hadiths to academic Qur’an scholars. Thus, through this historical approach, I contend that various
terms used to describe Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr, such as “Salafi,”3 often obscure the content and uses of the
work, confining it to a particular theological movement when its applicability has always been much
larger. Examining Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr is an excellent way to understand the great theological debates
of medieval Islam and offers a window onto how Islam was conceptualized in the modern world.
Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr in Its Historical Context

Ibn Kathīr’s Qur’anic commentary –The Commentary on the Great Qur’an (Tafsīr al-qurʾān al-ʿaz․īm,
popularly Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr) – is often understood to be a product of his relationship with Ibn Taymi-
yya and an outgrowth of the latter’s Introduction to the Principles of Tafsīr (Muqaddima fī us.ūl al-tafsīr).
However, Ibn Kathīr’s commentary is more an outcome of a larger theological struggle between
the scholastic theologians (Ashʿarīs) and “the traditionalists” (ahl al-h.adīth) that raged in the eighth/
fourteenth century. While both Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn Kathīr wanted to shift the tafsīr tradition
away from Ashʿarī sources – most notably the commentaries of Fahkr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (d. 606/1210)
and al-Thaʿlabī (d. 427/1035) – Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr is unique in that it presents a hadith “evaluation”
(takhrīj) of the traditionalist tafsīrs before him, primarily that of al-T
․ abarī (d. 310/923) and Ibn Abī
H.ātim al-Rāzī (d. 327/938). Ibn Kathīr evaluates the traditions found within these tafsīrs by cross-
referencing them with the authoritative hadith collections and lists traditions that contain his theo-
logical goals and beliefs.
Moreover, unlike Ibn Taymiyya, Ibn Kathīr was part of a group of hadith scholars belonging to
the Shāfiʿī school of law who prioritized the transmitted sources over that of “disputation” ( jadl)
and “scholastic theology” (kalām). This group was interested in the sciences of hadith and worked to
develop its various branches, such as the study of hadith narrators, their histories, and hadith evalu-
ation. They did not focus on theological refutations but rather sought to develop hadith and the
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-26 245

Younus Y. Mirza
theology that they believed was associated with it. They subscribed to a “moral theology,” or one
in which they promoted the moral and ethical teaching of the Prophet Muh.ammad. Thus, in many
ways, Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr could be seen as a response to Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī’s commentary, which
was popular among the scholastic theologians of his time and taught within the madrasas. As Tariq
Jaffer details, al-Rāzī’s tafsīr was not simply a work of the Ashʿarīs but incorporated many Muʿtazilī
principles such as the use of figurative interpretation (taʾwīl): “Rāzī integrated philosophical con-
cepts and principles into the religious sciences by making them cornerstones of his methodology,
and he applied them systematically to the Qur’an as he commented on it verse by verse, line by
line, and word by word.”4 Jaffer continues to explain that al-Rāzī held the canonical sources of the
Qur’an and Sunna to have “an exceptionally low epistemic value.”5 Because of his commitment to
the philosophical concepts and notions of rationality, al-Rāzī would interpret certain verses figura-
tively or even contrary to the plain sense meaning of the text.
For instance, in his interpretation of “Who created the heavens and the earth in six days, and
mounted the throne” (istawā ʿalā al-ʿarsh, Q 7:54), al-Rāzī argues that it is impossible for God to
mount his throne because that would entail that He has a body. A body would be subject to the
conditions of time and space and thus be inherently imperfect.6 The idea of God actually mounting
his throne further led to the charge of anthropomorphism since the actions of mounting and sitting
are similar to those of human beings. Al-Rāzī’s belief that it was rationally impossible for God to have
a body led him to declare: “the rule [qānūn] is that it is necessary to take every word transmitted in
the Qur’an on its literal value [h.aqīqatuhu] except if there is a certain rational indicate [dalāla ʿaqliyya
qat․ʿiyya] that requires a departure from [the rule].”7 That is to say, the Qur’an should be read liter-
ally except if there are particular verses that clearly contradict reason.8 Similar to the Ashʿarīs before
him, al-Rāzī believed that reason was an important criterion, not only for accepting scripture but
also for evaluating it.9
Ibn Kathīr, in comparison, maintains a “moral theology” or a “theology of praxis” that was
not interested in delving into the debates around God’s attributes but rather focused on the
divine responsibilities placed on the believer. As opposed to al-Rāzī, Ibn Kathīr simply “passes
over” (imrār) anthropomorphic verses without engaging in philosophical discussions with them.
In his interpretation of Q 7:54, Ibn Kathīr begins by explaining that “on this issue [maqām],
people have many opinions and this is not the place to expand on them.”10 Although Ibn Kathīr
discusses theological material in his tafsīr, he did not see his tafsīr as a theological treatise and
seeks to avoid such discussions. Ibn Kathīr continues his discussion by saying that, in interpreting
this verse, he chooses to adhere to the method of the theological school of the salaf (“ancestors,”
“forebears”),11 which suggests, “passing over it as it is without asking how, anthropomorphizing
God [tashbīh], or stripping Him of his attributes [taʿt․īl].”12 Yet, even though Ibn Kathīr says that
he supports “passing over” these verses, he is nonetheless hesitant to affirm the literal mean-
ing, which would confine God to the throne: “the apparent and evident meaning of this verse,
according to the anthropomorphist,13 is denied by God who is not similar to anything of his
creation.”14 Ibn Kathīr backs up his argument by citing the often quoted, “and there is nothing
like Him” (Q 42:11). He then closes his interpretation by situating himself squarely with the
traditionalists,15 who declare:
Whoever likens God to his creation has disbelieved. And whoever rejects [jah.ada] how God
has described himself has disbelieved. And whatever God and his messenger have described
[God with] is not anthropomorphism. And whoever affirms God [in terms of ] what has
been transmitted from him, of clear verses and authentic reports, on the way that they are
deemed suitable by God’s majesty, and refuses [to ascribe to] God imperfections – verily, he
has tread the path of guidance.16
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Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr
Like many of the great hadith scholars before him, Ibn Kathīr takes the less controversial path of
reading over anthropomorphic passages without delving into their exact meanings.
Ibn Kathīr’s minimal comments on the divine attributes are more in line with a “moral theol-
ogy” or the “theology of praxis” of the traditionalist camp. As George Makdisi explains, “Whereas
the Rationalists concentrated on philosophical theology, kalām, the Traditionalists concerned them-
selves with law; and law and legal theory, being normative, were closer to ethics.”17 Makdisi further
elaborates that traditionalism “shies away from speculation about God, considering it man’s fruit-
less attempt to acquire a knowledge that could never be adequate to its object.”18 Kalām was thus
considered a waste of time since the mystery of God’s essence would never be grasped. Ibn Kathīr’s
traditionalism is thus similar to traditionalists before him, such as Ibn Qudāma (d. 620/1223),
who in his The Prohibition of Looking at the Books of Scholastic Theology (Tah.rīm al-naz․ar fī kutub ahl
al-kalām) states:
We have no need to know the meaning that God intended by His attributes; no course of
action is intended by them, nor is there any obligation attached to them, except to believe
them, and it is possible to believe them without the knowledge of the intended sense. For
indeed faith, with ignorance, is sound.19
Ibn Qudāma stresses that there is no moral “obligation” attached to knowing God’s essence and that
faith does not require knowing God’s particulars.20 Thus, Ibn Kathīr’s tafsīr, in contrast to al-Rāzī’s,
avoids speculative theology and philosophy and strives only to convey the moral and ethical teach-
ings of the Prophet Muh.ammad.21
The Legacy of Ibn Kathīr’s Qur’an Commentary in the Modern World

The modern period witnessed tremendous changes across the globe, especially in terms of how
religion would be articulated in new mediums and within the context of the political and cultural
domination of Europe. In the Muslim world, there were great transformations in how the Qur’an
was understood, from the way it was printed to its translations.22 Within this period, Ibn Kathīr’s
legacy would be debated among three broad camps: the academic Qur’an scholars, the partisans of
hadith, and the followers of Muh.ammad ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb (d. 1206/1792). In what follows, I will
trace how Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr was introduced in the modern world and how its legacy continues to
be debated among these various groups.
In the early twentieth century, the study of the Qur’an was dominated by the curricula of the
Ottoman Era’s madrasa system, which did not emphasize Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr. The influence of Otto-
man education can be seen in the first edition of the Encyclopedia of Islam, published between 1913
and 1936. In its entry on “Tafsīr,” the authors speak about the most popular Qur’anic commen-
taries of their time: “These commentaries are numerous: the most famous are those of al-T ․ abarī,
al-Zamakhsharī, and al-Bayd.āwī.”23 The authors go on to say that al-Zamakhsharī’s (d. 538/1144)
tafsīr is “much valued” and that his commentary is commented on by al-Taftazānī (d. 792/1390)
and al-Jurjānī (d. 812/1414). Al-Bayd.āwī’s (d. 719/1319) tafsīr “is the most popular and is the one
taught in the schools: it has fixed the beliefs of the pious Muslims as regards to the interpretation of
the sacred book and has been several times annotated.” What is striking is the absence of Ibn Kathīr.
From the entry, it does not seem that Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr was widely studied, suggesting that it was often
considered irrelevant.24 However, when we look at indexes that list the number of premodern manu-
scripts of Ibn Kathīr,25 we see that Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr was important but used primarily as a reference
work.26 Thus using the language of Walid Saleh, Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr was historically an “encyclopedic
tafsīr,” not a “madrasa tafsīr.”27
247
Younus Y. Mirza
Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr’s usage primarily as a reference work is demonstrated by the marginalia of the
Indian scholar Muh.ammad S.iddīq H . asan Khān (d. 1308/1890).28 There, Ibn Kathīr was merely a
reference for the author’s own tafsīr, a supplement; Khan envisioned the reader referring to Ibn
Kathīr’s work as they read his own. Nonetheless, the reality that the commentary was first published
by an Indian scholar suggests that it had an appeal throughout the Muslim world and not only within
the Arabian Peninsula and/or the Middle East. Walid Saleh highlights that the transformation of Ibn
Kathīr into an independent work of tafsīr in its own right began in 1924, when reformer and mod-
ernist Rashīd Rid.ā (d. 1353/1935) published Ibn Kathīr in a nine-volume “sumptuous edition.”29
In this edition, Ibn Kathīr’s commentary is the center of attention, while the margins are instead
devoted to the tafsīr of al-Baghawī (d. 516/1122).
Although Rid.ā’s role cannot be understated in featuring Ibn Kathīr as a center of exegetical atten-
tion, it was properly Ah.mad Shākir (d. 1377/1958) who was vital in transforming Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr
into a popular didactic Qur’anic commentary, a role once played by the tafsīr of al-Baydāwī.30 By
itself, Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr is long, cumbersome, and practically incomprehensible for those who do
not have expertise in tafsīr and hadith. Ibn Kathīr’s citation of full chains of transmission and multiple
variants of the same hadith reveals that he wrote the Tafsīr for fellow hadith scholars, not the general
public. Shākir sought to change all of this by abridging the Tafsīr, removing the chains of transmis-
sions and selecting the most authentic hadiths. In the process, he made countless editorial decisions
and sprinkled the abridgment with his own footnotes and scholarly remarks.
Shākir outlines why he chose to summarize Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr in his introduction to the abridg-
ment, which he entitled Pillar of Qur’anic Exegesis (Umdat al-tafsīr). He begins by stating that Ibn
Kathīr’s Tafsīr is the best of all tafsīrs after the tafsīr of al-T
․ abarī, “the leader of the exegetes” (imām
al-mufassirīn).31 Shākir then proceeds to explain that what appeals to him about Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr is that
its author first comments on the Qur’an through the Qur’an, then through “the authentic Sunna”
(al-sunna al-s.ah.īh.a), and lastly through the sayings of the early generations (salaf ). Shākir believed that
Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr was a “teacher” (muʿallim) and “guide” (murshid) to students of hadith on how to
critique traditions and distinguish between authentic and inauthentic hadiths.
Nonetheless, Shākir sympathized with the educational need of the average Muslim (al-mut․awassit․)
who simply wanted to understand the correct meaning of the Qur’an as supported by the Qur’an
itself and authentic Sunna. If they tried to read Ibn Kathīr directly, they would find themselves “in
front of an expansive ocean and that they would not be able to reach its shores,” since Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr
is full of complete chains of transmission, often conflicting traditions, and the highly specialized lan-
guage of hadith evaluation.32 Shākir’s abridged Tafsīr, in contrast, would not delve into the technical
language of hadith studies or cite the various contradictory opinions of the Prophet’s Companions,
Successors, and the later exegetes. Rather Shākir’s edition of the Tafsīr would be concise and give
only one meaning to each Qur’anic verse. In his introduction, it is important to note that Shākir
is primarily interested in making a hadith-based tafsīr accessible; he does not come off as a staunch
“Wahhabi,” a follower of Muh.ammad ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb. While he praises the Saudi King ʿAbd
al-ʿAzīz (d. 1372/1953) for reviving the Sunna and the theology of the salaf,33 his various works do
not focus on defining Islamic “monotheism” (tawh.īd), nor do they have a strong anti-Sufi orienta-
tion. Instead, Shākir fits within the “partisans of hadith” (ahl al-h.adīth) camp, which was committed
to reviving the classical hadith tradition and making it accessible to the masses.34
Shākir never lived to finish his abridgment, which was instead completed by the Qur’an scholar
Muh.ammad al-S.ābūnī. Al-S.ābūnī represented the second group of the scholastic Qur’an scholars
who saw Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr as both one of the great tafsīrs and an important reference work. Although
al-S.ābūnī abridged Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr, he was not wedded to it in the same way that Shākir was. For
instance, in his own magnum opus, the tafsīr called The Best of the Tafsirs (S.afwat al-tafāsīr), al-S. ābūnī
features Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr prominently and consults him often.35 However, al-S.ābūnī also references
a host of other exegetes from the Ashʿarī al-Rāzī to the Muʿtazilī al-Zamakhsharī. Al-S.ābūnī states
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Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr
in his introduction that he used to work night and day on the commentary, claiming “I did not write
anything until I read what the exegetes of the essential (ummahāt) and trusted books of tafsīr wrote.”36
Similarly, the popular reference website altafsir.com lists Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr as one of the “Mothers
of Tafsīrs” (ummahāt al-tafāsīr) or one of the essential and foundational tafsīrs of the Islamic tradition.37
Once again, Ibn Kathīr is not seen as the primary tafsīr, as we see with Shākir, but at least as one of
the most important and foundational. This scholastic approach is further evident within the increas-
ingly popular recent work, The Study Quran.38 In its section heading, “Understanding the Citations
in the Commentary,” the authors reference the website altafsir.com, and the work lists Ibn Kathīr’s
Tafsīr throughout. Even though there are chapters within the volume which are critical of “Salafi’
approaches,39 The Study Quran nonetheless uses Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr as an important reference and fre-
quently draws upon it.
However, the third group, the so-called Wahhabis (self-identified as “unitarian,” muwah.h.id), has
popularized and standardized Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr far more than the previous two. While this group
shares with the “partisans of hadith” a concern for interpreting the Qur’an through the Sunna and
the authentication of hadiths, they are more concerned with promoting what they believe to be the
correct theology of Islamic monotheism, much of which conflicted with certain Sufi practices of
seeking intercession from those who had passed away and visiting graves of saints. The Unitarian
movement emphasized the implementation of absolute monotheism (tawh.īd) and was thus appre-
hensive that prayers directed toward the deceased and the veneration of saints could lead to poly-
theism (shirk). This group was not satisfied with the abridgment of al-S.ābūnī which gained wide
appeal throughout the Arab-Muslim world. Several other abridgments would follow, in particular
the influential one by S.afī al-Rah.mān al-Mubārakpūrī, published by the Saudi-based publisher
Darusssalam. Al-Mubārakpūrī worked with a team of scholars on a new abridgment for two years,
and its first edition was eventually published in 1990.40 Ten years later, in the year 2000, the text
would be translated into English (and other Western languages such as French and German) and
then converted into a ten-volume set. The translation is one of the few English translations available
of a classical Qur’anic commentary that has naturally led to its large appeal to Anglophones.41 The
General Manager of Darussalam at the time, Abdul-Malik Mujahid, notes in his introduction to the
abridgement that Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr “is the most popular interpretation of the Qur’an in the Arabic
Language, and the majority of the Muslims consider it to be the best source based on the Qur’an
and Sunna.”42 But Mujahid’s comments are deceptive; Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr was not notably popular even
a hundred years before and certainly not “the most popular.” Moreover, he demonstrates a desire
to promote a tafsīr based on the “Qur’an and Sunna,” not that of scholastic theology or rationality.
This Darussalam edition remains widely popular among Western Muslim communities and is one
of the reasons why many associate Ibn Kathīr with Saudi Arabia and “Wahhabism” even though he
significantly predates both and has just as often been appropriated by a wide array of non-“Wahhabi”
scholars and movements.
Conclusion
I have refrained from using the term “Salafi’ or “conservative’ to describe Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr for the fear
that it would pigeonhole his work into one specific camp, particularly the Wahhabi/Unitarian one.
Rather, I have taken a historical approach by explaining Ibn Kathīr’s tafsīr within its historical con-
text and then how it has been appropriated in the modern world. Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr was a response to
the Ashʿarī scholastic theology, most notably the tafsīr of Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, in that it attempted to
move the tafsīr tradition toward a more hadith-based approach. Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr would continue
to have currency in the premodern world by being repeatedly copied and referenced. However,
it was never a “madrasa” tafsīr in the way that al-Bayd.āwī was, as early twentieth-century scholar-
ship does not highlight Ibn Kathīr’s work. However, Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr was eventually published,
249
Younus Y. Mirza
and, most importantly, it was abridged, first by Ah.mad Shākir and then by Muh.ammad al-S.ābūnī.
These abridgments allowed the Tafsīr to become accessible to the masses, which led it eventually to
become “the most popular” tafsīr in Arabic. However, al-S.ābūnī did not view Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr as
the essential tafsīr, like Shākir did, but rather as just one among the foundational ones, an approach
that can also be seen in The Study Quran. Moreover, while al-S.ābūnī’s abridgment became wide-
spread, it never became the definitive edition, and other abridgements soon followed, most notably
the Darassalam edition. The Darassalam abridgment was eventually translated into English and other
Western languages, leading to its great influence in non-Arab Muslim communities. While many
scholars associate Ibn Kathīr with this abridged edition, it is important to note that Ibn Kathīr’s
appeal extended to a wide array of scholars and geographical regions, from the scholastic Qur’an
scholar al-S.ābūnī to the Indian Muh.ammad S.iddīq H.asan Khān. Each group understood Ibn Kathīr
differently and appropriated his Tafsīr to fit their respective goals and objectives. The Tafsīr’s place
within the Muslim canon and its role in the formation of modern Muslim identity continues to be
debated. Thus, the story of Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr is a window into medieval Islamic history and a guide to
the development and construction of modern Islamic orthodoxy.
Notes
1 For more on “Salafi Tafsīrs,” see Oliver Leaman, “Tafsīr – Salafi Views,” in The Qur’an: An Encyclopedia, ed.
Oliver Leaman (London: Routledge, 2008).
2 I discuss the idea that Ibn Kathīr was a “student” of Ibn Taymiyya in “Was Ibn Kathīr the Spokesperson for
Ibn Taymiyya?” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 16, no. 1 (2014): 1–19.
3 For more on the term Salafism, see Quintan Wiktorowicz, “The Anatomy of the Salafi Movement,” Studies
in Conflict & Terrorism 29 (2006): 207–239; Bernard Haykel, “On the Nature of Salafi Thought and Action,”
in Global Salafism: Islam’s New Religious Movement, ed. Roel Meijer (New York: Columbia University Press,
2009): 33–57; Henri Lauziere, “The Construction of Salafiyya: Reconsidering Salafism from the Perspec-
tive of Conceptual History,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 42, no. 3 (2010): 369–389; Frank
Griffel, “What Do We Mean by ‘Salafi’ ”? Connecting Muh.ammad Abduh with Egypt’s Nur Party in Islam’s
Contemporary Intellectual History,” Die Welt des Islams 55 (2015): 186–220; Henri Lauziere, “What We
Mean Versus What They Meant by ‘Salafi’: A Reply to Frank Griffel,” Die Welt des Islams 56 (2016): 89–96.
4 Tariq Jaffer, Rāzī: Master of Qur'anic Interpretation and Theological Reasoning (New York: Oxford University
Press, 2015), 74.
5 Ibid., 80.
6 Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, al-Tafsīr al-kabīr, 32 vols. (Cairo: al-Mat․baʿa al-Bahiyya al-Mis.riyya, 1934–1962),
14:96.
7 al-Rāzī, Tafsīr, 22:7. Nicholas Heer lays out al-Rāzī’s full argument in his “The Priority of Reason in the
Interpretation of Scripture: Ibn Taymiyyah and the mutakallimūn,” in Arabic and Islamic Studies in Honor of
James A. Bellamy, ed. Mustansir Mir (Princeton, NJ: Darwin Press, 1993).
8 ʿAbd Subhan summarizes al-Rāzī’s position as, “Thus, the long and short of the discourse of al-Imām
ar-Rāzī is that God is above space”; ʿAbd Subhan, “Relation of God to Time and Space as Seen by the
Mu‘tazilites,” in The Teachings of the Muʿtazila, ed. Fuat Sezgin (Frankfurt: Institute for the History of
Arabic-Islamic Science at the Johann Wolfgang Goethe University, 2000), 1:240. For more on al-Rāzī’s
theological and ethical views, see Ayman Shihadeh, The Teleological Ethics of Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (Leiden and
Boston: Brill, 2006).
9 For more on the qānūn al-taʾwīl, see Abū H . āmid Muh.ammad ibn Muh.ammad al-Ghazzālī al-T ․ ūsī, Qānūn
al-taʾwīl, ed. Muh.ammad Zāhid ibn al-H . asan al-Kawtharī (Cairo: al-Maktaba al-Azhariyya, 2006).
10 Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr, 4:2261.
11 This school includes the traditionalists of Mālik ibn Anas, al-Awzāʿī, al-Shāfiʿī, Ah.mad ibn H . anbal, Ish.āq
ibn Rāhaway, and others.
12 Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr, 4:2261. In al-Bidāya wa l-nihāya, Ibn Kathīr argues that al-Shāfiʿī held an almost identical
position; Ibn Kathīr, al-Bidāya wa l-nihāya, 15 vols., eds. ʿAlī Muh.ammad Muʿawwad and ʿĀdil Ah.mad ʿAbd
al-Mawjūd (Lebanon: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2009), 14:79, 10:269. “Passing over” these verses was also
the opinion of Ibn Abī al-Faraj ibn al-Jawzī; Ibn Abī al-Faraj ibn al-Jawzī, Kitāb al-qus..sās. wa l-mudhakkirīn,
ed. Merlin Swartz (Beirut: Dār al-Mashriq, 1971), 142.
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Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr
1 3 I.e., that God sits on a throne in a manner identical to human beings.

15 These traditionalists include al-Bukhārī and Naʿīm al-H.ammād al-Khuzāʿī.
17 George Makdisi, “Ethics in Islamic Traditionalist Doctrine,” in Ethics in Islam, ed. Richard G. Hovannisian
(Malibu, CA: Undena Publications, 1985), 47.
18 Ibid., 47.
19 Ibid. There is no surprise then that Ibn Qudāma’s “moral theology” produces one of the most authoritative
H.anbalī legal reference work; Muwaffaq al-Dīn ibn Qudāma, al-Mughnī fī fiqh al-imām Ah.mad ibn H.anbal
al-Shaybānī (Beirut: Dār al-Fikr, 1984–1985).
20 Makdisi nevertheless demonstrates in his article “Ethics” that traditionalism incorporated philosophical the-
ology into its ranks.
21 Much of this last section has been adapted from my dissertation “Ibn Kathīr (d. 774/1373): His Intellectual
Circle, Major Works and Qur’ānic Exegesis” (PhD diss., Georgetown University, 2012).
22 For the question of translation, see Brett Wilson, Translating the Qur'an in an Age of Nationalism: Print Culture
and Modern Islam in Turkey (London: Oxford University Press, in association with the Institute of Ismaili
Studies, 2014).
23 “Tafsīr,” First Encyclopaedia of Islam, 1913–1936, 9 vols., ed. M. Th. Houtsma (Leiden and New York: E.J.
Brill, 1987), 7:604.
24 For instance, Walid Saleh states that “Ibn Kathīr was all but forgotten, until discovered and reintroduced in
the nineteenth century,” in his “Preliminary Remarks on the Historiography of tafsīr in Arabic: A History
of the Book Approach,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 12 (2010): 30.
25 Saleh states, in regard to the al-Fihris al-shāmil, “As far as tafsīr studies go this is the reference tool,” Saleh,
“Preliminary Remarks,” 17.
26 The index lists 66 manuscripts of Ibn Kathīr’s tafsīr which is a large number but one that does not compare
to the hundreds of manuscripts found of al-Bayd.āwī and its super commentaries; Al-Fihris al-shāmil li l-turāth
al-ʿArabī al-islāmī al-makht․ūt․, ʿulūm al-qurʾān: makht․ūt․āt al-tafsīr, 12 vols. (Amman: Muʾassasat Āl al-Bayt,
1987), 5:1396.
27 Saleh, “Preliminary Remarks,” 21.
28 For more on Khan and the ahl al-h.adīth movement he was part of, see Z ․ afarul-Islām Khān, “Nawwāb Sayyid
¯¯
S.iddīk
․H . asan Khān,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., ed. P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C.E. Bosworth, E. van
Donzel, and W.P.¯ ¯ Heinrichs (Leiden: Brill, 2017).
29 Saleh, “Preliminary Remarks,” 15.
30 Walid Saleh also observes that “when one now surveys the Islamic world and tries to ascertain what is the
most popular Qur’an commentary, it becomes clear that it is Ibn Kathīr’s commentary that is now playing
the role that was once played by al-Baydawi’s.” Saleh continues, “Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr is so popular that one
tends to forget how recent his ascent was in the Islamic world”; Saleh, “Preliminary Remarks,” 15.
31 Shākir adds here that he does not want to compare (nuwāzin) between the tafsīrs of al-T ․ abarī and Ibn Kathīr,
but he has not seen any tafsīr come close to them in stature (Shākir, 9).
32 Ibid., 10.
33 Ibid., 9. Scholars repeatedly emphasize the role of Saudi Arabia and Wahhabism in the popularization of
Ibn Kathīr. For instance, Johanna Pink states, “The Wahhābī promotion of Ibn Taymiyya’s and Ibn Kathīr’s
works – especially by publishing them in print in the early twentieth century – was instrumental in making
these two authors popular in the contemporary period and had a strong impact on modern exegetical activi-
ties”; Johanna Pink, “Striving for a New Exegesis of the Qur’an,” in Oxford Handbook of Islamic Theology, ed.
Sabine Schmidtke (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 777. I agree with Pink that Saudi Arabia and
Wahhabism played an important role in the dissemination of Ibn Kathīr, but I contend that his popularity is
connected to a wide array of social and intellectual movements.
34 Much of his works are edited volumes of classical hadith and legal works, which are marked with remarkable
commentaries and erudite precision. For more on Shākir, see Ebrahim Moosa, “Shaykh Ah.mad Shākir and
the Adoption of a Scientifically-Based Lunar Calendar,” Islamic Law and Society 5, no. 1 (1998): 57–89; Ron
Shaham, “An Egyptian Judge in a Period of Change: Qadi Ah.mad Muh.ammad Shākir, 1892–1958,” Journal
of the American Oriental Society 119, no. 3 (1999): 440–455; Gualtherus H.A. Juynboll, “Ah.mad Muh.ammad
Shākir (1892–1958) and his edition of Ibn Hanbal’s Musnad,” Der Islam 49 (1972): 221–247.
35 Muh.ammad al-S.ābūnī, S.afwat al-tafāsīr (Beirut: Dār Ih.yāʾ al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 2004).
36 Al-S.ābūnī, 16.
37 The website also lists the tafsīrs of al-T․ abarī, al-Zamakhsharī, al-Rāzī, al-Qurtubī, al-Bayd.āwī, al-Suyūt․ī,
and al-Shawkānī as the “mothers of tafsīrs,”
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Younus Y. Mirza
38 The Study Quran: A New Translation and Commentary, ed. S.H. Nasr, C.K. Dagli, M.M. Dakake, J.E.B. Lum-
bard, and M. Rustom (New York: Harper One, 2015).
39 Walid Saleh, “Qur’anic Commentaries,” in The Study Quran, 1645–1658.
40 S.afī al-Rah.mān al-Mubārakfūrī, al-Mis.bāh. al-munīr fī tahdhīb tafsīr Ibn Kathīr (Riyadh: Dār al-Salām lil-Nashr
wa-al-Tawzīʿ, 2000)
41 However, it must be emphasized that this translation is an abridgment of Ibn Kathīr’s Tafsīr, not a translation
of the entire Tafsīr itself.
42 Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr: Abridged, 10 vols., ed. Safi-ur-Rahman al-Mubarakpuri (Riyadh: Darussalam,
2003), 1:1.
252
24
THE FORMATIVE
DEVELOPMENT OF SHIʿI
QUR’ANIC EXEGESIS
Maria M. Dakake
I leave you two weighty things: the Qur’an and my family.

They will not be separated.1
Shiʿi Qur’anic exegesis, like other Shiʿi religious sciences, has its formative roots in a very different
experience and reading of early Islamic history than Sunnis have. This is reflected in a distinctive
set of intellectual principles that define the Shiʿi approach to these various religious sciences – from
theology and law, to hadith compilation and Qur’anic interpretation. When the Shiʿi religious sci-
ences are viewed merely as a set of developments related to a political succession dispute, it may be
easy to dismiss them as merely reactive and contrarian. But when they are considered carefully and
in their own right, the contours of a coherent and organically developed religious epistemology can
be discerned that offers a compelling counterpoint to Sunni intellectual principles, often treated
as normative in Islam. The Sunni and Shiʿi religious sciences developed concurrently, within the
broader history and religious foundation of the Islamic world that they shared but interpreted differ-
ently in some important ways. Their differing approaches to religious knowledge and authority were
shaped, to a large extent, by direct or indirect conversation and conflict with each other. In early
Shiʿi Qur’an commentary, we see efforts by Shiʿi scholars to read their distinctive religious perspec-
tive in the very scripture they shared with Sunnis, in defiance of majoritarian Sunni interpretations.
Later Shiʿi Qur’an commentators, however, engaged with and incorporated Sunni exegetical views
into their works, in a way that preserved some fundamental Shiʿi doctrines and interpretive differ-
ences, while making them less controversial to the majority Sunni tradition.
Before we can begin to understand the formative development of Shiʿi Qur’an exegesis, however,
we must first consider some particularities of the Shiʿi view of the Qur’an itself. Of course, Shiʿi
Muslims read and recite the same Qur’an as other Muslims. However, the Shiʿi history of the col-
lection of the Qur’an in its written form includes a particular role for the first Shiʿi Imam, ʿAlī ibn
Abī T ․ ālib (d. 40/661). Shiʿi accounts, and some Sunni accounts as well, indicate that immediately
after the death of the Prophet, ʿAlī spent several months compiling a complete written collection of
Qur’anic verses.2 In Sunni narratives, this project is sometimes invoked to account for why he did
not give his “allegiance” (bayʿa) to Abū Bakr (d. 12/634) during these early months – suggesting
that he had other priorities that distracted him from the formality of rendering his loyalty to the
new leader. In any case, most accounts agree that he brought his written collection of the Qur’an to
Abū Bakr, to be used by the caliph and the community, but was told that such a written copy was
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-27 253

Maria M. Dakake
not needed. In the Shiʿi tradition, it is understood that ʿAlī kept the collection himself, as a personal
copy, and later passed it down to his sons. From there, it was successively inherited by the later Shiʿi
Imams and presumably disappeared with the Twelfth Imam when he went into occultation in the
late third/ninth century.
We know little for certain regarding this reported copy of the Qur’an compiled by ʿAlī, which is
no longer extant. There are some literary accounts of this text, including the peculiar order in which
the suras (but not the verses)3 were arranged. A description of ʿAlī’s codex is found in the work
of the early Shiʿi historian al-Yaʿqūbī (d. 284/897), who notes that the suras in ʿAlī’s codex were
arranged in seven sections (ajzāʾ, sing., juzʾ), each section headed by one of the seven long suras
that are now located at the beginning of standard mus.h.af (suras 2–8; as we know them: al-Baqara, Āl
ʿImrān, al-Nisāʾ, al-Māʾida, al-Anʿām, al-Aʿrāf, and al-Anfāl). Each of these long suras were then
reportedly followed by a collection of other suras, not reflecting the order of the standard mus.h.af
but with some similarities to it.4 Al-Yaʿqūbī’s report may be flawed – for example, his description of
ʿAlī’s copy appears to leave out about a dozen suras that are found in the standard mus.h.af – and there
is no other account that fully corroborates al-Yaʿqūbī’s description. In the famous tenth-century
bibliographic work, al-Fihrist, the Shiʿi-leaning author, Ibn al-Nadīm (d. 385/995), mentions ʿAlī’s
collection of a complete codex from memory and that this codex was extant in his time, but his
description cuts off (suspiciously), just as he is about to detail the order of the suras.5
Muslim history has not recorded any substantial opposition from ʿAlī regarding the later col-
lection of the Qur’an in a single codex under the Caliph ʿUthmān and his committee.6 However,
reports circulated in some early Shiʿi circles that the Qur’an as compiled by ʿUthmān’s committee
had certain omissions and that only ʿAlī’s copy was complete. Some evidence of these early views
survives into the first canonical collection of Shiʿi hadiths compiled by al-Kulaynī (d. 329/941), who
includes reports indicating that “no one has collected all of the Qur’an except the [Imami Shiʿi]
Imams.”7 The idea that some of what had been revealed of the Qur’an is no longer in the mus.h.af
is also mentioned in Sunni contexts, in line with a view that some of the Qur’an may have been
“abrogated” even during the Prophet’s lifetime,8 as well as various anecdotal accounts about verses
revealed but not included in the ʿUthmānī codex in Sunni traditions.9 Yet Shiʿi traditions claimed
more specifically that the Imams alone possessed knowledge of the Qur’an in full, and some hadiths
attributed to the Imams indicated specific (if small) omissions. A well-known example includes the
claim that the word muh.addath (“one who is spoken to”) was omitted from Q 22:52: “And no mes-
senger or prophet did We send before thee, but that when he had a longing, Satan would cast into
his longing, whereupon God effaces what Satan cast.” Some early Shiʿi hadiths claim that it originally
read: “And no messenger or prophet or muh.addath did We send before thee . . .” with “muh.addath
(one who is spoken to)” understood to be a reference to the Imams and an allusion to the informal
divine inspiration they are said to receive.10 The topic of possible omissions from the ʿUthmānī codex
is highly controversial, not only for Sunnis but for Shiʿis as well; and by the time the second canonical
collection of Shiʿi hadith was compiled several decades after al-Kulaynī, the notion that the original
Qur’anic text is anything more or less, or other than what is found in the ʿUthmānī codex was unac-
ceptable to leading Shiʿi scholars.11 Indeed, the author of this second canonical collection of Shiʿi
hadiths, Ibn Babawayh (d. 380/991), established the clear doctrine in his creedal work, The Creed
of the Imamis (al-Iʿtiqādāt al-Imāmiyya), that the Qur’an, according to Imami Shiʿis, is simply “that
which is between the two covers” (ma bayna daffatayn) – that is, the two covers of the official mus.h.af.12
The most distinctive and foundational feature of the Shiʿi approach to Qur’anic Studies was
the special role of the Imams in understanding the scripture. According to the Shiʿi view, it was
only the Imams who possessed the true and complete understanding of the Qur’an. In fact, Shiʿi
scholars who rejected reports that questioned the completeness of the ʿUthmānī codex argued that
the only additional material found in ʿAlī’s codex of the Qur’an was his record of the Prophet’s
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Shiʿi Qur’anic Exegesis
own commentary upon the Qur’anic verses. Once the Caliph had refused ʿAlī’s compilation of the
Qur’an, its accompanying Prophetic commentary became the exclusive preserve of ʿAlī and his
descendants. This inherited Prophetic commentary, along with the spiritual guidance that Shiʿis
believe their Imams received through a form of divine inspiration, became the basis of the Shiʿi claim
that their Imams alone had the authority and the ability to properly interpret the Qur’an. Indeed,
Shiʿis held that the interpretation of the Qur’an was one of the Imams’ primary responsibilities.
The Prophet, they asserted, was charged with the transmission of the “revelation” (tanzīl) of the
Qur’an, while the Imams after him were responsible for communicating the Qur’an’s “interpreta-
tion” (taʾwīl). Of course, they acknowledge that the Prophet himself was also in full possession of
this taʾwīl of the Qur’an but argue that he could not, in his single lifetime, convey all of the Qur’an’s
rich meaning, and so it was left as a duty to be undertaken by his “heirs” (aws.iyāʾ), that is, the Imams
among his descendants. The juxtaposition of tanzīl (literally something that “descends”; a “revela-
tion” from God) and taʾwīl (literally, “bringing something back to its origin”) embodied a comple-
mentary (if metaphorical) vertical symmetry. The Prophet received the Qur’an as it was sent down
from its origin with God (tanzīl), while the Imams instructed their followers on how to interpret the
Qur’an as a means of reaching or ascending to its ultimate spiritual meaning (taʾwīl). This taʾwīl, the
Qur’an says, belongs to God alone or, according to an alternate reading, to God and “those firmly
rooted in knowledge (al-rāsikhūna fī l-ʿilm) (Q 3:7).13 As we will discuss in this chapter, early Shiʿis
preferred the latter reading of this verse and understood “those firmly rooted in knowledge” as a
reference to their Imams.
From the Shiʿi point of view, the Qur’an and the Prophet’s family “could not be separated.” This
is not only because one of the versions of the Prophet’s “Farewell Sermon” (quoted at the outset of
this article) made this claim but also because to do so risked, at best, unresolvable confusion about
the meaning of the sacred scripture, and at worst, fundamental misunderstanding of its spiritual
message. According to a well-known statement attributed to ʿAlī, “the Qur’an . . . does not speak;
human beings speak through it.”14 This observation may well be rooted in the real historical struggle
of ʿAlī at the end of his life. The tragic conclusion of the First Civil War during his caliphate had
much to do with others “speaking through the Qur’an” in their own self-interest. In the course of
this conflict, we find the Syrian army opposing ʿAlī lifting pages of the Qur’an on their spears to
force an arbitration; rebels from within ʿAlī’s camp responding to this ruse by refusing to fight and
invoking the Qur’anic phrase, “[J]udgment belongs to God alone”15; and Muʿāwiya (d. 60/680) and
his accomplice, ʿAmr ibn al-ʿĀs. (d. 43/664), invoking Q 17:33, which gives retributive authority
to the heirs of a murder victim, to argue for Muʿāwiya’s broader political authority as the assassi-
nated caliph, ʿUthmān’s, cousin.16 Yet ʿAlī’s statement was not merely an observation about the way
a multivalent scripture is used and in some cases abused in the spirited debates about the meaning
of scripture in a new religious community. For Shiʿis, it was a recognition that an authoritative,
indeed infallible voice was needed to allow the Qur’an to speak its true message, even in the best of
circumstances.
The question of who had the authority to discuss the Qur’an’s meaning was an issue for Sunnis
as well. But for Sunnis, exegetical authority was defined much like authority in hadith transmission.
Authoritative exegesis should go back to the Prophet, one of his Companions, or one of the well
recognized scholars of the immediately succeeding generations. Later Sunni exegetes could also
acquire authority by correctly citing and synthesizing these earlier opinions. However, for Shiʿis, and
early Shiʿis in particular, authority in exegesis belonged only to the Prophet and the Imams among
his descendants. Moreover, while Sunnis were particularly concerned about misinterpretation of the
Qur’an’s “ambiguous verses” (al-āyāt al-mutashābihāt), given the Qur’an’s own warning about this in
Q 3:7, for Shiʿis, all of the Qur’an requires interpretation. Even its apparently “literal verses” (al-āyāt
al-muh.kamāt) might carry an esoteric message that is not comprehensible to the ordinary reader.
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Famously for Shiʿis, the Qur’an was the “silent Imam” that was only properly given voice by the
person of the Imam who was conversely a “speaking Qur’an.”17
Qur’anic Exegesis in the Imams’ Hadiths: The Oldest Extant Substrate of

Shiʿi Interpretation
The political and ideological struggle of the pro-ʿAlid movement from the time of the First Civil
War that ended ʿAlī’s caliphate and his life, through the early ʿAbbasid period, with its subtler but
perhaps more pervasive opposition to claims of ʿAlid authority, is well-known. The formation
of Imami (later Twelver) Shiʿism18 in this context of struggle – a period during which the earli-
est of Islam’s historical accounts were being put into writing, in some cases through Umayyad
and ʿAbbāsid patronage – encouraged Shiʿis to preserve their “counter-narrative” about these
early and unfolding events. Shiʿis were determined not to allow the injustices they perceived in
the events immediately after the Prophet’s death or in the succeeding decades to be forgotten.
They also wanted to place the authority of ʿAlī and his descendants on the firmest possible foot-
ing, including establishing this authority on the basis of the Qur’an itself. The Qur’an does not
directly engage political or ideological differences among the Prophet’s Companions. Nor does it
address in any specific way what spiritual or political authority in the community should look like
in the absence of the Prophet himself, let alone who could claim it. The absence of any explicit
mention of these issues in the Qur’an forms a compelling argument for the early establishment
of the Qur’an as a fixed scripture before the emergence of these debates in the years and decades
following the Prophet’s death.19 For this reason, a Qur’anic argument for ʿAlī and his descendants’
spiritual and political authority, as well as for the errors (from the Shiʿi perspective) of the leading
Prophetic Companions who thwarted the realization of that authority, required an interpretation
of the Qur’an that understood many of its verses as references to these persons, conflicts, and
events.20
The earliest strata of Shiʿi Qur’anic commentary are found not only in exegetical works proper,
but also in collections of Shiʿi hadith, both of which establish and reflect the principle that proper
interpretation of Qur’anic verses comes from the Imams. At the same time, the spiritual authority
of the Imams is a central focus for this exegetical tradition. This makes the Imams both the primary
source for early Shiʿi Qur’anic exegesis and one of its most important themes. Imami Shiʿi hadiths
frequently take the form of one of the Imams – most often the fifth Imam, Muh.ammad al-Bāqir
(d. 114/732), or the sixth, Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq (d. 148/765) – offering a commentary on a verse of the
Qur’an or making a doctrinal point by adducing a Qur’anic passage. Early Shiʿi Qur’an commen-
taries were primarily composed by gathering these hadiths and collating them with the verses they
concern. Qur’anic exegesis, particularly in relation to the Imams and their status, was a central pre-
occupation for many early Shiʿi writers, and Shiʿi bibliographers attribute works of tafsīr or qirāʾāt
(concerning differences in the recited text) to many of the Imams’ close disciples.21 Ibn al-Nadīm,
for example, who has high praise for the encyclopedic Sunni tafsīr of al-T․ abarī, nonetheless presents
22
Qur’anic exegesis itself as originating with the fifth Shiʿi Imam, and his list of the earliest exegetes
is heavily dominated by Shiʿi writers.23 These early Shiʿi exegetical works are no longer extant but
survive in quotations in later Shiʿi sources.24
Although it is rarely possible to verify that these traditions historically come from the Imams
themselves, there are several reasons to believe that some of these traditions originated in the time
of the Imams or in the period of “the minor occultation” (al-ghayba al-s.ughrā, circa 260/873–
329/941).25 First, many of these exegetical traditions express views that later came to be rejected by
the Twelver Shiʿi tradition, including “exaggerated” (ghulāt) claims about the Imams; certain polem-
ical assertions about Abū Bakr, ʿUmar (d. 24/644), the Prophet’s wife, ʿĀʾisha (d. circa 58/678),
and other prominent companions considered to have opposed ʿAlī, Fāt․ima (d. 11/632) and their
256
rights; and claims that the ʿUthmānī codex was incomplete. Second, there are some exegetical
reports (generally not sectarian in nature) attributed to Muhammad al-Bāqir and Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq
in the fourth/tenth century Sunni tafsīr of al-T ․ abarī (d. 310/923), as well as exegetical reports
26
related to the status of the Shiʿi Imams in the early Ismaʿili hadith collection of al-Qādī al-Nuʿmān
(d. 363/974), Daʿāʾim al-Islām.27 At least some these exegetical traditions must have thus been in
circulation prior to this time.
In this study, we will look at two of the most well-known and extensive collections of pre-
Ghayba Shiʿi tafsīr. The first is Tafsīr al-Qummī by ʿAlī ibn Ibrahīm al-Qummī (act. circa 300/910).
He hailed from a learned Shiʿi family that had origins in Kufa but that settled in Qumm sometime
in the late first/seventh century. His father was also a well-known transmitter of traditions from
the Shiʿi Imams, and al-Qummī frequently cites his father in his “chains of transmission” (asānīd,
sing. isnād). This work, as we have it today, however, is not in its original form. Some material has
been added to the original from another (no longer extant) work of tafsīr by Abū l-Jārūd (d. circa
140/757) that contained exegetical traditions from the fifth Imam, Muh.ammad al-Bāqir, exclusively.
Abū l-Jārūd was a close disciple of al-Bāqir but became a supporter of the latter’s brother, Zayd
(d. 122/740) after al-Bāqir’s death. Abū l-Jārūd is the eponymous founder of the Jārūdi Zaydis,
whose views fall between the main school of Zaydism and the Imami tradition on issues related to
the Imamate.28 Despite his consequent repudiation by the Imamis, his purported preservation of
the exegetical teachings of Muh.ammad al-Bāqir were considered valuable enough to be cited in
later Imami Shiʿi works of both hadith and tafsīr. Much of the material contained in Abū l-Jārūd’s
tafsīr (sometimes referred to as Tafsīr Muh.ammad al-Bāqir) was incorporated into the existing Tafsīr
al-Qummī.29 At the same time, some polemical or sectarian traditions contained in al-Qummī’s
original composition have been removed, particularly those that contain inflammatory accusations
about figures of great importance to Sunni Muslims. Nonetheless, the primary exegetical focus of
Qummī’s work is on the Imams, their spiritual status, and their history as the victims of persecu-
tion and injustice. Al-Qummī’s tafsīr is selective, in that not all verses are commented upon, and his
commentary on individual verses is relatively brief. But it consists of an unmistakably Imami Shiʿi
reading of these verses offered through both his own words and paraphrastic commentary, as well as
reports attributed to the Imams.
The second commentary considered here is Tafsīr al-ʿAyyāshī, compiled by Muh.ammad ibn
Masʿūd ibn ʿAyyāsh (known as al-ʿAyyāshī, d. 320/933). He was an Imami Shiʿi from Khurasan,
which in his day was an important area of Shiʿi scholarship. Al-ʿAyyāshī reportedly began life as a
Sunni and even composed biographical works on the first three caliphs, but became a devoted Shiʿi
at some point and thereafter a particularly prolific author.30 However, of all his works only half of
his tafsīr is extant. In the part of al-ʿAyyāshī’s tafsīr that survives (through Sūra 18),31 commentary
is offered for only roughly one-third of the verses in those first 18 suras.32 Unlike Tafsīr al-Qummī,
al-ʿAyyāshī’s commentary is strictly a collection of exegetical hadiths from the Imams, arranged in
the order of the verses on which the hadiths are commenting. Al-ʿAyyāshī offers us nothing of his
own commentary directly. Even his introduction, which concerns theoretical principles related to
the Qur’an and its interpretation, takes the form of a collection of reports attributed to the Prophet,
ʿAlī, and the fifth and sixth Imams. Like al-Qummī’s Tafsīr, the content of al-ʿAyyāshī’s exegetical
work reflects a primary concern with the status and authority of the Imams. Al-ʿAyyāshī’s method-
ology, however, more fully reflects the Shiʿi principle that the Imams alone know the true meaning
of the Qur’an and that their exegetical statements are thus the only ones that matter. The reports in
al-ʿAyyāshī are mostly attributed to the fifth or sixth Imam, with some attributed to earlier or later
Imams and a few to companions considered to have Shiʿi sympathies or connections, including ʿAbd
Allah ibn al-ʿAbbās (d. circa 68/687). Ibn ʿAbbās was ʿAlī’s cousin and companion, but also one of
the most prolific companions of the Prophet on the subject of Qur’anic interpretation, and he is
widely cited in Sunni exegetical works as well.
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Post-Ghayba Shiʿi Exegesis

In the post-Ghayba period, Imami Shiʿism underwent a significant transformation in response to
the closing of the line of Imams and the physical nonpresence (ghayba or “occultation”) of the
Twelfth Imam. The period between the final disappearance of the Twelfth Imam in 329/941 and the
consolidation of what we know as “Twelver” (Ithnaʿasharī) Shiʿism sometime in the fifth/eleventh
century is referred to in the Shiʿi tradition as the period of h.ayra (“confusion”), given the doctrinal
crisis engendered by these events. The response to this crisis, however, was doctrinal and communal
consolidation collectively engineered by the Shiʿi religious scholars in the physical absence of their
Imams.33 This consolidation reflected a number of changes demanded by the new situation as well
as some intellectual shifts in the views of Shiʿi scholars. In the absence of the Imams, Shiʿi scholars
developed their own religious sciences – from hadith transmission, to jurisprudence,34 to Qur’anic
exegesis – in a manner less directly dependent on the guidance of the Imams, and in many ways,
similar to their Sunni counterparts. Post-Ghayba Shiʿi scholars tended to favor more rationalist,
Muʿtazilī-leaning theological positions, which had been developing among learned Shiʿis even dur-
ing the time of the Imams themselves. These contrasted with the more determinist and extremist
(ghulāt) strands of the pre-Ghayba tradition that were still evident in extant reports transmitted from
the Imams. The post-Ghayba Shiʿi tradition also tried to lessen the tension with the Sunni scholarly
and political establishment, abandoning direct challenges to existing caliphal authority,35 moderating
its views of the Prophet’s Companions,36 and as previously noted, dismissing any doubts about the
completeness of the ʿUthmānī codex. Instead, post-Ghayba Shiʿi scholars focused on more scho-
lastic theological and legal differences of opinion that usually did not go significantly beyond the
bounds of intra-Sunni theological and legal debates. Thus the intellectual project of post-Ghayba
Imami Shiʿi scholars seemed to include two broad aims: the moderation or rejection of some earlier
and more extreme Shiʿi claims regarding the Imams and a certain intellectual rapprochement with
Sunnism.
Both of these aims are manifested in the post-Ghayba Qur’anic sciences, especially in Qur’anic
commentary. The content and methodology of the Shiʿi tafsīrs that emerged in this period have far
more in common with Sunni tafsīrs than with their pre-Ghayba Shiʿi predecessors. One of the most
influential works of Twelver Shiʿi tafsīr in the post-Ghayba period is al-Tibyān fī tafsīr al-Qurʾān by
Shaykh al-T ․ āʾifa Muh.ammad ibn al-H.asan al-T ․ ūsī (d. 460/1067) – a foundational Imami author
and compiler of two of the four canonical collections of Shiʿi hadiths.37 Al-T ․ ūsī’s al-Tibyān exempli-
fies the changes in Imami Shiʿism brought on by the absence of a live and accessible Imam and the
constructive response to this situation, of which he was one of the primary architects. While he does
include some hadiths from the Imams in his commentary, he excludes traditions that exaggerate their
spiritual status. Moreover, hadiths from the Imams do not occupy the central part of his treatment
of individual verses. Rather, al-T․ ūsī, like some medieval Sunni commentators, typically begins with
an exploration of etymological and grammatical issues related to the verse or passage in question.
He discusses unusual words or grammatical structures, as well as questions regarding the “voweling”
(iʿrāb) and various “recitations” (qirā’āt) of the verse. This is usually followed by an overview of com-
mentary on the verse from the Prophet’s Companions and earlier generations of Qur’an commenta-
tors. In his introduction to al-Tibyān, T ․ūsī mentions by name Ibn al-ʿAbbās, al-H.asan al-Bas.rī (d.
circa 110/728), Qatāda (d. circa 34/656), and Mujāhid (d. 104/722) as laudable exegetical sources
among the “first generation” (al-t․abaqāt al-ūlā)38 and cites them in his own commentary, along with
the views of many other early exegetes found in the Sunni tradition. Al-T ․ūsī frequently includes
the views of various Muʿtazilī thinkers in his commentary on individual verses, as we shall see. In
his introduction, however, he criticizes exegetes of the “later generations” (al-mutaʾakhkharūn), who
only champion their own school of thought and interpret the Qur’an according to their own previ-
ously held principles and beliefs.39
258
Not only is al-T ․ ūsī willing to include some of the same sources as found in Sunni tafsīrs, he even
includes opinions from companions who are the subject of polemical critique in earlier Shiʿi works.
For example, ʿĀʾisha bint Abī Bakr – the wife of the Prophet whose actions in support of her
father’s right to the caliphate and the later rebellion against ʿAlī led her to be cast in a negative light
in early Shiʿi polemic – is cited as an authority on the interpretation of certain verses of the Qur’an
in al-T․ ūsī’s al-Tibyān, just as she is in Sunni tafsīrs. A classic example of this is in al-T ․ ūsī’s com-
40
mentary on Q 4:3, which deals with the subject of polygamy. The verse’s discussion of polygamy
in relation to the just treatment of orphans seemed to require explanation, and ʿĀ’isha’s reported
explanation of the connection between polygamy and the care of orphans is considered broadly
authoritative in the Sunni tradition. Al-T ․ ūsī not only includes ʿĀ’isha’s commentary, but he leads
with her view and gives it the most credence, describing it as consistent with what is found “in the
tafsīr of our companions [i.e., the Imami Shia],”41 as well as with the view of the fifth Imam, Muh.
ammad al-Bāqir.42 ʿĀʾisha has gone from being primarily an antagonistic figure, in earlier Shiʿi tra-
dition43 to an important authority on the meaning of the Qur’an whose views are at least sometimes
consistent with those of the Imams themselves.
When al-T ․ ūsī cites Shiʿi views attributed to the Imams or to other Shiʿi authorities, he often
does so near the end of his commentary on a particular verse. He generally does this in a rather terse
fashion, without additional elaboration, and does not always offer an explicit endorsement of the
Shiʿi view when it differs from those of other commentators. The fact that Shiʿi exegetical hadiths,
when they are included, tend to come at the conclusion of al-T ․ ūsī’s discussion may have been meant
to signal their authoritative status, allowing them to have the “last word,” so to speak. The famous
Ashʿarī exegete, Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (d. 606/1210), in a similar way, frequently presents the exe-
getical views of Muʿtazilī figures in a detailed and nonpolemical fashion before offering the Ashʿarī
refutation of these views in a much more pithy and summative fashion. Both scholars may have had
similar aims in doing so, but in al-T ․ ūsī’s case, it is a significant departure from the pre-Ghayba Shiʿi
approach to Qur’an commentary.
The second major Shiʿi tafsīr in the post-Ghayba period is al-T ․ abrisī’s Majmaʿ al-Bayān, a work
greatly influenced by al-T ․ ūsī’s commentary and similar to it in many ways. Al-T ․ abrisī (d. 548/1153)
studied with at least two of al-T ․ ūsī’s students, although not with al-T ․ ūsī directly. A recent study
by Bruce Fudge on al-T ․ abrisī’s tafsīr presents in detail the similarities between the two works and
remarks that, in many places, al-T ․ abrisī seems to take material verbatim (or in a rearranged order)
from al-T ․ ūsī’s al-Tibyān. Like al-T ․ ūsī, al-T․ abrisī begins his commentary on a verse or set of verses
44
with a discussion of grammatical and recitation issues before delving into its “meaning” (maʿnā). He
also similarly includes a good deal of material from earlier exegetes commonly found in Sunni works,
and cites the opinions of Muʿtazilī thinkers on issues of relevance to Muʿtazilī theology.45 Again like
al-T․ ūsī, al-T
․ abrisī cites Imami Shiʿi traditions or commentary selectively and usually places these
traditions near the end of his discussion. However, as Fudge also notes, al-T ․ abrisī makes an explicit
statement in his introduction to Majmaʿ al-bayān about the importance of the hadiths of the Prophet
and the Imams for understanding the meaning of many Qur’anic verses, apparently contradicting
Muʿtazilī assertions about the general comprehensibility of the Qur’anic verses to the human intellect.
The brief comparative analysis of pre- and post-Ghayba Shiʿi tafsīrs that follows suggests that al-T ․ abrisī
more readily included transmitted reports from the Imams in his commentary than did al-T ․ ūsī and
that he affords them more explicit authority and discussion than we find in his predecessor.
Comparison of Pre- and Post-Ghabya Shiʿi Exegetes

in Relation to Specific Verses
In order to illustrate some of the methodological and content distinctions among the four Shiʿi
tafsīrs just discussed, we will examine some verses on which we find different treatments by our four
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Maria M. Dakake
exegetes. Here, we will consider Q 3:7 (specifically the phrase “those firmly-rooted in knowledge”
(rāsikhūna fī l-ʿilm); Q 2:143, which describes a “middle community” who serve as “witnesses” over
humankind; and Q 7:172, which famously seems to depict a primordial witnessing of God’s lordship
by humanity as a whole.
The Imams and Their Knowledge: Q 3:7

Qur’an 3:7 is a critical verse in that it pertains not only to knowledge but specifically to
knowledge of the meaning of the Islamic scripture itself.46 This verse establishes the exist-
ence of both “clear” (muh.kam) and “ambivalent/symbolic” (mutashābih) verses in the Qu’ran.
It has therefore been the subject of a great deal of commentary itself, as well as opening up
important discussions about the necessity and permissibility of human commentary on a text
believed to be God’s word. However, what concerns us here is a line near the end of the verse
that reads, according to one recitation (and perhaps the more common): “And none know
the taʾwīl [of the Qur’an] save God. Those firmly rooted in knowledge say: We believe in
it; all is from our Lord.” There is another reading of this same verse, however, which follows
an alternate punctuation to give the following meaning: “And none know the taʾwīl [of the
Qur’an] save God and those firmly rooted in knowledge. They say: We believe in it. . . .” This
latter reading was preferred by those who accepted at least some capacity for human beings
to know the interpretation of the unclear verses of the Qur’an. It indicates that there are a
class of people – those “firmly-rooted in knowledge” (al-rāsikhūna fī l-ʿilm) – who, along with
God, know the taʾwīl of the Qur’an. It is to be expected that for Imami Shiʿis, these people
are the Imams, and indeed the Shiʿi hadith tradition occasionally refers to the Imams as those
“firmly-rooted in knowledge” even outside of any commentary on this Qur’anic verse. 47 It is
no surprise, then, that we find that both of our pre-Ghayba tafsīrs, in their commentary on
this verse, include the following hadith: “The Messenger of God knows the tanzīl [the revela-
tion as it came down] and the taʾwīl, and his aws.iyāʾ [i.e., the Imams] after him know all
of its taʾwīl.”48 Citing the hadith in this context identifies the Imams as those who possess a
privileged knowledge of the interpretation of the Qur’an, a key Imami principle. The hadith
also uses the dyad tanzīl/taʾwīl which, as previously mentioned, was particularly salient in
Shiʿi discussions of the Qur’an.
When we look at the post-Ghayba tafsīrs, however, we see that al-T ․ ūsī never connects the phrase
“those firmly-rooted in knowledge” with the Imams, nor does he mention the Imams and their spe-
cial knowledge of Qur’anic interpretation at all. Al-T ․ ūsī simply mentions the differences of opinion
about whether the “those firmly-rooted in knowledge” also know the taʾwīl of the Qur’an along
with God or whether God alone knows this, and the phrase “those firmly rooted in knowledge” is
simply the subject of the next clause in the verse. He notes which Sunni and Muʿtazilī scholars sub-
scribed to which position, without offering his endorsement of either view.49 Al-T ․ abrisī, however, is
more expansive in his commentary on the verse. Like al-T ․ ūsī, he notes the two positions regarding
“those firmly-rooted in knowledge” and cites the same authorities associated with each position.50
However, he continues on to mention that the fifth Imam, Muh.ammad al-Bāqir, also held that
“those firmly-rooted in knowledge” knew the taʾwīl of the Qur’an along with God. He includes a
paraphrase of the hadith found in the pre-Ghayba tafsīrs indicating that the Prophet knew the tanzīl
and taʾwīl and that his aws.iyāʾ (the Imams) after him knew all of it. He then concludes the discus-
sion by noting that this view [i.e., that there are human knowers of the Qur’anic taʾwīl in addition
to God] is supported by the fact that the Prophet’s Companions and succeeding generation agreed
on the permissibility of giving interpretation (tafsīr) for the whole of the Qur’an and did not refrain
from commenting on certain passages.51
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The Imams as the “Middle Community” and “Witnesses over

Humankind”: Q 2:143
The issue of the spiritual status of the Imams is also significant in Shiʿi commentaries on Q 2:143:
“Thus did We make you a middle community (ummatan wasat․an), that you may be witnesses for
mankind and that the Messenger may be a witness for you.” The verse goes on to refer to the
momentous event in the history of the Muslim community in Medina when the direction of prayer
(qibla) was changed from Jerusalem to Mecca by divine decree, although we will not consider this
part of the verse specifically. For Sunnis, the initial part of the verse just quoted speaks to the spe-
cial place and virtue of the Muslim community as a whole and even to the important role that
community may play in the events of the hereafter. Sunni commentary on this part of the verse
is most concerned about what “middle” means in the phrase “middle community,” with various
interpretations glossing it as “just” or considering it to refer to the Muslim community as one that
avoids extremes, and/or takes a middle position on various religious issues relative to the Jewish
and Christian communities.52 Shiʿis, however, do not share this same view of the undifferentiated
goodness of the community as a whole. After the Prophet’s death, the community had made some
collective choices that thwarted the full recognition of the Imams who, in the Shiʿi view, were the
only legitimate authorities over that community. Unlike Sunnis, they did not accept the principle
that the community was capable of guiding itself without the infallible leadership of the Imams. So
what did Shiʿi exegetes make of this verse?
Given the centrality of this issue to the Shiʿi perspective, we find that the Shiʿi hadith sources, as
well as both pre-Ghayba and post-Ghayba Shiʿi tafsīrs, agree that the “middle community” is not the
community as a whole but the Imams specifically. They are the “middle” community in that they
are the “just.” They stand between the Prophet and the rest of the people; they are the “witnesses”
(shuhadāʾ), in the sense of being God’s “proofs” (h.ujaj) to humankind. The paths the four Shiʿi com-
mentators take to this conclusion are not identical, but their various approaches overlap to a greater
extent than what we have seen in the previous case. In al-Kulaynī’s al-Kāfī, we find exegetical tradi-
tions attributed to the fifth and sixth Imams by the well-known Shiʿi transmitter, al-Barīd al-ʿIjlī
(d. 261/877). They declare: “We are the ‘middle community’ and we are God’s ‘witnesses’ over His
creation, and His proofs [h.ujaj] on earth.”53 In al-ʿAyyāshī’s Tafsīr, we find several traditions identify-
ing the Imams with the “middle community,” including the same tradition from al-Barīd, on the
authority of the fifth Imam.54 We also find another, lengthier tradition attributed to the sixth Imam,
Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq, that makes a rational argument as to why the “middle community” could not refer to
the Muslim community as a whole. He points out that there are members of that community who
are not just and thus are not reliable as “witnesses.” It is unthinkable, therefore, that God would rely
on such persons to offer testimony regarding His creatures.55 Al-Qummī, on the other hand, does
not cite any hadiths in his brief commentary on this verse. He simply identifies the “middle com-
munity” as the Imams and glosses the word “middle” as “just.” He does, however, also add a brief
but highly contentious point related to the text (tanzīl) of the verse at the end of his commentary.
He claims that the verse was actually revealed in the following form: “Thus We have made you
‘middle Imams’ ” (aʾimmatan wasat․an) – a reading that is orthographically very similar to the original
ummatan wasat․an but obviously quite different in meaning.56 This claim would seem to suggest that
the Qur’anic text had been altered in some way, an idea that, a few decades later, was decidedly
rejected by Shiʿi authorities and scholars, as previously noted. Al-Qummī makes this assertion with-
out adducing a hadith report from an Imam or indeed any earlier authority.
In the post-Ghayba tafsīrs, the issue of an altered text for this verse is, unsurprisingly, not broached
in any way. It is important to note that it is not raised even in al-ʿAyyāshī’s pre-Ghayba tafsīr, which
relied exclusively on traditions from the Imams. Al-T ․ ūsī, as we have seen, is far more selective in his
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inclusion of Shiʿi hadiths or identifiably Shiʿi lines of interpretation than either of the pre-Ghayba
commentators, even more so than the later al-T ․ abrisī. Nonetheless, he comes out clearly in favor of
understanding the phrase “middle community” in this verse (he glosses “middle” as “just”) as a refer-
ence to the Imams. He does not cite Shiʿi hadiths to support this assertion, however, but offers the
simple, logical explanation that since the whole of the community cannot be “just,” it cannot be the
whole of the community that stands as witness over humankind. He argues that the “middle com-
munity” must be a reference to the “infallible” (maʿs.ūm) Imams from among the family of the Mes-
senger.57 This is essentially the same argument that is found in the hadith cited by al-ʿAyyāshī above.
Whether or not al-T ․ ūsī is directly paraphrasing this hadith, or else offering his own commonsense
argument that happens to accord with the hadith attributed to the Imams, is impossible to know.
Al-T․ abrisī’s treatment of this verse is lengthier and more diverse in the sources it draws upon
for its argument. Al-T ․ abrisī understands the word “middle” in “middle community” to mean both
that this community is “just” and that it is an “intermediary” (wāsit․) between the Prophet and the
people. He follows this with an argument similar to that found in al-T ․ ūsī and in the hadith cited
by al-ʿAyyāshī, indicating that the whole of the community cannot be “just.” However, rather than
directly invoking the Shiʿi doctrine of the infallibility of the Imams (as al-T ․ ūsī does), al-T
․ abrisī cites
the earlier hadith attributed to Muh.ammad al-Bāqir and quoted in al-ʿAyyāshī, where the Imam
said, “We are the middle community and we are the witnesses.”58 From here, he offers a summary of
Sunni commentary regarding the meaning of serving as “witnesses” over creation.
Our comparative analysis, to this point, has concerned verses that bear upon the fundamental
doctrine of the Imamate, which was central to Shiʿi identity. The post-Ghayba commentators aimed
to eschew some of the more exaggerated assertions of the Imams’ spiritual station found in the hadith
literature, while arguing that the authority of the Imams as infallible spiritual guides had a basis in the
Qur’an. These later commentators defended the doctrine of the Imams’ knowledge and authority,
not only by connecting various Qur’anic verses to a more moderate version of this authority but also
by presenting it in a way that made it seem, in some cases, that the notion had some indirect sup-
port in Sunni tradition (sometimes by quoting Sunni authorities) or else by offering purely rational
arguments for such interpretations.
The importance of rational analysis to Twelver Shiʿi religious thought, particularly in the theo-
logical and legal domains, was well established by the time our two post-Ghayba exegetes were writ-
ing, and it constituted a critical point of connection between Twelver Shiʿi and Muʿtazilī approaches
to theological issues. Muʿtazilī thinkers did not share the Twelver Shiʿi view of the Imamate, but by
the fifth/eleventh century, the two perspectives did share an optimistic view of the human capacity
for knowledge and rational moral choice. They also shared an understanding of human language
as temporal in origin and the idea that the link between a word and its meaning was conventional
rather than essential. Language that is temporally and humanly originated is, of necessity, analyzable
and ultimately comprehensible for the human rational faculties, making linguistic analysis an essen-
tial tool in the interpretation of Qur’anic verses. These theological views collectively led to greater
confidence and independence in the approach of both Muʿtazilī and post-Ghayba Shiʿi scholars
to Qur’anic exegesis, and they were generally less inhibited by traditional warnings against (tafsīr bi
l-raʾy) or by the imperative of basing one’s interpretation on transmitted exegetical material from
earlier generations.59 All of these tendencies and commitments worked to make the post-Ghayba
Shiʿi interpretation of this final Qur’anic selection in our analysis strikingly different from its pre-
Ghayba counterpart.
The Primordial Witnessing: Q 7:172

The passage in question, Qur’an 7:172–173, has an extensive and varied reception history – one
that is often connected to more expansive mythological or mystical60 interpretations. It has generated
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quite a bit of theological debate about issues of human religious knowledge and moral responsibility.
The verse reads:
made them bear witness concerning themselves, “Am I not your Lord?” They said, “Yea,
we bear witness” – lest you should say on the Day of Resurrection, “Truly of this we were
heedless,” or lest you should say, “[It is] only that our fathers ascribed partners unto God
aforetime, and we were their progeny after them. Wilt Thou destroy us for that which the
falsifiers have done?”
The most common line of interpretation understands this verse as an indication that human beings
are born with an innate knowledge of the existence of God and His lordship, which exists independ-
ent of the religious ideas presented to them by their external communities. It is connected to the
idea of the human fit․ra – the pure “nature” with which all human beings are endowed at birth – and
supports the Qur’an’s implicit and explicit argument that human beings, when confronted with
spiritual truth brought by the prophets and revelation, should have the capacity to recognize these
messages. If human beings’ innate nature and intellectual faculties have not been corrupted in some
way, they will hear the revelatory messages of the prophets as an articulation of ideas that they already
have an uncanny awareness of within themselves.
Nonetheless, given the apparent locus of this “witnessing” in pre-eternity or primordial time,
the verse is often connected with predestinarian notions of human beings’ moral and spiritual char-
acter and destiny. We find examples of this in the Sunni exegetical tradition – particularly in mul-
tiple reports related from Saʿīd ibn Jubayr (d. circa 95/714) on the authority of Ibn al-ʿAbbās in
․ abarī’s commentary on this verse. But there is also an elaborate mythological expansion on
al-T 61
these verses in pre-Ghayba Shiʿi hadith, which influences the early Shiʿi exegetical treatments of this
verse. Three key ideas in this mythological expansion include:
1 The “witnessing” of God’s lordship on this occasion also entailed bearing witness to Muham-
mad’s prophethood, ʿAlī’s status as Commander of the Believers (amīr al-muʾminīn), and/or the
walāya of ʿAlī and his descendants;62
2 Assertions that not all of those who bore witness on that day did so sincerely, or that not all of
them also bore witness to the walāya of ʿAlī and the other Imams;63
3 That on this day, individuals’ moral fates on earth and in the hereafter were determined. Some
were made of “good clay” and destined for paradise, while others were made of “bad clay” and
destined for hell.64
At least some of these ideas became established parts of the pre-Ghayba Shiʿi commentary on
this verse. Al-ʿAyyāshī’s treatment of this verse includes hadiths claiming that ʿAlī was given the
title “Commander of the Believers” at this primordial event,65 as well as hadiths regarding people
being formed of two kinds of clay and the predestination of people’s moral fates thereby.66 All of
these hadiths are attributed to the Imams (Muh.ammad al-Bāqir, Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq, or ʿAlī himself ). In
al-Qummī’s Tafsīr, he cites three hadiths from Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq, including one that expands the “wit-
nessing” at this event to include the prophethood of Muhammad and the imamate of ʿAlī and the
rest of the Imams.67 He mentions another hadith that indicates that not all people witnessed sincerely
at this event, and that this lack of sincerity had moral repercussions for the state of these individuals’
religious belief in their earthly lives (and implicitly their fate in the hereafter).68
It should be well expected by now that these ideas would be deeply problematic for our post-
Ghayba exegetes. The idea of the universality of the doctrine of the spiritual authority (walāya or
imāma) of ʿAlī and his descendants – such that all human beings were asked to witness it in the
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primordial realm – seems a significant exaggeration of the Imam’s spiritual status, of the type that
these later commentators had rejected. Moreover, the verse is clearly linked in both the early Shiʿi
hadith literature and the early commentaries with highly predestinarian ideas about human moral
fate and even an individual’s identity as a Shiʿi believer (or not) in earthly life. The official Twelver
Shiʿi theological view on the issue of human moral choice in the face of divine will was nominally
an intermediate one. Regarding the debate between free will and predestination (lit. between jabr
and tafwīd. , or “compulsion” and “delegation [of moral choice to human beings]”), Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq
reportedly asserted that “the matter lay between the two” (al-amr bayna’l-amrayn).69 The Twelver
Shiʿi view in the post-Ghayba Era, however, is much closer to the free will stance of the Muʿtazila.
We have seen in other cases that al-T ․ ūsī and al-T
․ abrisī are generally willing to include a Shiʿi tradi-
tion when it can be shown to be close to, or somewhat consistent with, Sunni ideas. In the case of
this verse, we know that an extensive set of reports found in the Sunni tafsīr of al-T ․ abarī connect this
verse with predestinarian ideas, just as the earlier Shiʿi tradition does. Yet both al-T ․ ūsī and al-T
․ abrisī
entirely avoid any such predestinarian discussions in connection with this verse. They also make no
mention of traditions that expand the witnessing of God’s lordship in this verse to include witnessing
to prophethood and walāya as well.
On the contrary, the entire discussion of this verse in al-T ․ ūsī and al-T ․ abrisī centers around
linguistic and theological concerns. Most significantly, both post-Ghayba exegetes structure their
commentary almost exclusively around the reported views of Muʿtazilī scholars, including Abū’l-
Qāsim al-Balkhī (d. 319/931), Abū Muslim al-Isfahānī (d. 322/934), the grammarian ʿAlī ibn ʿĪsā
al-Rummānī (d. 384/994), Abū Hudhayl (d. 227/841), al-Jubbāʾī (d. 303/915), and al-Qādī ʿAbd
al-Jabbār (d. 415/1025). While these Muʿtazilī figures are cited throughout both works, it is rare
that their views structure nearly the entire discussion of a verse, as they do in this case. The issues
that al-T
․ ūsī and al-T ․ abrisī discuss, drawing upon and in concert with these Muʿtazilī scholars, are
entirely different from those of the pre-Ghayba exegetes. Far from mythologizing the verse, they
present it as a metaphor for the human “witnessing” of the reality of God’s lordship that comes
upon human beings as their intellects grow and develop and they contemplate the created world.
Al-T․ abrisī explicitly rejects the notion that this was any kind of primordial event involving all of the
progeny of Adam, and both commentators note that the verse says that the progeny were taken from
the loins of the children of Adam, not of Adam himself, supporting the argument that it is a metaphor
for ordinary human intellectual growth and development, rather than an extraordinary primordial
event.70 Al-T ․ ūsī and al-T․ abrisī reject the idea that this witnessing could have taken place in a time
before ordinary human consciousness in this world, especially insofar as this might be related to
human moral destiny, arguing that one cannot be held accountable for what one does not remember,
and an event like this, if it occurred when one was conscious, could not be forgotten.71 Far from
adding details to enhance the universal nature and import of this “witnessing,” both cite al-Jubbāʾī’s
view that this verse may concern only the descendants of idolaters, since the Qur’an itself invokes
this “witnessing” in order to deny the disbelievers the excuse of having been misled by their idola-
trous ancestors – something few Muslims could offer as an excuse!72 Al-T ․ ūsī closes the discussion
by arguing that the idea that this verse represented a primordial acquisition of knowledge regarding
God’s lordship contradicts Q 16:78: “And God brought you forth from the bellies of your mothers,
knowing naught.” This latter Qur’anic verse clearly indicates for al-T ․ ūsī that all human knowledge
is be acquired in this world.
Conclusion
Given how fundamental the doctrine of the necessity of the Imamate was to Imami and later Twelver
Shiʿi doctrine and the absence of any explicit reference to such Imams in the literal text of the
Qur’an, it was natural that Shiʿi exegesis would aim to interpret Qur’anic verses in a way that would
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demonstrate Qur’anic support for this doctrine. A read through the chapter on the Imamate (Kitāb
al-h.ujja) in the earliest canonical collection of Twelver Shiʿi hadiths, al-Kulaynī’s al-Kāfī, makes the
significance of this concern quite clear. For example, references in the Qur’an to those possessing
authority (khulafāʾ, ulū l-amr, imams), as well as to knowledge, “guides” (hudāt), “witnesses,” “light,”
or “landmarks” (allāmāt) are all understood to be symbolic references to the Imams.73 In the pre-
Ghayba tafsīrs of al-ʿAyyāshī and al-Qummī, we find both a clear focus on these kinds of verses in
their selective exegetical treatment of the Qur’an, and an almost seamless transition from the hadith
literature on this topic to their own commentaries. The hadiths cited in these two early tafsīrs often
reproduce verbatim or nearly verbatim the textual content of the versions found in Shiʿi hadith col-
lections and frequently offer similar chains of transmission (when these are provided). This is hardly
surprising, particularly in the case of al-Qummī, as both he and al-Kulaynī draw heavily upon the
established school of Shiʿi tradition in Qumm.
In the case of the post-Ghayba commentators, however, the treatment of such verses is decidedly
different. Even though both al-T ․ abrisī and especially al-T․ ūsī were deeply learned in the area of Shiʿi
hadith, these two post-Ghayba commentators almost never lead with the distinctive Shiʿi interpre-
tation of such verses often found in Shiʿi hadith. Rather, they tend to begin with discussions of
technical grammatical issues, followed by fairly comprehensive summaries of various interpretative
traditions concerning the verse that are found in Sunni tafsīrs. In many cases, the earlier Shiʿi hadith-
based interpretation is simply omitted. When it is included, it is usually mentioned only briefly,
without extensive commentary or explicit endorsement (although as previously noted, its location
at the end may be an implicit endorsement). When a particular Shiʿi reading is endorsed, its validity
is often indicated by demonstrating its consistency with an established Sunni interpretation or by
demonstrating its greater plausibility through rational analysis. Overall, al-T ․ abrisī is more willing to
include Shiʿi readings and Shiʿi hadiths than al-T ․ ūsī.
The tension between textual and rational bases of authority in Qur’anic interpretation (and in
general) is not resolved conclusively with the post-Ghayba authorities we have very briefly exam-
ined here. Some later Shiʿi scholars of both hadith and Qur’anic exegesis will revive the importance
of textual transmission from the Imams in the interpretation of the Qur’an. In many ways, this is
a productive tension that serves to avoid either dogmatic stagnation or rational reductionism. The
importance of seriously engaging non-Shiʿi sources, however, would remain a hallmark of most,
later Shiʿi intellectual endeavors in the religious sciences and lead to distinctive Shiʿi contributions
to the Islamic intellectual tradition more broadly. The influential school of Islamic philosophy that
developed in Shiʿi Safavid Iran between the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, for example, would
draw compellingly from both rational/philosophical and traditional/textual sources and from Sunni
as well as Shiʿi authors, while also being perhaps the most Qur’anically rooted of all philosophical
schools. The story of the Qur’an’s interpretation for Shiʿis begins with the story of ʿAlī ibn Abī
T
․ ālib’s dedication to putting the revelation and its Prophetic interpretation into writing immediately
after the Prophet’s death and then making it an exclusive legacy for his descendants when his copy is
rejected by the community. This same ʿAlī ibn Abī T ․ ālib, however, also famously exhorted people,
when encountering an opinion on an important matter, to consider what is said rather than who
said it – to consider the content before considering the source. The development of Shiʿi Qur’anic
exegesis, as well as the other religious sciences, reflects fidelity to both of these ʿAlid legacies.
Notes
1 Al-Tirmidhī, Sunan, h. 3786. See also Muslim, S.ah.īh., h. 6378; Ibn Babawayh, ʿUyūn akhbār al-Rid. ā, 1: 60.
2 For a full analysis of the Shiʿi and Sunni historical accounts of ʿAlī’s early compilation of the Qur’an after
the Prophet’s death, see Seyfeddin Kara, “The Suppression of ʿAlī ibn Abī T ․ ālib’s Codex: A Study of the
Traditions on the Earliest Copy of the Qurʾān,” JNES 75, no. 2 (2016): 267–289; and by the same author,
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Maria M. Dakake
“The Collection of the Qurʾān in Early Shīʿite Discourse: The traditions ascribed to the fifth Imām Abū
Jaʿfar Muh.ammad al-Bāqir,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 26, no. 3 (2016): 375–406.
3 Traditional accounts suggest that some other non-ʿUthmānī codices kept by some of the Companions may
have had the suras arranged in a different order (or omitted, as in the case of ʿAbd Allāh’s ibn Masʿūd’s
codex, which did not include the suras 1, 113, and 114), but there is no account of the verses within suras
being differentially arranged. See, for example, a hadith in S.ah.īh. al-Bukharī, Kitāb fad· āʾil al-Qur’ān, h. 4993,
where a man asks ʿĀʾisha to see her copy of the Qur’an so he can use it to read the Qur’an in proper order,
and she indicates that there is no harm in reading the suras in any order, although she gives some views on
which were revealed earliest.
4 For example, the individual suras within each the seven “sections” (ajzāʾ) are typically arranged from long-
est to shortest; some suras that are consecutive in the standard mus.h.af are also consecutive in ʿAlī’s codex
(e.g., 8–9; 20–31; 38–39; 52–53; 58–59; 62–63; 71–72; 88–89; 104–106; 108–109; 111–112; and 113–114),
and these two short suras, 113 and 114, are the last two suras in ʿAlī’s codex, as they are in the standard
mus.h.af. See al- Yaʿqūbī, Tarīkh, v. 2, 22–23.
5 See Ibn al-Nadīm, al-Fihrist (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2002), 44.
6 Hossein Modarressi in his article, “Early Debates on the Integrity of the Qur’ān: A Brief Survey,” Studia
Islamica, 77 (1993): 14, argues that is it possible that ʿAlī offered his own copy for consideration and use
by ʿUthmān and his committee, but his offer was rejected, which would account for ʿAlī’s manuscript not
being one of the bases for the compilation by the ʿUthmānī committee.
7 Abū Jaʿfar Muhammad ibn Yaʿqūb al-Kulaynī, al-Kāfī, ed. Muh.ammad Jaʿfar Shams al-Dīn, 7 vols. (Bei-
·
rut: Dār al-Taʿāruf li l-Matbūʿāt, 1990), 1: 284–285. Of course, the term “collecting the Qur’an” ( jamʿ
al-qurʾān) is ambiguous, and it could refer to either collecting the Qur’an in writing, or simply knowing
the entirety of the Qur’an by memory, or knowing the Qur’an in all of its accepted “recitations” (qirāʾāt)
or with all its meanings.
8 For example, a well-known report is attributed to ʿAbd Allāh ibn ʿUmar: “No one should say they have col-
lected the whole of the Qur’an, for much of it has gone” (Suyūt․ī, al-Itqān fīʿulūm al-Qurʾān [Cairo: Dār al-H.
alabi (1935)], 2: 24). There are also certain rules pertaining to “milk relationships” (formed through nursing)
that ʿĀʾisha reportedly claimed were part of the original revelation but are no longer in the Qur’an (see Ibn
Kathīr, al-Tafsīr al-Qurʾān al-ʿAz․īm and al-Qurt․ubī, Tafsīr, on Q 4:23, as well as Muslim, S.ah.īh., K. al-Nikāh.,
h. 1452).
9 An overview and various examples of these accounts are discussed in Modarressi, “Early Debates,” 13–17.
10 Al-Kulaynī, al-Kāfī, 1: 230–231. For a fuller discussion of this, see the Etan Kohlberg, “The Term Muh.
addath in Twelver Shīʿism,” in Belief and Law in Imami Shiʿism (Great Britain: Variorum, 1991), no. V, 39–47.
See also al-Qummī, Tafsīr al-Qummī on 22:52, an early Shiʿi commentary, although this addition is not
found in the classical Shiʿi commentaries of al-T ․ ūsī or al-T
․ abrisī (discussed later in the chapter).
11 Although earlier hadiths suggest such omissions, these hadiths were later deemed unreliable traditions
that al-Kulaynī’s al-Kāfī, and other, early hadith collections (like the precanonical collections of al-S.affār
al-Qummī and Ah.mad ibn Muh.ammad al-Barqī) had failed to properly weed out.
12 Ibn Babawayh, Iʿtiqādāt al-Imāmiyya, trans. A.A.A. Fyzee as A Shiʿite Creed (Tehran: World Organization
for Islamic Services, 1982), 77.
13 The debate over how to read this part of Q 3:7 derives from an ambiguity about where to mark the end of
a sentence in the verse (the conclusion of a sentence or clause being indicated aurally by the reading of the
final word in the clause in pausal form). The most common reading of Q 3:7 today (in the standard printed
copy of the mus.h.af ) reads: “And none know [the Qur’an’s] interpretation save God. And those firmly rooted
in knowledge say: We believe in it; all is from our Lord.” However, one of the accepted canonical readings
articulates the pause at a slightly later point in the verse, thereby rendering the meaning: “And none know
[the Qur’an’s] interpretation save God and those firmly rooted in knowledge. [They] say: We believe in it;
all is from our Lord.” See the discussion in this chapter.
14 See Muh.ammad ibn Jarīr al-T ․ abarī, Tārīkh al-rusul wa’l-mulūk (Cairo: Dār al-Maʿārif, 1973), 5: 66.
15 Q 6:57; 12:40, 67.
16 See the discussion of these events and the historical sources in Maria Massi Dakake, The Charismatic Com-
munity: Shiʿite Identity in Early Islam (Albany: SUNY Press, 2008), 54–55.
17 This concise and poetic construction has served as the compelling title for two works that deal extensively
with the unique relationship between the Qur’an and the Imams and elaborate upon this connection:
Mohammed Amir-Moezzi’s, The Silent Qur’an and the Speaking Qur’an: Scriptural Sources of Islam Between
History and Fervor, trans. Eric Ormsby (New York: Columbia University Press, 2015); Mahmoud Ayoub,
“The Speaking Quran and the Silent Quran: A Study of the Principles and the Development of Imami Shiʿi
266
Tafsir,” in Approaches to the History of the Interpretation of the Qur’an, ed. Andrew Rippin (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1988), 177–198.
18 In general, the term Imami Shiʿism can be used to describe the Shiʿi perspective whose principles were
largely developed during the time of the fifth and sixth Imams, Muh.ammad al-Bāqir and Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq,
while the term Twelver Shiʿism is a more specific term appropriate for the Shiʿism that emerges after the
disappearance of the Twelfth Imam and the establishment of the doctrine that this Imam ended the line of
infallible Imams, although he was still living and in “hiding” (ghayba), and that he would return as the Mahdī
in the end times.
19 The most compelling presentation of this argument is found in Fred Donner, Narratives of Islamic Origins:
The Beginnings of Islamic Historical Writing (Princeton, NJ: Darwin Press, 1998), esp. 35–49.
20 Mohammed Amir-Moezzi, in his careful studies of this literature, refers to this type of commentary as “per-
sonalized commentaries” and adducing considerable evidence for the importance of this type of commen-
tary in the early (pre-Ghayba) Imami Shiʿi exegetical tradition. See, for example, Amir-Moezzi, The Silent
Qur’an and the Speaking Qur’an, esp. 79–96, where he discusses this exegetical method in the pre-Ghabya
Imami exegesis of al-H . ibarī.
21 See Hossein Modarressi, Tradition and Survival, vol. 1, which includes works attributed to at least 15 dif-
ferent companions of the Imams, including figures whose exegetical traditions are partially preserved in
extant works. They include such prominent companions of the Imams as Jābir al-Juʿfī (d. 128/746), Abān
b. Taghlib (d. 141/758), Abū l-Jārūd (a close companion of the fifth Imam who became a follower of his
brother Zayd and the founder of Jārūdī Zaydism, which was in many ways a hybrid of the Imami and Zaydi
views), Hishām b. Sālim al-Jawāliqī (a prominent theologian among the Imams’ disciples), and Abū Hamza
al-Thumālī (d. prior to 148/765).
22 Ibn al-Nadīm, al-Fihrist, 327.
23 Ibid., 50–52.
24 It should also be noted that in the Sufi tradition, an esoteric line commentary on the Qur’an (unrelated to
Shiʿi issues) is attributed to Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq and is embedded in the Sufi Qur’an commentary of Abū ʿAbd
al-Rah.mān al-Sulamī (d. 412/1021), H . aqāʾiq al-Tafsīr. This material was collected from the latter work by
Paul Nwyia in “Le Tafsīr Mystique, attribué à Gaʿfar S.ādiq,” in Melanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph (Beirut:
Imprimerie Catholique, 1968), v. 43, 179–230, and has been translated and annotated by Farhana Mayer in
Spiritual Gems: The Mystical Qur’an Commentary Ascribed to Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq (Louisville, KY: Fons Vitae, 2011).
Mayer discusses in her introduction various linguistic evidence for the earliness of this text and indicates that
certain terminology used in the text may indicate a composition date prior to the late third/ninth century;
see xxiii–xv.
25 This was a period during which the twelfth Imam was believed to be present in physical form, but in hid-
ing from the authorities, for fear of persecution. In the year 330/941, the twelfth Imam is believed to have
entered a state of “major occulation” (al-ghayba al-kubrā), which continues to the present day. During this
time the Imam is alive but physically inaccessible; it is believed he will remain in this state until near the end
of time, when he will emerge from hiding.
26 For a discussion of al-T ․ abarī’s use of Shiʿi sources in his tafsīr, see Morteza Karimi-Nia, “Tafsīr al-T
․ abarī and
Shiʿa Tafsīrs,” Journal of Shiʿa Islamic Studies 9, no. 2 (2016): 196–221, esp. 199–201. Karimi-Nia notes that
al-T
․ abarī sometimes cites the Shiʿi Imams’ commentary on the initial authority of a known Shiʿi transmitter,
such as Abū l-Jārūd, but from here, he will usually cite the narration through a Sunni chain of transmission.
27 See, for example, al-Qādī al-Nuʿmān, Daʿāʾim al-islām, 2 vols. (Beirut: Mu’assasat al-Nūr, 2005), esp. 1:
7–8, 18–31; see also Khalil Andani’s article in this volume on Ismaʿili Qur’anic commentary.
28 Like most Zaydis, the Jārūdī Zaydis held that legitimate authority over the Muslim community resided
with the descendants of the Prophet but not necessarily in a designated line. However, unlike other Zaydis,
they held the first three caliphs morally responsible for thwarting ʿAlī’s claim to succeed the Prophet; other
schools of Zaydism held that their actions constituted an error but not a sin.
29 The definitive study of this textual tradition is Bar-Asher’s, Scripture and Exegesis in Early Imami Shiʿism (Lei-
den: Brill), 1999, esp. 46–56.
30 Bar-Asher, Scripture and Exegesis, 56–58.
31 Commentators as late as the sixth/twelfth century and al-T ․ abrisī seem to know material from parts of
al-ʿAyyāshī’s tafsīr that are no longer extant, but by the time of the Safavid era, the latter half of the tafsīr had
been lost, as noted, for example, by al-Hurr al-ʿĀmilī (d. 1104/1693); see Bar-Asher, Scripture and Exegesis,
60–61.
32 The latter part of this work may have survived as late as the seventh/thirteenth century, as the Twelver Shiʿi
scholar, Ibn T․ āwūs (d. 664/1266) cites a commentary from al-ʿAyyāshī on sura 35. See Bar-Asher, Scripture
267
Maria M. Dakake
and Exegesis, 60–61, and especially n. 150, where he cites Etan Kohlberg, A Medieval Muslim Scholar at Work:
Ibn T․ āwūs and His Library (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 347–348 for this reference.
33 The classical study of this transition, as alluded to in my terminology, is found in Hossein Modarressi, Crisis
and Consolidation in the Formative Period of Shiʿite Islam: Abū Jaʿfar ibn Qiba al-Rāzī and His Contribution to
Imamite Shiʿite Thought (Princeton, NJ: Darwin Press, 1993).
34 See Devin Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1998).
35 The absence of an Imam during the occultation of the Twelfth Imam left the Shiʿis with no “candidate” to
challenge the ʿAbbasid caliph or even more local authority. Moreover, while Imami Shiʿis were rethinking
the meaning of their religious and political views from the late third/ninth to early fifth/eleventh centuries,
the Ismaʿili Shiʿis were posing a direct, powerful, and at times violent challenge to the ʿAbbasids and local
Muslim rulers and dynasties throughout the Maghrib, Egypt, and the Levant. The Imami or Twelver Shiʿis’
increasingly “quietist” attitude clearly distinguished them, perhaps intentionally, from this movement.
36 We have already noted the removal of traditions to this effect from post-Ghayba editions of al-Qummī’s
Tafsīr.
37 Among his works are Kitāb al-ghayba, an important doctrinal work that helped shape the transition from
pre-Ghayba to post-Ghayba Shiʿi theology and Imamology, and two canonical collections of Shiʿi hadiths:
Tahdhīb al-ah.kām and al-Istibs·ār – both of which focus on legal, rather than doctrinal, issues.
38 In his introduction, he considers these figures, who are also referenced abundantly in Sunni tafsīrs, as impor-
tant early transmitters of exegetical information, although he disparages certain others who are also widely
found in Sunni commentaries, including al-Suddi and al-Kalbi. See al-Tibyān, 1: 6.
39 Ibid., 1: 6.
40 Regarding ʿĀʾisha’s presence and authority in the genre of tafsīr, see Aisha Geissinger, “The Exegetical
Traditions of ʿĀʾisha: Notes on Their Impact and Significance,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 6, no. 1 (2004);
and “ʿAʾisha bint Abi Bakr and Her Contributions to the Formation of the Islamic Tradition,” Religion
Compass 5, no. 1 (2011): 37–49, esp. 43–44.
41 See al-T ․ ūsī, al-Tibyān, 3: 103.
42 Ibid., 3: 104.
43 Regarding early Shiʿi exegetical readings that are negative toward ʿĀʾisha, see Bar-Asher, Scripture and
Exegesis, 40–41, where he notes that earlier manuscripts of Tafsīr al-Qummī connected ʿĀʾisha to the wives
of Noah and Lot, who were said to have betrayed their prophetic husbands, although the direct reference to
ʿĀʾisha was removed in later (and all existing edited) editions of Tafsīr al-Qummī.
44 See Bruce Fudge, Qur’anic Hermeneutics: al-T ․ abrisī and the Craft of Commentary (New York: Routledge,
2011), 38.
45 Fudge also notes that while little remains to us of early or classical Muʿtazilī tafsīr, the works of al-T ․ ūsī and
al-T․ abrisī, along with the work of Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, previously mentioned, are our best sources for this
material (see Fudge, Qur’anic Hermeneutics, 115), given the extensiveness with which the exegetical opinions
of Muʿtazilī scholars, including Abū Bakr al-As.amm, Abū Muslim al-Is·fahānī, al-Jubbāʾī, ʿAlī ibn ʿĪsā
al-Rummānī, Abū Hudhayl al-ʿAllāf, and al-Qādī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, among others, are mentioned in these
works.
46 The full text of the verse is as follows: “He it is Who has sent down the Book upon thee; therein are signs
determined, they are the Mother of the Book, and others symbolic. As for those whose hearts are given to
swerving, they follow that of it which is symbolic, seeking temptation and seeking its interpretation. And
none know its interpretation save God and those firmly rooted in knowledge. They say, ‘We believe in it;
all is from our Lord.’ And none remember, save those who possess intellect.”
47 See, e.g., al-Kulaynī, al-Kāfī, 1: 241, h. 6.
48 See al-Qummī, 1: 65; al-ʿAyyāshī, 1: 164.
49 Al-T ․ ūsī, al-Tibyān, 2: 400.
50 Al-T ․ abrisī, Majmaʿ al-bayān, 2: 217.
51 Ibid., 2: 217.
52 See Caner Dagli’s discussion of various lines of commentary on this verse this in Nasr et al., The Study
Quran, 63–65.
53 Al-Kulaynī, al-Kāfī, 1: 245–256, h. 2, 4.
54 Al-ʿAyyāshī, 1: 62.
55 Ibid., 1: 63.
56 The term umma in Arabic script is ‫ا ٌمة‬, and “aʾimma”. ‫ ائمة‬See al-Qummī, Tafsīr, 1: 48.
57 Al-T ․ ūsī, al-Tibyān, 2: 7–8.
58 Al-T ․ abrisī, Majmaʿ al-bayān, 1: 330–331.
268
59 Al-T ․ ūsī mentions traditional warnings about tafsīr bi l-raʾy in his introduction but attempts to balance these
concerns with Qur’anic verses that describe itself as “clear” or as a source of clarity and that exhort or com-
mand its audience to contemplate and reflect on its verses, or else with sayings of the Prophet that suggest
that the Qur’an is a criterion or proof with which to judge other statements. If human beings were incapable
of understanding that Qur’an, then these assertions would be meaningless. See al-T ․ ūsī’s introduction in
al-Tibyān, 1: 4–5.
60 See, for example, the importance of this witnessing (termed the mīthāq, although the term is not used in
the verse itself ), in the writing of the foundational tenth-century Baghdadi Sufi figure, al-Junayd (d. circa
298/910), in ʿAli Hassan Abdel-Kader, The Life, Personality, and Writings of al-Junayd, 92–95. It also figures
in the Sufi thought and poetry of Rumi and H.āfiz․, where it is usually referred to as “rūz-i Alast” (lit., “the
Day of ‘Am I Not’ ”), although in Sufi works it is bound up with the importance of the soul’s constant
“recollection” (dhikr) of God.
61 See al-T ․ abarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān, 6: 149–150, some of which comments that after this witnessing, “The pen
went dry regarding all that would be until the Day of Resurrection” and “The life-terms, and provision, and
misfortunes were written.”
62 Al-S.affār al-Qummī, Bas.āʾir al-darajāt, 92, h. 6, 9; 110, h. 2; al-Kāfī, 1: 182–183, h. 7; 504, h. 91; Ibn
Bābawayh, ʿUyūn akhbār al-Rid. ā, 270–271.
63 These traditions suggest that the future Shiʿis alone bore witness to this, thereby “predetermining” their
identity as Shiʿis in earthly life. See al-Barqī, al-Mah.āsin, 135, h. 16; Bas.āʾir al-darajāt, 109, b. 16, h. 1;
al-Kāfī, 1: 467, h. 3. See also al-Mah.āsin, 136, h. 19, where the (Shiʿi) walī is “the one from whom God took
the mīthāq of walāya for [the Prophet], [his] was.ī, and [their] progeny.”
64 Al-Kāfī, 2: 9–10, h. 2 (see 2: 8–10, h. 1, 3, for versions without reference to Qur’an 7:172); Bas.āʾir al-darajāt,
90–91, b. 7, h. 2, 91, h. 3.
65 Al-ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr, 2: 41.
66 Ibid., 2: 39–40.
67 Al-Qummī, Tafsīr, 1: 138.
68 Ibid., 1: 138.
69 For traditions to this effect, see al-Kāfī, 1: 205–210.
70 Al-T ․ ūsī, al-Tibyān, 5: 27–28; al-T ․ abrisī, Majmaʿ al-bayān, 4: 348.
71 Ibid., 5: 29; al-T ․ abrisī, Majmaʿ al-bayān, 4: 347.
72 Ibid., 5: 28; al-T ․ abrisī, Majmaʿ al-bayān, 4: 347.
73 Al-Kulaynī, 1, esp. 245–277.
269
25
METHODOLOGICAL
OBSERVATIONS IN AL-ʿALLĀMA
AL-T
․ ABĀT
․ ABĀʾĪ’S QUR’AN
COMMENTARY
Al-Mīzān
Abdulaziz Sachedina
Al-Mīzān fī tafsīr al-Qur’an by ʿAllāma Muh.ammad Husayn T ․ abāt․abāʾī (d. 1981) is one of the
major contributions in the growing exegetical literature in the study of Muslim scripture. Al-Mīzān,
written in Arabic by an Iranian sage, serves the exegetical community as an encyclopedic source
that includes the classical as well as modern exegeses produced by the Shiʿi as well as Sunni com-
mentators. T ․ abāt․abāʾī’s commentary is regarded as a unique contribution because of its distinctive
methodology that includes all types of exegeses that evolved among both traditionalist and rationalist
scholars belonging to prominent schools of philosophical theology (kalām) and interpretive jurispru-
dence (fiqh). As a rule, it is rare to find Shiʿi works, including Qur’anic commentaries, in the libraries
in the Sunni world; however, T ․ abāt․abāʾī’s al-Mīzān is an exception to this prejudicial rejection of
Shiʿi scholarship. It can be found in almost all important centers of higher Islamic learning. Given
its worldwide recognition, it is worth asking the question: What is so unique about al-Mīzān that it
has been afforded such status in the Muslim world?
T
․ abāt․abāʾī’s multivolume exegesis was completed in 1970. Obviously, when a new commentary
appears for a classical text, the question arises: “Why another commentary?” The question assumes
even greater importance in light of the fact that since the Qur’an appeared on the stage of history in
the seventh century, endless commentaries have ventured to make sense of this classical document.
The historical method of interpretation that requires that the text be interpreted in accordance with
the rules of grammar and the meaning of words has had a long and creative history in the develop-
ment of Qur’anic exegesis. It is remarkable that even when the majority of commentaries were
guided by dogmatic prejudices, Muslim commentators paid close attention to the historical setting
from which the language of the Qur’an emerged.
Every text speaks in the language of its time. This requires interpreters who can convey the rela-
tionship of the text’s message to contemporaneous social exigencies and other circumstances based
on the knowledge of the historical context of the language and those who spoke it. There was an
implicit recognition that understanding the Qur’an required understanding the history in which
Muhammad emerged as the Prophet of God and launched his mission to establish the ideal public
order. The assessment of the historical forces connected with the Qur’an gave rise to divergent
270 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-28

al-ʿAllāma al-Ṭabāṭabāʾī’s Qur’an Commentary
interpretations of the “occasions of revelation” (asbāb al-nuzūl), which, in turn, were related to the
distinct views held by the individual exegete engaged in formulating specific lines of inquiry into
the meaning of the text.
To be sure, the inherently subjective nature of any historical enterprise, stemming from the inevi-
table relation between an interpreter’s presuppositions and the substantive assessment of the written
documents, was a major factor in the continued interest among Muslim scholars in uncovering the
scholarly presumptions of earlier commentators of the revelatory text and in providing fresh under-
standing. Additionally, although the text of the Qur’an was fixed soon after the Prophet’s death, if
not earlier as maintained by some modern studies on the history of the text,1 without the continued
presence of the only authoritative interpreter of the message, namely, the Prophet himself, any claim
to a definitive understanding of the Qur’an on the part of the community was necessarily out of the
question. Furthermore, with the development of Muslim society and its ever expanding legal and
moral requirements, the constant need to expound the historical setting of the revelation in order to
discover practical rules for deducing judicial decisions became part of the intellectual groundwork
of Muslim legal scholarship.
Historically, whether in the early days of the community’s (umma) formation or the later age of
conquest and spread of Muslim domination of the various regions of the world, the Qur’an was
approached as a living source of prescriptive guidance for the community. Muslim jurists sought
solutions to concrete problems under given circumstances by applying the rules derived from the
Qur’anic precedents. In this intellectual process of searching for historical precedents and extracting
the doctrinal and juridical principles from the sometimes cryptic references of the Qur’an that were
relevant to contemporary situations, the Muslim interpreters of the text stood within the event of
the revelation as responsible participants in its “life-orientational” directives.2 The Qur’anic cosmos
was thoroughly human, profoundly anchored in human experience as humanity tried to make sense
of the divine challenge imparted in the revelation to create an ethical order on earth. As long as
the belief about establishing the ideal order on earth remained the major component of the living
community’s faith and active response to the divine challenge, there remained the need to clarify
the Qur’anic impetus in order to promulgate it at each stage of the community’s drive toward its
ultimate destiny.
Hence, the history of the Muslim community’s movement toward a just and equitable society
provides creative and fertile ground for an ongoing interpretation of the divine purposes indicated
in the Qur’an. At the same time, due to innumerable factors influencing the view of commentators,
the representation of the community and its ideals, both the past and the present, have not yielded an
authentic rendition of the ways and means that were and are still at its disposal to accomplish those
ideals for humanity. Undeniably, scholarly pretext3 plays a significant role in the explication of the
particular circumstances of the text. It is within this interpretive realm that an insightful investigator
is able to discern the authorial pretext of the earlier commentators that led to the distortion of the
otherwise objectifiable context of Muslim existence. In addition, it is through the investigation of
such distorted explications of the discernible reality of the Muslim community’s struggle to establish
the ideal society that a Muslim exegete is able to recontextualize the Qur’an and afford a different
understanding of the divinely ordained Muslim umma.
ʿAllāma T.abātabāʾī’s Search in the Qur’anic Exegetical Method

What was ʿAllāma T ․ abāt․abāʾī’s purpose in composing his monumental Qur’anic commentary,
Al-Mīzān? Was T ․ abāt․abāʾī engaged in cultivating truth by weeding out seemingly endless errors of
interpretation regarding the Qur’an and unacceptable distortions of the context of the scripture, as
found in previous Qur’anic exegeses? Was he engaged in an explication of explication, so to speak,
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Abdulaziz Sachedina
by creating a less troublesome and better suited vocabulary that will improve the prospects of rational
assessment of the explicit sense of scriptural language? Or was he engaged in reformulating better
questions about the intended meanings of the verses and their contextual significance in order to
develop improved hermeneutical principles that will enhance the essential meaning of the Qur’anic
text, irrespective of historical context or the exegetical rationale provided by previous exegetes? In
the final analysis, all these questions lead one to assert confidently that undoubtedly T ․ abāt․abāʾī was
immersed in putting forward a commentary that would a priori establish the validity of beliefs about
the Qur’an being the greatest miracle of Islam and its founder. His commentary, al-Mīzān, is writ-
ten by a Muslim sage for an educated Muslim audience who shares his interest in holding rationally
justifiable beliefs about the Qur’anic text he comments on.
It is important to bear in mind that al-Mīzān should not be considered just another Shiʿi inter-
pretation of the Qur’an, simply because its interpreter happens to be a Shiʿi. As a comprehensively
learned mufassir (“exegete”) in all areas of Islamic religious science, T ․ abāt․abāʾī represents the entire
religious tradition connected with Qur’anic Studies in Islam. He is not merely interested in delineat-
ing Shiʿi interpretive categories or in specific readings relative to the clarification of the ambiguous
and confusing idioms of the Qur’an. Al-Mīzān, as we shall demonstrate, is an encyclopedia of exege-
sis of the Qur’an, in which the diversity of meanings contained in the revelation is acknowledged as
a purposeful reality, allowing one to appreciate the verses’ historical setting and intellectual pretext.
In search of the meaning of the revealed text, T ․ abāt․abāʾī undertook to develop his own method
of deciphering divine intention and its contextual significance. In explicating the text, he aims at
reducing all the diversity of possible interpretation to a single privileged interpretive position, for
instance, as maintained by one particular school of Islamic thought. In accomplishing this exegetical
task, he does not exclusively undertake to isolate the core meaning of the revelation or to focus on
words, sentences, or passages by concentrating on their essential meaning or the core of their con-
cepts. Rather, his aim is to highlight whatever interests and purposes lead him to unfold the divine
intention and contextual significance of the inspired text to arrive at that authentic interpretive
stance. In the history of Qur’anic exegeses, al-Mīzān stands out as a genuine specimen in which the
theological, juridical, mystical, philosophical, and traditional interests of the commentator converge
on the multifaceted passages of the Qur’an.
T
․ abāt․abāʾī’s scholarly interest in the classical Sunni commentaries like those of al-T ․ abarī (d. 923)
and al-Zamakhsharī (d. 1144) and the sources they cite in solving problems of interpretation justifies
al-Mīzān’s categorization as a Muslim commentary, not merely a Shiʿi one. What makes al-Mīzān an
encyclopedic exegesis of the Qur’an that includes all shades of interpretations among various Muslim
schools of thought is T ․ abāt․abāʾī’s understanding of the historicity of human endeavors to grasp the
fundamental teachings of the Qur’an.
His acknowledgment of the emerging intellectual process in understanding the intent of revela-
tion enables T ․ abāt․abāʾī to search for the real intention and contextual significance of the recontex-
tualized exegesis of the past commentators. It also equips him to engage in his own hermeneutics
without discarding some variant readings and related interpretations, which are critically and pains-
takingly surveyed for their historical value inasmuch as they reveal the true meaning of the text.
Moreover, these conflicting and sometimes confusing interpretations put forward by representatives
of particular theological or legal factions enable the commentator to propose a more correct inter-
pretation through the elimination of far-fetched and constrained meanings of the passage under
scrutiny. T․ abāt․abāʾī does not pretend to have captured the essential meaning of the Qur’anic revela-
tion. He is remarkably nonpolemical in his approach to the history of exegesis in Islam. He simply
brings his interests and purposes to bear upon the reformulated exegetical intention and contextual
significance of the Qur’an. It is this intellectual process that makes al-Mīzān a fresh and creative
attempt at discovering the meanings of the Qur’an.
272
Ṭabāṭabāʾī Intratextual Hermeneutics

The underlying hermeneutical method in al-Mīzān is to undertake the explication of the Qur’anic
text through another text in the Qur’an, in order to demonstrate the inexhaustible meanings that
a classical text like the Qur’an possesses. This methodological preoccupation serves to demonstrate
the infinite potentiality of the Qur’an and its ongoing relationship with new and broader contexts
as its presence in history lengthens. Moreover, it demonstrates the need to go beyond the methods
of traditional interpretation to confront aspects of human self-understanding through intellectual
development in every authentic instance of trying to make sense of existence.
The history of the interpretation of the Qur’an begins with the Prophet himself. Explication
of the divine intention of the revelation was among the functions that the Qur’an assigned to the
Prophet. The Prophet functioned as the projection of the divine message embodied in the Qur’an.
He was the living commentary, “the speaking Qur’an” (al-qurʾān al-nāt․iq), intricately related to the
“silent” text (al-qurʾān al-s.āmit). Without the Prophet, the Qur’an was incomprehensible, just as
without the Qur’an, the Prophet was no prophet at all.
Following the Prophet’s death, a number of prominent disciples involved themselves in interpret-
ing the prescriptive aspects of the Qur’an in order to provide rulings for specific situations in the
community’s social and political life. The result of this endeavor formed the groundwork for legal
methodology in Islamic juridical studies. The main aspects that characterized the explication of the
Qur’an included:
1 Analyzing literary and linguistic aspects of the revelation (al-z․awāhir);

2 Determining the historical context of the revelation;
3 Clarifying the meanings through intratextual reference;
4 Explaining the passages by using the materials that were transmitted in the form of hadiths
attributed to the Prophet, as the commentator and teacher of the Qur’an.
Of all these four aspects that became part of a standard commentary of the Qur’an, it was the exege-
sis based on hadiths that found the most acceptance in the community because it seemed to recap-
ture the essential meaning of the text under discussion as the Prophet might have taught it. Ironically,
exegeses based on hadiths were most prone to factional considerations and doctrinal prejudices. The
reason was for this was that these hadiths represented different political and theological trends. Only
those reports related on the authority of certain narrators who were regarded as reliable by that par-
ticular scholar and the group he represented were accepted as authoritative documentation for the
specific exegetical opinion on the Qur’an. Some of these commentaries also exhibited a suspicious
attitude toward any opinion that was based on the apparent sense of the passage because such an
approach was regarded as being founded upon rational presumptions about language and its ordi-
nary usage in Arab society. However, the latter investigation was fundamental to the discussion of
grammatical points, semantics, or customary application of linguistic conventions – a discipline that
proved to be indispensable for establishing the authoritativeness of the apparent sense of the Qur’anic
passages in the works that dealt with us.ūl al-fiqh, that is, “legal principles” and rules.
With the development of kalām (“dialectical theology”), a creative, interpretive approach to the
meaning of the Qur’anic text was adopted. Various Islamic theological schools, whose claim to
the validity of their doctrinal positions depended upon the citation of the Qur’an, introduced the
allegorical interpretation of anthropomorphic and ambiguous Qur’anic passages. The age of kalām
was also the period during which Greek, Roman, Indian, and Persian cultures interacted with
Islamic civilization, creating a need for philosophical and mystical exegeses of relevant Qur’anic pas-
sages. Hence, in different periods of the history of the community and its interaction with different
273
Abdulaziz Sachedina
intellectual trends, Muslim exegetes responded not only to their own doctrinal and philosophical
interests and purposes in seeking an additional dimension to the interpretation of the Qur’an; they
also responded to the exegetical literature that opposed their specific understanding. Their commen-
taries clearly reveal the methodological and intellectual influences of the age in which they produced
their creative understanding of divine revelation.
In more than one way, al-Mīzān demonstrates this general depiction of the methodological con-
siderations in the Qur’anic exegetical tradition in Islam. T ․ abāt․abāʾī is not merely interested in
reproducing the history of contextual hermeneutics related to the Qur’an; rather, his purpose is
to undertake the more complicated task of establishing general rules of intratextual hermeneutics.
How does one relate different parts of a single sura of the Qur’an, which sometimes appears to the
nonspecialist reader to be an atomistic compilation of disparate themes and discontinuous narratives?
In other words, how does one present coherence in the present structure of the text in order to
demonstrate its miraculous quality of being a masterpiece in itself ? These two lines of inquiry led
․ abāt․abāʾī to engage in “explication of the Qur’an by the Qur’an” (tafsīr al-qurʾān bi l-Qurʾān),
T
that is, intratextual hermeneutics.
According to T ․ abāt․abāʾī, there were four major prerequisites for accomplishing intratextual
hermeneutics:
1 The commentator should not preformulate his opinion about the passage under considera-
tion. If he does have an opinion, he should not impose it on the text, seeking its confirmation
externally.
2 Lexicographical investigation must be thorough enough to attain the most comprehensive sense
of a term and its properties.
3 Intratextual investigation must not be based merely on the comparison of verses on similar top-
ics. It should undertake to distinguish and determine the general from the specific, the absolute
from the conditional, the literal from the apparent, and the explicit from the implicit senses of
the texts being compared.
4 Careful attention should be given to the method that was employed by the Prophet and the
Shiʿi Imams to interpret the verse by reference to another verse, just as Imam ʿAlī had stated:
“One part of the Qur’an explains another, and one part serves as a witness to the other.”
To be sure, T ․ abāt․abāʾī abides by these and other methodological prerequisites consistently

throughout al-Mīzān. As a rule, the exegesis of each sura in al-Mīzān begins with an “exposi-
tion” (bayān), which identifies its central theme. Such an introduction facilitates the subsequent
commentary, which follows the order in which the verses of the sura appear. However, some
kind of thematic unity is maintained in the way the verses are grouped. As the general flow of
exegetical discourse proceeds, T ․ abāt․abāʾī provides further expository sections that treat each
segment as a thematic unit. Throughout the commentary, no opportunity to convey the thrust
of the message as a unified discourse is lost. This unity of exposition is achieved by intricate and
meticulous interrelating the different parts of the chapter (the opening, the end, and the main
body of the sura) and demonstrating its coherence through intratextual hermeneutics based on
the Qur’an as a whole.
The next stages in T ․ abāt․abāʾī’s exegetical discourse are indicated by subheadings like “discourse
on the traditions,” “philosophical discourse,” or “social discourse” relating to the set of verses under
discussion. In all this scholarly endeavor to explicate the divinely inspired text, T
․ abāt․abāʾī pays atten-
tion not only to grammatical points, semantics, and the lexical meanings of words in their historical
setting. He also explores ideas and individual events connected by the succession of cause and effect
as they relate to the salvation history of the Qur’an. Through his frequent elaboration of the life-
orientational aspects of the divine communication with humanity, he demonstrates that as a believer
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in the religious truth of the revelation, he too is a participant in this encounter of the sacred with
history.
The other prominent methodological feature of al-Mīzān is its being a source-oriented exegesis,
drawing upon rich resources to support a particular hermeneutical position. In this way, al-Mīzān
demonstrates its comprehensive treatment of the Islamic exegetical tradition by juxtaposing vary-
ing opinions held by major Sunni and Shiʿi commentators and revealing their congruence or lack
thereof. Ambiguous passages are taken up syllogistically in order to explain their meanings through
intertextual references to more explicit verses. This method of using one part of the Qur’an to
explain the other permits T ․ abāt․abāʾī to avoid the pitfalls of reason-based exegesis with its far-fetched
and incongruent explications. T ․ abāt․abāʾī’s approach to the Qur’an in more than one way avoids the
errors of the past exegetical tradition, in that he ensures that his conclusions are in conformity with
his overall expository stance adopted at the beginning of each chapter.
Besides being encyclopedic in preserving the extensive discourse on the understanding of the
divine speech, al-Mīzān provides a thorough and highly sophisticated critique of other exegetical
works. This critique is not limited to any particular aspect that touches upon the Qur’an. It includes
topics connected with misunderstood grammatical and lexical points, frivolous juridical and doc-
trinal resolutions, distorted historical contextualization of certain verses, and unwarranted use of
modern scientific data in the sufficiently explicit verses dealing with supernatural phenomena.
The following examples from al-Mīzān demonstrate the thoroughness with which T ․ abāt․abāʾī
has accomplished the task of providing yet another creative exegesis of the Qur’an in the modern
intellectual history of the religious text. These examples illustrate the interpretive strategy adopted
to establish the validity of a religious truth that maintains the interaction between natural and super-
natural realms of human existence as a given. They also illuminate T ․ abāt․abāʾī’s methodological
breakthrough in making sense of the sacred text without externally imposing rationally inferred
criteria for its claim to verity.
On Qur’an 2:217
In his commentary on Q 2:127, which recounts the history of the Kaʿba when it was completed
by Abraham, T ․ abāt․abāʾī takes issue with the author of a modern exegesis of the Qur’an: al-Manār
fī tafsīr al-Qurʾān by Muh.ammad ʿAbduh (d. 1905) and Rashīd Rid.ā (d. 1935). In his commentary
on 2:127, Muh.ammad ʿAbduh criticizes past commentators for narrating unreliable hadiths about
the prehistoric origins of the Kaʿba and considering the institution of the pilgrimage as going back
to the first human on earth, namely Adam, and maintaining the heavenly origin of the Black Stone.
․ abāt․abāʾī takes issue with the scope of ʿAbduh’s criticism, which goes beyond the ostensible
T
sense of the passage under consideration: How can one bring in the question of the reliability of the
reports about the prehistoric origins of the Kaʿba or the heavenly origin of the Black Stone when
such considerations are not part of the immediate sense conveyed by the verse? Does the verse go
any further than simply stating that the Kaʿba was built by Abraham and Ishmael? The verse, as
T
․ abāt․abāʾī contends, is in no way engaged in either affirming or negating the information transmit-
ted through the narratives. What appears to be the real issue in al-Manār’s conclusion, according to
T
․ abāt․abāʾī, is the subjective approach and the preunderstanding of an author who disapproves of
the supernatural elements that are invoked to explain the contextual aspects of the Kaʿba narrative.
Moreover, according to T ․ abāt․abāʾī, charges of incongruity between the traditions and the Qur’anic
information stem from the commentator’s knowledge of natural sciences. How can one corroborate
religious details through the prism of material or nonmaterial sciences?
T․ abāt․abāʾī goes on to remind his readers that the scope and function of the natural sciences are to
explicate matter and its properties, just as the scope and function of the social sciences revolve around
social events. However, any attempt to go beyond matter and its relation to nonmaterial supernatural
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events is beyond the scope of cognition founded upon sensory perception and empirical facts. That
which natural science can tell us about the Kaʿba may include the natural and human components of
its construction and the material property of the structure. That which the social sciences can under-
take to explain are the social events surrounding the emergence of the Kaʿba in Arab society, such
as the history of Hagar, Ishmael, T ․ ahāma, the arrival of the tribe of Jurhum in Mecca, and so on.
As for the knowledge about supernatural events connected with the Black Stone and its heavenly or
other quality, T․ abāt․abāʾī maintains that such knowledge is beyond the scope of both of these areas of
human inquiry. As a matter of fact, T ․ abāt․abāʾī says, it is not clear how these commentators, who are
interested in giving materialistic twists to religious truths, would deal with, for instance, the descrip-
tion of Paradise with its gold and silver promised to the faithful as their reward. Whereas gold and
silver are mentioned because of their precious value and rarity on earth, what does the accumulation
of wealth mean in Paradise when its relative importance is meaningless without its social context?
At this crucial juncture, T ․ abāt․abāʾī raises the critical question: is there any rational method of
interpreting these religious truths except that there is a concealed world of faith behind them, which
both the natural and social sciences are incapable of scrutinizing? Thus, in interpreting such verses,
T
․ abāt․abāʾī recommends that a religious scholar keep in mind the nature of religious truths and their
significations, which are based on more firm foundations than those recognized in natural and social
sciences. The Qur’an, for instance, uses the similitude of the good “word” that goes upward toward
God (Q 14:24) and “piety” from human beings that reach the Divine (Q 22:37) in symbolic terms.
And, although “words” denote human acts and have a concrete existence, and “piety” is nothing but
an action or a description thereof, can one undertake to interpret such symbolic references in the
Qur’an through the prism of empirical sciences?
In conclusion, T ․ abāt․abāʾī asserts his methodological predilection for explaining the Qur’an with
the help of the Qur’an itself, interpreting one verse through reference to another verse. This method
is possible only when a scholar can acquire, along with a large measure of perceptivity, exhaustive
familiarity with the Prophetic traditions, in addition to the explications offered by the Shiʿi Imams.
This latter knowledge is the core of intratextual hermeneutics.
On Qur’an 2:275
In this second example from the commentary on Q 2:275 in al-Mīzān, T ․ abāt․abāʾī provides a fur-
ther development in his intratextual explication of the Qur’an. The subject of the verse has much
wider implications that extend to psychology, economics, and eschatology. It speaks about the con-
dition of those who “devour usury,” saying that “they shall not rise [on the Day of Judgment] but
like a man possessed of a devil and demented.” What is meant by “devouring usury”? How does one
explain the situation of being “possessed of a devil” at the time of resurrection?
One of the ground rules to which T ․ abāt․abāʾī adheres in his approach to the Qur’an is to rid
oneself of any preunderstanding one might have about a concept. That is accomplished by investi-
gating the wording of the verse for its lexical and literary significations and comparing it with other
similar occurrences in the text. By doing so, one avoids imposing preformulated meaning on the
text to seek its confirmation. Thus, in responding to questions about the meaning of “usury” (ribā),
T
․ abāt․abāʾī explains the concept in its lexical sense as “giving a thing and later on taking back a
similar thing plus an increase.” He further relates it to its concrete cultural usage by citing the exam-
ple of a case in which a person devouring usury accumulates wealth at the expense of others. Such
an exploitation of others intrudes upon the balance and equilibrium that a society aims to achieve
under divine guidance.
The next exegetical move is to analyze the problematic phrase about being “possessed by a devil”
as punishment for devouring usury. To that end, T ․ abāt․abāʾī undertakes an extensive investigation of
the exegetical traditions and opinions offered by other scholars on this phrase. He critically evaluates
276
their opinions and demonstrates that the underlying problem in some of them is that they have
overlooked the necessity to contextualize the idea of punishment by being “possessed by a devil.”
The verse designates for this punishment only those who have voluntarily chosen not to differentiate
between “trade and usury,” the former being permitted and the latter prohibited.
The use of simile to describe the state of a person devouring usury as similar to that of one con-
founded by a devil is meant to indicate the confused state of mind of that person, whose choice to
devour usury is the result of his muddled thinking. Accordingly, T ․ abāt․abāʾī contends that “posses-
sion by a devil” does not refer to the involuntary convulsions of an epileptic attack or some state of
lunacy, as maintained by some commentators.
The problem in the exegesis of such passages, according to T ․ abāt․abāʾī, occurs when those
engaged in explicating them do not believe in the supernatural causes themselves and think that
attribution of an event to a spirit, an angel, or a devil is tantamount to a rejection of natural causes.
On the contrary, as T ․ abāt․abāʾī asserts, attribution of the events to the supernatural realm is meant
to recognize, rather than overlook the chain that links material causes to metaphysical ones.
The next exegetical move is to clarify the purpose of the similitude by critically evaluating past
commentaries that mention “rising” as being a reference to “rising from the grave” at the time of
resurrection. T ․ abāt․abāʾī takes the similitude to serve as a reminder to those who are entangled in
the love of wealth and ultimately become enslaved by it in this life. These individuals have aban-
doned legitimate ways of earning and have instead concentrated on earning money through money
only. This preoccupation with wealth has caused them to deviate from the path of moderation, lead-
ing them to lose equilibrium in their lives. It is in this aspect that the actions of a person devouring
usury and the “disorganized movements” (al-takhat․․tub) of one possessed by a devil have a common
element, namely, that both have lost a sense of balance. Obviously, a person muddled in his thinking
and disoriented in his movements could be said to be in a state of psychological abnormality. The
verse is, in fact, describing the state of abnormality and ensuing conduct when it declares: “That is
because they say trade is like usury.”
These two examples demonstrate T ․ abāt․abāʾī’s intratextual hermeneutics in which intrafaith
conflicts between Sunni and Shiʿi schools are not the main goal of the commentary. Rather, the
goal is to let the Qur’an resolve existing differences of opinion among Muslim exegetes by making
rational acceptance of what is denoted conceivable through reference to the Qur’an itself. Indeed,
al-Mīzān’s intratextual hermeneutics vindicates the coherence of the Qur’anic message, without
ignoring the contribution of the extensive traditional exegetical sources, meticulously sifted and
selectively utilized in providing the ultimate “Balance [of Judgement]” (al-Mīzān) in the exegesis of
the Book of God (cf. Q 55:7–9).
On Qur’an 33:33
The third example from the Q 33:33 provides the reader with a peculiarly Shiʿi subject of exegesis.
The verse reads, in part: “God only desires to put away abomination from you, O People of the
House.” The subject is “the People of the House” (ahl al-bayt, i.e., the family of the Prophet) and the
attending belief in their being free from any abomination and pollution, that is, maʿs.ūm (“infal-
lible”). This verse has enormous theological ramifications for the Shiʿi doctrine of the Imamate.
Following his method, T ․ abāt․abāʾī begins his explication by analyzing the explicit meaning of
the verse. The restricted sense of the divine assurance in the verse is understood through the use of
the adverb “only” (innamā), with which the verse qualifies desire on the part of God to cleanse the
People of the House: the Prophet’s family. In fact, T․ abāt․abāʾī asserts that it is only the People of the
House from whom God “desires to put away abomination.”
Who is intended by the phrase “People of the House”? Does the phrase include the wives of the
Prophet who are the subject of severe admonition in the preceding two verses? From the perspective
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Abdulaziz Sachedina
of grammatical rules, the object pronoun that is used for the “People of the House” is in second
person, masculine, plural form (ʿankum). Whereas, as T ․ abāt․abāʾī points out, for the verse to be
specifically addressed to the wives of the Prophet, the rule requires a feminine, plural (ʿankunna)
form. Hence, the reference to the “People of the House” could not be for them specifically to the
exclusion of others.
At this juncture, T ․ abāt․abāʾī introduces other interpretations of the phrase. Some exegetes have
maintained that it refers to the “people of the Sacred House,” that is, the sacred mosque of Mecca,
who are the god-fearing ones in accordance with the statement in the Qur’an that “[i]ts friends
[i.e., the friends of the Sacred House] are none other than the god-fearing” (Q 8:34). Others are of
the opinion that it expressly refers to the “people of the Prophet’s household.” These customarily
consist of his wives and close kinsmen, including the families of al-ʿAbbās, ʿAqīl, Jaʿfar, and ʿAlī – all
members of the Hashimite clan – or it may simply include the Prophet and his wives. Some early
authorities on the Qur’an, like ʿIkrima (d. 723) and ʿUrwa ibn al-Zubayr (d. 713) have restricted
the phrase to the Prophet’s wives only.
In any case, if the meaning of “putting away abomination” or “freeing from pollution” refers only
to the religious piety by means of which a person is enabled to avoid acts of disobedience and carry
out acts of obedience, then God is here doing no more than mentioning the advantage they have by
way of guidance in the matter of their religious obligations. He only desires to remove abomination
and pollution from them in the same sense as when He states: “God would not place a burden on
you, but He would purify you and would perfect His grace upon you that you may give thanks” (Q
5:6). But the meaning of God’s purification in this latter verse is not congruent with its mention
in Qur’an 33:33, where its meaning is restricted to the “People of the House,” because of the clear
incongruity between this restricted meaning of the phrase and the general sense accorded to the
phrase in Q 5:6 to include all Muslims obliged to carry out the requirements of the religion.
On the other hand, if “putting away abomination” or “freeing from pollution” means profound,
mature piety, and if this piety in religious obligations pertains to the wives of the Prophet, as men-
tioned in the preceding verses, then such a sense cannot be deduced from the nature of the address,
which is more general than that. Moreover, reference to the decrease in the reward or punishment,
ensuing from the omission or commission of acts of obedience respectively, does not benefit God;
rather it frees those who are being addressed from “abomination” and “pollution.” The message
applies to the wives of the Prophet and others, after it has been specifically addressed to them, as
evinced in the preceding verses. Moreover, the general sense of the address is not applicable to the
wives and to other women because others do not share with them the severity of the obligations and
the decrease of their reward or punishment.
T
․ abāt․abāʾī now undertakes the last part of his exegesis by pointing out that if the meaning of
the phrase “putting away abomination” or “freeing from pollution” through Divine will is without
any precondition, then such an inference is incongruent with the stipulation regarding their high
standing in piety. How can such an endowment be made without aiming at rewarding the ordinary
or extraordinary performance of religiously imposed obligations? It is inconsistent with the divine
will, whether expressed in the form of legislation or through the creation of the order of nature, to
presume that it is the absolute divine will to remove admonition and pollution specifically from the
family of the Prophet, whoever they happen to be.
The foregoing discussion provides T ․ abāt․abāʾī the opportunity to produce the ultimate evidence
for that which has been reported as the “circumstances of the revelation” for this verse, namely, that
the verse was revealed specifically regarding the Prophet, his son-in-law ʿAlī (d. 661), his daughter
Fāt․ima (d. 632), and his grandsons al-H.asan (d. 670) and al-H.usayn (d. 680) and that no one else
shared this honor with them.
At this stage T․ abāt․abāʾī introduces hadiths as evidence for his conclusion that the ahl al-bayt in
the verse are none other than the immediate family of the Prophet. Both Sunni and the Shiʿi sources
278
mention these traditions. Those transmitted by the Sunnis relate these traditions on the authority of
Umm Salama (d. circa 682) and ʿĀʾisha (d. circa 678), among the wives of the Prophet; Abū Saʿīd
al-Khud.arī (d. 693), Ibn al-ʿAbbās (d. 687), Thawbān (d. 663), and others among his companions;
and ʿAlī, and al-H.asan ibn ʿAlī among his immediate family members. The Shiʿi sources transmit
these traditions from their Imams and other early personages like Umm Salama, Abū Dharr (d. 652),
Ibn Abī Layla (d. 702), Abū al-Aswad al-Duʾalī (d. 688), Saʿd ibn Abī Waqqās (d. 674), and so on.
In refutation of the Sunni claim that these traditions also include the wives of the Prophet among
the ahl al-bayt, as referred to in the verse, T ․ abāt․abāʾī says: “Most of these traditions, especially the
one reported on the authority of Umm Salama, in whose house the verse was actually revealed, state
explicitly that the reference in the verse was distinctly to them, i.e. the ahl al-bayt, without inserting
the Prophet’s wives among them.”
After presenting some more arguments in support of limiting the ahl al-bayt to “the Five Persons”
(the Prophet, Fāt․ima, ʿAlī, al-H.asan, and al-H.usayn) and excluding all others as reported in other
traditions, T․ abāt․abāʾī makes his final exegetical move by declaring that in “the Qur’anic convention”
(ʿurf al-qurʾān) the phrase ahl al-bayt has become a proper noun for these Five Persons and does not
apply to anyone beside them. This is so even when there are his close kinsmen, who, in accordance
with the customary Arab usage of the phrase, it would be correct to include among the “People of
the House.”
The next hermeneutical maneuver is to establish that “taking away abomination” is actually
endowing the Five Persons in the ahl al-bayt with al-ʿis.ma, that is, “protection from committing
any sinful act or error of judgement.” ʿIs.ma, according to T ․ abāt․abāʾī, is the direct and necessary
corollary of removing “abomination” (rijs), which includes erroneous belief and sinful deviation.
Accordingly, endowment with ʿis.ma empowers the person to discern the truth in belief and action.
This endowment is the direct result of the divine will in the order of nature, and not in the order
of legislation, which aims at providing guidance for the fulfillment of religious obligations for a
believer, without any concern for the position a person holds. In other words, God continues to
fulfill His will by endowing them with ʿis.ma by removing from the ahl al-bayt erroneous beliefs and
the impact of evil acts and by offering them that which will enable them to remain in this state of
purity of faith and action. This is al-ʿis.ma.
The preceding example demonstrates the theological method, rooted in lexical and grammati-
cal analysis of the text and assisted by the hadiths (usually transmitted by non-Shiʿi sources), for
deducing a Shiʿi interpretation. It also illustrates a sectarian dimension and the critical importance
of seeking doctrinal legitimation for the Shiʿi stance in the Qur’an. Adoption of such a hermeneuti-
cal posture by T ․ abāt․abāʾī is understandable in light of his own theological and creedal faithfulness
to the Twelver Shiʿi tradition. What is, however, remarkable is the absence of a polemical tone in
his approach to the Sunni sources. Critical evaluation of the documents presented by early sources
with a clear bias toward the Sunni position is treated in a scholarly manner in order to expose their
authoritativeness or lack thereof in relation to the evidentiary nature of the literal sense derived
from the Qur’anic reference. The ultimate judge is the meticulously researched linguistic and lexical
aspects of intratextual Qur’anic analysis in its contextual setting and not the hadiths conditioned by
ideological considerations.
The Sources of al-Mīzān

As pointed out earlier, al-Mīzān is a source-oriented exegesis in which T ․ abāt․abāʾī searches for both
evidence to support his interpretation as well as an opportunity to offer his critical assessment of
past authorities. To this end, T
․ abāt․abāʾī scrutinizes both classical and modern commentaries on the
Qur’an, not necessarily in any chronological order, to verify his own explication of the text. This
method of investigation is informed by the prestige of the sources rather than the period when they
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Abdulaziz Sachedina
were composed. Moreover, it appears that there is a set convention in the utilization of the sources
for different areas of textual criticism. For instance, when it comes to inquiry into the meanings of
terms and concepts, it is Majmaʿ al-bayān fī tafsīr al-qurʾān by Abū ʿAlī al-Fad.l ibn al-H.asan al-T ․ abarsī
(d. 1153) and al-Mufradāt fī gharīb al-qurʾān by Abū al-Qāsim al-H.usayn ibn Muh.ammad, known as
al-Rāghib al-Is.fahānī (d. 1108), that serve as ultimate sources. When it is a question of hermeneu-
tics based on the traditions, it is Jāmiʿ al-bayān fī tafsīr al-qurʾān by Abū Jaʿfar Muh.ammad ibn Jarīr
al-T․ abarī (d. 923) and al-Durr al-manthūr fī al-tafsīr al-maʾthūr by Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūt․ī (d. 1505).
These are some of the most frequently cited sources of al-Mīzān.
However, regardless of the chronology of the sources, there is a sense in which Ibn al-ʿAbbās,
among the early companions, appears as the intellectual pillar of the science of exegesis. His opinions
are taken seriously, both those whose reliability is unquestionable and those in which there is doubt
about their ascription to him. Here the Qur’anic commentary of Muh.ammad ibn al-H.asan al-T ․ ūsī
(d. 1067), al-Tibyān fī tafsīr al-qurʾān, provides an array of opinions transmitted from the Prophet’s
Companions and other associates. The critical role played by Ibn al-ʿAbbās’s exegetical elucidations
is so striking that in numerous places his opinions are cited without even mentioning their source.
The influence of Muh.ammad ibn ʿUmar al-Zamakhsharī (d. 1144) and his commentary,
al-Kashshāf ʿan haqāʾiq al-tanzīl, is noticeable throughout al-Mīzān. Al-Kashshāf, as a Sunni-
Muʿtazili exegesis, serves a similar function as the Shiʿi Majmaʿ al-bayān, in that it provides lexico-
graphical, grammatical, and rhetorical analysis of the text. However, T ․ abāt․abāʾī does not accept
al-Zamakhsharī’s interpretations uncritically. He cites al-Kashshāf ’s implausible rendering of some
of the metaphorical references in the Qur’an and provides a more logical explanation for them. It
is ultimately, Majmaʿ al-bayān, the great Shiʿi exegesis, that T ․ abāt․abāʾī depends upon the most in
explicating the meanings of Qur’anic passages. Majmaʿ al-bayān provides not only a Muʿtazili-Shiʿi
exegesis, it also furnishes T ․ abāt․abāʾī with his search for rational explications, which no school of
thought in Islam could reject. Moreover, Majmaʿ al-bayān’s meticulous rendering of the grammatical
reading of the Qur’anic Arabic and its copious citations of traditions that explain its difficult passages
allow T ․ abāt․abāʾī to feel confident in citing it as evidence for his own preferred explications of the
Qur’an. Thus, in comparison to al-T ․ ūsī ’s Tibyān, it is al-T․ abarsī’s Majmaʿ al-bayān that holds the
status of the authoritative Imami Shiʿi exegesis in T ․ abāt․abāʾī’s al-Mīzān.
Among Sunni exegetical works, T ․ abāt․abāʾī uses the commentary of Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (d.
1210), Mafātih. al-ghayb, also known as al-Tafsīr al-kabīr, for the purpose of refuting Ashʿari Sunni
theological theses, which were adopted by this scholar. Whereas the exegesis of Nas.īr al-Dīn ʿAbd
Allāh ibn ʿUmar al-Bayd.āwī (d. 1319), Anwār al-tanzīl wa asrār al-taʾwīl, serves as an important
source to check on some of the erroneous explications maintained by Sunni exegetes. Al-Rāghib’s
al-Mufradāt is frequently quoted for elucidating the meanings of ambiguous terms and phrases, fol-
lowing the example of al-T ․ abarsī in Majmaʾ al-bayān. In the latter work, al-Mufradāt appears as a
lexicon for defining difficult terms and concepts. On the other hand, al-Suyūt․ī’s al-Durr al-manthūr
functions as a handbook of Sunni traditions cited on the authority of the Prophet, his Companions,
and the succeeding generations, which T ․ abāt․abāʾī frequently uses in his sections on the “Discourse
on the Traditions,” juxtaposing it with Shiʿi traditions.
Al-Mīzān, as mentioned earlier, is a source-oriented exegesis, and, accordingly, its sources are
extensive, including major historical, lexicographical, traditional, and exegetical works. Indeed, in
his search for a reliable explication of the revelation and determination of the sources of erroneous
exegesis, T ․ abāt․abāʾī has not spared any substantial study that has been undertaken about the Qur’an,
regardless of its being composed by Sunni or Shiʿi authors. The level of accuracy in his citation of
the sources, randomly checked for this article, is so impeccable that it is possible to assert with confi-
dence that al-Mīzān is an encyclopedic source-work for Qur’anic Studies in Islam. It is the ultimate
“balance” (al-mīzān) of the history of Qur’anic exegesis that stands out as a major reference work on
the intratextual study of the Qur’an.
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Notes
1 Such is the opinion of Abū l-Qāsim al-Khūʿī in his al-Bayān fī tafsīr al-qurʾān (Beirut: Muassasat al-Aʿlami li
al-Matbuʿat, 1974), vol. 1. This opinion has been adopted and critically examined in the light of the earlier
works by Western scholars of the Qur’an in John Burton, The Collection of the Qur’an (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1977), chapter 10.
2 Rudolf Bultmann, in his essay on “Is Exegesis Without Presuppositions Possible?” in The Hermeneutics Reader:
Texts of German Tradition from the Enlightenment to the Present, ed. Kurt Mueller-Vollmer (New York: Con-
tinuum Publishing Company, 1992), regards the historical understanding of the text on the basis of a “life-
relation” to it as the existential encounter with the text, because it “grows out of one’s own historicity.” I have
used the term “life-orientational” in a similar sense to express the Muslim encounter with the Qur’an as a
“paradigm” for the creation of the ideal Muslim society.
3 The question of “authorial pretext” or “author’s intentions” and contextual significance and their relation to
broader context in the historical understanding of a text is taken up by Jeffrey Stout in his article “What Is
the Meaning of a Text?” New Literary History: A Journal of Theory and Interpretation 14, no. 1 (1982–83): 1–12.
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26
THE QUR’AN IN THE THOUGHT
OF IBN ‘ARABĪ
William C. Chittick
Paul Nwyia once wrote that the early Sufis were engaged in “the Qur’anization of memory,”1 a
process that Ibn ʿArabī (d. 1240) seems to have taken to its logical extreme. By his time the various
fields of Islamic learning had become subdivided into many specialties, some of which had little
apparent connection with the founding revelation. His immense and highly sophisticated output,
energized by the vision of tawh.īd, reintegrated and harmonized these sciences – especially jurispru-
dence, principles of jurisprudence, Sufism, Kalam, and philosophy – by tying them back explicitly
to the Qur’an, even if he did not do this in any systematic manner.2 Like the Qur’an, he writes, his
style does not follow standard rational procedures, deriving instead from the very roots of reality
itself.3 Although he constantly interprets Qur’anic verses and terminology, he does so from a variety
of shifting standpoints, so the whole range of his explications did not fit into any specific genre (such
as ishāra as exemplified by Qushayrī’s, d. 1074, Lat․āʾif al-ishārāt, or taʾwīl like the commentary of
ʿAbd al-Razzāq Kāshānī, d. circa 1330). As for the systematic versions of his teachings that spread to
every corner of the Islamic world, these were the work of his followers and tended to obscure the
fact that his formulations were typically offered as explanations of the sacred text.
Perhaps the best way to grasp the manner in which Ibn ʿArabī approaches the Qur’an is to situate
the book in the framework of his thought, even though no outline can capture his intimate inter-
weaving of thought and Qur’an or the manner in which he frequently offers original yet strikingly
apropos interpretations of the book’s verses. Observers from both inside and outside the Islamic
tradition have tried to encapsulate his standpoint with the phrase wah.dat al-wujūd (“the oneness of
existence”), but he himself did not use this expression, and those who did use it gave it a variety of
interpretations, both pro and con, so it conveys no real sense of what he was talking about.4
The foundation of Ibn ʿArabī’s teachings in one word is tawh.īd, the Qur’anic assertion that God
alone is truly real and that all else is contingent upon Him. Everything in the universe, in other
words, is a “sign” (āya) or a “self-disclosure” (tajallī) of the truly “Real” (al-h.aqq), for created reality
gives news of its Creator’s names and attributes. God’s absolute and infinite “Essence” (al-dhāt) leaves
“everything other than God” (mā siwa’llāh) hanging in ambiguity. As signs and disclosures, all things
partake of the Real, but in and of themselves they are “unreal” (bāt․il). To express their ambiguous
status, Ibn ʿArabī often uses the phrase huwa lā huwa (“He/not He”), meaning that everything dis-
closes God in one respect and veils Him in another. Everything is an “image” (khayāl), so in relation
to God each created thing is like a dream in relation to a dreamer.5
Ibn ʿArabī described the infinite variety of divine self-disclosures using the full spectrum of names
and attributes employed in theology, philosophy, and Sufism. Not least among these names is wujūd,
282 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-29

The Qur’an in the Thought of Ibn ʿArabī
which had become a standard designation for the Real since the time of Avicenna. Unlike many
philosophers and theologians, however, he never forgot the Qur’anic meaning of the word’s verbal
form, which is to find and to perceive. For him the very mention of the word calls to mind not some
abstract notion of existence and being but rather the infinite reality of the Real, whose knowledge
and self-awareness embrace all things. Things in turn “find” and “are found” only because of the
traces of wujūd within them.
Employing well-known theological expressions, Ibn ʿArabī frequently explains that God in Him-
self, whom he commonly calls “the Necessary Existence” (wājib al-wujūd) or “the Real Existence”
(al-wujūd al-h.aqq), must be understood in terms of both tanzīh and tashbīh. Tanzīh is the assertion of
God’s incomparability or transcendence, given that “Nothing is as His likeness” (Q 42:11). Tashbīh is
the declaration of His similarity and immanence, for “He is with you wherever you are” (Q 57:4). In
Ibn ʿArabī’s way of looking at things, the rational and analytical approach to understanding wujūd, an
approach that underlies the thought of the mutakallimūn and the philosophers, employs ʿaql (“intel-
lect” or “the rational faculty”) to differentiate and discern in terms of tanzīh, asserting that the world
and all things are “not He.” The figurative and symbolic approach of Sufis and poets employs khayāl,
imagination, to see all things in terms of tashbīh, thereby asserting a common rootedness in the One
Real and declaring that all are “He.” Ibn ʿArabī calls intellect and imagination “the two eyes of the
heart.”6 Neither the one nor the other, neither philosophy nor poetry, neither logos nor mythos, is
fully adequate to perceiving the Real as it is. If Ibn ʿArabī does not consider himself a philosopher, a
mutakallim, or a Sufi, it has something to do with the fact that each of these terms implies a limited,
one-sided approach.
Ibn ʿArabī and his followers refer to their own position as that of “realization” or “verification”
(tah.qīq). The true “realizers” (muh.aqqiq) see the Real in both His absence and His presence, His
transcendence and His immanence. They attain a perfect vision of He/not He – simultaneous tanzīh
and tashbīh – by actualizing both eyes of the heart and acknowledging the validity of every possible
perspective. They give each thing its “rightful due” (h.aqq) in both theory and practice. Ibn ʿArabī
calls the fullness of this realization maqām lā maqām (“the station of no station”) or the standpoint of
no specific standpoint, for it recognizes the relative validity of all standpoints. This is why he can say,
in one of many statements along these lines, that the ʿurafāʾ – the gnostics or “recognizers” who
have truly recognized themselves and thereby recognized God – “concur with the belief of every
believer. . . . On the Day of Visitation [in paradise] these men will see their Lord with the eye of
every belief.”7
One of the keys to Ibn ʿArabī’s approach to the Qur’an is the distinction he and others drew
between two divine “commands” (sing., amr): the “engendering” (takwīnī), which is the creative
word “Be” (kun); and the “prescriptive” (taklīfī), which sets down the commandments and prohibi-
tions of the prophetic messages. While most theologians stressed the Qur’an’s prescriptive role, Ibn
ʿArabī put an even greater stress on its depiction of the objective reality of existence and awareness.
Understanding wujūd’s actual situation was, of course, central to the concerns of the philosophers,
but Ibn ʿArabī held that their brand of rationality was too tightly bound up with intellect and tanzīh
to see the whole picture. As for the divine Speech that appears as scripture, it provides the clearest
possible explication of reality, for it exposes the Real Wujūd in a language that is simultaneously
rational and imaginal, without the limitations inherent to either logos or mythos.
Ibn ʿArabī understood all perceivable reality, whether divine or human, natural or ethical, spir-
itual or corporeal, as God’s speech. He saw homologies everywhere, for he traced all things back to
the One Speaker. We can see his typical stress on the ontological rather than the legal and moral in
a passage explaining that the divine speech becomes articulated as the universe, the human self, and
the Qur’an. Yes, the prescriptive command, upon which religious knowledge and activity is based,
is nothing but God’s speech. But this same divine speech is the creative “Be” that brings all things
into existence. This is a simple fact of tawīd: “There is no speaker but God.” Hence, as he puts it in a
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line of poetry, “There is nothing but silence [s.amt], and the Real alone is speaking [nāt․iq]. // There
is nothing but God, for there is no other creator.”8 Those who listen to the Real are His servants,
that is, all of creation, given that each created thing serves God by following the engendering com-
mand in all that it does.
The Real speaks to the servants constantly while they stay silent, giving ear constantly in all
of their states, whether movement or rest, whether standing or sitting, for their hearing is
given over to the Real’s speech. They never cease hearing the Real’s command that engen-
ders [takwīn] the states and guises that come to be within them. Neither the servants nor
the cosmos are ever empty of the existence of engendering for one instant, so they never
cease listening and never cease being silent. It is impossible for them to enter in along with
Him in His speech. So, when you hear servants speaking, that is the Real’s engendering
within them, while the servants remain silent in their root, standing before Him, for no
one ever hears anything but the engenderings of the Real.9
Ibn ʿArabī sometimes says that there are two basic sorts of divine speech, qawl and kalām. Qawl is
the engendering speech: “His only command when He desires a thing, is to say [yaqūl] to it, ‘Be!’,
and it comes to be” (Q 36:82). Kalām is the prescriptive speech transmitted by the prophets. “Qawl
has an effect on the nonexistent things [maʿdūmāt], and that is existence. Kalām has an effect on the
existent things, and that is knowledge [ʿilm].”10 As for kalima (“word”) – the unit from which speech
is compounded – it designates not only God’s prescriptive words but also His engendered words.
Hence God’s eternal Speech is nothing but God Himself inasmuch as He makes Himself manifest,
whether as created things, or as words, concepts, and awareness. All āyāt – “signs” or “verses” –
whether present in the Qur’an, the cosmos, or the soul, are God’s words. “The cosmos is the words
of God.”11 “All of existence is the words of God.”12 “There is nothing in existence but God, for the
existent things are God’s words.”13 “There is nothing in the cosmos but – or rather, the cosmos is
nothing but – the words of God. The words of God are His command, and His command is ‘but
one, like a blink of the eye’ ” (Q 54:50).14 It follows that “Existence is all letters, words, surahs, and
verses. Hence it is the Great Qur’an, ‘to which the unreal comes not from before nor from behind’ ”
(Q 41:42).15
Ibn ʿArabī devotes one of the longest chapters of his magnum opus, al-Futūh.āt al-makkiyya (The
Meccan Openings), to the “Breath of the All-Merciful” (nafas al-rah.mān), explaining how all things are
actually, not figuratively, God’s words. Each divine word – each existent thing – is articulated within
the divine Breath from ontological letters, and each combines with others to produce sentences,
chapters, and books. Just as our words are expressions of ourselves, so also God’s words disclose His
Reality. Just as our words once spoken disappear, so also God’s words are gone as soon they arrive. If
they seem to remain in place, this results from the renewal of creation at each instant (tajdīd al-khalq fi
l-ānāt), for God’s engendering command is eternal, and our perceived reality is forever newly arriv-
ing (h.ādith). And just as our words are never exactly the same, so also “[t]here is no repetition in the
self-disclosure” (lā takrār fi l-tajallī) because the Real Existence is infinite and unrestricted. Our words
are at once ourselves, articulated in our breath and existing as a result of our own actuality, and not
ourselves for they evaporate while we remain. His words are the same: He/not He.
All-comprehensiveness
Ibn ʿArabī reminds his readers that one literal sense of the word qurʾān is jāmiʿ, which means “bring-
ing together,” “gathering,” “comprehending.” Moreover, God is al-jāmiʿ, “the All-Comprehensive.”
And the name Allāh is al-ism al-jāmiʿ, “the all-comprehensive name,” because it embraces the mean-
ing of every divine name and designates the single reality to which each of them refers.16 The Great
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Qur’an – the cosmos – is also jāmiʿ because it embraces everything other than God. And “the perfect
human being” (al-insān al-kāmil) is al-kawn al-jāmiʿ, “the all-comprehensive engendered thing,”17 or
“the all-comprehensive, universal servant,”18 or “the all-comprehensive word and transcript of the
cosmos,”19 or “the all-comprehensive book”20 for, as the microcosmic fruit of the divine word kun,
He contains within himself all the words articulated by the All-Merciful Breath.
These, then, are the essential homologies in Ibn ʿArabī’s view of the divine speech, each of them
possessing the attribute of all-comprehensiveness: God, the cosmos, the Qur’an, and the perfect
human being. Each embraces the others in a manner appropriate to its own mode of existence.
In this way of looking at things, the Real’s creation of the universe and revelation of the Qur’an
prepare the way for the actualization of human perfection, which is arguably the defining topic of
Ibn ʿArabī’s corpus. The perfect man, the supreme exemplar of whom is Muhammad, is the fully
actualized microcosm, a complete form (s.ūra) of God, embracing all attributes and traits of God, the
cosmos, and the Qur’an in an active, focused, and aware manner. The universe as a whole, the mac-
rocosm, is also a complete form of God, but it displays the words articulated within the All-Merciful
Breath passively and in indefinite diversity.21 As for those human beings who have not reached the
Station of No Station – that is, practically everyone other than the prophets – the Qur’an offers them
the means to strive toward perfection. In effect, the Qur’an is the ontological and spiritual perfection
of human beings laid bare in language. As Ibn ʿArabī puts it in one passage:
In relation to the revealed books and scriptures, the Qur’an is like man in relation to the
cosmos, for it is the comprehensive totality of the books [majmūʿ al-kutub], and man is
the comprehensive totality of the cosmos, so the two are brothers. And by man I mean the
Perfect Man, who is none other than he upon whom the Qur’an has been sent down in
all its respects and relations.22
Just as the Qur’an embraces all the wisdom of all scriptures in an all-comprehensive synthesis, so also
the most perfect of perfect men, Muhammad, embraces all the virtues, perfections, and cognitive
modalities of the 124,000 previous prophets. His unity encompasses the prophets’ multiplicity, just
as God’s unity encompasses the multiplicity of His names. Ibn ʿArabī sees an explicit recognition of
the Qur’an’s vision of simultaneous unity and multiplicity in its two primary designations: al-qurʾān
(that which brings together) and al-furqān (that which separates). As qurʾān, the book manifests the
all-comprehensive unity of the Real Existence, and as furqān, it displays the multiplicity implicit in
God’s omniscience. The Perfect Man actualizes the same complementarity, so he is able to see things
with both eyes. The eye of qurʾān is the eye of imagination and comprehensiveness, for it grasps
tashbīh and the fact that the Real Wujūd is immanent in all things. The eye of furqān is the eye of
intellect and discernment, for it perceives each thing as distinct from the Real and from everything
else. Ibn ʿArabī writes:
He who stops with the Qur’an inasmuch as it is a qurʾān is a possessor of one eye that is
unitary in all-comprehensiveness. When someone stops with it inasmuch as it a compre-
hensive totality, for him it is a furqān. . . . When I tasted this latter affair . . . I said, “This is
allowed, that is forbidden, and this is indifferent. The doctrines have become variegated and
the schools diverse. The levels have been distinguished, the divine names and engendered
traces have become manifest, and the names and gods have become many in the cosmos.”23
The Qualifications of a Mufassir

Ibn ʿArabī often mentions that the proper way to understand the Qur’an is to seek help from
God and the Prophet. One should not rely upon one’s own talents and abilities. Philosophers and
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theologians rely upon ʿaql, but the proper use of ʿaql, he tells us, is to “fetter” (ʿiqāl) one’s hawā
(“caprice”), the arbitrary likes and dislikes of the ego, the false god often stigmatized by the Qur’an
(as in Q 43:4 and 45:23).24 By misusing ʿaql, scholars fetter their understanding rather than their per-
sonal predilections. They “tie knots” (ʿuqda) in their hearts and come up with “creeds” (ʿaqīda) and
“beliefs” (iʿtiqād). They limit and bind the Real and end up with “a god of belief ” (ilāh muʿtaqad), a
notion of God tied down by their own limitations.25 If these knots do not aid in achieving perfec-
tion, they need to be undone. If people attempt to undo them by the binding instrument that is
ʿaql, they will tie themselves in other knots, perhaps more adequate to the nature of things but still
dominated by creaturely limitations. The Qur’an and the Sunna provide the path of undoing knots
and transcending limitations. One must surrender one’s heart to God and let Him take over instruc-
tion. Ibn ʿArabī sees this message in various Qur’anic verses, such as, “The All-Merciful: He taught
the Qur’an, He created man, He taught him the explication” (Q 55:1–4). “Be wary of God and God
will teach you” (Q 2:282).
Given that God is the Real Wujūd (true existence, finding, awareness, consciousness), it follows
that understanding the Qur’an – the Real’s all-comprehensive self-disclosure in language – entails
intensification of the light of wujūd, which is to say that existence and awareness will come to shine
more brightly in the heart. The result will be some degree of movement from buʿd (“distance” from
the Real) to qurb (“nearness” to the Real). This is not a subjective movement but rather an intensifi-
cation of the very fabric of reality from which the self is woven. The trajectory of the self is endless,
since no matter how many veils are lifted, their number stays infinite. Given the infinity of the Real
and the constriction of newly arriving things, “the veils will remain hung down forever, and nothing
else is possible.”26
That selves have trajectories is a constant theme of the Qur’an and is obvious to everyone. Each
human being, created in the very form of the Necessary Existence, has the potential to encompass
all possibilities of wujūd. Each stands at some point on the trajectories articulated by the Qur’an and
perceptible in ourselves and the world – such as those who know and those who do not know, those
who see and those who do not see, those who are wary of God and those who are not wary. It
makes no sense to imagine – in the Qur’anic view of things – that any two people can have the same
understanding of the Qur’an, or the same participation in the perfections of existence, or the same
attainment of the all-comprehensive human form. The distinctions that the Qur’an draws among
unbelievers, believers, friends, and prophets are not simply subjective or moral but rather ontologi-
cal, pertaining to the objective nature of things. Moreover, they are indefinitely subdividable, for
there is no repetition in the divine self-disclosure.
Ibn ʿArabī brings out the ontological reality of the self ’s inner qualities in many ways, such as his
explanations of khuluq (“character”), a word written exactly the same as khalq (“creation”). Already
in the hadith literature, khalq can designate the external human reality as contrasted with khuluq,
the internal dimensions of the soul. A supplication of the Prophet, for example, includes the words,
“O God, make my character beautiful just as You made my creation beautiful.” Man’s creation is
beautiful because God created him in “the most beautiful stature” (Q 95:4). Achieving a beautiful
character, however, depends upon actualizing the divine form. By discussing khuluq as an ontologi-
cal rather than a moral issue, Ibn ʿArabī departs from its general philosophical approach, where the
plural of khuluq, akhlāq, is typically translated as “ethics.”
Ibn ʿArabī often designates the process whereby seekers pass through the ascending stages of pos-
sibility – commonly called the “stations” on the path to God – as “becoming characterized by the
character traits of God” (al-takhalluq bi-akhlāq Allāh). The final stage of this ascent, the Station of
No Station, is also known as the Muhammadan Station, for Muhammad embodied it in a uniquely
perfect manner, allowing him to be the receptacle for the all-comprehensive Qur’an. It embraces
countless degrees of perfection, which can be represented, for example, by the 124,000 prophets, in
each of whose footsteps, says Ibn ʿArabī, walks one of God’s friends in every era.27 His brief Fus.ūs.
286
al-h.ikam summarizes this approach by describing 27 perfect human exemplars, each of whom was a
“word,” that is, a specific instance of the divine speech in human form colored by a specific attribute
of the divine reality. Adam, the first human being and the first to achieve perfection, made manifest
the all-comprehensive name Allāh, which created Adam in its own form. The other prophetic words
disclosed this same name, but a second divine name predominated, allusions to which Ibn ʿArabī
finds in the Qur’anic depictions of the prophet in question.
Ibn ʿArabī sees a reference to Muhammad’s station of all-comprehensiveness in the Qur’an’s use
of the adjective “tremendous” (ʿaz․īm). He writes:
God says, “Surely thou art upon a tremendous character’ [Q 68:4]. . . . When ʿĀʾisha
was asked about the character of the Messenger of God, she answered, “His character was
the Qur’an’. . . . God described that character as “tremendous,” just as He described the
Qur’an in His words, “the tremendous Qur’an” [Q 15:87]. . . . If someone from the com-
munity of God’s Messenger has not perceived him and desires to see him, let him gaze on
the Qur’an. When he gazes on it, there will be no difference between gazing on it and
gazing on God’s Messenger. It is as if the Qur’an became configured in a corporeal form
called Muhammad ibn ʿAbdallāh ibn ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib. And the Qur’an is God’s speech
and His attribute. So Muhammad in his totality is the attribute of the Real, and “Whoever
obeys the Messenger has obeyed God” [Q 4:80], for “he does not speak from caprice” [Q
53:3], since he is a tongue of the Real.28
In the 560 chapters of the Futūh.āt, Ibn ʿArabī describes an endless variety of moral, spiritual, and
cognitive stations achieved by the prophets and their followers. He finds their archetypes deline-
ated in the Furqān and designated by divine names, specific chapters or verses, prophetic practices,
divine/human character traits, and so on. Invariably, after providing profuse details concerning the
wisdom that God confers on the possessor of each of these stations, he remarks that what he has
written represents but a tiny fraction of the understanding that he was given when God “opened
up” (futūh.) his soul to that station. It is precisely this sort of “opening” that is referred to in the title
of the Futūh.āt. Both the content of the book and Ibn ʿArabī’s constant attention to Qur’anic verses
and words illustrate his contention that “[n]othing is opened up to any friend of God except the
understanding of the Tremendous Book.”29
Actualizing the Divine Speech

Although all things are signs of God, none are articulated manifestations of the all-comprehensive
Real except the cosmos as a whole, the perfect human being, and the Qur’an. It is as if these three
alone display the full spectrum of possibility – the white light of God – while other things take on
specific colors. Ibn ʿArabī understands the words of the angels, “None of us there is but has a known
station” (Q 37:164), as a general rule, applying in this world to all creatures other than man. Human
beings alone have no known station, no fixed modality of being, no unchanging articulation in the
divine speech. Only at death does their free will disappear, allowing their existence to unfold in a
trajectory that has now become fixed by a lifetime of becoming characterized, whether harmoni-
ously or disharmoniously, by the character traits of God.
Since human beings have no fixed stations in this life, they are “forced to be free” (majbūr ʿalā
ikhtiyārihim, as both al-Ghazālī [d. 1111] and Ibn ʿArabī like to say). They must make choices on
a daily basis, and these have repercussions in the manner of their becoming. Each individual starts
as a potential for all-comprehensiveness, but whether or not he or she achieves the goal depends
on myriad factors, not least intention and desire. In order to desire something, one must know it,
and the only way to know the fullness of the divine form is through its three manifestations – the
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universe, the perfected human soul, and the Qur’an. The universe is much too vast to be known as
such, and the human soul has far too many mysterious depths to be plunged. “In the view of those
who know the soul, the soul is an ocean without shore, so knowledge of it has no end.”30 Only the
Qur’an and its embodiment in the Sunna can provide the balance of tashbīh and tanzīh that allows
people to escape their limitations and achieve the Station of No Station, the all-comprehensive
human perfection embracing all perfections but limited and defined by none. Those who reach
it are “the realizers.” They alone actualize tah.qīq, which entails among other things fulfilling the
prophetic commandment to “give each thing that has a rightful due [h.aqq] its rightful due.” These
rightful dues are delineated by the Furqān and its embodiment in the Sunna. Such perfect human
beings are then ahl al-Qurʾān, “the folk of the Qur’an,” who, according to a hadith, “are the folk of
Allāh and His elect.” They are the folk of Allāh rather than any other divine name because of their
all-comprehensiveness. And the word ahl means not only folk but also “worthy” (mustah.iqq). They
alone give human all-comprehensiveness its rightful due.
The Qur’an says that God sent the Qur’an and other scriptures to guide mankind and that God
alone is the true guide, showing people the road to their everlasting “felicity” (saʿāda). It is God who
must guide for the simple reason that “there is no guide but God.” No one else knows Real Wujūd
and the path to actualize its fullness. To follow the all-comprehensive articulation of guidance in the
divine speech is to conform oneself to it in both theory and practice, in both knowledge of things
and in activity vis-à-vis others. In one respect such conformity demands effort, which must be
guided by the prescriptive command. From a God’s-eye view, however, all things are the fruit of the
engendering command. Given that God is both eternal and omniscient, He knows all things always
and forever, which is to say that He knows every possibility, everything that may possibly exist, for
all eternity. He does not interfere with things as He knows them. He simply says “Be!” to them at
their appropriate moments.31
From the divine standpoint, all stations are fixed. Everyone has already attained what he or she
will attain, for attainment is nothing but his or her eternal thingness – the beginningless possibility –
to which God gives existence. From the human standpoint, however, freedom is unavoidable, so
much so that we are forced to make choices and will be called to account for them. Ibn ʿArabī takes
this “predestinarian” perspective as good news because it means that all things actualize their exis-
tential reality in servanthood to the All-Merciful: “None is there in heaven and earth that comes not
to the All-Merciful as a servant” (Q 19:93). Even if people fail miserably to follow the prescriptive
command, the mercy of the All-Merciful “embraces all things” (Q 7:156), so they will eventually (bi
l-maʾāl) taste mercy’s fruit as compensation for their compulsory servanthood.32
When we look at Ibn ʿArabī’s vast corpus as an explication of the engendering command
depicted in the Qur’an, we can see it as an attempt to map out the whole panorama of human
perfection and, by implication, imperfection, since – as the proverbial hemistich puts it – “Things
become distinct through their opposites.” We also come to understand that the prescriptive com-
mand is a codicil to the engendering command, for it opens up a vast range of existential modali-
ties dependent on human responsibility, not least of which are paradise and hell. There can be no
reward or punishment for coerced activity. Moreover, paradise and hell do not represent a simple
binary opposition, for here again we are dealing with hierarchies of manifestation. When heaven
and earth are turned into something else at the resurrection (Q 14:48), the apparent uniformity
of the human race will become an indefinite diversity of realms of being, contingent as always on
the Real Being but far more varied than was possible in the realm of corporeality. This is because
“The nonmanifest dimension of the human being in this world will be his manifest dimension
in the next world.”33 Bodies, which seem so substantial here, disappear; “mountains pass by like
clouds” (Q 27:88). The character traits, thoughts, intentions, virtues, vices, stations, and states that
are invisible in this world become the very substance of the human reality, now made manifest in
“imaginal” but real form. People taste concretely everything they brought into being during a life
288
of forced freedom. Without that freedom, an indefinite diversity of pleasure and pain could not
become manifest. Or, to speak in terms of the divine attributes, there would be no place for the
manifestation of justice and wisdom, two Qur’anic divine attributes that demand putting things
in their rightful places. All this Ibn ʿArabī finds detailed in the Qur’an’s depiction of God and the
worlds.
The Qur’an is addressed to everyone, and “God sent no messenger save with the tongue of his
people, that he might make clear to them” (Q 14:4). Those who know the language of the people
to whom the Qur’an was sent might think that the book will be easy to understand. But given the
infinity and incomparability of the book’s author, one will certainly need God’s help. In terms of
the engendering command, God’s help has already been given: the intelligence, talents, desires, and
drives necessary for some degree of understanding are present in the human substance, with the
obvious caveat that each person’s gifts are unique – this is the law of nonrepetition. For Ibn ʿArabī,
this means, among other things, that the human soul undergoes a constant process of actualizing its
all-comprehensive potentialities, ad infinitum. It follows that a perfect human being will see new
meanings in the āyāt every time he reads them. As he puts it:
When meaning repeats itself for someone who is reciting the Qur’an, he has not recited it
as it should be recited. This is proof of his ignorance. But when someone’s knowledge is
increased through his recitation, and when he acquires a new judgment with each reading,
he is the reciter who, in his own existence, follows God.34
The meanings that readers perceive in the Qur’an will depend on a great variety of factors, not least
their understanding of the Arabic language. The qualified will find that the book is “an ocean with-
out shore, since He to whom it is ascribed intends all the meanings demanded by the speech – in
contrast to the speech of created things.”35 Given that all the Qur’an’s possible meanings are intended
by God, “No one can declare a scholar wrong in an interpretation supported by the words. . . .
However, it is not necessary to uphold the interpretation or to put it into practice, except in the case
of the interpreter himself and someone who follows his authority [muqallid].”36
In terms of the prescriptive command, the degree to which one grasps the meanings of the
Qur’an will have a great deal to do with intentions, for the manner in which people exercise their
limited freedom has obvious repercussions in their ability to understand. For Ibn ʿArabī, it is self-
evident that following the prescriptive command is a necessary prerequisite for understanding the
Qur’an as it should be understood (bi-h.aqqih). The all-comprehensive Book was revealed to make
possible the actualization of the all-comprehensive divine form in which man was created. If readers
of his corpus saw in his vision a notion of wah.dat al-wujūd, this is no doubt because of his insistence
that the Real Existence alone is real and that the realization of Its reality can be attained only by
those who perceive and find Its all-comprehensiveness within their own all-comprehensive selves,
the locus of finding and being found. This helps explain what he means when he describes what he
found when, following in the Prophet’s footsteps on a miʿrāj, he entered into the Divine Presence,
which is the Real Existence, other than which nothing truly exists: “I gained the meanings of all the
divine names. I saw that they all go back to a single Named Object and a Single Entity. That Named
Object was what I was witnessing, and that Entity was my own existence.”37
Notes
1 Ibn ʿAt․āʾ Allāh et la naissance de la confrérie šādilite (Beirut: Dar El-Machreq, 1971), 46.
¯
2 As noted in the previous chapter, Michel Chodkiewicz and Abdel Baki Meftah have shown how the Qur’an
plays an intimate role in Ibn ʿArabī’s writings. For an orderly but far from adequate sampling of Ibn ʿArabī’s
commentaries on Qur’anic passages, see the four-volume work by Mah.mūd Mah.mūd al-Ghurāb, Rah.ma
min al-Rah.mān fī tafsīr wa ishārāt al-Qurʾān (Damascus: Mat․baʿ al-Nad.ir, 1989).
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William C. Chittick
3 See, for example, al-Futūh.āt al-makkiyya (Cairo, 1911), vol. 2, p. 548, line 15; translated in Chittick, Sufi Path
of Knowledge (hereafter SPK), xxi.
4 See Chittick, “A History of the Term Wah.dat al-Wujūd” in idem, In Search of the Lost Heart (Albany: SUNY
Press, 2012), 71–88.
5 Futūh.āt 2:380.4 (SPK 120–121).
6 See SPK 361–363.
7 Futūh.āt 2:85.10 (SPK 355).
8 Futūh.āt 3:219.1 (cf. Futūh.āt 2:77.16).
9 Futūh.āt 3:218.31.
10 Futūh.āt 2:400.9.
11 Futūh.āt 3:413.28.
12 Futūh.āt 4:161.5.
13 Futūh.āt 2:404.6.
14 Futūh.āt 2:402.30.
15 Futūh.āt 4:167.22. For this passage in context, see Chittick, The Self-Disclosure of God (Albany: SUNY Press,
1998; hereafter SDG), 70–72. For two more long passages on the cosmos as God’s words, see SDG 192–193
(Futūh.āt 2:416–417) and 196–198 (Futūh.āt 3:283–284).
16 See, for example, Futūh.āt 1:102.4, 329.5, 428.27, 623.17, II 468.7.
17 Fus.ūs. al-h.ikam, chapter 1.
18 Futūh.āt 1:108.25.
19 Futūh.āt 1:136.30.
20 Futūh.āt 2:67.29.
21 See SDG 27–29.
22 Futūh.āt 3:94.8.
23 Futūh.āt 3:94.16 (SPK 363).
24 SDG 340ff.
25 SPK, chapter 19.
26 Futūh.āt 3:276.20 (SDG 156).
27 Futūh.āt 3.208.17.
28 Futūh.āt 4:60.33 (SPK 241).
29 Futūh.āt 3:56.2.
30 Futūh.āt 3:121.25 (SPK 345).
31 Ibn ʿArabī calls this fact al-h.ujjat al-bāligha (Q 6:49), God’s conclusive argument. See SPK 297–301.
32 See Chittick, “The Hermeneutics of Mercy,” in Ibn Arabi: Heir to the Prophets (Oxford: One World, 2005).
33 Futūh.āt 3:441.14.
34 Futūh.āt 4:367.3.
35 Futūh.āt 2:581.11 (SPK 245).
36 Futūh.āt 2:119.24.
37 Futūh.āt 3:350.30.
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27
SUFI TAFSĪR
Lahouari R. Taleb
The academic study of Islamic mysticism, although over two centuries old, is still inchoate.1 To be
sure, there have in recent years been many groundbreaking developments that allow us to better
understand various aspects of the Sufi tradition. As the wider field of religious studies increasingly
bears upon the narrower field of Islamic Studies, countless new methods and theories are being
brought to the forefront of the discussion. This gives the current study of Sufism a more textured
feel. However, by the same token, it points up what large gaps there still are in even a basic presenta-
tion of the Sufi tradition and those figures, ideas, and institutions that we normally place within it.2
After Paul Nwyia’s fundamental insights on the rootedness of the Sufi worldview in the Qur’an
replaced the more outdated (and at times hostile) views on the “heterodox” origins of the Sufi tra-
dition,3 modern scholarship has borne witness to a number of studies on what can be called “Sufi
Qur’anic exegesis” (tafsīr al-s.ūfī),4 also dubbed “allusive exegesis” (al-tafsīr bi l-ishāra), and the individ-
ual authors who make up this enterprise.5 And, if we are willing to extend the label of Sufi tafsīr to
approaches that are spiritually and philosophically oriented, our reading list becomes even greater.6
It is safe to say that the study of Sufi tafsīr is flourishing, with a number of other studies on
individual Sufi exegetes currently in the works.7 Yet it is also clear that by Sufi “approaches” to the
Qur’an, we need not only consider writings that narrowly fit into the rubric of what we can call
tafsīr, however vaguely defined. Many influential Sufis in the Islamic tradition did not leave behind
works that would be considered a Sufi Qur’an commentary, but nevertheless their writings function
as esoteric commentaries on the Qur’an. This point is rightfully highlighted by Annabel Keeler and
Sajjad Rizvi in their coedited volume, The Spirit and the Letter, which covers not only conventional
esoteric commentaries within the wider framework of tafsīr but also essays on esoteric commentaries
that are not usually classified under the rubric of tafsīr.
What makes these latter kinds of works particularly important for those interested in Sufi tafsīr
is that they may have had, historically speaking, a greater impact on the Sufi tradition than some
of the better known Sufi Qur’an commentaries proper. Let us take, for example, the work of Ibn
ʿArabī (d. 638/1240), widely recognized as the most influential and prolific thinker in the Sufi
tradition. Although he appears to have completed a massive Qur’anic commentary,8 which is now
lost, his magnum opus al-Futūh.āt al-Makkiyya (The Meccan Openings) is itself a full-fledged running
esoteric commentary upon the Qur’an.9 In fact, as Michel Chodkiewicz and Abdel Baki Meftah
have demonstrated, the structure of some major parts of the Futūh.āt is itself based on the structure
of the Qur’an, and this phenomenon is also found in his influential work Fūs.ūs. al-H . ikam (The Ring-
stones of Wisdom).10 These two works by Ibn ʿArabī are not Sufi tafsīrs as such, and yet the abundance
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Lahouari R. Taleb
of Qur’anic interpretations within them have left an indelible mark upon later Sufism and Islamic
philosophy.11
With these preliminary remarks in mind, my investigation of Sufi tafsīr is guided by two ques-
tions: (1) what are the hermeneutical principles of Sufi tafsīr, and (2) how can we deploy them
to delineate the parameters of a genre of tafsīr that accounts for both Sufi and non-Sufi tafsīr?12 In
answering these questions, I argue that while the Qur’an and hadith constitute the foundational
sources of both the Sufi and exoteric tafsīr tradition, the Sufi interpretive approach is embedded in
the esoteric premises that are enshrined in these canonical sources of Islamic exegesis.
A Normative or Marginal Genre?

Commenting on the scholarly understanding of a genre, Walid Saleh remarks that while “there is
a solid consensus among scholars as to what a genre is not,” there is “very little agreement about
what it is.”13 If this holds true for the broader tradition of exoteric tafsīr literature, the case is even
more problematic with respect to Sufi tafsīr. In spite of this, there exists a trend in Qur’anic Studies
scholarship that considers Sufi tafsīr a marginal subgenre of Qur’an commentary.14 The “esoteric”
character of Sufi exegesis, however esoteric may be defined and qualified, is often invoked to justify
this typology. What makes a Sufi tafsīr work or an interpretation esoteric is a contested question,
however. Scholars have yet to agree on the definition of esoteric in Islam. Until we do so, we must
carefully probe into the nature of a genre before we can decide whether Sufi tafsīr sits on the margin
or within the normative genre of Qur’an commentary.15
One way to approach this question is by bearing in mind, as one scholar rightly puts it, that
“the whole Islamic esoteric tradition is essentially an esoteric commentary upon the Qur’an, which
includes works written for the specific purpose of esoteric commentary to comments scattered
throughout all types of Islamic esoteric works.”16 For one thing, this remark entails that the frontiers
of an esoteric genre of tafsīr go far beyond the narrow discipline of Qur’anic commentary proper.
This matter is further complicated by the fact that that many Sufis have authored Qur’anic commen-
taries that were strictly or partly exoteric.17 In this respect, then, we have good reasons to think that
an esoteric tafsīr is not as self-contained as we may be led to believe. This would have the effect of
affording Sufi tafsīr a more central role vis-à-vis its normativity as a Qur’anic interpretive tradition.18
Another way of grappling with genre as a conceptual construct is to consider what genre theo-
rists have to say about its nature.19 According to A. Devitt, a genre is conventionally defined as “a
classification system of texts based on shared formal characteristics.”20 This conception, A. Bawarshi
further explains, tends to “fixate on genres as relatively static objects to be taught and acquired as
part of disciplinary and professional enculturation.”21 Against this pervasive way of thinking about
genre, however, Devitt suggests that that “genres are defined less by their formal conventions than
by their purposes, participants, and subjects: by their rhetorical actions.”22 In short, the key insight
we can take from genre experts is that “genres” are fluid constructs that cannot be readily distilled
from one another.23 In light of these observations, we need to entertain a more dynamic definition
of Sufi tafsīr, one in which the exoteric and esoteric meanings of scripture form an integral part of
its interpretive horizons. In so doing, we will be less disposed to place Sufi tafsīr on the “margin” of
a so-called “normative” genre of tafsīr, which is misleadingly identified in Qur’anic Studies with the
exoteric tafsīr literature. As we have pointed out, many Sufi exegetes included in their tafsīrs exten-
sive discussions of the exoteric meanings of the Qur’an. The same is true of non-Sufi exegetes like
Fakhr al-Dīn Rāzī (d. 606/1209) and Abū Ish.āq al-Thaʿlabī (d. 427/1035) who incorporated Sufi
interpretations into their respective tafsīrs.24
With that said, we cannot play down the fundamental differences between the Sufi and the strictly
exoteric tradition of Qur’an commentary. The Sufi interpretive method is rooted in the esoteric prem-
ises of the Qur’an and Sunna, namely, the hierarchical ontology of scripture, and the initiatic regimens
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that came down from the Prophet to successive generations of Sufi masters. Considering the scope
of Sufi tafsīr is perhaps a more meaningful way to understand its relation to the exoteric interpretive
tradition. Thus if the literal word of Scripture determines the scope of exoteric exegesis proper, the
integrity of the letter is instrumental in the Sufi interpretive framework. If, however, the esoteric scope
of the Word is what fundamentally motivates the enterprise of Sufi hermeneutics, it is not so for the
exoteric exegetical approach. All this goes to show that a “genre” is not an entirely reliant construct
for determining the normativity of an exegetical tradition, particularly when the presumed “norm” is
shaped by commentators whose tafsīr incorporated both exoteric and esoteric interpretations.
Qur’anic Foundations
Like most other currents of Qur’anic exegesis in the Islamic tradition, Sufis ground their scriptural
approach in the Qur’an itself and the hadith (Prophetic traditions). A key feature of their interpretive
framework is the belief that the Qur’an, as the verbatim Word of God, is infinite in scope and depth,
a premise inferred from the following verses: “Say, if the sea were ink for the Words of my Lord, the
sea would be spent before the Words of my Lord are spent, even if We brought the like thereof to
replenish it” (Q 18:109),25 and “if all the trees on the earth were pens, the sea, with seven more seas
to replenish it (were ink), the Words of God would not be exhausted” (Q 31:27).26
Notwithstanding the variety of Sufi interpretations on these verses, the esoteric commentary of
ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jazāʾirī (d. 1300/1883) on Q 18:109 – as developed in his metaphysical summa
Kitāb al-mawāqif (The Book of Spiritual Waystations) – exemplifies a classical Sufi account of the high
ontology of scripture. The following passage is most telling in this regard:
[His Speech] has no finitude because It does not enter into existence in its entirety; for, if it
did, it would necessarily be finite. But [His speech] is not confined [munh.asar], in contrast
with the sea, which is confined insofar as it enters into existence [wujūd]. For whatever
enters into existence is finite [mutanāhī]. Hence, if the finite “sea were ink for the infinite
Words of my Lord, the sea would be spent and exhausted before the Words of my Lord are
spent,” for God’s Words are infinite; “even if We brought the like thereof to replenish it”
that is, “even if We brought about another sea like it.”27
Jazāʾirī’s commentary proceeds from a basic ontological division: finitude and infinitude. From these
two principles, he develops a higher ontology of the Divine Word that can be summed up as follows:
insofar as God’s words (qua His speech) are qualified by His eternity, they are coeternal with Him and
are therefore infinite; however, insofar as the “sea” is qualified by “[contingent] existence” (wujūd), it
is co-contingent with wujūd and necessarily qualified by finitude.28 Thus the infinity of God’s words
cannot be embraced by the finite sea, but the finite sea can be embraced by the infinity of God’s words.
If God’s Word is eternal, as standard Sufi theology maintains, it follows that the content of the
Qur’an is infinite and is not therefore reducible to its spatiotemporal form qua a written and recited
“codex” (mus·h.af ). In the Sufi interpretive scheme, the eternal content of the Divine Word generates
an infinite plenitude of meanings.29 Accordingly, the meanings of the revealed text are perpetually
unfolding before the interpretive eye of the Sufi, with each meaning revealing a new aspect of the
Divine Word.30
Inspired by this rich ontology of Scripture, another major Sufi author, Abū H.afs· ʿUmar
al-Suhrawardī (d. 632/1234), writes:
The aspects (wujūh) of understanding [the Qur’an] cannot be confined because the aspects
of the Word are inexhaustible, for God says: “Say, if the sea were ink for the words of my
Lord, the sea would be spent before the Words of my Lord are spent” (Q 18:109). Within
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each Word of God in the Qur’an are His Words, which would not be spent, even if “the
sea would be spent.”31
This passage foregrounds the higher ontology of the Qur’an as expressed by al-Jazāʾirī centuries
later, which has always been central to the Sufi tafsīr tradition. For Suhrawardī, the inexhaustible
aspects of the Divine Word are concordant with the inexhaustible interpretations of the Divine
Word. In other words, if God’s Word is coeternal with His knowledge, the “sea” of finite interpreta-
tions “would be spent” before the content of His eternal knowledge would be spent.32
Signs on the Horizons and Verses in the Souls

While any assessment of Sufi tafsīr must be prefaced by an ontology of the Divine Word, our inves-
tigation would be incomplete without discussing the preeminent place of “allusive exegesis” (al-tafsīr
al-ishārī) in this exegetical tradition. For some Sufis, the allusive method of exegesis is used inter-
changeably with taʾwīl (lit. “to bring [a word] back to its ‘origin,”” awwala), for both designate an
esoteric interpretation of the Qur’an.33 The term “allusive” has gained wider acceptance because of
its symbolic resonance with the Sufi spiritual path.34 The interplay between the hermeneutic of the
Word and of the soul, as Sufi exegetes have construed it, is eminently expressed for them in the fol-
lowing Qur’anic verse: “We shall show them Our signs upon the horizons and within their souls till
it becomes clear to them that He is the Real” (Q 41:53). As we shall see, scriptural allusions reveal
within the human soul the inward counterparts of the cosmic “signs” (āyāt) of God. Commenting
on this verse, Ibn ʿArabī offers some illuminating remarks on this interface between the cosmic and
microcosmic “signs” of God as follows:
The discourse of our companions in explaining His Mighty Book, “to which falsehood
comes not from before it nor from behind it” (Q 41:42), is allusions (ishārāt), though it is
truth and a commentary (sharh.) upon its beneficial meanings. They refer all its [i.e., scrip-
ture’s] meanings back to their own souls while upholding its general [meaning] and the
mode in which it was sent down, as known to the people of this language to whom it was
revealed. Hence God combined the two modes [of exegesis] in them, as He said, “We shall
show them Our signs upon the horizons and within their souls” (Q 41:53), that is, “We shall
show them the verses which are sent down concerning the horizons and their own souls.”35
For Ibn ʿArabī, Sufis use allusions when commenting upon the Qur’an in order to mirror a mode of
Divine discourse that is not readily accessible to the exoteric commentators. He further adds, how-
ever, that an allusion is superimposed over the literal discourse of Scripture, inasmuch as it reveals
through the letter of the Qur’an itself a higher meaning within the human soul. While couched in
the plain language of the Qur’anic revelation, what Ibn ʿArabī calls “the mode in which the Qur’an
was sent down,” allusion corresponds to what we may provisionally term an interpretation of the
spiritual “verses” of the human soul. These “verses” of the soul mirror in turn the “verses” of God
“upon the Horizons,” revealing thereby a deeper affinity between the macrocosmic and microcosmic
“signs” of God within the sacred Text.
The significance of an allusion is thus not so much its esoteric overtone but its interpretive leap,
namely, its capacity to enrich the hermeneutical scope of the plain discourse of the Qur’anic revela-
tion. The stated leap from the letter to its allusive implication within the human soul is dismissed by
exoteric exegetes for reasons that Ibn ʿArabī explains as follows:
Every revealed verse has two senses [wajhān]: a sense which people see within their souls
and a sense which they see outside of themselves. That which they see within themselves
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Sufi Tafsīr
they call an “allusion”. . . . Our companions have chosen the term “allusion” rather than
other terms for their explanations of the Book of God because of a Divine instruction of
which the exoteric scholars are ignorant. This is so because an “allusion” is only posited
with respect to the intention of the one making an allusion, not with respect to the object
of the allusion.36
The outward “sense” that the Sufis and the exoteric commentators “see outside of themselves” is
framed against the “sense” of the same verse that the Sufis “see within their souls.” For Ibn ʿArabī,
the interface between “the two senses” of every Qur’anic verse expresses a relation of codependence,
but it also reflects the internal hierarchy of the revealed Book. For this reason, Ibn ʿArabī is adamant
that the allusive “sense” of the Qur’an corresponds to an elevated but, more importantly, inspired
mode of exegesis that the exoteric scholars are unaware of.
We might ask: what it is about an allusive interpretation that eludes the exoteric theologians,
and what confers upon this interpretive model an “esoteric” character? Part of the answer lies in
the distinction that Ibn ʿArabī makes between the object of an allusion and the intention of the
alluding agent. To this we can add that which disposes a Sufi to apprehend the allusive indications
of the Qur’an within his soul, what Ibn ʿArabi would call a person’s “preparedness” (istiʿdād). As
Ibn ʿArabī affirms, the reason for the allusion is to reveal the “intention of the one who alludes,”
not his intention “with respect to the object of allusion [i.e., the verse itself ].” The distinction is
indicative of the crucial difference between a Sufi and a non-Sufi commentary on the Qur’an. Ibn
ʿArabī writes:
One of the characteristics of the exoteric scholar in defending himself is that he is ignorant
of he who says, “My Lord has bestowed upon me an understanding.” He considers himself
superior to the one who says this and to the true possessor of knowledge. But He who is
one of the Folk of God says, “God has cast into my inmost consciousness what He meant
by this rule in this verse.”37
Here, Ibn ʿArabī draws attention to the modality of Divine discourse that the Sufi apprehends
within himself but that is inadmissible to the exoteric scholar. The point that he is making is better
understood if we further reflect on the stated relationship between the object and the intention of
an allusion. Here, the interpretive scope of the exoteric exegesis is restricted to the letter of scrip-
ture (i.e., the object of an allusion), whereas the scope of Sufi tafsīr includes both the letter and the
meaning that God “cast into the inmost consciousness” of the exegete (i.e., the intended allusion).
This explains, in Ibn ʿArabī’s mind, why the exoteric scholar is largely dismissive of the allusive
interpretations of the Folk of God. Speaking this time of the esoteric modality of revealed discourse,
he explains the reason why the taʾwīl of the Sufis are not directly disclosed by God in the Qur’an.
Consider this passage:
The jurists are ignorant of the modes in which the address of the Real descend. But in
this, the folk of God follow the path of guidance, for God has the power to state explicitly
the [esoteric] interpretations [taʾawwul] of the Folk of God in His Book, but He has not
done so. On the contrary, He embedded into those Divine words, which are revealed in
the language of the common people, the sciences of the meanings of the elect, which He
makes His servants understand when He opens the eyes of comprehension.”38
As discussed earlier, a scriptural allusion is what the Sufis “refer back to their own souls” and “see
within themselves.” This is the sense in which the terms taʾwīl and ishāra are both understood in
the Sufi interpretive tradition. To be sure, these esoteric meanings are not explicitly spelled out in
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the Qur’an, as Ibn ʿArabī reckons, but they are nonetheless divinely disclosed to the spiritual elect
through “the language of the common people” – i.e., the literal words of revelation. Unlike the exo-
teric interpretation of the sacred Book, which in principle is accessible to anyone who is sufficiently
proficient in Arabic, the esoteric comprehension of the Qur’an is ultimately inspired by God. This
interpretive scheme safeguards the integrity of the literal text of Scripture while making a strong case
for the virtual inherence of esoteric meanings in it.
Those Firmly Rooted in Knowledge

While the term ishāra is not expressly used in the Qur’an to designate an esoteric mode of interpre-
tation, the term taʾwīl is explicitly mentioned in a key verse, the interpretation of which has been
intensively disputed among the Sufis and the exoteric commentators. The verse states:
It is He Who sent down the Book upon thee; therein are univocal verses [muh.kam], they
are the Mother of the Book, and others are symbolic [mutashābih]. As for those whose
hearts are given to swerving, they follow that of it which is symbolic, seeking tempta-
tion and seeking its interpretation [taʾwīl]. And none knows its interpretation [taʾwīl]
save God and those firmly rooted in knowledge, they say, “We believe in it; all is from
our Lord.”
(Q 3:7)
The verse enumerates two types of Qur’anic verses, the “univocal” (muh.kam) and “symbolic”
(mutashābih), each of which has its corresponding mode of interpretation. Both the exoteric and
Sufi exegetes seem to agree that the “univocal” verses are clear from their literal words, leaving no
room for further interpretation, while the mutashābih verses pose some interpretive challenges.39
The disagreement is whether the mutashābih verses are beyond human interpretation, as the exoteric
theologians claim, or they indeed are accessible to the spiritual elite, as Sufis contend. Significantly,
the verse employs the term taʾwīl to describe the interpretation of the mutashābih verses – a term, we
should note, that has assumed different meanings and applications for different schools of Qur’anic
exegesis.40
The initial point of divergence, however, is of a syntactical nature. By reading a possible full stop
after “none knows its interpretation [taʾwīl] save God,” the exoteric exegetes refuted the possibility
of anyone else knowing the taʾwīl of the mutashābih verses. By omitting the stop, the Sufis reckoned
otherwise.41 This seemingly trivial feature of punctuation had far-reaching significance for the enter-
prise of tafsīr in the mainstream Qur’anic exegetical tradition. For the exoteric commentators, the
full stop entailed that the interpretation of the mutashābih verses is restricted to God alone, precluding
thereby the Prophet and any other community of interpreters from knowing the meanings of these
verses. Conversely, it implied that the Prophet and his community can only interpret the “univocal”
verses.
By reading the verse without a full stop (after “save God”), which is equally admitted, the Sufis
claimed that a distinguished community of interpreters, namely “those firmly rooted in knowl-
edge,” know the taʾwīl of the mutashābih verses with God. To suggest otherwise would imply that
the Prophet, his distinguished Companions, and everyone else in his community possess the same
knowledge of the Qur’an and thereby share the same spiritual distinction – a grave assertion that
no exoteric theologian would make. To add further weight to their interpretative scheme, however,
many Sufi commentators, past and present, resorted to a key hadith in which a hierarchy of mean-
ings permeates the Qur’anic discourse and determines in turn the hierarchy among communities of
interpreters.
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Prophetic Foundations
Notwithstanding the lingering dispute over Q 3:7, the mere indication of a symbolic order of scrip-
tural meaning leaves the interpretive door wide open for Sufis to explore other canonical sources
to justify the existence of an esoteric dimension in the Qur’an. By far, the most widely quoted
hadith of the Prophet that Sufi exegetes cite to corroborate their view that the Qur’anic revelation
is hierarchically structured is narrated by Ibn Masʿūd (d. 32/652) as follows: “the Qur’an has a back
[z․ahr] and a belly [bat․n], a boundary [h.add], and the boundary has a point of elevation [mat․laʿ].”42
The “back” (z․ahr) and “belly” (bat․n) of the Qur’an, as Sufis have understood this hadith, are identi-
fied respectively with the “exoteric/outer” (zāhir) and “esoteric/inner” (bāt․in), or literal and spir-
itual, content of scripture respectively. This fundamental division not only reflects the “univocal”
(muh.kam) and “symbolic” (mutashābih) dyad in the aforementioned Qur’anic verse (Q 3:7), it plays a
critical role in Sufi discussions of the prophetic foundations of Sufi esoteric exegesis.
A similar fourfold account of scripture is attributed to ʿAli b. Abī T
․ ālib (d. 40/661), arguably the
most venerated figure after the Prophet in the Sufi and Shiʿi esoteric traditions, who proclaimed that:
There is no verse of the Qur’an that does not have four meanings [maʿāni]: an outer [zāhir]
and an inner [bāt․in) meaning, a legislative ruling [h.add], comprising of what is permissible
and forbidden, and a point of elevation [mat․laʿ], which is what God intends for a servant
to understand.43
A third and final statement is ascribed to Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq (d. 148/765), the most important early
source for esoteric Qur’anic exegesis, who said that “the Qur’an is comprised of formal expres-
sions [ʿibāra], allusions [ishāra], subtleties [lat․āʾif ] and realities [haqāʾiq].” The “formal expression,”
he explains, “corresponds to the literal meaning, as intended for the common people [ʿāmma]; the
“allusions” are intended for the elite [khawāss]; the “subtleties” are intended for the saints [awliyāʾ];
and the “realities” are understood by the prophets [anbiyāʾ].”44
Apart from the zāhir and the h.add, Sufi tafsīr is largely geared toward the bāt․in and mat․laʿ, or ishāra
and lat․āʾif. Unlike the zāhir of the Qur’an, however, the interpretation of the inner meanings is
not necessarily contingent on formal training in the transmitted tradition of Qur’anic exegesis (tafsīr
bi l-maʾthūr), though many Sufis considered such a training necessary and highly beneficial.45 As
most Sufis contend, a God-inspired interpretation is ultimately the fruit of spiritual practices that
are instituted in the Qur’an and transmitted by the Prophet to qualified members of the Muslim
community.46
This interpretive approach, however, did not go unchallenged by some exoteric theologians who
accused the Sufis of engaging in “opinion-based exegesis” (tafsīr bi l-raʾy) and of undermining the
primacy of the “transmitted exegesis” (tafsīr bi l-maʾthūr).47 Against this charge, the Sufis professed
their commitment to the transmitted method of tafsīr and unanimously rejected any interpretation
that contradicts the literal meaning of Scripture. Unlike certain trends of Ismaʿili exegesis, which
both the Sufis and mainstream Qur’an commentators hold in contempt for abrogating the literal
meaning of the Qur’an, the Sufis are adamant that their spiritual interpretations do not invalidate the
literal meaning of the sacred text.
The function and scope of the letter is therefore at the heart of this debate. In fact, the tension
between Sufis and some exoteric theologians is primarily centered on the semantic boundary and
interpretive breadth of the Qur’anic “letter.” In other words, how far can the letter of the Qur’an be
stretched without sacrificing its semantic integrity?
Effectively, if the letter is instrumental in Sufi tafsīr, it is prescriptive and directive in exoteric
tafsīr. While some theologians have questioned the loyalty of the Sufis to the letter of the Qur’an,
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others, such as the prominent Ashʿarī theologian and critic of IbnʿArabi, Saʿd al-Dīn al-Taftāzānī
(d. 793/1390), defended the Sufis against these unfounded charges. What’s more, as explained soon,
al-Taftāzānī is wont to stress the fundamental distinction between the objectionable exegesis of the
Ismailis, dubbed the “esotericists” (bāt․iniyya) and the sound exegesis of the Sufis. He writes:
The heretics were called esotericists [bāt․iniyya] for claiming that the [scriptural] texts are other
than what their outward meanings [zāhir] denote; instead they express meanings that are
known to no one save the [esoteric] teacher [muʿallim]. What they intend by this is the abro-
gation of the Law [sharīʿa] altogether. As for what some of the [spiritual] verifiers (i.e., Sufis)
have stated, namely, that the scriptural texts must be read outwardly, but that they nonetheless
contain subtle allusions [ishārāt] concerning certain truths that are unveiled to those masters
of spiritual wayfaring [arbāb al-sulūk] and which are concordant with the outward meaning
of the text, this approach is the hallmark of faith and the utmost degree of gnosis [ʿirfān].48
Coming from a theologian who was known for his stringent criticism of Ibn ʿArabī and his school,
al-Taftāzānī’s endorsement of Sufi tafsīr is quite telling. Above all, it suggests that the parameters
of Sufi tafsīr should not be judged by any exegetical norm save the norm of scripture itself. The
most crucial criterion that any Qur’anic commentary must conform to, as he previously states, is
the integrity of the literal word of scripture. This is what differentiates, for al-Taftazānī, Sufi from
Ismaʿili exegesis. The allusions of the Sufis, which are the fruit of an intensive spiritual discipline,
are “concordant with the outward meaning of scripture,” while Ismaʿili exegesis maintains that the
esoteric meaning of the Qur’an, which is only known to the esoteric guide, is altogether other
than its literal meanings.49 Put in these terms, al-Taftazānī is setting the parameters of a normative
Sunni exegesis within Scripture itself, rather than framing the norm against a subgenre of exegesis.
The allusive interpretations of the Sufis are ultimately judged against the letter of Scripture first and
embedded thereafter in the spiritual foundations of the Sufi path.
Concluding Remarks
By illustrating how the Sufi exegetical tradition is thoroughly embedded in the Qur’an and the
hadith, our aim was not only to show that Sufi tafsīr is as legitimate as the mainstream tafsīr tradition
but to argue that it is as normative as the latter. After all, it should be kept in mind that many of the
great Sufi Qur’anic exegetes were themselves exceptionally well trained in the more exoteric forms
of Islamic theology and Qur’anic exegesis.
Like their exoteric counterparts, Sufis rely on the Qur’an and hadith to develop a transcen-
dental ontology of the Divine Word, the implication of which informs every other consideration
pertaining to the hierarchical and esoteric content of the Qur’anic revelation. While Sufis insist on
the inspirational source of their “allusive” interpretations of the Qur’an, they have an unrelenting
commitment to the letter of scripture. Unlike the exoteric exegetes, however, the letter is intended
to reveal the inner “signs” of Scripture within the human soul. This interpretive perspective is envis-
aged as a hermeneutical reflection, one in which the literal and spiritual meanings of the Qur’an
mirror one another. In the final analysis, in Sufi tafsīr it is not a matter of leaping from the letter of
the Divine Word into its spirit but rather of plunging past the surface of the letter into that infinite
expanse that the Sufis refer to as “an Ocean without a shore.”
Notes
1 For a far-ranging survey of the study of Sufism in the modern academy, see Khalil and Sheikh, “Sufism in
Western Historiography: A Brief Overview,” Philosophy East and West 66, no. 1 (2016): 194–217.
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2 With respect to these “gaps” in our knowledge of the Sufi tradition, we still lack, inter alia, even elementary
discussions and explanations of the nature, content, and influence of a variety of major Sufi texts and their
commentary traditions (where applicable). A step in that direction is under way, namely, the forthcoming
Guide to Sufi Literature (eds. Rustom and Lumbard), which covers some 80 different premodern Sufi texts
written in seven different languages and spanning over a millennium.
3 For a comprehensive account of the Qur’anic foundations of the Sufi tradition, see P. Nwyia, Exégèse
Coranique et Langage Mystique: Nouvel essai sur le lexique technique des mystiques musulman (Paris and Beirut:
Imprimerie Catholique, 1970). See also Louis Massignon, Essai sur Les origines du Lexique Technique de la
Mystique Musulmane (Paris: Cerf, 1999).
4 For a historical survey of Sufi Qur’anic exegesis, see A. Habil, “Traditional Esoteric Commentaries,” in
Islamic Spirituality: Foundations, ed. S.H. Nasr (New York: Crossroad, 1987); Gerhard Bowering, “The
Scriptural ‘Senses’ in Medieval Sufi Qur’an Exegesis,” in With Reverence to the Word: Medieval Scriptural Exege-
sis in Judaism, Christianity and Islam, eds. Jane Dammen McAuliffe, Barry D. Walfish, and Joseph W. Goering
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 346–365. Alexander D. Knysh, “Sufism and the Qurʾān,” in
Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe (Leiden: Brill, 2006); Kristin Sands, Sufi Com-
mentaries on the Qur’ān in Classical Islam (London: Routledge, 2006); A. Godlas, “S.ūfism,” in The Blackwell
Companion to the Qur’ān, ed. Andrew Rippin (Oxford: Wiley Blackwell, 2009); M. Sells, Early Islamic Mysti-
cism (New York: Paulist, 1996), chapter 2; W. Chittick, “Quran and Sufism,” in The Study Quran: A New
Translation and Commentary, ed. Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Caner Dagli, Maria Dakake, Joseph Lumbard, and
Mohammed Rustom (San Francisco: HarperOne, 2015), 1737–1749. See also T. Mayer, “Traditions of
Esoteric and Sapiential Quranic Commentary,” in The Study Quran: A New Translation and Commentary, ed.
Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Caner Dagli, Maria Dakake, Joseph Lumbard, and Mohammed Rustom (San Fran-
cisco: HarperOne, 2015), 1819–1855.
5 For book-length studies (in European languages) that are exclusively devoted to individual Sufi tafsīrs,
as well as English translations of some of these tafsīrs, see G. Böwering, The Mystical Vision of Existence
in Classical Islam: The Qurʾānic Hermeneutics of the Sūfī Sahl at-Tustarī (Berlin and New York, de Gruyter,
1980); Yousef Casewit, The Mystics of al-Andalus: Ibn Barrajān and Islamic Thought in the Twelfth Century
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, April 2017); J. Elias, Throne Carrier of God: The Life and Thought
of ʻAlā' ad-Dawla as-Simnānī (Albany: SUNY Press, 1995); R. Gramlich, Abu l-ʻAbbās b. ʻAt․āʾ: Sufi und
Koranausleger (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1995); Annabel Keeler, S.ūfī Hermeneutics: The Qur’an Commentary of Rashīd
al-Dīn Maybudī (Oxford: Oxford University Press in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2006;
partial tr. Chittick, Unveiling of the Mysteries); P. Lory, Les Commentaires ésotériques du Coran d’après ‘Abd
al-Razzāq al-Qāshānī (Paris: Les Deux Océans, 1980); M. Nguyen, Sufi Master and Qur’an Scholar: Abū’l-
Qāsim al-Qushayrī and the Lat․āʾif al-ishārāt (Oxford: Oxford University Press in association with The Institute
of Ismaili Studies, 2012) (Qushayrī, d. 465/1072; partial tr. Sands, Subtle Allusions); Laury Silvers, Soaring
Minaret: Abu Bakr al-Wāsit․ī and the Rise of Baghdadi Sufism (Albany: SUNY Press, 2010). A very helpful study
that brings together the views of different Sufi Qur’anic exegetes on a theme of particular importance for
Sufism, namely the Moses–Khid.r encounter (see Q 18:66–82) is H. Halman, Where the Two Seas Meet: The
Quranic Story of Khidr and Moses in Sufi Commentaries as a Model for Spiritual Guidance (Louisville, KY: Fons
Vitae, 2013).
6 For a survey of “esoteric” exegesis in Shiʿism and Islamic philosophy, see the editors’ “Introduction” to The
Spirit and the Letter: Approaches to the Esoteric Interpretation of the Quran, ed. Annabel Keeler and Sajjad Rizvi
(Oxford: Oxford University Press in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2016), 1–21. See also
Toby Mayer, “Traditions of Esoteric and Sapiential Quranic Commentary,” 1819–1855, and his “Introduc-
tion” to Shahrastānī’s Esoteric Commentary on the Qur’an (Oxford: Oxford University Press in association with
The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2009); see also Mohammed Rustom, The Triumph of Mercy: Philosophy and
Scripture in Mullā S.adrā (Albany: SUNY Press, 2012) and the forthcoming study on Ibn Sīnā’s Qur’anic
commentary by Jonathan Dubé, Turning to the Real: Ibn Sīnā’s Interpretation of the Qur’an (Cambridge: Islamic
Texts Society, in press).
7 I have in mind a number of doctoral dissertations in progress, such as Hamilton Cook’s (Emory) study of
Ismāʿīl H.aqqī Burūsawī’s (d. 1137/1725) politicization of the insān al-kāmil doctrine, which substantially
engages with his Sufi Qur’an commentary Rūh. al-bayān (The Spirit of Elucidation); Omneya Ayad’s (Exeter)
investigation into Ah.mad ibn ʿAjība’s (d. 1224/1809) al-Bah.r al-madīd (The Vast Ocean), and my forthcom-
ing dissertation (University of Toronto) on the Sufi tafsīr of ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jazāʾirī, as found in his Kitāb
al-mawāqif (The Book of Spiritual Waystations) – Kitāb al-mawāqif fī baʿd. ishārāt al-qur’ān ilā l-asrār wa l-maʿārif,
3 vols., ed. Bakri ʿAlā al-Dīn (Damascus: Ninawi li l-T ․ abaʿa wa l-Nashr wa l-Tawzīʿ, 2014). See also Pieter
Coppens, “God in This World and the Otherworld: Crossing Boundaries in Sufi Commentaries on the
Qurʾān” (PhD diss., Utrecht University, 2015).
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8 As indicated by Meftah and Chodkiewicz, Ibn ʿArabi states in his Fihrist (i.e., Fihrist muʿallafāt al-shaykh
al-akbar, RG172) that he authored a Qur’an commentary, in 64 volumes, entitled al-Jamʿ wa l-tafs.īl fī asrār
maʿānī l-tanzīl (The Synthesis and Exposition Concerning the Arcana of the Revealed Meanings), which appeared
to be lost. See Chodkiewicz, Un Océan sans Rivage: Ibn Arabi, Le Livre et La Loi (Paris: Le Seuil, 1992), 166,
note 37; also noted by Meftah in his annotated edition, with introduction and commentary on Ibn ‘Arabī’s
Ishārāt al-qur’ān fī ʿālam al-insān (Damascus: Dār al-Ninawi li l-Dirāsāt wa l-Nashr wa l-Tawzīʿ, 2016), 21.
9 Ibn ‘Arabī also penned a partial commentary upon the Qur’an that runs to Q 2:253 but that is as yet
unedited: http://archive.ibnarabisociety.org/archive_reports/works_pdf_alpha/268.pdf#page=1&pagemod
e=none&toolbar=1&navpanes=0. Also extant is his commentary on a selection of Qur’anic verses, currently
being edited by Denis Gril: http://archive.ibnarabisociety.org/archive_reports/works_pdf_alpha/303.pdf#
page=1&pagemode=none&toolbar=1&navpanes=0.
10 Chodkiewicz, Un Océan sans Rivage, chapters 2–5. See also Meftah, H.aqāʾiq al-qurʾān ʿinda Muh.yī al-Dīn
Ibn ʿArabī (Amman: ʿĀlam al-Kutub al-H . adīth, 2016). See also Denis McAuley, Ibn ‘Arabī’s Mystical Poetics
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), chapter 3.
11 See Chittick, “The School of Ibn ʿArabī,” in History of Islamic Philosophy, ed. Seyyed Hossein Nasr and Oli-
ver Leaman (London: Routledge, 2001), 510–523; Chodkiewicz, Un Océan sans Rivage, chapter 1; Rustom,
Triumph of Mercy, chapters 1 and 6–7.
12 The boundaries between “genres” of tafsīr and the parameters that define each genre of tafsīr remain a very
vexing issue over which scholars are divided. See Karen Bauer, “Justifying the Genre: A Study of Introduc-
tions to Classical Works of Tafsīr,” in Aims, Methods and Contexts of Qur'anic Exegesis (2nd/8th–9th/15th entu-
ries), ed. Karen Bauer (Oxford: Oxford University Press in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies,
2013), 39–67. For an extensive discussion of this question, see “Introduction,” in Tafsīr and Islamic Intellectual
History: Exploring the Boundaries of a Genre, ed. Andreas Gorke and Johanna Pink (Oxford: Oxford University
Press in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2015), 1–23. The notion of Sufi tafsīr as a genre
sufficient unto itself is called into question in J. Elias, “S.ufi Tafsīr Reconsidered: Exploring the Development
of a Genre,” Journal of Qur'anic Studies 12 (2010): 41–42. See our engagement with his argument later in the
chapter.
13 Walid Saleh, The Formation of the Classical Tafsīr Tradition: The Qurʾān Commentary of al-Thaʿlabī (Leiden:
Brill, 2004), 16.
14 This label is used by nearly all scholars to distinguish Sufi tafsīr from the exoteric Sunni tafsīr tradition. See
the introduction to The Spirit and the Letter for a discussion of this question and the reasons that the editors
cite for classifying certain trends of exegesis, notably, Sufi, as an esoteric genre of tafsīr. As previously indi-
cated, J. Elias is perhaps the only exception to this rule.
15 For a critical analysis of the notion of “esoteric” and its exegetical and epistemological connotation within
the field of Islamic Studies, see F. Hamza, “Locating the ‘Esoteric’ in Islamic Studies,” in Islamic Studies Today:
Essays in Honor of Andrew Rippin, ed. Majid Daneshgar and Walid Saleh (Leiden, Brill: 2016), 355–366.
16 Habil, “Traditional Esoteric Commentaries,” 24.
17 Prominent examples include the tafsīr of Sahl al-Tustarī, Abū l-Qāsim al-Qushayrī, Rashīd al-Dīn
al-Maybudī, ʿAbd al-Rahmān al-Thaʿālibī (d. 866/1461–2), Ibn ʿAjība, to name but a few.
18 The main objections that J. Elias raised in his piece, ‘ “S.ufi Tafsīr Reconsidered,” against a genre-based
conception of Sufi tafsīr pertain to the hierarchical framework (multifaceted content of the Quran) and
hermeneutical division (zāhir -bāt․in) that, he argues, Sufi and non-Sufis posit in their respective exegeti-
cal approach. On this score, he contends that Sufi tafsīr is no different from other traditions of exegesis
and should therefore not be classified as esoteric per se. His objection would be justified if we completely
overlook the the fundamental difference between a Sufi and a non-Sufi understanding of the hierarchical
character of the Qur’an and the spiritual method that Sufis conform to in order to uncover the inner mean-
ings of Scripture. At the core, this is what distinguishes a Sufi exegesis from other genres of exegesis. What
makes a commentary or a doctrine esoteric or exoteric can sometimes be elusive, but to suggest that these
conceptual terms have no epistemological bearing on Sufi and non-Sufi approaches to scriptural commen-
tary is even more misleading.
19 An extensive discussion of this and other cognate questions are discussed by A. Gorke and J. Pink in their
introduction to Tafsīr and Islamic Intellectual History, especially 3–11.
20 A.J. Devitt, Writing Genres (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2004), 6.
21 Anis Bawarshi, “Beyond the Genre Fixation: A Translingual Perspective on Genre,” College English 78, no.
3 (2016): 244.
22 Amy J. Devitt, “Integrating Rhetorical and Literary Theories of Genre,” College English 62, no. 6 (2000): 698.
23 Gorke and Pink (Tafsīr and Islamic Intellectual History, 4–8) list a few possible categories: an inclusive
approach – a tradition of tafsīr that includes all genres of exegesis, partial and complete, cross-disciplinary,
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formal and informal; a self-identified genre: an exegete explicitly defines his exegetical approach and his
membership within a defined tradition of tafsīr; an essentialist genre of tafsīr, limited to a timeline and a
number of mainstream commentators, as proposed by Norman Calder, “Tafsīr from T ․ abarī to Ibn Kathīr:
Problems in the Description of a Genre, Illustrated with Reference to the Story of Abraham” in Approaches
to the Qur’an,” ed. Gerald R. Hawting and Abdul-Kader A. Shareef (London, Routledge, 1993), 101–140; a
genealogical tradition of exegesis, as proposed by Saleh, Formation, 14–16; a methodological categorization
of tafsīr: namely tafsīr bi l-maʾthūr (“transmitted exegesis”) versus tafsīr bi l-raʾy (“exegesis based on opinion”).
24 For Abū Ish.āq al-Thaʿlabī’s appropriation of the Sufi interpretations of Sulamī’s Haqāʾiq al-tafsīr, see Saleh,
Formation, 151–153. Al-Rāzī’s voluminous tafsīr, Mafātīh. al-ghayb (Keys to the Unseen) is a particularly eclectic
genre of tafsīr, which includes the esoteric interpretations not only of the Sufis but also of other theologi-
cal and philosophical schools. For more, see T. Jaffer, Rāzī: Master of Qur’anic Interpretation and Theological
Reasoning (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015), 10.
25 Translations from the Qur’an, with minor amendments, are taken from The Study Quran: A New Translation
and Commentary, ed. Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Caner Dagli, Maria Dakake, Joseph Lumbard, and Mohammed
Rustom (New York: HarperOne, 2015).
26 See, for instance, the Sufi commentary of Abū H.afs· al-Suhrawardī (d. 632/1234) on Qur’an 18:109 in Sara
Sviri, “On Istinbāt․, Mystical Listening and Sufi Exegesis,” in The Spirit and the Letter, 70–71. For Ibn ʿArabī’s
metaphysical commentary on this verse, see W. Chittick, The Self-Disclosure of God: Principles of Ibn ʿArabī’s
Cosmology (Albany: SUNY Press, 1998), 70–71. For Rūzbihān Baqlī’s (d. 606/1209) commentary on Q
31:27, see Toby Mayer, “Traditions of Esoteric and Sapiential Quranic Commentary,” in The Study Quran,
1819–1855. Cf. ʿAyn al-Qud.āt’s commentary on the same verse in Rustom, “From Black Words to White
Parchment: The Qur’anic Vision of ʿAyn al-Qud.āt,” in The Routledge Sufi Handbook, ed. Lloyd Ridgeon
(Routledge, forthcoming).
27 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jazāʾirī, Kitāb al-mawāqif, 72–73.
28 For an extensive discussion of the nature and eternity of God’s speech, see al-Ghazālī’s Moderation in Belief
(al-Iqtis.ād fī l-iʿtiqād), translated, with interpretive essay and notes, by Aladdin M. Yaqub (Chicago: Univer-
sity of Chicago Press, 2013), 143–155. See also Ibn ʿArabī’s account of God’s eternal speech in W. Chittick,
Self-Disclosure of God, 34–36.
29 See ʿAbd al-Qādir’s extensive treatment of the eternality of God’s Speech in the 209th mawqif of his Kitāb
mawāqif, 391–399.
30 See Shaykh Ah.mad al-ʿAlawī’s (d. 1934) brief account of the relationship between the metaphysical nature
of God’s Speech and its scriptural expressions as a Qur’anic “codex” (mus·h.af ) in Khalid Williams, The
Qur’an and the Prophet in the Writings of Shaykh Ahmad al-ʻAlawī (Cambridge: Islamic Text Society, 2013), 99.
31 Abū l-Najīb al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif (Cairo: Dār al-Muqat․․tam, 2009), 38.
32 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jazāʾirī expresses the same idea as follows: “since the objects [of God’s] knowledge are
infinite, His speech is equally infinite” (lā nihāya lahu). See his metaphysical commentary on this verse in
Mawqif 28, 72–73.
33 See Ibn ʿArabī’s discussion of ta’wīl later in the chapter.
34 In this interpretive perspective, the “allusions” of the Qur’an evoke more intimately the truths and realities
that the spiritual wayfarer discerns within her own inward quest for God.
35 Translation taken, with minor amendments, from William Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge: Ibn al-‘Arabī’s
Metaphysics of Imagination (Albany: SUNY Press, 1989), 247.
36 Ibid., 247 (with minor amendments).
39 For an elaborate discussion of muh.kam and mutashābih verses, see Caner Dagli, “Commentary on Sūrat Āl
ʿImrān,” in The Study Quran, 126–187, 129–130.
40 A very compelling discussion of Ibn Barrajān’s atypical interpretation of the muh.kam and mutashābih is found
in Casewit, The Mystics of al-Andalus, 226–230.
41 See Mayer, “Traditions of Esoteric and Sapiential Quranic Commentary,” 1662–1665; Sahl al-Tustarī’s Tafsīr
al-Tustarī, partial trans. Annabel Keeler and Ali Keeler (Louisville, KY: Fons Vitae, April 2011), 41.
42 Translation (slightly modified) is taken from Böwering, “The Four ‘Senses’ of Scripture,” 351. This hadith,
with slight variations, appears in the tafsīr of nearly every Sufi commentator from the classical to the modern
period. For an elaborate discussion of this hadith by Sahl al-Tustarī, whose mystical exegesis on the Quran
– Tafsīr al-quran al-ʿaz․īm (the Commentary on the Mighty Qur’an) – is widely regarded as the first proto-Sufi
commentary on the Quran, see Böwering, The Mystical Vision of Existence. See also Tafsīr al-Tustarī, partial
trans. Annabel Keeler and Ali Keeler, especially section V of the introduction (Tustarī’s Approach to Qurʾān
Interpretation), xxv.
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Lahouari R. Taleb
43 Translation cited – with slight modification – in G. 352. Also discussed in K. Sands, Sufi Commentaries on the
Qur’an.
44 Translation cited – with slight modification – from “S.ufi Tafsīr Reconsidered,” 41–42.
45 Nguyen, Sufi Master and Qur’an Scholar, 127–128.
46 The various spiritual practices, notably, the purification of the soul, which are, according to all Sufis, an
indispensable condition for uncovering the inner meanings of the Qur’an, are inspired by verses such as this:
“Truly it is a Noble Quran, in a Book concealed. None touch it, save those made pure” (Q 56:78–80).
47 Unlike transmitted exegesis, which is based on a chain of transmission (isnād) going back to the Prophet and
his distinguished companions, opinion-based exegesis is typically understood as an arbitrary and subjective
interpretation of the Qur’an, which is strongly condemned by the traditional exegetical establishment. See
Sands, Sufi Commentaries, chapter 5, for a discussion of the main criticism that Ibn al-Jawzī (d. 597/1201)
and Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328) leveled against certain trends and premises of Sufi tafsīr.
48 Cited in Meftah, Ishārāt al-qurʾān fi ʿālam al-insān, 18.
49 Sufi commentators agree on two fundamental principles: (1) their interpretations of the Qur’an are God
inspired and therefore not the fruit of reasoning and reflection, and (2) their interpretations are the fruit of
various initiatic practices (i.e., spiritual purification, attentive listening, retreats, and so forth). For further
discussion on the spiritual exercises that inform the Sufi interpretive method, see The Spirit and the Letter,
11; Sara Sviri, “On Istinbāt․, Mystical Listening and Sufi Exegesis”; T. Richard, “Qūnawī’s Scriptural Her-
meneutics,” in The Spirit and the Letter, 300; Khalid Williams, The Qur’an and the Prophet in the Writings of
Shaykh Ahmad al-ʻAlawī, 2–3.
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28
SHIʿI ISMAILI APPROACHES TO
THE QUR’AN
From Revelation to Exegesis
Khalil Andani
Introduction
This chapter is an introductory account of Shiʿi Ismaili Muslim engagements with the Qur’an dur-
ing the fourth/tenth and fifth/eleventh centuries.1 While these examples are drawn from premod-
ern sources, the overarching principles of Ismaili hermeneutics continue to play a major role within
contemporary Ismaili communities. The Ismailis maintain that the Prophet Muhammad vested his
divinely inspired knowledge and authority in his family, the Ahl al-Bayt and that Muhammad explic-
itly designated his cousin and son-in-law, ʿAlī ibn Abī T ․ ālib, as his successor, inheritor, and the lord-
guardian (mawlā) of the believers after him. Accordingly, the Ismailis revere a specific lineage of ʿAlid
Imams in the descent of Ismāʿīl ibn Jaʿfar al-S.ādiq (d. 148/765) as the successors of ʿAlī and the hold-
ers of a divinely ordained leadership office called the Imamate. Amidst heavy persecution during the
early Abbasid period, the Ismailis organized a highly successful daʿwa (“missionary summons”) that
functioned both as an underground revolutionary movement and an esoteric brotherhood. The efforts
of the Ismaili daʿwa resulted in the establishment of the Fatimid Caliphate (303–567/909–1171) in
North Africa and later Egypt, during which time the Ismaili Imams ruled as Caliphs and the Ismaili
daʿwa expanded throughout the Muslim world. Following the defeat of the Fatimid Empire, Ismaili
communities survived as persecuted minorities in the Middle East, Persia, Central Asia, and South
Asia and developed their own distinct intellectual, literary, and devotional traditions within their local
cultures. The two largest Ismaili communities in modern times are the Dāʾūdī Bohras and the Nizārī
Ismailis, each of whom follow a different lineage of Ismaili Imams. The lineage of Imams recognized
by the Bohras has been in “hiding” (satr) since the sixth/twelfth century, and the Bohra community
follows the leadership of a dāʿi mut․laq (“chief missionary”), who serves as the deputy of these concealed
Imams. For the Nizārī Ismailis, the series of Imams has continued in an uninterrupted lineage through
many periods of concealment and manifestation; today the community recognizes His Highness
Prince Shāh Karīm al-H . usaynī Aga Khan IV (b. 1936) as their 49th hereditary Imam, whom they refer
to as “Mawlana Hazar Imam” (“our guardian-lord the present Imam”) or the “Imam-of-the-time.”2
Ismaili engagements with the Qur’an over the centuries comprise a diversity of interpretations
and expressions. However, several theological premises and exegetical principles remain common
to various forms of Ismaili Qur’anic hermeneutics. The first premise is the divine authority of the
Ismaili Imams as the rightful interpreters of God’s guidance, which is manifested in the Qur’an, the
prophetic legacy, and the divine inspiration that continues through the Ismaili Imamate. The teach-
ing function of the Ismaili Imam includes interpreting and contextualizing the spirit and essence of
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-31 303

Khalil Andani
the Qur’an for his community through changing circumstances with respect to legal, ethical, and
spiritual matters.
The second premise is the trademark Ismaili understanding of Qur’anic revelation and inspira-
tion. According to Ismaili teachings, the Prophet Muhammad was the recipient of a nonverbal
spiritual form of divine inspiration. He, in turn, translated this divine inspiration into the Arabic
expressions, verses, and suras that constitute the Qur’an. Thus the Ismailis do not regard the Arabic
words of the Qur’an as the direct verbatim speech of God; rather, they understand the Arabic Qur’an
to be a divinely inspired discourse of Muhammad that verbally and symbolically expresses God’s
inspiration and guidance to his community.
Thirdly, Ismaili thinkers engaged with the Qur’an through two modes of exegesis: (1) an “exo-
teric” exegesis comparable to Sunni and Twelver tafsīr, kalām, and fiqh methods by which the Ismailis
legitimized and demonstrated the divine authority of the hereditary Imamate and refuted non-
Ismaili legal interpretations and (2) an “esoteric” exegesis called taʾwīl, a trademark feature of Ismaili
hermeneutics best conceived as a “revelatory exegesis” that entails interpreting numerous Qur’anic
and extra-Qur’anic elements as symbols for high-ranking persons in the Ismaili religious hierarchy
and the metaphysical realities of the spiritual cosmos. Despite the fact that Ismaili doctrine has always
regarded the Imams as the possessors of the taʾwīl of the Qur’an, the actual authors or composers of
Ismaili Qur’anic exegesis throughout history have been high-ranking Ismaili “missionary-scholars”
(dāʿīs). Ismaili taʾwīl is never presented in the tafsīr format of commenting on the Qur’an from its
beginning to its end. Instead, Ismaili commentaries are mostly embedded within broader philo-
sophical and theological treatises where a Qur’anic verse(s) is quoted as part of a larger argument or
to show the agreement between cosmological doctrines and scripture.
The present chapter surveys Ismaili views of Qur’anic revelation, exoteric Qur’anic hermeneu-
tics employed by Ismaili jurists, and esoteric Qur’anic hermeneutics or taʾwīl from several Ismaili
scholars. The latter pertains to Ismaili interpretations of the five daily ritual prayers, Qur’anic natural
phenomena like the sun and moon, and the famous Qur’anic “Verse of Light” (Q 24:35). While
many Ismaili exegetes purported to be conveying taʾwīl under the divine guidance and inspiration
of the Imams, their interpretations of the Qur’an happen to diverge in several respects. This suggests
that Ismaili taʾwīl, while presented as an authoritative revelatory exegesis derived from the knowl-
edge of the Imam, was also a creative product of each Ismaili exegete’s encounter with the Qur’an.
The diverse expressions of Ismaili taʾwīl indicate that Ismaili hermeneutics was not necessarily aimed
at developing a stable canon of Qur’anic commentary; rather, taʾwīl primarily functions as a spiritual
practice by which the Ismaili aspirant integrates his or her soul into the higher spiritual cosmos and
continues to find expression in modern times.
The Qur’an as Prophetic Composition: Ismaili Visions of Revelation

Ismaili thinkers formulated distinct theories of Qur’anic revelation in comparison to the theologians
and exegetes operating within the Sunni and Twelver Shiʿi traditions of Islamic thought. While
Sunni and Twelver theologians mutually disagreed about the nature of God’s Speech – whether it
is created sounds/letters or an eternal divine attribute – they still agreed that the Arabic verses of
the Qur’an were verbally dictated to Muhammad by the Angel Gabriel and applied this thinking
to other prophetic revelations like the Torah and the Gospel. One of the most common claims
found in many Sunni and certain Twelver tafsīr is that God inscribed a preexistent Arabic Qur’an
as a complete text in a heavenly guarded tablet prior to the creation of the world and its revelatory
descent (nuzūl) to the Prophet Muhammad. According to one such framework, which was voiced
in early tafsīr and subsisted in the Sunni tradition, the preexistent Qur’an was sent down to earth
in various stages. An early proto-Sunni exegete, Muqātil ibn Sulaymān (d. 150/767), described this
process as follows: “The entire Qur’an descended from the Guarded Tablet to the scribe-angels
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Shiʿi Ismaili Approaches to the Qur’an
in one night, the Night of Destiny. Gabriel took it from the scribe-angels in twenty months and
conveyed it to the Prophet over twenty years.”3 In the final stage, Gabriel orally recited the Qur’an
to Muhammad in a piecemeal fashion over 20 years and Muhammad recited it verbatim to his fol-
lowers. According to this popular Muslim theory of verbatim inspiration, which remains widespread
today and is often taken as wholly representative of Muslim belief in academic literature, the Prophet
had no creative influence over the contents of the Qur’an, which were already determined by God
in its heavenly transcript. However, all major Ismaili thinkers wholly rejected this model and pro-
posed a radically alternative account of prophetic revelation.
One reason for this divergence is that Ismaili views are rooted in a theology, metaphysics, and cos-
mology that vastly differ from the worldview of Sunni and Twelver kalām. Up to the end of the fifth/
eleventh century, Sunni and Twelver theologians subscribed to a somewhat binary theology: God
is the sole incorporeal and eternal existent; He possesses a number of essential and active attributes
(whose precise number and modality were debated among theologians); all created existents, includ-
ing angels, jinn, human souls, and the sensory universe, are corporeal and temporal entities com-
posed of atoms and accidents.4 In the kalām framework, the Angel Gabriel – a corporeal being who
occupies a spatial position – recites Qur’anic verses as audible utterances to the Prophet. Meanwhile,
the Ismaili worldview envisioned a created order comprising both an incorporeal spiritual realm
and a corporeal physical realm, both of which are created and sustained by God (see Figure 28.1).
Figure 28.1 Ismaili Neoplatonic Worldview
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Khalil Andani
According to Ismaili teachings, God is the absolute, ineffable, and utterly transcendent uncondi-
tioned Reality whose pure oneness eludes all attributes and multiplicity including the categories of
existence and nonexistence. He is the “Originator” (al-mubdiʿ) of all existents, including the popular
divine names and qualities that Ismaili thinkers properly ascribed to the highest level of created
being instead of God. The spiritual realm consists of a hierarchy of incorporeal cosmic intellects,
souls, and angels – the specifics of which differed from one Ismaili thinker to the next. The most
popular Ismaili account of the spiritual world envisioned the Neoplatonic Universal Intellect and
the Universal Soul – which are celestial archetypes for the essences and the goal-directed activities of
the Cosmos – as the two highest ranks of the cosmic order. Meanwhile, the corporeal world is com-
posed of form and matter and includes various natural phenomena as well as human beings – who
are composites of body and soul. The spiritual and corporeal worlds are intertwined – the former
continuously emanates existence, qualities, and divine inspiration upon the latter which is akin to a
dim reflection of the former.
In the Ismaili theological framework, “God’s Speech” (kalām Allāh) or “God’s Word” (kalimat
Allāh) is God’s eternal creative command that sustains all things and unitarily encompasses the
“essences” of everything that exists: “The Pearl of Intellect is the Word of God, which subsumes all
spiritual and physical existents.”5 God’s Speech initially “flows” through the grades of the spiritual
world and manifests as divine guidance within the world of nature (as displayed in the regular orderly
behaviors of natural things) and the revelatory guidance brought by the Prophets and the Imams,
who establish and govern the “world of religion.” This Ismaili teaching stands in direct contrast to the
H.anbali view that the kalām Allāh is eternal sounds and letters; it likewise clashes with the Muʿtazilī
position that God’s Speech is a temporally created arrangement of sounds; and it also contradicts the
Ashʿarī and Māturīdī views that God’s Speech is an eternal nonverbal attribute subsisting in God’s
essence. Furthermore, Ismaili thinkers regard “God’s Writing” (kitāb Allāh), first and foremost, to
be the intelligible essences that originate from God’s creative word within the Universal Intellect,
which the Universal Soul then inscribes throughout the Cosmos; the Arabic Qur’an is only a “Book
of God” in a secondary and derivative sense insofar as it orally expresses the “signs” (āyāt) of God’s
cosmic writ. In the view of most Ismaili scholars, God’s Speech emanates or flows to the Prophets
through a spiritual hierarchy – consisting of the Universal Intellect and Universal Soul and lower
levels of angelic intermediaries called Jadd, Fath., and Khayāl. The prophets perceive God’s Speech
and God’s Book as divine “inspiration” (wah.y) and “support” (taʾyīd) that is spiritual and nonverbal
through the medium of a celestial power called the Holy Spirit, which constantly illuminates their
souls akin to the radiance of light and its reflection in a mirror.
One of the more succinct Ismaili accounts of Qur’anic revelation comes from the 14th Ismaili
Imam and fourth Fatimid Caliph, al-Muʿizz li-Dīn Allāh (r. 341–365/952–975), as reported in the
Taʾwīl al-sharīʿa of the Fatimid Ismaili jurist and dāʿī Abū H.anīfa al-Qād.ī al-Nuʿmān (d. 363/974):
Verily, God sent down the light [nūr] which He mentioned in the Qur’an upon the heart
of Muhammad. The Prophet did not send down that divine lordly light upon the hearts
of the believers because they lacked the capacity to bear it, due to the disparity between
the Prophet and the believers among the common people. He only conveyed the mean-
ings of the inspiration [wah.y] and the light – its obligations, rulings and allusions – by
means of utterances composed with arranged, combined, intelligible, and audible letters.
When the Prophet constructed these utterances and letters and enclosed the meanings that
the inspiration contained within them, the recitation [al-qurʾān] constructed according to
the light – which is the inspiration [al-wah.y] sent down [to him] – became the word of the
Messenger [qawl al-rasūl]. Thus, the construction, the expressions, and the composition are
due to the Prophet. Thus, it [the Qur’an] is the Speech of God [kalām Allāh] and the word
of the Messenger of God [qawl rasūl Allāh].6
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According to this quotation from the Ismaili Imam, which was authoritative for all of his Ismaili fol-
lowers, God inspired Muhammad with an immaterial divine “light” (nūr), identified with revelatory
inspiration, and the Prophet then encoded the truth contents of this nonverbal inspiration within
the Arabic utterances that constitute the Qur’an. Thus, according to the Imam, the Qur’an is the
“Speech of God” in its spiritual essence and the “word of the Messenger of God” in its outward
linguistic form.
Other Ismaili dāʿīs like Jaʿfar ibn Mans.ūr al-Yaman (d. 349/960), Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī (d. after
361/971), H . amīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī (d. circa 411/1020), al-Muʾayyad al-Shīrāzī (d. 470/1077),
and Nās.ir-i Khusraw (d. circa 481/1088) presented more intricate theories of revelation using Neo-
platonic concepts but retained the general ideas taught by the Imam-Caliph al-Muʿizz.7 The com-
mon idea among these Ismaili accounts of revelation is the emphasis on the person and agency of
the Prophet Muhammad in the revelatory process. For example, al-Sijistānī described the flow of
divine support (taʾyīd) from God’s command through the Universal Intellect and Soul to the soul
of the Prophet as “spiritual colors” (as.bāgh rūh.āniyya), “intellectual forms” (ashkāl ʿaqlīyya), or pure
meanings transcending sounds and letters, which the Prophet then rendered into a symbol-filled
discourse called tanzīl that comprises the Arabic Qur’an, and the commands and prohibitions of his
sharia.8 In composing both the tanzīl and the sharia, the Prophet acts within the circumstances of his
own historical context, responds to his community’s needs, and employs the idioms, symbols, and
well-known conventions of his culture. Even while affirming the Qur’an as something composed by
the Prophet, the Ismailis affirmed and passionately argued that the Qur’an was miraculously “inimi-
table” (muʿjiz) due to its literary form surpassing the limits and excellence of Arabic poetry, prose,
and rhyming speech, as well as its signification of spiritual meanings.9 Nās.ir-i Khusraw believed that
the Prophet’s divinely supported soul fashioned the contents of God’s nonverbal inspiration in two
symbolic oral discourses – the inimitable Qur’an and his prophetic guidance – which are analogous
to the poetry and prose produced by the human rational soul.10 Not only was Muhammad personally
responsible for constructing the verbal content of the Arabic Qur’an, but he himself was the living
and speaking embodiment of God’s Word: “The cause of all existents [ʿillat al-aysiyyāt] is only the
Word of God, . . . [T]he Speaker Prophet is found to be a receptacle [mahāll] for the Word of God in
the corporeal world and is designated by its names.”11 In other words, the Prophet first and foremost
is the locus of the manifestation (maz․har) of God’s Word – in the manner of a reflective mirror –
while the Qur’an and the prophetic teaching and example are verbal expressions of God’s Word by
virtue of being reflections and compositions of the person of Muhammad.12
This Ismaili vision of revelation entails that the Qur’an and the prophetic teachings are perme-
ated with symbols and parables that partially reveal and conceal a higher level of meaning. The literal
meaning of the Qur’an and the sharia comprises the “outward dimension” (z․āhir) of religious truth
while the original spiritual meanings that Muhammad initially perceived through divine inspira-
tion constitute the “real-truths” (h.aqāʾiq) of religion; whatever lies beyond the zāh.ir is part of the
“esoteric dimension” (bāt․in) of religion. Most people must begin at the z․āhir level of the Qur’an and
seek an esoteric “path” (t․arīqa) toward its real-truths. This necessitates another medium of divine
guidance in the world after the Prophet. Following the Prophet Muhammad, the Ismailis hold that
divine guidance continues through the Imams, beginning with ʿAlī ibn Abī T ․ ālib and enduring
down to the Imam of the present time – who would be Imam Shāh Karīm al-H.usaynī Aga Khan
for the Nizārī Ismailis and the hidden Imam of the Bohras. God’s command or speech continues to
emanate, by means of the Holy Spirit, into the souls of the Imams by virtue of which they continue
many of the Prophet’s spiritual functions. This continuous divine inspiration also renders the Imams
incorruptible and immune from sins and spiritually distinguishes them from other human beings.
As explained by the senior Ismaili dāʿī al-Muʾayyad al-Shīrāzī, “the spiritual faculty [al-quwwa
al-nafsāniyya] called the Holy Spirit is that by which he [the Imam] speaks, intellects, and hears from
the Abode of the Hereafter while the leaders of misguidance and those who follow them are unlike
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Khalil Andani
that.”13 Unlike the Prophets, the Imams neither compose a new tanzīl nor legislate a new sharia;
they interpret the tanzīl and sharia of Muhammad by recontextualizing them to new circumstances,
preserving their underlying ethical spirit, and guide spiritual adepts to the real-truths by disclosing
their inner meanings through the hermeneutics known as taʾwīl. Every Imam in his own time con-
veys an authoritative “teaching” (taʿlīm) to his community, which includes his exoteric and esoteric
interpretations of the Qur’anic revelation.
At the theological level, the Ismaili Imam functions as the “speaking Qur’an” or the “speaking
Book of God” while the Arabic Qur’an in the form of a recited or written text is relegated to the
status of the “silent Qur’an” or the “silent Book of God.” This doctrine means that the spiritual
substance of the Qur’an is embodied in the living Imam, whose words and deeds serve as the per-
sonification of the Qur’an’s underlying principles regardless of whether the Imam recites or quotes
from the text of the Qur’an.14 In the words of the Fatimid dāʿī and jurist Abū l-Qās.im al-Malījī (fl.
fifth/eleventh century), “the Speaking Book [al-kitāb al-nāt․iq] who is the Imam and the Silent Book
[al-kitāb al-s.āmit] that is the Qur’an are in the position of the potter and the clay, the blacksmith and
the iron, or the carpenter and the wood.”15 The Imam as the speaking Book of God actually holds
greater authority than the Arabic Qur’an; the latter is like passive raw material before the Imam to
be molded according to his teaching. This general point has been argued by numerous Ismaili think-
ers. Aziz Qutbuddin eloquently summarizes one rendition of this argument put forth by the Ismaili
jurist al-Qād.ī al-Nuʿmān:
Al-Nuʿmān asserts that the Prophet in his time recited the Book of God and used it to
guide, give knowledge, establish proofs, explicate, and warn. He brought the risāla [“mes-
sage”], and he was the rasūl [“messenger”]; he brought the hudā, and he was the hādī. If
the Qurʾān could perform these actions on its own, he asserts, even the Prophet as a hādī
and explicator would not have been required. To continue this mission, to definitively
and unequivocally convey the information which God has deposited in the Qurʾān for
each period, the Qurʾān needs, al-Nuʿmān argues, an accompanying living interpreter, a
person who is designated and taught by the Prophet. This person would know the interpre-
tation of the Qurʾān and Sunna, and would not need to take recourse to indeterminate
formalised techniques to estimate their meaning. This interpreter is . . . none other than
the Prophet’s cousin and legatee [was.ī], ʿAlī, and after him, the successive line of designated
Imāms in their progeny, each of whom is the dalīl and hādī for his time.16
In actual practice, this means that the Ismailis look to the Imam of the time for day-to-day religious
guidance in legal or ethical matters and do not directly consult the Qur’an or the hadiths of the
Prophet for such a purpose unless the Imam directs them to. In modern times, the living Nizārī
Ismaili Imam (Mawlānā Shāh. Karīm al-H.usaynī) and the incumbent Dāʾūdī Bohra dāʿī mut․laq
(Sayyidnā Mufad.d.al Sayf al-Dīn) respectively serve as the primary authorities for the temporal and
spiritual guidance within their respective communities. All of this raises the question as to what kind
of Qur’anic exegesis the Ismailis undertook historically and in contemporary times.
Exoteric Exegesis: Ismaili Imamological and Legal Hermeneutics

When taking Ismaili intellectual history into account, the Ismailis generally engaged in two types of
Qur’anic exegesis: exoteric exegesis and esoteric exegesis. Exoteric exegesis was generally available
to all Muslims, Sunni and Shiʿi, and largely consisted of “imamological” readings of the Qur’an and
legal hermeneutics. The esoteric exegesis, branded as taʾwīl, was reserved for initiated members
of the Ismaili community and was taught in private settings; Ismaili taʾwīl was often articulated as
theological or exegetical prose, but it has also found expression through the centuries in the form of
308
devotional poetry and ritual practice. We can find examples of Ismaili exoteric interpretations of the
Qur’an in works produced by Ismaili dāʿīs during the reign of the Fatimid Caliphs. Among these,
the legal writings of al-Qād.ī al-Nuʿmān and the theological works of H.amīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī are
the most eminent examples. Al-Qād.ī al-Nuʿmān composed The Pillars of Islam (Dāʿāʾim al-Islam)
as the official Fatimid manual of law at the request of the Fatimid Imam-Caliph al-Muʿizz.17 The
Pillars of Islam summarized many of al-Nuʿman’s earlier legal writings, which were part of a broader
Fatimid project to establish a public facing Shiʿi Ismaili discourse of Islamic law, to articulate the role
of the Ismaili Imam as the ultimate authority in religious matters, and to challenge the positions of
emerging Sunni legal schools.
Unlike the Five Pillars of Sunnism (arkān al-islām), the Ismaili legal framework constructed by
al-Nuʿmān was based on Seven Pillars. The most important of these was walāya – defined as obedi-
ence and devotion to the Imam as the representative of God and the Prophet. The Pillars of Islam
includes an early chapter on walāya in which the author furnishes various Qur’anic verses and
prophetic reports to argue that ʿAlī ibn Abī T ․ ālib and the Imams of his progeny are the divinely
ordained successors of the Prophet Muhammad and the bearers of God’s authority on earth. This
set of arguments effectively presents an imamological exegesis of the Qur’an that focuses on the
literal meaning of select verses as proof-texts for the Imamate. For example, al-Nuʿmān explains
that Q 5:55 refers to ʿAlī as the “guardian-lord” (walī) of the believers by reading the verse as: “Your
guardian-lord can only be God, and His Messenger and those who have faith, who establish prayer
and give the zakat while bowing down (in prayer).”18 He goes on to mention that this verse was
revealed when ʿAlī was bowing down in prayer and gave his ring to a beggar, thus indicating that
ʿAlī is the guardian-lord of the believers after the Prophet.19 The author identifies “the possessors
of authority” in the Qur’anic command to “obey God and obey the Messenger and the possessors of
authority among you” (Q 4:59) as the Shiʿi Imams. He rejects the Sunni view that the possessors of
authority are the scholars of the Sunni community on the grounds that the Sunni scholars differ
among themselves in their legal opinion; obeying one group among the scholars means disobeying
another group of them, and this makes command to “obey the possessors of authority among you”
impossible to follow.20
In one section of The Pillars, al-Nuʿmān applies many verses in the Qur’an about God’s favors
upon the progeny of Abraham to the Shiʿi Imams. The Imams are said to be those among the house
of Abraham to whom God gave the Book, the wisdom, and the great kingdom (Q 4:54), those who
judge humankind with justice (Q 4:58). The Imams are the special descendants of Abraham and Ish-
mael who constitute “a nation submitting [umma muslima] to God” that God promised to them (Q
2:127–128); they are those whom Abraham called muslims (“submitters”) in ancient times who bear
witness over humankind (Q 22:77–78). They are likewise the “middle nation” bearing witness over
the people and over whom the Messenger bears witness (Q 2:143). The Imams are those intended
by Abraham’s prayer for God to “preserve me and my sons from serving idols” (Q 14:35), and they
are Abraham’s progeny to whom God made the hearts of men incline (Q 14:37). The Imams are the
“nation who invite to goodness and enjoin right conduct” (Q 3:104) and “the best nation that has
been raised up for humankind” (Q 3:110). In general, the Ismaili imamological exegetical strategy
consists of restricting the meaning of otherwise general Qur’anic language based on the fact that
only the Shiʿi Imams, as a group of individuals appointed and inspired by God, actually meet these
descriptions.21
As for Ismaili legal exegesis, al-Nuʿmān often resorted to rather simple strategies like invoking
lexicographical meanings of words, analyzing the meaning of a given Qur’anic term in other parts
of the Qur’an, referring to the word order in a legal verse, or citing an occasion of revelation in
order to buttress Fatimid Ismaili legal positions. But one notable feature of exoteric Ismaili Qur’anic
exegesis is the complete lack of formal categories of interpretation prevalent in Sunni fiqh and
tafsīr, such as analogical reasoning, consensus, deduction, ijtihād (“independent reasoning”), juristic
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preference, and the distinctions between general/specific, clear/ambiguous, certain/presumptive,

abrogating/abrogated, etc.22 Al-Nuʿmān rejected stock Sunni hermeneutical methods because he
deemed them as insufficient for arriving at clear certain meanings, and, ultimately, such fallible
techniques infringed on the authority of the Ismaili Imam to interpret the Qur’an. Thus when it
comes to Qur’anic exegesis for legal purposes, the Ismailis wholly reject the permissibility of legal
divergence (ikhtilāf ) and statements like “every mujtahid is correct.” In the face of divergent inter-
pretations and uncertainty over the Qur’an’s meaning, one should consult the living Imam of the
time for guidance.
Esoteric Exegesis: Ismaili Taʾwīl as Revelatory Hermeneutics

In the discourses of Sunni and Twelver Qur’an commentators (mufassirūn) and the Islamic theo-
logians (mutakallimūn), the term taʾwīl denotes a kind of allegorical interpretation or speculative
esoteric exegesis of scriptural passages whose surface meaning is unclear, multivalent, or problematic.
For example, theologians in the Muʿtazilī, Ashʿarī, and Māturīdī traditions allegorically interpreted
the anthropomorphic verses about God possessing a face, hands, or a side in the Qur’an and this
was called taʾwīl.23 Ismaili taʾwīl differs from the aforementioned forms of hermeneutics in several
respects. At first glance, it is easy to prejudge Ismaili taʾwīl as a textbook case of eisegesis over exege-
sis. It may appear strange that Ismaili exegetes interpreted a host of Qur’anic symbols – including
Noah’s ark, the sun and moon, or the Night of Destiny – as esoteric references to the person of the
Ismaili Imam. These examples show that Ismaili taʾwīl presupposes and builds upon a number of
Ismaili beliefs and commitments; accordingly, taʾwīl was only taught to initiated Ismailis in private
settings. For these reasons, modern scholars have labeled Ismaili taʾwīl as a selective and sectarian
method of exegesis in the service of a sectarian communal ethos.24 In contrast to these approaches,
I would classify Ismaili taʾwīl as “revelatory hermeneutics” featuring an interplay of four dimen-
sions – the revelatory, the rational, the esoteric, and the soteriological.
First, taʾwīl in the Ismaili context should be conceived as a revelatory exegesis of the Qur’an and
other hermeneutical objects beyond the Qur’an. The Ismaili practice of taʾwīl “reveals” or “unveils”
an anagogic correspondence between the Qur’an’s contents (rituals, stories, laws, symbols), the
structure of the physical cosmos, and the real-truths of the higher domains of reality that include the
Ismaili hierarchy of daʿwa teachers and the spiritual world that culminates in the Universal Intellect
and Soul. An early Ismaili treatise from the pre-Fatimid era called The Master and the Disciple by Jaʿfar
ibn Mans.ūr al-Yaman places both the prophetic revelatory discourse called tanzīl and the Imam’s
exegesis called taʾwīl on the same level in terms of being divinely inspired: “Both the tanzīl and the
taʾwīl are from what is with God [min ʿinda Allāh], and no one can attain what is with God except
through wah.y” (Q 42:51, 53:4, etc.).25 This statement clearly shows that taʾwīl of the Imams is the
product of divine inspiration or wah.y – which other Sunni and Shiʿi thinkers associated with the
Prophets only. Another text by the same author called The Book of Unveiling also situates taʾwīl as an
expression of wah.y and goes even further by saying that the taʾwīl taught by ʿAlī (called the Legatee
of the Prophet) and the Imams who succeeded him is likewise a manifestation of God’s Speech in the
same way that the Qur’an enunciated by the Prophet Muhammad is an expression of God’s Speech.
The text explains that God speaking to human beings by sending a messenger to convey His
Speech to them (described in Q 42:51) refers to the Imam’s function of teaching the taʾwīl of the
Qur’an to his community: “The tanzīl is the Speech of God and its taʾwīl is the Speech of God . . .
His saying, ‘or He sends a messenger to indicate by His permission what He wills’ (Q 42:51)
means “what the Legatee [ʿAlī ibn Abī T․ālib] conveys of the taʾwīl to human beings by the
permission of God and the permission of His Messenger, and it [the taʾwīl] is the Speech of God
[kalām Allāh].”26
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The chief purpose of taʾwīl, according to several Ismaili scholars, is to reconcile the meaning of
the Qur’an with the truths known to and demonstrated by the human intellect. As al-Sijistānī once
explained:
[T]he discourse of taʾwil from the direction of the Founder [Imam ʿAlī] is the placement
of speech in a position verifying what is known through the intellect without removing
the speech from its outward aspect. . . . This [taʾwīl] is the act of divine support [taʾyīd]
bringing together the exoteric words employed in the ambiguous verses; this is the Speech
of God from the direction of the Founder.27
Al-Sijistānī argued that many Qur’anic verses, including “the ambiguous verses” (al-mutashābihāt),
the stories of the Prophets, and verses mentioning physical objects like the earth, mountains, light,
heaven, water, days, trees, etc. fail to accord with logic and reason when understood at face value.
These verses need to be decoded through taʾwīl. For example, the word “earth” (ard. ) in many verses,
when interpreted through taʾwīl, means “knowledge” or “possessor of knowledge” according to
al-Sijistānī. This is because the Qur’anic descriptions of God stretching, reviving, and quaking the
earth, or granting it as an inheritance to His servants only accord with the intellect when “earth” is
taken to mean “knowledge” or its possessors.28 The fifth-/eleventh-century Ismaili thinkers H.amīd
al-Dīn al-Kirmānī and Nās.ir-i Khusraw argued for the necessity of taʾwīl along similar lines: “Only
through taʾwīl can the differences of opinion as well as the ambiguities which are in the Book be
reconciled.”29 In other words, one of the underlying goals of taʾwīl is to reconcile the conclusions
established by the intellectual investigation of religious truth and the outward meaning of scripture.
Thus Ismaili taʾwīl is animated by a rational approach to the content of revelation.
The rationalist spirit of Ismaili taʾwīl is coupled with another dimension that is esoteric and
expressive of the spiritual authority of the Ismaili Imam and his dāʿīs. On one hand, Ismaili scholars
are very clear that the authority to determine and dispense the taʾwīl of the Qur’an lies exclusively
with the Imams. According to al-Qād.ī al-Nuʿmān, “no one other than Muhammad the Messenger
of God is able to bring the exoteric aspect of the Book and no one can bring forth its esoteric aspect
except the Imams of his progeny.”30 On the other hand, the history of Ismaili thought demonstrates
that, by and large, the exponents of taʾwīl have been Ismaili dāʿīs and not the Imams.31 For the
most part, these Ismaili scholars did not even source their interpretations to any verbal teaching of
the Ismaili Imams. But they held to a theoretical understanding that what the Ismaili dāʿīs conveyed
to the community as taʾwīl was spiritually inspired by the Imam’s divinely supported knowledge.
According to al-Kirmānī, “the Imam divinely supported from heaven expounds the religion and
the explanation of its symbols [al-rumūz] for you through his hierarchy of dignitaries [h.udūd].”32 He
further explains that the highest-ranking Ismaili daʿīs known as the “Gate” (bāb) and the “Proof ”
(h.ujja) – who rank just under the Imam in the religious hierarchy – receive divine inspiration from
the Imam: “The h.ujja participates with the bāb in accessing the inspiration which derives from the
radiance of the imamate.”33 Along these lines, several Ismaili dāʿīs of high rank prefaced or concluded
their treatises by claiming that their expositions were rooted in the spiritual guidance of the Imam.
Al-Qād.ī al-Nuʿmān began his account of taʾwīl by declaring that “we now commence with the
assistance and support [taʾyīd] of God.”34 Nās.ir-i Khusraw concluded his treatise on taʾwīl by say-
ing that “whatever good we have shown in this book is through the divine support [taʾyīd] of the
Lord of the Time, peace be upon him.”35 ʿAbd al-Karīm al-Shahrastānī (d. 548/1153), who was
likely a crypto-Ismaili dāʿī, warned in the introduction to his Qur’an commentary that no one can
comprehend the secrets of the Qur’an without the guidance of the Prophet’s family. But he went
on to claim that he possessed an internal spiritual power allowing him to correctly interpret the
Qur’an through the guidance of the Prophet’s family: “I found in myself the faculty of guidance
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unto the word of prophecy and I understood the language of the divine message, so I was thereby
rightly guided to the arcana of the words in the glorious Qurʾān without my doing exegesis of the
Qurʾān by mere personal opinion.”36 Thus, while Ismaili exegetes anchored their interpretations in
the Imam’s guidance and authority, they operated with a high degree of intellectual autonomy and
this becomes apparent in the ways their taʾwīls diverge.
Turning now to the actual practice of taʾwīl by Ismaili exegetes, a good case study that illus-
trates both the underlying consistency and diversity of Ismaili taʾwīl is the esoteric exegesis of the
five daily prayers. According to al-Qād.ī al-Nuʿmān, the taʾwīl or esoteric meaning of performing
Islamic ritual prayer is the establishment and execution of the daʿwa of the Ismaili Imams: “The ritual
prayer (al-s.alāt) in each day and night in the sharia of Muhammad was established as five prayers as a
likeness (mathal) for the daʿwa of truth.”37 According to this taʾwīl, the frequent Qur’anic command
to “establish the prayer” means “establish the daʿwa.” This means that the bodily gestures of ritual
prayer constitute the exoteric prayer (al-s.alāt․ al-z․āhir) while the believer’s initiation and instruction
through the Ismaili daʿwa is the esoteric prayer (al-s.alāt al-bāt․in). Al-Nuʿmān went on to argue that
the five ritual prayers required by the sharīʿa symbolize the “five daʿwas” undertaken by the five
major prophets known as the “possessors of resolution” (ulū l-ʿaz․m) – Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus,
and Muhammad: “The first prayer [the noon prayer] is the likeness for the daʿwa of Noah because
it is the first daʿwa and he is the first of the possessors of resolution among the messengers. The
afternoon [ʿas.r] prayer is a likeness for the daʿwa of Abraham because he is the second of the posses-
sors of resolution and it is the second prayer.”38 According to rest of this taʾwīl, the evening maghrib
(“sunset”), ʿishāʾ(“night”), and fajr (“morning”) prayers respectively symbolize the daʿwas of Moses,
Jesus, and Muhammad.
One of the contemporaries of al-Qād.ī al-Nuʿmān, Jaʿfar ibn Mans.ūr al-Yaman, offered a similar
taʾwīl of the five daily ritual prayers but with a minor difference. In this view, the taʾwīl of the five
prayers refers to the five daʿwas of the five great prophets who preceded Muhammad:
The five [Prophets] establish the daʿwa for the sixth Speaker Prophet, the seal of the mes-
sengers, the last of the prophets, because after him there will not arise a prophet or mes-
senger . . . so they allude to him and spread the good news about him and therefore the
obligation of prayer was prescribed five times every day and night. In its true reality, prayer
is the daʿwa.39
Writing a century after both of these authors, Nās.ir-i Khusraw elucidated his own taʾwīl of the five
ritual prayers. In his interpretation, which agrees with his predecessors, the ritual prayer in general
is a symbol of the daʿwa: “We say by the help of God that the prayer [namāz] indicates to the daʿwa
[summons] toward the absolute oneness of God and becoming connected to the Friends of God.”40
However, Nās.ir-i Khusraw explained that the five ritual prayers according to taʾwīl stand for the
Universal Intellect, the Prophet (Muhammad), the Legatee (ʿAlī), the Universal Soul, and the Imam.
The rationale behind his exegesis is the idea that sunlight symbolizes God’s command – which ema-
nates and flows down through the ranks of the spiritual world and the religious hierarchy. For exam-
ple, the morning prayer symbolizes the Universal Intellect because “the first light that appeared from
the Creator’s command was the First, which is called the Pen and the Intellect.”41 Nas.ir-i Khusraw
further explained that the taʾwīl of the evening prayer is the Universal Soul (called the “Second”)
because the Soul’s reception of God’s light from the Intellect is analogous to sunset: “The evening
prayer indicates the Second [Universal Soul]. . . . The light of the sun alludes to the light of God’s
oneness.”42 What we see in these examples is that al-Qād.ī al-Nuʿmān, Jaʿfar ibn Mans.ūr, and Nās.ir-i
Khusraw each gave a different taʾwīl of the five ritual prayers. While they all agreed that the general
taʾwīl of ritual prayer is the establishment of the daʿwa, they interpreted the symbolic referents of
the five daily prayers differently: for al-Nuʿmān, the five prayers symbolize the five Prophets from
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Noah to Muhammad; for Jaʿfar ibn Mans.ūr, the five prayers symbolize the five Prophets from Adam
to Jesus; and for Nās.ir-i Khusraw, the five prayers represent the two highest ranks of the spiritual
world – the Universal Intellect and Soul – and the three highest ranks of the religious hierarchy – the
Prophet, the Legatee, and the Imam.
Another example of the unity and diversity of taʾwīl is the Ismaili exegesis of natural phenomena
like the sun and the moon. What we find in multiple Ismaili texts is that there are multiple taʾwīls
of the sun and moon that Ismaili authors affirm simultaneously and sometimes within the same
text. One recurring Ismaili taʾwīl is that the sun and moon in the physical world are symbols for
the Imam and his supreme deputy: the “Gate” (bāb) or “Supreme Proof ” (al-h.ujja al-ʿaz․am) – an
interpretation found in pre-Fatimid works.43 The basis of this exegesis is that there exists a likeness
(mathal) between the physical sun sustaining all physical life in the natural world and the Imam enliv-
ening the world of religion: “The Imam is the sun of the religion through which insight is enlight-
ened and souls are illumined from the light of guidance and wisdom.”44 According to the Ismaili
dāʿī Abū H.āt․im al-Rāzī (d. 322/943), the Qur’anic story of Abraham worshipping the moon and
the sun means that Abraham was spiritually guided by the Gate and the Imam before he ascended
to the rank of prophet.45 At the same time, many Ismaili exegetes offered a second taʾwīl of the sun
and the moon according to which these two celestial bodies symbolize the Universal Intellect and
Universal Soul of the spiritual world. Nās.ir-i Khusraw once quoted Q 41:37, which states “do not
prostrate yourself to the sun, nor to the moon, prostrate yourself to Him who has created them.” He
then interpreted the verse through taʾwīl as follows:
By the “Sun,” He [God] means the [Universal] Intellect and by the “Moon,” the [Univer-
sal] Soul, because the Intellect gives benefit to the Soul as the Sun gives light to the Moon.
When He says “do not prostrate to the sun and the moon, prostrate to God Who has cre-
ated them,” He means “do not ascribe the attributes of the Intellect and the Soul to God.”46
Yet elsewhere in the same treatise, Nās.ir-i Khusraw exegeted Q 91:1–2 – “By the sun and its morn-
ing brightness, and the moon when she follows it” – in a different manner. According to his taʾwīl
of this verse, “by the Sun, God intends the Prophet in religion and by its brightness, God intends his
luminosity in religion. By the Moon, God means the Legatee (ʿAlī) in religion, and by the Moon
following after the Sun, He means that his Legatee follows after [the Prophet] in religion.”47 Thus,
within Ismaili writings of the classical period, we easily find three concurrent taʾwīls for the sun
and moon: the Intellect and the Soul in the spiritual world, the Prophet, and his Legatee at the com-
mencement of a new revelation, and the Imam and his Gate in the world of religion.
A final example displaying the variability of taʾwīl presented by Ismaili thinkers is found in various
Ismaili readings of Q 24:35 – the famous “Verse of Light” (āyat al-nūr) – whose rich symbolism has
inspired a whole range of commentary among all Muslims.48 A translation of the verse is as follows:
God is the light of the heavens and the earth; the likeness of His light is like a niche in
which there is a lamp; the lamp is in a glass; the glass is like a glittering star kindled from a
Blessed Tree – an olive that is neither of the East nor of the West whose oil would almost
glow even if fire had not touched it. Light upon Light. God guides to His light whom He
wills and God strikes forth likenesses for humankind. And God knows all things.
Table 28.1 summarizes the taʾwīl of this verse as explained by five major Ismaili daʿīs: Jaʿfar ibn
Mans.ūr al-Yaman,49 al-Sijistānī,50 the Ikhwān al-S.afāʾ,51 al-Kirmānī,52 and al-Shīrāzī.53
The preceding examples show that Ismaili exegetes presented different taʾwīls of the same Qur’anic
elements. The Ismailis apparently accepted that a single Qur’anic motif – like the five prayers, the
sun and moon, and the symbolic structure of the Verse of Light – could have a multiplicity of
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Table 28.1 Five Major Ismaili Interpretations of the Verse of Light (Q 24:35)

Symbol Jaʿfar b. Mans.ūr al-Sijistānī Ikhwān al-S.afāʾ al-Kirmānī al-Shīrāzī
Light of the The Light is God’s Intellectual Light of the Light of divine Light of divine
Heavens guidance in the and Gnostic Universal support support (taʾyīd)
and the heavens and the Light shining Intellect (taʾyīd) within from the
Earth imam in the forth from manifest in the spiritual First Intellect
earth God’s Word, existents and corporeal flowing from
Universal hierarchies spiritual ranks
Intellect and to corporeal
Universal Soul ranks
Niche Fāt․ima, daughter Prophet Universal Soul Prophet Prophet
of Prophet Muhammad Muhammad Muhammad
Muhammad
Lamp Imam al-H
. usayn Legatee (ʿAlī) Universal Divine sciences Legatee (ʿAlī)
Intellect
Glass Fāt․ima Imam al-H
. asan Prime Matter Imams Knowledge of
the Hereafter
Star Fāt․ima Imam al-H
. usayn Illumined Prime Legatee (ʿAlī) Imams
Matter
Blessed Olive Prophet Abraham Imam Zayn Universal Soul Prophet Imam al-H.usayn
Tree as the progenitor al-ʿĀbidīn Muhammad
of messengers
and imams
Neither of Neither Jewish nor Qualities of Imam Neither Neither exoteric
the East Christian Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn constructed nor esoteric
nor of the nor composed
West but originated
by God’s
Command
Oil Imam al-H . usayn Imam Muh.ammad Universal Soul’s Benefits
while in his al-Bāqir tenuousness
mother’s womb
Fire Appointment of Imam Jaʿfar Intellect’s Legatee Prophetic
prior imam al-S.ādiq benefits experience
Light upon The Imam as The Qāʾim Light of Increase of lights Light of Prophet
Light both a divinely (Lord of Universal and sciences Muhammad
guided and the Resurrection) Intellect upon from the upon the light
guide of others in whom the the Light of Imams of Imam Jaʿfar
Light of God is the Universal al-S.ādiq
concealed Soul
esoteric referents at one and the same time. The late Henry Corbin eloquently puts the matter: “The
taʾwīl, without question, is a matter of harmonic perception, of hearing an identical sound (the same
verse, the same hadith, even an entire text) on several levels simultaneously.”54 What the different
Ismaili expressions of taʾwīl surveyed in this chapter have in common is that they were all argued on
the basis of an anagogic “likeness” (mathal) between a Qur’anic symbol and its ultimate referent. For
example, Ismaili exegetes typically explained that a Qur’anic symbol like light, a lamp, or the moon
possessed certain features that symbolically pointed toward a higher level of reality – such as a rank
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of the Ismaili daʿwa or a metaphysical reality in the spiritual world. It is on the basis of this anagogic
correspondence that a given Ismaili scholar could interpret the “light” of Q 24:35 as the divine sup-
port of the Universal Intellect, the lamp as Prophet Muhammad, or the five prayers as five particular
Prophets. What complicates this is that a given symbol like the sun may have an anagogic likeness to
several referents – the Prophet, the Imam, and the Universal Intellect. But the methodology of taʾwīl
remains consistent even when the referents of a particular taʾwīl are different. This plurality suggests that
the activity of taʾwīl incorporates the creative endeavor of each Ismaili thinker. A high-ranking Ismaili
dāʿī who undertook Qur’anic exegesis would have been immersed in such taʾwīl and Ismaili cosmology
for some time and cognitively trained in detecting these anagogic correspondences wherever they may
be found. One must also keep in mind that Ismailis generally believed that the esoteric dimension of
knowledge is multilayered: beyond one level of the bāt․in lies an even deeper level of bāt․in.
To an outsider, a particular Ismaili taʾwīl may not resemble an open-ended inquiry into the
meaning of the Qur’anic text as compared to what one sees in tafsīr literature where many exegetes
remain cautious in presenting their personal interpretations. We never see Ismaili exegetes expressing
uncertainty or doubts about the interpretations they present as the taʾwīl of a given Qur’anic verse.
Nor do they provide us with a list of tentative or possible understandings of a verse. Rather, various
Ismaili dāʿīs seem to be interpreting the Qur’an and other texts with a predetermined or preferred
set of meanings already in mind. And yet, as we saw in the preceding examples, individual Ismaili
thinkers did not subscribe to a uniform set of exegetical referents and did not merely reproduce
a dogmatic set of doctrines. The lack of such dogmatic interpretation in Ismaili exegesis suggests
that Ismaili taʾwīl is not exactly about arriving at the “true meaning” of the Qur’an in terms of its
historical, lexicographical, or legal meaning as a text. Rather, the entire Ismaili enterprise presup-
poses that the Qur’an is a divinely inspired expression of real-truths which have been coined by the
Prophet Muhammad to aid his community in ultimately attaining a comprehension of the higher
spiritual realms from which both divine inspiration and cosmic creation come forth. Along these
lines, the Ismaili dāʿī al-Muʾayyad al-Shīrāzī defined taʾwīl in soteriological terms as follows:
Since taʾwīl is to return affairs to their true reality, which is the origin of the existents
[awwalī min al-mawjūdāt], and the origin [awwal] of existents from the Real is the originated
beings, then he who learns the science of taʾwīl acquires the form [s.ūra] of the originated
beings and joins the source from which the essence of life flows.55
Just as the word taʾwīl lexicographically means “to return something to its origin,” al-Shīrāzī under-
stood taʾwīl in the Ismaili context as a spiritual practice that facilitates the cosmic return of the soul of
the believer to its origin in the spiritual world – which he calls the “originated beings” (al-mubdaʿāt) –
a reference to the Universal Intellect and Universal Soul. When Ismaili believers read or hear the
taʾwīl of the symbols within the Qur’an and the Cosmos from the Imam and the Ismaili dāʿīs, they
inevitably start learning more about the Ismaili religious hierarchy (of which they are members) and
the celestial realm from which their souls were created: as they learn the taʾwīl of the sun, they better
understand the spiritual functions of the Imam and the cosmic functions of the Universal Intellect
and become more receptive to their spiritual emanations; as they understand the taʾwīl of the daily
ritual prayers, they attain a deeper participation in the Ismaili daʿwa, which the daily prayer symbol-
izes. To facilitate the spiritual adept’s assimilation of esoteric truths, Ismaili exegesis features a great
deal of repetition: a myriad of Qur’anic and extra-Qur’anic symbols are interpreted as referring to
a recurring number of referents in the daʿwa and the spiritual hierarchy.56 As the Ismaili practitioner
engages the science of taʾwīl taught by the Ismaili Imams in its deeper dimensions, “he becomes illu-
minated by the lights of their taʾwīl and, with respect to the dark shadows of similitudes and symbols,
perceives their significances, their realities, and the aim in everything from them.”57 Accordingly, the
science of taʾwīl “reveals” the real-truths of the higher realms of existence – the world of the Ismaili
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daʿwa hierarchy and the spiritual world – to the soul of the Ismaili aspirant. This, in turn, enables
Ismaili practitioners to perfect their souls into a virtual image of the higher spiritual world as they
combine ritual and ethical practice with the knowledge of taʾwīl.
Within the contemporary Bohra and Nizārī Ismaili communities, the believer’s engagement with
Ismaili taʾwīl in its varied expressions plays a major role in Ismaili religious life. Speaking to the
continued relevance of taʾwīl, the present Nizārī Ismaili Imam Aga Khan IV has urged his commu-
nity to learn the “esoteric meaning” of the Qur’an and understand the esoteric “concepts” symbol-
ized by specific Qur’anic words.58 The Imam more recently advised his Ismaili community to seek
the “correct” interpretation of the Qur’an through the Imam’s guidance, read the works of Ismaili
philosophers and poets, and study the ideas of prior Ismaili dāʿīs to find wisdom and understanding
in their faith.59 Thanks to the contemporary academic translation efforts of the Institute of Ismaili
Studies, a growing body of Ismaili taʾwīl literature is becoming available to Nizārī Ismailis and the
general public for personal study and theological reflection. Certain members of the Dāʾūdī Bohra
community, who have completed the requisite level of religious education, go on to study begin-
ner and advanced Ismaili taʾwīl literature through seminary education. However, the access to such
taʾwīl works is regulated and restricted by the Bohra leadership.60 Apart from theological texts, the
ideas of Ismaili taʾwīl are embedded in contemporary Ismaili ritual praxis. The Ismaili exegesis of
the exoteric .salāt as the daʿwa finds continued expression in the daily Nizārī Ismaili prayer known as
Duʿāʾ, whose overall structure and content corresponds to the classical Ismaili understanding of the
daʿwa (missionary summons).61 Both Ismaili communities also embody and experience the taʾwīl
through the recitation of devotional literature such as spiritual and didactic poetry, maddoh, qas.īda,
and ginān. In the final analysis, Ismaili taʾwīl in its multifaceted manifestations is more than exegesis;
it is a soteriological and transformative practice designed to facilitate the “return” of the human soul
to its celestial “origin” (awwal) in the spiritual world.
Notes
1 A good deal of the primary source quotations in this chapter are drawn from my doctoral thesis: Khalil
Andani, “Revelation in Islam: Qur’ānic, Sunni, and Shiʿi Ismaili Perspectives” (PhD diss., Harvard Univer-
sity, 2019).
2 The most authoritative and updated narrative of Ismaili history is Farhad Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History
and Doctrines, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). The following historical summary is
drawn from my survey articles, see Khalil Andani, “A Survey of Ismaili Studies Part 1: Early Ismailism and
Fatimid Ismailism,” Religion Compass 10, no. 8 (2016): 191–206; “A Survey of Ismaili Studies Part 2: Post-
Fatimid Ismailism and Modern Ismailism,” Religion Compass 10, no. 11 (2016): 269–282.
3 Muqātil ibn Sulaymān, Tafsīr on Q 2:185.
4 See, for example, Aymen Shihadeh, “Classical Ashʿarī Anthropology: Body, Life and Spirit,” The Muslim
World 102 ( July/October 2012): 433–477.
5 Nās.ir-i Khusraw, Wajh-i Dīn, ed. and trans. Faquir Muh.ammad Hunzai, in An Anthology of Ismaili Literature,
ed. Hermann Landolt, Samira Sheikh, and Kutub Kassam (London and New York: I.B. Tauris in association
with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2008), 199–200.
6 Abū H.anīfa al-Nuʿmān, Taʾwīl al-sharīʿa, chapter 5, section 49. Nadia E. Jamal graciously provided me with
the Arabic text in a personal communication. The translation is my own. A different translation and discus-
sion of this passage are provided in David Hollenberg, Beyond the Qurʾān: Early Ismāʿīlī Taʾwīl and the Secrets
of the Prophets (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press), 81–82.
7 These viewpoints are studied in detail alongside non-Ismaili views in my doctoral thesis. See Andani, “Rev-
elation in Islam.”
8 Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī, Ithbāt al-nubuwwāt, ed. Wilferd Madelung and Paul Walker (Tehran: Miras-e
-Maktoob, 2016), 80, 213, 236.
9 Abū H.ātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām al-nubuwwa, ed. and tr. Tarif Khalidi, Abū H.ātim al-Rāzī. The Proofs of Prophecy
(Provo, UT: Brigham Young University Press, 2011), 174–175.
10 Nās.ir-i Khusraw, Khwān al-ikhwān, ed. Yah.yā al-Kashshāb (Cairo: Mat․baʿat al-Maʿhad al-ʿIlmī al-Firansī,
1940), 224–225.
316
1 1 Al-Sijistānī, Ithbāt al-nubuwwāt, 101.

12 In later centuries, Sunni mystical thinkers like Ibn ʿArabī (d. 1240) also espoused the view that the Prophet
Muhammad was the human locus of manifestation of God’s pre-eternal speech.
13 Al-Muʾayyad, al-Majālis al-muʾayyadiyya, ed. Hātim H.amīd al-Dīn, vol. 1–2 (Mumbai and Oxford: n.p.,
1975–1986), vol. 2, 199. This is my own translation based on the transliteration found in Elizabeth R.
Alexandrin, Walāyah in the Fāt․imid Ismāʿīlī Tradition (Albany: SUNY Press, 2017), 295. Alexandrin translates
the passage into English on p. 170.
14 This is similar to the hadith where ʿĀʾisha stated about the Prophet that “his character was the Qurʾān.” For
a discussion of this tradition and its meaning in the worldview of Ibn ʿArabi, see Robert J. Dobie, Logos and
Revelation: Ibn ʿArabi, Meister Eckhart, and Mystical Hermeneutics (Washington, DC: Catholic University of
America Press, 2010), 55.
15 Abū l-Qāsim ʿAbd al-H . ākim ibn Wahb al-Malījī, al-Majālis al-Mustans.iriyya, ed. Muh.ammad Kāmil H.usayn
(Cairo: Dār al-Fikr al-ʿArabī, 1947), 175–176.
16 Husain K. Qutbuddin, “Fāt․imid Legal Exegesis of the Qurʾān: The Interpretive Strategies of Used by
al-Qād.ī al-Nuʿmān (d. 363/974) in his Daʿāʾim al-Islam,” Journal of Qurʾanic Studies 12 (2010): 109–164,
124–125.
17 Al-Qād.ī al-Nuʿmān, The Pillars of Islam, trans. Asaf A.A. Fyzee, ed. Ismail K.H. Poonawala (New Delhi:
Oxford University Press India, 2002).
18 All Qur’an translations are my own but based on the translations of A.J. Arberry and M. Pickthall.
19 Ibid., 21.
20 Ibid., 31–32.
21 Ibid., 28–45.
22 Qutbuddin, “Fāt․imid Legal Exegesis,” 123–124.
23 For a summary description of taʾwīl in Sunni tafsīr and kalām, see Hollenberg, Beyond the Qurʾān, 36–39.
24 This is the thesis in Hollenberg, Beyond the Qurʾān.
25 Jaʿfar ibn Mans.ūr al-Yaman, The Master and the Disciple, trans. James W. Morris (London and New York:
I.B. Tauris in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2001), para. 493, 155–156; Arabic text, 80.
I have added transliterations and left the terms wah.y, tanzīl, and taʾwīl untranslated. The translator translated
wah.y as “revealed inspiration,” taʾwīl as “inspired interpretation,” and tanzīl as “sending down.”
26 Jaʿfar ibn Mans.ūr al-Yaman, Kitāb al-Kashf, ed. Mus.․tafā Ghālib (Beirut: Dār Andalus, 1984), 130.
27 Ibid., 237.
28 For a discussion of these examples, see Ismail K. Poonawala, “Ismāʿīlī taʾwīl of the Qurʾān,” in Andrew
Rippin (ed.), Approaches to the History of the Interpretation of the Qurʾān (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988),
199–222: 210–219.
29 Nās.ir-i Khusraw, Between Reason and Revelation, tr. Eric Ormsby (London, New York: I.B. Tauris in associa-
tion with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2012), 64. See also H.amīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī, Master of the Age:
An Islamic Treatise on the Necessity of the Imamate, ed. and trans. Paul E. Walker (London, New York: I.B.
Tauris in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2007), 63–67.
30 Abū H.anīfa al-Nuʿmān, Asās al-taʾwīl, ed. ʿĀrif Tāmir (Beirut: Dār al-Thaqāfa, 1960), 31–32.
31 Some of the prosaic taʾwīl works composed by Ismaili dāʿīs include Sarāʾir wa-asrār al-nut․uqāʾ, the
Taʾwīl al-zakāt, and the Taʾwīl Sūrat al-Nisāʾ attributed to Jaʿfar ibn Mans.ūr al-Yaman, the Kitāb
al-iftikhār by al-Sijistānī, the Asās al-taʾwīl and Taʾwīl al-daʿāʾim al-islam by al-Qād.ī al-Nuʿmān, al-Majālis
al-muʾayyadiyya of al-Muʾayyad al-Shīrāzī, Wajh-i dīn, and Jāmiʿ al-h.ikmatayn by Nās.ir-i Khusraw, Rawd. ā-yi
taslīm by Nas.īr al-Dīn al-T ․ ūsī (d. 672/1274), and the Haft bāb by Abū Ish.āq Qūhistānī (fl. ninth/fifteenth
century). To these prosaic taʾwīl works, one could easily add many examples of Ismaili poetry and devo-
tional literature produced through the centuries including the gināns of the Ismaili South Asian tradition
and the qas.āʾid of the Yemeni, Central Asian, Syrian, and Persian Ismailis. For an argument as to how such
devotional literature constitutes a form of taʾwīl, see Aziz Talbani and Parveen Hasanali, “Taʾwīl and
Ginānic Literature: Knowledge Discourse and Spiritual Experience,” in Gināns: Texts and Contexts, Revised
ed., ed. Tazim R. Kassam and Franscoise Mallison (New Delhi: Primus Books, 2010), 197–210.
32 H.amīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī, Rāh.at al-ʿaql, ed. Mus.․tafā Ghālib (Beirut: Dār al-Andalus, 1983), 238.
33 Al-Kirmānī, quoted in Walker, H.amīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī: Ismaili Thought in the Age of al-H.ākim (London and
New York: I.B. Tauris in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 1999), 113.
34 Al-Nuʿmān, Asās al-taʾwīl, 32.
35 Nās.ir-i Khusraw, Wajh-i dīn, ed. Ghulām Rez· ā Avānī, intro. by Seyyed Hossein Nasr (Tehran: Anjūman-i
Shāhanshāhī-i Falsafah-i Iran, 1977), 341.
36 Al-Shahrastānī, as quoted in Toby Mayer, “Shahrastānī on the Arcana of the Qurʾān: A Preliminary Evalu-
ation.” Journal of Qurʾanic Studies 7 (2005): 61–100, 67.
317
Khalil Andani
37 Abū H.anīfa al-Nuʿmān, Taʾwīl al-daʿāʾim, 3 vols., ed. Muh.ammad H.asan al-Aʿz․amī (Beirut: Muʾassasa
al-Aʿlāmī li l-Mat․būʿāt, 2006), vol. 1, 151.
38 Ibid.
39 Jaʿfar b. Mans.ūr al-Yaman, Taʾwīl al-zakāt, as quoted in David Hollenberg, “Interpretation after the End of
Days: The Fāt․imid Ismāʿīlī taʾwīl (Interpretation) of Jaʿfar ibn Mans.ūr al-Yaman (d. circa 960)” (PhD diss.,
University of Pennsylvania, 2006), 278.
40 Nās.ir-i Khusraw, Wajh-i dīn, 166.
41 Ibid.
42 Ibid., 168.
43 The Master and the Disciple, para. 90–91, 82.
44 Ah.mad ibn Ibrāhīm al-Naysābūrī, Degrees of Excellence, tr. Arzina R. Lalani (London and New York: I.B.
Tauris in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2010), 44.
45 Abū H.āt․im al-Rāzī, Kitāb al-is.lāh., ed. Hasan Minuchihr and Mahdi Muhaqqiq (Tehran: University of Teh-
ran and McGill University, 2004), 189–191.
46 Nās.ir-i Khusraw, Wajh-i dīn, 102.
47 Ibid., 75–76.
48 Poonawala in his “Ismāʿīlī taʾwīl of the Qurʾān” had compared two Ismaili interpretations of this verse.
The idea of making this table was inspired by his work.
49 Jaʿfar ibn Mans.ūr al-Yaman, Kitāb al-kashf, 35–36.
50 Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī, Kitāb al-maqālīd al-malakūtiyya, ed. Ismail K. Poonawala (Beirut: Dār al-Gharb
al-Islāmī, 2011), 236–242.
51 As documented and translated in Carmela Baffioni, “The Role of the Divine Imperative (amr) in the Ikh-
wân al-Safâʾ and Related Works,” Ishraq 4 (2017): 46–70. I want to acknowledge my colleague Syed Zaidi
for clarifying parts of the Ikhwān’s exegesis to me.
52 Al-Kirmānī, Rāh.at al-ʿaql, 576–577.
53 As summarized in Alexandrin, Walāyah in the Fāt․imid Ismāʿīlī Tradition, 102–106. I do not have access to the
primary source for this taʾwīl as it is in manuscript form only.
54 Henry Corbin, Spiritual Body Celestial Earth (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1977), 53–54.
55 Al-Muʾayyad al-Shīrāzī, al-Majālis al-muʾayyadiyya, ed. Hātim H.amīd al-Dīn (Mumbai and Oxford: n.p.,
1975–1986), vol. 2, 302. My thanks to Elizabeth R. Alexandrin for providing me with this source.
56 On repetition in taʾwīl, see Hollenberg, Beyond the Qurʾān, 62ff.
57 Al-Muʾayyad, al-Majālis (H.amīd al-Dīn Edition), vol. 2, 149–150, as translated in Alexandrin, Walāyah,
154.
58 This guidance is found in a religious pronouncement (farmān) of Aga Khan IV given in Bombay, India, on
November 22, 1973, and published in an Ismaili farmān collection called Precious Gems (Vancouver: His
Highness Prince Aga Khan Shia Imami Ismailia Association for Canada, n.d.).
59 This guidance is found in the religious “pronouncements” (farmān) of Aga Khan IV given in Dar es-Salam,
Tanzania, on August 17, 2007; Karachi, October 25, 2000; and Lisbon, July 7, 2018. I consulted the texts
of these farmāns, which are unpublished but retained in the private collections of some Nizārī Ismaili com-
munity members.
60 Tahera Qutbuddin, “The Da’udi Bohra Tayyibis: Ideology, Literature, Learning and Social Practice,” in A
Modern History of the Ismailis, ed. Farhad Daftary (London and New York: I.B. Tauris in Association The
Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2011), 331–354.
61 For a summary and translation of the Nizārī Ismaili Duʿāʾ, see Tazim R. Kassam, “The Daily Prayer (Duʿa)
of the Shiʿa Ismaʿili Muslims,” in The Columbia Sourcebook of Muslims in the United States, ed. Edward E.
Curtis IV (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008), 358–368.
318
29
WOMEN’S CONTEMPORARY
READINGS OF THE QUR’AN
Hadia Mubarak
One of the most pressing theological issues for Muslims in the modern period is the search for divine
will, free of the fallibilities of human interpretation. The return to the Qur’an as the foundational
text for Muslims is partially informed by the quest for divine meaning, divorced from meanings
imposed and projected on it from centuries of human interpretation. Amidst the rapidly chang-
ing contexts of modernity, the Qur’an has served as an unchanging, stable anchor for Muslims in
their quest to both withstand and overcome the uncertainties of the modern world. Yet the project
of determining the Qur’an’s meaning, known as Qur’anic “exegesis” (tafsīr), has been far from
monolithic, static, or conclusive. While Muslims universally agree upon the Qur’an’s ontology as the
words of God verbatim, they have produced a multiplicity of interpretations of their sacred text. The
Qur’anic exegetical tradition underscored textual polysemy as an inherent feature of the Qur’an,
rendering it amenable to a multiplicity of readings.1 As early as the mid-eighth century, when the
genre of tafsīr first emerged, exegetes debated the meaning of the Qur’an. What does God intend by
His words? Can the Qur’an’s human readers ever definitively deduce divine intent? If so, what meth-
ods of interpretation are more likely to deduce an accurate reading of the Qur’an? Early on in its
development, the exegetical tradition bequeathed to Islam’s central text a multiplicity of meanings.
Nowhere has the question of divine intent been as pressing for Muslims in the last two decades
than in the field of women in the Qur’an. A primary impetus for women’s contemporary readings
of the Qur’an has been a desire to address the perceived gap between divine intent and human inter-
pretation. In the twenty-first century, Muslim women are caught amidst a polarity of interpretations
regarding their position and rights within a religious tradition that spans 15 centuries. To what
extent are misogynistic attitudes or oppressive practices toward women embedded in religious texts?
Is the Qur’an, Islam’s primary scripture, inherently patriarchal and even misogynist, as reflected by
the actions of extremists, or is it egalitarian and empowering to women, as a new wave of Muslim
activists and scholars have argued?2 The answer to this question lies at the center of a fierce academic
debate among contemporary scholars.
The answers generated by the last two decades of scholarship on gender and the Qur’an are far
from conclusive. On one end of the spectrum are scholars, such as Asma Barlas, Maysam al-Faruqi,
Riffat Hassan, Azizah al-Hibri, and Amina Wadud, who absolve the Qur’anic text itself of patri-
archy and instead blame the exegetical tradition for the “textualization of misogyny”3 into Islam.4
Despite important differences in their approaches, they all challenge patriarchal interpretations of the
Qur’an as inconsistent with scripture itself. On the other end of the spectrum are scholars, such as
Ebrahim Moosa, Kecia Ali, Aysha Hidayatullah, and Raja Rhouni,5 who critique feminist scholars
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-32 319

Hadia Mubarak
for imposing their own contemporary sensibilities upon the Qur’an, even when the literal mean-
ings of the text appear to contradict their egalitarian aspirations for it. Without entirely dismissing
the project of amplifying Islam’s egalitarian voice, in its scholarly and advocacy forms, these critical
works have faulted gender-egalitarian or feminist approaches for their methodological rigidity and
subjective premise that the Qur’an is an egalitarian text.6 This chapter explores women’s contem-
porary readings of the Qur’an, identifying their rationale, methods, and points of convergence and
divergence. By surveying the development of this literary field, this chapter also puts into conversa-
tion arguments made by contemporary scholars of the Qur’an regarding its inherent egalitarianism
or androcentricism. This chapter argues that scholars should consider new ways of engaging the
Qur’an’s scholarly exegetical tradition by moving away from binary conceptions of the Qur’an or its
exegesis as either patriarchal or egalitarian.
Women’s Readings of the Qur’an During the Prophetic Era

It is important to point out that women have posited readings of the Qur’an since the beginning
of its formation. In fact, the genre of asbāb al-nuzūl (“occasions of revelation”) portray women as
critical points of intervention in the Qur’an’s revelation during the 23 lunar years of its formation.
One of the most poignant examples comes from Prophet Muhammad’s wife, Umm Salama, whose
full name is Hind bint Abī Umayya ibn Mughīra (d. circa 60/680).7 Portrayed in the biographi-
cal literature as a woman of keen intelligence and exceptional wisdom, Umm Salama’s questions
to the Prophet regarding the Qur’an’s portrayal of men and women are often cited as occasions of
revelation for a number of Qur’anic verses. According to several reports recorded in early exegetical
works, Q 4:32 comes as a direct response to Umm Salama’s concerns that men were being privileged
in one way or another by the Qur’an. Umm Salama protests, “O Messenger of God, men engage in
combat, and we do not; yet they receive double our portion in inheritance; therefore, we wish we
were men!”8 Umm Salama’s concerns about men’s engagement in battle reflects more than meets
the eye. In the context of seventh-century Arabia, spoils of war were significant sources of revenue
for the victorious warriors. Therefore, Umm Salama’s commentary reflects a concern for distributive
justice. Why would men receive twice the inheritance of their sisters when they are also the ones
engaging in battle and therefore soliciting its booty?
One may presume that Umm Salama’s close proximity to the Prophet – as one of his wives – may
have given her both the courage and comfort to ask these questions. However, the exegetical litera-
ture is replete with examples of several other female companions expressing the desire to be valued
and affirmed. The twelfth-century Andalusian exegete, Abū ʿAbdullāh Muh.ammad ibn Ah.mad
al-Qurt․ubī (d. 672/1273), identifies the commentary of another female companion, Umm ʿUmāra
al-Ans.āriyya (d. 13/634), as the occasion of revelation of Qur’an 33:35.9 According to al-Qurt․ubī,
Umm ʿUmāra’s complains to the Prophet, “I find everything to be for men and I don’t find women
mentioned in any regards!”10 Accordingly, God reveals Qur’an 33:35 in response to Umm ʿUmāra’s
objection that the Qur’an appeared to privilege men. In another report by the tenth-century exe-
gete, Abū Jaʿfar Muh.ammad ibn Jarīr al-T ․ abarī (d. 310/923), the petitioner in this case is not Umm
ʿUmāra’s but a group of women who protest to the Prophet’s wives: “God has mentioned you [the
Prophet’s wives] in the Qur’an, yet we are not mentioned in any regard. Isn’t there anything worth
mentioning about us?”11 Interestingly, this narration reflects the concern of women during the
Prophetic Era to be acknowledged in what they believed to be the most authoritative discourse:
divine revelation. In two other narrations, Umm Salama is the petitioner of this objection. In one
narration, she proclaims, “Men are mentioned, but we [women] are not mentioned!”12 In a second
narration, she asks, “Are men to be mentioned in regards to all things, but we are not?”13
The identity of the petitioner aside, the exegetical reports regarding the occasion of revelation for
Qur’an 33:35 all point to one fact. If we are to accept their authenticity at face value, such exegetical
320
Women’s Contemporary Readings of the Qur’an
reports illustrate that women’s objections find a most receptive hearing with God. As Barlas elo-
quently describes:
I learn that long before we came to define the term “critical,” and long before we came to
study the relationship between language and forms of human subjectivity, some premod-
ern, illiterate Muslim women were thinking critically about the role of language in shaping
their sense of self. Were that not true, I assume Umm Salama would not have asked her
question, and I assume God would not have responded to her by making women the sub-
jects, rather than the objects, of Divine Discourse.14
There is no evidence in the exegetical tradition or biographical accounts that these women were rep-
rimanded for expressing a desire to see women included in divine speech. Rather, their concerns are
acknowledged and validated by the revelation of a verse in the Qur’an, the very means of expression
in which they desire to be included. One could argue, therefore, that women’s questions regarding
the Qur’an’s gender discourse shaped its content in respect to the aforementioned verses. Therefore,
as we consider the subject of women’s contemporary readings of the Qur’an, it is important to bear
in mind that women reflected a distinct concern for inclusivity in divine discourse from the onset
of its revelation.
Women’s Readings of the Qur’an in Western Scholarship

While women have contributed to the genre of Qur’anic exegesis throughout the Muslim world,
this chapter shall confine its scope to contemporary women’s readings of the Qur’an produced in
Western scholarship. A persistent question in the scholarship on gender in the Qur’an has been
whether patriarchy is inherent to the Qur’an or the product of its exegetical interpretations. Does
the Qur’an chart a new discourse on women and gender – one that upends patriarchal norms or
gender oppression – or does it reflect existing patriarchal norms and hierarchies? There have gener-
ally been three approaches to this question.
The first has been a scripturalist approach that distinguishes the Qur’an’s portrayal and treatment
of women from its exegesis. A few significant works that took this approach are Lois Lamya Faruqi’s
Women, Muslim Society and Islam, Barbara Stowasser’s Women in the Qur’an, Traditions, and Interpreta-
tion, and Celene Ibrahim’s recent work, Women and Gender in the Qur’an. In the case of Stowasser,
however, her method of assessing the Qur’an’s treatment of women was through a comparative
analysis of the scripture with its exegesis, pointing out discrepancies as they emerged.
The second approach is a scholarly, feminist approach of separating the Qur’an from its exegesis
with the aim of recovering what authors believe is the Qur’an’s “anti-patriarchal epistemology.”15
While this second approach resembles the first by distinguishing the Qur’an from its exegesis, it
diverges in its a priori conclusion that the Qur’an is an egalitarian text; thus the aim of such works is to
make the case for the Qur’an’s egalitarian episteme through a close, textual analysis of scripture, inde-
pendent of its exegesis. Scholars who have contributed significant works to a rereading of Qur’anic
scripture are Asma Barlas, Amina Wadud, Azizah al-Hibri, and Riffat Hassan, among others. The
starting point for these authors is that the Qur’an is inherently egalitarian; the ascription of patriarchy
or gender injustice to the Qur’an is due to patriarchal interpretations that have been imposed upon the
Qur’anic text. As Barlas and Wadud argue, these “mis-readings” gradually became entrenched in peo-
ples’ minds, where they became confused with the text itself.16 Similarly, al-Hibri writes that “cultural
assumptions and values” have eclipsed religious texts and “mislead Muslims into believing that they
have divine origins, thus denying Muslims the right to assess them critically, or even reject them.”17
The third approach is a byproduct of feminist scholars’ readings of the Qur’an. Primarily con-
cerned with both philosophical and methodological arguments rather than a comprehensive
321
Hadia Mubarak
engagement with the Qur’an’s content, works in this category have challenged the subjectivity, “text
fundamentalism”,18 and “methodological rigidity”19 of feminist approaches to the Qur’an. Scholars
who provide this methodological critique are Kecia Ali, Aysha Hidayatullah, Ebrahim Moosa, and
Raja Rhouni, among others.20 Despite their common critique, scholars in this camp diverge consid-
erably in the premise upon which they rest their arguments. For the purposes of this chapter, I label
these three distinct approaches as scriptural readings, egalitarian readings, and critical readings. These
are not tightly sealed categories, as some works may overlap one or two approaches.
Scriptural Readings
One of the first Western scholars to extensively address the subject of women in the Qur’an was
Lois Lamya Faruqi. Faruqi’s work, Women, Muslim Society and Islam, published after her death, is
among the earliest to argue for the use of an “Islamic feminist”21 framework to advocate for Mus-
lim women’s rights. She employed the language of Islamic feminism as early as the 1970s, at least
two decades before the term’s visibility and prevalence.22 Her treatment of the subject of Muslim
women reflects a level of historical consciousness that remains to be seen in other works on women
in the Qur’an. Faruqi establishes the fact that religious communities do not exist outside of history;
therefore, any accurate assessment of women’s conditions should be framed within their historical
contexts. Accordingly, she assesses the Qur’an’s rulings on women and gender in the context of the
period in which they were revealed: seventh-century Arabia.
Like female scholars writing after her, Faruqi argued that only the sources produced in the
Prophetic Era – specifically the Qur’an and Sunna – could be regarded as religious precedents for
Muslim women.23 Her scriptural approach to interpreting the Qur’an, however, represents a few
tensions. One tension is the simultaneous argument for gender equality and a patriarchal society. For
al-Faruqi, both of these represent “basic, crucial and incontrovertible”24 characteristics of a Qur’anic
society. Most interesting is the following argument on Q 2:228 and 4:34:
Contrary to misrepresentations by the Qur’an’s enemies, these passages do not mean the
subjugation of women to men in a gender-based dictatorship. Such an interpretation shows
a blatant disregard of the Qur’an’s repeated calls for the equality of the sexes and for its com-
mand to show respect and kindness to women. The passages in question point instead to a
means for avoiding internal dissension and indecision for the benefit of all family members.
They advocate for a patriarchal society.25
Al-Faruqi’s understanding of a “qualified” gender equality parallels the understanding of Islamic

modernist intellectuals such as Muh.ammad ʿAbduh (d. 1905) and Rashīd Rid.ā (d. 1935). In their
coauthored exegesis of the Qur’an, Tafsīr al-Manār, both argued that the Qur’an’s vision of “gender
equality” was not absolute, as it made men the of head of the family in order to preserve its interests
and prevent disunity.26
The first work in Western scholarship to comprehensively examine how women appear in
the Qur’an and its exegesis was Barbara Stowasser’s Women in the Qur’an, Traditions, and Interpreta-
tion. Published in 1994, she examined the Qur’an’s portrayal of female figures specifically through
the Qur’an’s depiction of historic female characters and the Prophet’s wives. Departing from the
approach of many scholars to skirt the exegetical tradition in their engagement with the Qur’an,
Stowasser takes a deep plunge into this tradition, in both its premodern and modern periods. In her
analysis of female characters in the Qur’an, Stowasser compared premodern and modern exegetical
commentaries with the Qur’anic text.27 One of her key findings was the fact that Qur’anic exegesis
and the Qur’anic text itself are not always consistent in their portrayal of women. She specifically
notes the divergence between medieval exegesis’s treatment and portrayal of women as innately weak
322
and “dangerous to the established moral order” in comparison to the “Qur’anic theme of female
spiritual freedom and moral responsibility.”28
Stowasser’s work was important not just because of its contribution to the field of Qur’anic Stud-
ies but also because it brought attention to the important role of hermeneutics in the production of
religious knowledge. Quoting Richard Martin, she notes that interpretations of the Qur’an are an
extension of its productivity – hence they are themselves in need of interpretation.29 Stowasser situates
the interpretive commentaries of the Qur’an that she analyzes in their historic contexts. Stowasser’s
work provided later scholars with the armor to argue that the Qur’anic exegetical tradition is by
no means an accurate reflection of the scripture itself, especially as it relates to issues of women and
gender.
Stowasser’s scriptural reading of women in the Qur’an was not accepted by all. Andrew Rippin,
one of the largest names in the field of Qur’anic Studies at the time, critiqued Stowasser’s methodol-
ogy, questioning whether scripture could exist in “a contextual vacuum.”30 Rather than stripping
the text of its exegesis, Rippin suggested that the contexts against which male exegetes measured the
Qur’an’s meaning – such as the biblical context and their own cultural milieus – was in fact intended
by the Qur’an. He wrote, “Does the absence of narrative detail mean that the Qur’an has excluded
such material ‘intentionally’ or is the background to be assumed by the reader?”31
Karen Bauer recently adopts this line of reasoning in her assessment of Qur’anic exegetes’ inter-
pretation of the story of Eve. The Qur’anic narrative on human creation has become a focal point
in women’s contemporary efforts to untangle the Qur’an’s “egalitarian” framework from its exegesis.
For many contemporary female readers of the Qur’an, its affirmation that all human beings originate
from a single source has served as evidence of male and female ontological equality. Asma Barlas
writes, for example, “[T]he most radical of the Qur’an’s teachings, which establish the ontic nature
of sexual equality in Islam and which undermines the very notions of radical differences and hierar-
chy, has to do with the origin and nature of human creation.”32 Similarly, Amina Wadud argues that
“the Qur’anic account of the creation of mankind is important, above all, because it points out that
all humans share a single point of origin. . . . Just as we have one point of origin, so do we have one
destination: from one to many and back to one again.”33 Riffat Hassan, who has written extensively
on the Qur’anic and biblical accounts of the first primal parents, argues that the creation story is
of such theological significance to Muslims’ conceptions of gender that it cannot be ignored. She
affirms:
The creation of woman is as clearly defined in the Qur’an as the creation of man, and the
Qur’anic statements about human creation, diverse as they are, leave no doubt as to one
point: both man and woman were made in the same manner, of the same substance, at the
same time.34
Like Rippin, however, Bauer questions whether the Qur’an should be stripped of its extratextual
context. She writes, “[U]ltimately, the Qur’an was not meant to stand alone in its original environ-
ment. It was meant to be heard or read with certain specific background knowledge.”35 For Bauer,
this “background knowledge” constitutes the biblical and para-biblical accounts on human creation,
lore, and prophetic narratives.36 Bauer concedes that medieval exegetes went against the literal mean-
ing of the Qur’an by blaming Eve for tempting Adam due to their reliance on external sources. Yet
she suggests, “The author of the Qur’an may indeed have intended to replicate the core of the Biblical
story in his own terms, as the exegetes unanimously suppose, and so a literal reading of the Qur’an’s
text on this incident may be misleading.”37 The implications of both Bauer and Rippin’s argument
are significant. First, it counters the modern exegetical trend to understand the Qur’an on its own
terms, divorced from the layers of common lore, hagiographic material, and early reports projected
on it. Second, it undermines contemporary feminist initiatives to untangle patriarchal commentaries
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on women from scripture by suggesting that despite the Qur’an’s omission of certain “anti-women
details,” it may have intended those meanings. In contrast to contemporary efforts by some scholars
to illustrate the gap between divine intent and human interpretation, Rippin and Bauer’s arguments
suggest that the Qur’an intended for its readers to interpret its narratives against the backdrop of
extraneous material, specifically biblical and para-biblical sources.
While Stowasser’s work was the first in Western scholarship to provide an in-depth analysis of
major female figures in the Qur’an, Celene Ibrahim has generated renewed attention to this sub-
ject with her book, Women and Gender in the Qur’an. Approaching the Qur’an as both a literary
work and a self-proclaimed scripture, Ibrahim takes on the mantle of a female exegete – “the ten-
tative mufassira”38 – and explores all the major and minor female figures referenced in the Qur’an,
including ones indirectly referenced or portrayed as belonging to the eternal abode. In this lucid
and original work, Ibrahim argues that the Qur’an offers a multiplicity of female personas. She
writes:
[T]here is no single archetypal female. Rather, figures fall on a spectrum between pious
and impious, insightful and ignorant, commanding and timid, old and young, famous and
obscure, and so forth. Taken as a whole, Qur’anic narratives involving female figures offer
a values-based paradigm in which the Qur’anic reader, reciter, or listener is invited to scale
up her own virtue against the personalities of sacred history.39
Ibrahim pushes the boundaries of Qur’anic Studies through her engagement with the Qur’an
through the lens of “Muslima theology.”40
Egalitarian Readings of the Qur’an

The question of divine intent has been central to women’s contemporary readings of the Qur’an.
A new wave of scholarship on gender in the Qur’an produced since the early 1980s seeks to close
the gap between what they argue is divine intent and human interpretation. According to such
scholars, any reading of the Qur’an that ascribes to God oppression, injustice, or sexual favoritism is
a misreading of the text, either because it defies the theology of tawh.īd (God’s singularity and therefore
self-consistency) or divine ontology. Barlas writes, for example, “If ‘God by definition cannot be a
misogynist,’ then God’s Speech also cannot by definition be misogynist or teach misogyny or injus-
tice.”41 Female scholars, therefore, resort to the Qur’an’s authority to diminish what they observe as
“the glaring discrepancy”42 between Islam’s teachings and Muslims’ attitudes and behavior. Given its
unparalleled authority in Muslim consciousness, the Qur’an functions as the first exhibit of evidence
in making the case for gender justice within an Islamic framework.
A central characteristic of works that fall into this category is their insistence on the Qur’an as
the sole or primary source of religious authority. A corollary to this methodology is the consequent
trivialization of secondary sources of Islam, specifically exegesis, law, and prophetic tradition. As
Shuruq Naguib describes, “[T]o hear the Qur’an without the mediation of men, some Muslim
feminists choose to suppress the male voices in order to recover what they perceive to be an origi-
nally liberating and egalitarian divine message.”43 For example, in her introduction to Qur’an and
Woman, a groundbreaking work at the time of its publication, Amina Wadud justifies her rationale
for privileging the Qur’an over other sources: “This is congruent with the orthodox understanding
of the inerrancy of Qur’anic preservation versus historical contradictions within the hadith litera-
ture. Furthermore, I would never concede that the equality between women and men demonstrated
in the Qur’an could be removed by the Prophet.”44 In laying out her methodology, she argued that
her ability to examine the Qur’an’s gender paradigm “within the perspective of the text itself ” dis-
tinguishes her work from previous works on the topic.45
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Similar arguments abound in contemporary women’s readings within this category. Asma Bar-
las argues that “the misogyny that has found a niche in Islam derives mostly from extra-Qur’anic
sources, notably the tafsir and ahadith, both of which are used to interpret the Qur’an.”46 To remedy
what she identifies as a methodological flaw, Barlas argued for a scriptural reading of the Qur’an,
independent of its exegesis. Similarly, Maysam al-Faruqi insists that “[T]he Qur’an constitutes the
one and only reference for anyone who wants to identify himself or herself as a Muslim.”47 Likewise,
in her defense of “Muslim women’s rights,” law professor Azizah al-Hibri contends that Islamic law
“must be based on divine logic as revealed in the Qur’an and not on some hierarchical worldview
foreign to it.”48 Muslim feminist theologian Riffat Hassan describes her intellectual journey “to
articulate . . . the normative Islamic view of women,”49 which she bases on her reading of the Qur’an
as “the primary source, or highest authority, in Islam.”50
How does one recover the Qur’an’s egalitarian voice? Moving beyond critiquing patriarchal
interpretations of the Qur’an, both Barlas and Wadud develop a set of hermeneutics to generate
egalitarian readings of the Qur’an. Wadud sets forth a methodology by which she examines the
Qur’an’s historical context, grammatical composition, and its Weltanschauung, or worldview. This
latter step is contingent upon an intertextual reading of the Qur’an. While the trend of thematic
readings of the Qur’an began to emerge in the early to mid-twentieth century, as Mustansir Mir
notes,51 Wadud distinguishes her reading by focusing solely on the theme of women. Wadud notes
that her exegetical methodology offers a fresh departure from previous methodologies. Applying
Fazlur Rahman’s double-movement hermeneutic,52 she restricts particulars in the Qur’an to their
specific context, extracts those “principles intended by the Qur’an through that particular,” and then
applies those principles to new particulars in various cultural contexts.53 The process of extracting
principles “intended by the Qur’an” is undoubtedly a subjective process, of which Wadud herself
appears to be aware, as she claims, “interpretation of the Qur’an can never be final.”54 Wadud argues
that it is not the text or its principles that change, hence confirming the Qur’an’s continuity and
permanence, but what changes is a community’s capacity and particularity in understanding the
principles of the text.55
Barlas, who takes the most rigorous approach of the works in this category, develops a herme-
neutic based on divine ontology. She argues for a necessary congruence between God and His
speech. More specifically, she identifies three principles of God’s Self-Disclosure – Unity, Justness,
and Incomparability – which Muslims should make the “hermeneutic site from which to read
the Qur’an’s antipatriarchal epistemology.”56 Furthermore, she applies the traditional view that the
Qur’an functions as “its own best interpreter”57 to argue for a holistic reading of the Qur’an that
approaches the Qur’an “as a whole, a totality.”58 Accordingly, Barlas adopts a methodology for read-
ing the Qur’an intratextually, contextually, and holistically.59 Like Wadud, she concludes that “a
reading of the Qur’an is just a reading of the Qur’an, no matter how good; it does not approximate
the Qur’an itself.”60
The scholarly contention that the Qur’an has been “misread” by centuries of patriarchal male
exegetes raises another unresolved question in the academic scholarship in Qur’anic hermeneutics.
Can we ever definitively know what the Qur’an means? Does the Qur’an have an inherent mean-
ing, or does it gain meaning only through interpretation? Asma Barlas holds that “certain meanings
are intrinsic to the text such that anyone can retrieve them if they employ the right method and ask
the right questions.”61 In contrast, Aysha Hidayatullah argues that according to feminist exegetes,
“the reader can never objectively know the intent of the author/God,”62 a position she critiques as
vulnerable. She juxtaposes this alleged doctrine of feminist exegetes with the “traditional exegetical
view that objectively identifiable meanings can be gleaned from the Qur’an.”63 Regrettably, Hiday-
atullah’s assessment evades a substantive engagement with the Qur’anic exegetical tradition.
A close assessment of this tradition reveals the fact that exegetes acknowledged that their “retrieval”
of God’s intent was by no means certain and could be obfuscated by several factors, including
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methods, biases, and objectives. For example, in his seminal work of exegesis, Jāmiʿ al-bayān ʿan
taʾwīl al-qurʾān, Abū Jaʿfar ibn Jarīr al-T․ abarī (d. 310/923) distinguishes the terms taʾwīl and bayān,
arguing that taʾwīl is “God’s intended meaning,” which exists independently of the exegete, whereas
bayān is the exegete’s “clarification,” which is liable to miss the mark. This distinction is consist-
ent with al-T ․ abarī’s interpretation of Q 3:7, which he renders as “and none knows its interpre-
tation (taʾwīl) except for God, and those who are firmly grounded in knowledge (al-rāsikhūn fī
l-ʿilm) say: We believe in it, it is all from our Lord. Yet none remember except the discerning
(ūlū l-albāb).”64 Similarly, the twelfth-century theologian and philosopher Abū H.āmid al-Ghazālī
(d. 505/1111) emphasized the subjective role of the exegete in extracting the Qur’an’s meaning. As
Ulrika Mårtensson describes, al-Ghazālī’s “insistence on personal experience involved a subjectivist
and critical approach to received knowledge; even though the truth about God’s intention is only
one, it can only be arrived at through an individual intellectual and experiential journey.”65
Classical exegetes as far back as al-T ․ abarī and al-Ghazālī wrestled with the hermeneutical ten-
sions that exist between recognizing that the Qur’an has an inherent meaning, on one hand, and the
multiplicity of meaning that Muslim scholarship has attributed to the Qur’an, on the other. Exegetes
attempted to stake out a middle position between accepting interpretive relativism and denying
authorial intent. Therefore, most classical exegetes began their tafsīr with an introduction to herme-
neutics – a set of specific methods and criteria that would yield the highest probability of arriving at
the truth – when accurately applied. The fact that Muslim exegetes could not entirely agree on the
intended meaning of a given verse did not negate the fact that the verse has an “inherent meaning”
that could potentially be retrieved if one applied the correct methods. The search for the Qur’an’s
“true meaning” has been at the heart of the project of Qur’anic interpretation since its inception.
With the exception of Amina Wadud’s Inside the Gender Jihad, contemporary female scholars who
have produced egalitarian readings of the Qur’an – including Wadud in her earlier work, Qur’an and
Woman – contend that the Qur’an has a definitive meaning, a kernel of truth that has been obfus-
cated by centuries of male biases projected upon the text. In fact, their works attempt to uncover or
recover the text’s egalitarian impulses, which they believe to be reflective of authorial intent. Barlas
describes, “When I say I read the Qur’an as text, I mean that I read to discover what God may have
intended (that is, for Authorial intent discourse). This means that I ascribe intention/ality to the
text.”66 In Wadud’s earlier work, Qur’an and Woman, she writes, “The Muslim woman has only to
read the text – unconstrained by exclusive and restrictive interpretations – to gain an undeniable
liberation.”67 Similarly, the works of Riffat Hassan, Azizah al-Hibri, and Maysam al-Faruqi all point
to their belief that the Qur’an has a definitive meaning.68 It is only upon this premise that they can
subsequently make the argument that patriarchal Qur’anic interpretations regarding women “are
contrary to the letter and spirit of the Qur’an.”69 It is only Wadud who backpedals from her previous
position. In her later work, Inside the Gender Jihad, she acknowledges the difficulty of ascertaining
Authorial intent. She notes, “The text is silent. It needs interpretation. . . . We make it speak for us
by asking of it. If we are narrow, we will get a narrow response or answer. If we are open, it will open
us to even greater possibilities.”70 She further clarifies, “No interpretation is definitive.”71 Wadud’s
shift reflects a postmodernist approach, which, as Johanna Pink describes, views the “the quest for
truth (as) . . . a process that will never be concluded.”72
Critical Readings
The argument that patriarchy is not inherent to the Qur’anic text but a product of its exegesis has
faced methodological critiques by scholars such as Kecia Ali, Raja Rhouni, Ebrahim Moosa, and
Aysha Hidayatullah. For Moosa, the assertion that the Qur’an is an egalitarian text based on “privi-
leging a few verses” amounts to “text fundamentalism.”73 He critiques the notion that the text is
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“sovereign, passive and non-interactive,” waiting for its norms to be discovered. Rather, he con-
tends, “The truth is that we ‘make’ the norms in conversation with the revelatory text.”74 Ironically,
Moosa contradicts his own argument by asserting that a “welter of evidence . . . suggests an outright
patriarchy as the ‘textual’ norm.”75 Yet if the Qur’an’s norms are not inherent to the text, as Moosa
suggests, how can one argue that patriarchy is an inherent norm to the text and not one that Moosa
has constructed through his own interaction with the text?
For Ali, Hidayatullah, and Rhouni, the controversy at hand is the subjectivity of egalitarian
approaches to the Qur’an. They caution against “prioritizing our common sensibilities in the course
of our interpretations.”76 Rhouni, for example, critiques the notion that the project of egalitarian
readings of the Qur’an is one of “retrieval,” by which scholars are “retrieving the egalitarian truth
of Islam.”77 While contemporary scholars have demonstrated how exegetes’ cultural assumptions
about women have led to seriously flawed exegeses of certain verses, Ali argues that some modern
scholars have fallen into the same trap by allowing their presuppositions to “color their interpreta-
tions of the Qur’an to the extent that they fail to consider other possibly legitimate readings.”78
She writes:
[O]ne must acknowledge that esteeming equality as the most important interpersonal value
is a peculiarity of some modern Muslims and not something inherent in the text of the
Qur’an. Feminist exegetes must take care not to be as blinded by the commitment to
equality, and the presumption that equality is necessary for justice, as classical exegetes were
by their assumptions about the naturalness of male superiority and dominance in family
and society.79
Hidayatullah takes a similar line of critique in Feminist Edges of the Qur’an. She brings to read-
ers’ attention the fact that “contemporary understandings of sexual equality and justice” might be
“incommensurate” with the Qur’anic text, specifically its endorsement of male dominion.80 Rather
than force the Qur’an to align with meanings it did not intend, she argues that feminist exegetes
must instead reexamine the subjectivity of our notions of sexual equality. She writes:
When scholars of feminist tafsīr have come across portions of the Qur’anic text that have
not easily yielded meanings in line with contemporary notions of gender equality, we often
forget that our notions of equality are guided by historical values of our own that we bring
to the text; we have perhaps become blind to the historicity of our feminist viewpoints in
encountering those instances when the Qur’an does not easily conform to our understand-
ings of gender egalitarianism.81
Wadud and Barlas, among others, have directly addressed their critics. In Inside the Gender Jihad,
Wadud acknowledges: “I accept that even my own reading is dwarfed by my context in history as
well as by human incompetence and lack of understanding. This acceptance frees me from defend-
ing any understanding I develop of meaning I find as the only right understanding.”82 In response to
Hidayatullah’s critiques, Barlas notes:
how we read scripture eventually has to do with faith and that faith is inviolably per-
sonal. . . . This is why my critics and I are unlikely to persuade one another and also why
we are talking to different audiences. Those who share the persuasions of the authors I have
discussed will find an able guide in Hidayatullah; conversely, those who are seeking God
outside a patriarchal exegesis of the Qur’an may find some small openings in mine. Or, so
I hope.83
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Another contentious point of debate between egalitarian and critical approaches to the Qur’an is the
question: does egalitarianism preclude acknowledging or establishing gender differentiation? Schol-
ars invested in an egalitarian reading of the Qur’an have sought to illustrate that sexual differentiation
does not amount to sexual inequality. For example, in her earlier work, Wadud argues that gender
differences in the Qur’an, such as that represented by men’s qiwāma in Q 4:34, are functional and not
biological or inherent.84 Similarly, in Barlas’s “groundbreaking”85 work, she argues that differentia-
tion between sexes does not necessarily mean inequality. Barlas writes:
In light of these teachings,86 it is difficult to view the Qur’an’s different treatment of women
and men as evidence of its anti-equality stance. For one, as I have emphasized repeatedly,
difference does not always imply inequality, particularly if it is not based in a theory of
sexual differentiation; indeed, difference may even be ‘compatible with [definitions] of
similarity’ (Ricoeur 1974, 471). Thus, the Qur’an’s different treatment of women and men
does not invalidate its teachings about human equality or similarity87
Both Hidayatullah and Ali reject the claim that sexual differentiation in the Qur’an does not neces-
sarily mean sexual inequality.88 Ali argues that while the Qur’an’s acknowledgment of gender dif-
ferences might not necessarily translate into gender injustice, it does in fact translate into gender
inequality. As an example, she mentions the Qur’an’s requirement of two women in place of one
man in the witnessing of financial loans (Q 2:282). Based on this and other examples, Ali concludes:
Difference, in these instances, involves obvious inequality, though whether this inequality
constitutes injustice is a separate and more complicated issue. The clear Qur’anic declara-
tions of sameness and the equally clear Qur’anic acceptance of inequality based upon dif-
ferentiation must be understood in the context of an ever-present tension in the Qur’an
between egalitarianism and hierarchy, which exists not only with regard to the sexes but
also when it comes to matters such as wealth or slavery.89
While bringing attention to valid critiques of Qur’anic feminist hermeneutics, Ali, Moosa, Hiday-
atullah, and Rhouni’s arguments take the project of gender egalitarianism one step back, forcing
it to recontend with patriarchal interpretations of the Qur’an. Ali writes, for example, “Honesty
requires me to concede the strength of some scriptural interpretations positing a privileged role for
males in family and society.”90 By characterizing some of the more egalitarian conclusions reached
by feminist scholars as naïve, disingenuous, and lacking interpretive authority,91 these recent works
contribute to an increasing skepticism about whether gender justice could be realized within a
framework that adheres to religious teachings – a reversal of the achievements made by Islamic femi-
nism – a discursive framework by which Muslims employ scriptural evidence to challenge the bases
of discriminatory, unjust, and sexist practices that are given the legitimacy of religious teachings.
As reflected by the works of Margot Badran, Sa’diyya Shaikh, Miriam Cooke, Asifa Qureishi, and
Valentine Moghadam, among others, the growing movement of Islamic feminism had provided both
the theoretical and pragmatic bases for Muslim women to challenge those who impose patriarchal
practices in the name of Islam on their own terms. Wadud makes this painful observation in her later
work, Inside the Gender Jihad: “Rather than finding encouragement from others with prior privilege
in engaging textual analysis, they [feminist exegetes] are castigated for their efforts at contributing,
however inconclusively, to new understandings of the Qur’an.”92 Barlas points out that her critics’
claims ultimately uphold patriarchal readings. She states, “Her [Hidayatullah’s] claim that the Qur’an
is a patriarchal text merely repeats traditional views of it, and she did not need the detour through
our exegesis in order to recycle it.”93
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Despite raising important questions about subjectivity and academic honesty, the critiques raised
by Moosa, Ali, Hidayatullah, and Rhouni inevitably run the risk of privileging and entrenching
androcentric meanings derived by medieval exegetes (or contemporary ones) as being more con-
sistent with divine intent over other, more egalitarian readings. This undermines the complexity of
retrieving divine intentionality from the text by legitimating certain meanings over others. How
does one determine the normative value of a sacred text like the Qur’an? This irreconcilable ten-
sion is evident in Ali’s critique of Barlas. For example, while Ali argues that “esteeming equality as
the most important interpersonal value is a peculiarity of some modern Muslims and not something
inherent in the text of the Qur’an,” she simultaneously makes the case that the Qur’an is “a thor-
oughly androcentric . . . text.”94 Ali’s argument seems to suggest that her reading of androcentrism in
the Qur’an is inherent to the text, while Barlas’s and other feminist exegetes’ reading of “egalitarian-
ism” in the Qur’an is external to the text. Such divergences are the inevitable by-product of human
interpretation, shaped by humans’ divergent positionalities, beliefs, sensibilities, educational training,
and hermeneutics, among other factors.
Women and Qur’anic Exegesis

While the last decade has witnessed an abundance of works on gender in the Qur’an, few of these
explore gender in Qur’anic exegesis, a literary genre with formal characteristics. A few notable
exceptions to this are Karen Bauer’s Gender Hierarchy in the Qur’an, Ayesha Chaudhry’s Domes-
tic Violence and the Islamic Tradition, Aisha Geissinger’s Gender and Muslim Constructions of Exegeti-
cal Authority: A Rereading of the Classical Genre of Qur’an Commentary, and Stowasser’s Women in
the Qur’an, Traditions, and Interpretation, which I’ve discussed earlier. Further, scholarly articles by
Omaima Abou-Bakr and Shuruq Naguib have illustrated the role of hermeneutics in construct-
ing gender norms regarding marital obligations and notions of purity and pollution.95 While these
works do not constitute a contemporary “reading” of the Qur’an, they certainly represent women’s
contemporary readings of Qur’anic exegesis and have raised critical attention to the genre’s historical
and intellectual developments.
Ayesha Chaudhry’s Domestic Violence and the Islamic Tradition remains the most exhaustive work
on Q 4:34, a verse that is commonly understood to enjoin husbands to hit their recalcitrant wives.
This work makes a critical contribution to the scholarship on legal and exegetical interpreta-
tions of Q 4:34, providing an impressive breadth of exegetical and legal interpretations on men’s
qiwāma over women and authority to discipline wives guilty of nushūz. Bauer’s Gender Hierarchy
in the Qur’an is the first to bring forth significant nuances in contemporary religious scholars’
interpretations of Qur’anic verses on human creation, female witnesses, and marital hierarchy by
incorporating interviews from conservative, neotraditionalist, and reformist scholars in Iran and
Syria. Her book offers an in-depth analysis of significant trends among contemporary Imami Shiʿa
and Sunni religious scholars’ engagements with the Qur’an, tradition, and modernity. Her inclu-
sion of female scholarly voices is a refreshing shift from the academic literature’s nearly exclusive
emphasis on male scholarly views. Both Chaudhry and Bauer decisively move outside the genre of
tafsīr texts in their assessment of modern Qur’anic interpretations. While Bauer incorporates first
person interviews, Chaudhry incorporates a range of scholarly and activist voices in three media –
video, text, and audio – to assess modern interpretations of Q 4:34. Geissinger’s Gender and
Muslim Constructions of Exegetical Authority is distinct in examining the role that female exegetical
authorities played in the earliest sources of Islam, including hadith, exegesis, reports, and variant
readings, and the ways in which these sources shaped the premodern genre of tafsīr. Through the
lens of gender, she introduces readers to hitherto neglected historical material attributed to female
figures or related to female bodies. In contrast to both Bauer and Chaudhry, Geissinger limits her
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focus to the formative and early medieval periods of Islamic history and does not engage modern
Qur’anic exegesis.96
Conclusion
The intense debate between scholars of the Qur’an on the question of its inherent egalitarian or
patriarchal nature is unlikely to reach any resolution. This is because the process of reading a text
inevitably produces multiple readings that are not always reconcilable. While this reality has become
accentuated in our contemporary period, it was this understanding that prompted the continuous
production of commentaries in the premodern, exegetical tradition. An exegete’s decision to embark
upon writing a tafsīr was embedded in the recognition that the scholarly tradition of tafsīr has not
fully exhausted the Qur’an’s true or intended meanings and their significance to human societies.
Had exegetes believed that the existing corpus of commentaries captured everything there is to
know about the Qur’an, why would Muslim exegetes, century after century, continue to embark
on the arduous project of tafsīr production? The meaning of the Qur’an, the most sacred, universal
source of religious authority for Sunnis and Shiʿis alike, cannot be exclusively contained with a
specific set of exegetes or generation of Muslims. The enterprise of tafsīr is premised upon the valid-
ity of future generations of Muslims to continually add to the body of meanings that Muslims have
derived from the Qur’an. The capacity to bring new meanings to bear upon the Qur’an is not only
an intellectually viable one but inherent to the exegetical tradition itself.
Notes
1 Walid Saleh, “Qur’an Commentaries,” in The Study Qur’an, ed. S.H. Nasr et al. (New York: HarperCollins,
2015), 1645; Karen Bauer, Gender Hierarchy in the Qur’an (Cambridge University Press, 2015), 11–12; Nor-
man Calder, “Tafsīr from Tabarī to Ibn Kathīr: Problems in the Description of a Genre” in Approaches to the
Qur’an, ed. G.R. Hawting and Abdul-Kader A. Shareef (London: Routledge, 1993), 103.
2 A new wave of Muslim scholars and activists have employed a religious discursive framework to challenge
patriarchal laws and practices as antithetical to the spirit of the Qur’an. See, for example, global movements
such as Musawah, Karamah, and Sisters in Islam, or scholars, such as Azizah al-Hibri, “Introduction to
Muslim Women’s Rights,” in Windows of Faith (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2000); Maysam
J. al-Faruqi, “Self-Identity in the Qur’an and Islamic Law,” in Windows of Faith; Asma Barlas, “Believing
Women” in Islam: Unreading Patriarchal Interpretations of the Qur’an (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2002);
Amina Wadud, Qur’an and Women: Rereading the Sacred Text from a Woman’s Perspective (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1999); Riffat Hassan, “An Islamic Perspective,” in Sexuality (Cleveland, OH: Pilgrim Press,
1999). Margot Badran captures the emergence of an Islamic feminist movement in Feminism in Islam: Secular
and Religious Convergences (Oxford: Oneworld, 2009).
3 Barlas, quoting Rashaand Sass, a student in her seminar on “Sexual/Textual Politics in Islam,” at Ithaca Col-
lege in 1996 (9n35).
4 Wadud, Qur’an and Woman, 2; al-Faruqi, “Self-Identity in the Qur’an and Islamic Law,” 82; Azizah al-Hibri,
“Introduction to Muslim Women’s Rights,” 51–54; Asma Barlas, Believing Women, 9, 36; Riffat Hassan,
“The Issue of Woman–Man Equality in the Islamic Tradition,” in Women's and Men's Liberation: Testimonies
of Spirit, eds. Leonard Grob, Riffat Hassan, and Haim Gordon (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1991),
65–82.
5 These works include Kecia Ali’s Sexual Ethics in Islam: Feminist Reflections on Qur’ān, Hadith and Jurisprudence
(Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 2006); Aysha Hidayatullah’s Feminist Edges of the Qur’an (New York:
Oxford University Press, 2014); Raja Rhouni’s Secular and Islamic Feminist Critiques in the Work of Fatima
Mernissi (Leiden: Brill, 2010), and Ebrahim Moosa’s “The Debts and Burdens of Critical Islam” in Progressive
Muslims: On Justice, Gender, and Pluralism, ed. Omid Safi (Oxford: Oneworld, 2003).
6 Hidayatullah, Feminist Edges of the Qur’an, 149–151. Hidayatullah writes: “When scholars of feminist tafsīr
have come across portions of the Qur’anic text that have not easily yielded meanings in line with contem-
porary notions of gender equality, we often forget that our notions of equality are guided by historical values
of our own that we bring to the text; we have perhaps become blind to the historicity of our feminist view-
points in encountering those instances when the Qur’an does not easily conform to our understandings of
330
gender egalitarianism” (150–151). Similarly, Kecia Ali writes: “Feminist exegetes must take care not to be as
blinded by the commitment to equality, and the presumption that equality is necessary for justice, as classical
exegetes were by their assumptions about the naturalness of male superiority and dominance in family and
society” (Sexual Ethics and Islam, 132).
7 According to some reports, she may have died after the massacre of Karbala in 61/680. Ruth Roded,
“Umm Salama Hind,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., ed. P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C.E. Bosworth, E.
van Donzel, and W.P. Heinrichs. Consulted online on July 30, 2019, http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/1573-
3912_islam_SIM_7723 First published online: 2012.
8 Abū ʿAbdullāh Muh.ammad ibn Ah.mad al-Ans.ārī al-Qurt․ubī, Al-Jāmiʿ li-ah.kām al-qurʾān (Beirut: Muʾassasat
al-Risāla, 2006), 6:268; Fakhr al-Dīn Al-Rāzī, al-Tafsīr al-kabīr (Mafatīh. al-ghayb), 4th ed. (Beirut: Dār al-
Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2013), 5:66–67; Abū Jaʿfar Muh.ammad ibn Jarīr al-Tabari, Jāmiʿ al-Bayān, 6th ed. (Bei-
rut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2014), 4:49.
9 He cites al-Tirmidhī’s hadith collection as the source of this report. “For men and women who are devoted
to God, believing men and women, obedient men and women, truthful men and women, steadfast men and
women, humble men and women, charitable men and women, fasting men and women, chaste men and
women, men and women who remember God often – God has prepared forgiveness and a rich reward” (Q
33:35, M.A.S. Abdel-Haleem translation).
10 Al-Qurt․ubī, al-Jāmi‘ li-ah.kām al-qur’ān, 17:149.
11 Al-T ․ abarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān ʿan taʾwīl al-qurʾān, 10:299–300. A special thanks to Abdullah Heyari for his
assistance in an idiomatic translation of the Arabic original.
12 Ibid., 10:300.
13 Ibid.
14 Barlas, Believing Women, 20.
15 Ibid., 12.
16 Ibid., 9; Wadud, Qur’an and Woman, 2.
17 Azizah Y. al-Hibri, “Muslim Women’s Rights in the Global Village: Challenges and Opportunities,” Journal
of Law and Religion 15, no. 1/2 (2000–2001): 40.
18 Moosa, “The Debts and Burdens of Critical Islam,” 123.
19 Hidayatullah, Feminist Edges of the Qur’an, 147.
20 Kecia Ali’s critique is limited to feminist approaches employed by scholars like Wadud and Barlas. Aysha
Hidayatullah also primarily focuses on Wadud and Barlas but includes other voices engaged in the scholar-
ship on gender and the Qur’an, such as Azizah al-Hibri and Abdullah Adhami.
21 Al-Faruqi, Women, Muslim Society and Islam (Indianapolis, IN: American Trust Publication, 1988), 29.
22 According to historian Margot Badran, it is not until the 1990s that the term Islamic Feminism becomes
visible: Feminism in Islam: Secular and Religious Convergences (Oxford: Oneworld, 2009), 243.
23 Al-Faruqi, 34.
24 Ibid., 35.
25 Ibid., 44. Emphasis is mine.
26 Muh.ammad ʿAbduh and Rashīd Rid.ā, Tafsīr al-manār (Beirut: Dār al-Maʿrifa li l-T ․ ibāʿa wa l-Nashr, 1970),
2:380. See also Chapter 31 in this volume by Massimo Campanini.
27 In terms of modern exegesis, she primarily looks at the exegesis of Muh.ammad ʿAbduh and Rashīd Rid.ā,
Al-Manār and that of Sayyid Qut․b. However, she also includes the opinions and interpretations of scholars
and lay religious leaders, obtained either in written or oral form.
28 Barbara Stowasser, Women in the Qur’an: Traditions and Interpretation (New York: Oxford University Press,
1994), 21.
29 Richard C. Martin, “Structural Analysis and the Qur’an: Newer Approaches to the Study of Islamic Texts,”
Journal of the American Academy of Religion 47 (1979): 668, quoted in Stowasser, Women in the Qur’an, 4.
30 Andrew Rippin, review of Women in the Qur’an, Traditions, and Interpretation, by Barbara Freyer Stowasser,
Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 59, no. 3 (1996): 558–559.
31 Rippin, 559. The single quotation marks on “mean” are the author’s quotation marks.
33 Wadud, Qur’an and Woman, 26–27.
34 Hassan, “The Issue of Woman–Man Equality in the Islamic Tradition,” 77.
35 Bauer, Gender Hierarchy, 105.
36 Ibid., 106, 134.
37 Ibid., 134.
38 Celene Ibrahim, Women and Gender in the Qur’an (New York: Oxford University Press, 2020).
39 Ibid.
331
Hadia Mubarak
40 This term refers to a broad range of works that engage with religious texts and discourses from the theoreti-
cal and experiential position of Muslim women of faith. Jerusha Tanner offers a clear description of this term
in her introduction to Never Wholly Other (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014).
42 Hassan, “The Issue of Woman–Man Equality in the Islamic Tradition,” 68.
43 Shuruq Naguib, “Horizons and Limitations of Muslim Feminist Hermeneutics: Reflections on the Men-
struation Verse,” in New Topics in Feminist Philosophy of Religion (Netherlands: Springer, 2009), 33.
44 Wadud, Qur’an and Women, xvii.
45 Ibid., xxii, 3. She further writes, “Because I am analyzing the text and not the interpretation of that text, my
treatment of this issue differs from many of the existing works on this topic” (3).
47 al-Faruqi, “Self-Identity in the Qur’an and Islamic Law,” 77.
48 Al-Hibri, “Introduction to Muslim Women’s Rights,” 53.
49 Hasan, “The Issue of Woman–Man Equality in the Islamic Tradition,” 68.
50 Ibid.
51 Mustansir Mir, “The Sūra as a Unity: A Twentieth Century Development in Qur’anic Exegesis,” in
Approaches to the Qur’an, ed. G.R. Hawting and Abdul-Kader A. Shareef (London: Routledge, 1994),
211–224.
52 Fazlur Rahman, Islam and Modernity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017), 5–6. Rahman argued that
the Qur’an is “the divine response, through the Prophet’s mind, to the socio-moral situation of the Prophet’s
Arabia” (5). Hence, he argued that certain verses needed to be interpreted in light of this historical context,
using a hermeneutic of a double movement. He wrote, “This process of interpretation proposed here con-
sists of a double movement, from the present situation to Qur’anic times, then back to the present” (5).
53 Wadud, Qur’an and Woman, 10.
54 Ibid.
55 Ibid., 5.
57 R. Marston Speight, “The Function of Hadith as Commentary on the Qur’an,” in Approaches to the History
of the Interpretation of the Qur’an (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), 64, as cited in Barlas, Believing Women, 18.
58 Paul Ricoeur, Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 212, as
cited in Believing Women, 18.
60 Ibid., 18.
61 Ibid., 21.
62 Hidayatullah, Feminist Edges, 183.
63 Ibid.
64 Abū Jaʿfar Muh.ammad ibn Jarīr al-T ․ abarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān ʿan taʾwīl al-qurʾān (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub
al-ʿIlmiyya, 2014), 3:184.
65 Ulrika Mårtensson, “Through the Lens of Modern Hermeneutics: Authorial Intention in al-T ․ abarī’s and
al-Ghazālī’s Interpretations of Q 24:35,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 11, no. 2 (2009): 2–48.
67 Wadud, Qur’an and Woman, xxii.
68 Seem for example, Al-Hibri, “Muslim Women's Rights in the Global Village: Challenges and Opportuni-
ties,” 46; al-Faruqi, “Self-Identity in the Qur’an and Islamic Law,” 79.
69 Hassan, “The Issue of Woman–Man Equality,” 80.
70 Wadud, Inside the Gender Jihad (Oxford: Oneworld, 2006), 197.
71 Ibid., 199.
72 Johanna Pink, Muslim Qur’anic Interpretation Today (South Yorkshire, UK: Equinox Publishing, 2019), 267.
73 Moosa, “The Debts and Burdens of Critical Islam,” 123, 125.
74 Ibid., 125.
75 Ibid.
76 Hidayatullah, Feminist Edges of the Qur’an, 149.
77 Rhouni, Secular and Islamic Feminist Critiques, 252.
78 Ali, Sexual Ethics and Islam, 132.
79 Ibid., 133.
80 Hidayatullah, Feminist Edges, 152.
81 Ibid., 150–151. Parenthetical insertions are hers.
82 Wadud, Inside the Gender Jihad, 195.
332
83 Asma Barlas, “Secular and Feminist Critiques of the Qur’an: Anti-Hermeneutics as Liberation?” Journal of
Feminist Studies in Religion 32, no. 2 (2016): 120.
84 Wadud, Qur’an and Woman, 72–73.
85 Despite her criticism of Barlas’s ideas, Hidayatullah acknowledges that Barlas’s work, among others, was
groundbreaking at the time it was released in 2002 (Feminist Edges, ix).
86 She demonstrates that the Qur’an “does not mandate obedience to fathers/husbands, or authorize rule by
the father/husband, or propagate the idea that men have any advantage over women in their capacity as
males. Clearly, men have some advantages as well as some disadvantages, in their roles as husbands . . . there
is no narrative in the Qur’an that suggests even the remotest parallels between God and husbands, just as
nothing in the Qur’an suggests that males are intermediaries between God and women” (Barlas, 232).
88 Hidayatullah, Feminist Edges, 156–159; Ali, Sexual Ethics, 115.
89 Ali, Sexual Ethics and Islam, 115. She notes Louise Marlow, Hierarchy and Egalitarianism in Islamic Thought
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) for further reading on the topic.
90 Ali, Sexual Ethics and Islam, 133.
91 Hidayatullah, Feminist Edges, 179–180; Ali, Sexual Ethics and Islam, 128, 132–133.
92 Wadud, Inside the Gender Jihad, 189.
93 Barlas, “Secular and Feminist Critiques of the Qur’an,” 114.
94 Ali, Sexual Ethics and Islam, 132. She arrives at this latter conclusion based on her readings of Q 2:187 and
Q 2:222–223.
95 Shuruq Naguib, “Horizons and Limitations of Muslim Feminist Hermeneutics: Reflections on the Men-
struation Verse,” in New Topics in Feminist Philosophy of Religion: Contestations and Transcendence Incarnate,
ed. P.S. Anderson (Dordrecht: Springer Press, 2010); Omaima Abou-Bakr, “The Interpretive Legacy of
Qiwama as an Exegetical Construct,” in Men in Charge? ed. Ziba Mir-Hosseini, Mulki al-Sharmani, and Jana
Rumminger (London: Oneworld, 2015).
96 Geissinger defines formative as between the Prophet’s death in 11/632 and 338/950 (Geissinger 1n1).
333
30
WAR AND PEACE
IN THE QUR’AN
Rumee Ahmed
Introduction
The subject of war and peace in the Qur’an is highly politicized, with ideologues from across the
political spectrum arguing that the Qur’an unambiguously says one thing or the other. These argu-
ments reflect larger beliefs about Islam and its prophet, Muhammad, as either fundamentally violent
or peaceful. And whereas Muslim beliefs and practice are, both historically and contemporaneously,
far more sophisticated, this polarized debate tends to dominate modern conversations on the Qur’an
with respect to war and peace.
On one end of the spectrum, there are those who claim that Islam is a religion of war and
that its violent ideology is fueled by Qur’anic dictates that command perpetual warfare against all
non-Muslims. They believe that the Qur’an was delivered by a prophet who was bent on world
domination, and so its message necessarily reflects that ethos. On the opposite end of the spectrum
is a growing group of individuals and organizations who claim that the Qur’an has an undeniably
nonviolent message, that the Prophet Muhammad was a messenger of goodwill and that Islam is a
religion of peace. They argue that anyone reading the Qur’an in good conscience cannot help but
acknowledge that the Qur’an contains within it a blueprint for universal peace within diverse con-
texts, whether for cultivating inner peace1 or for peaceful governance and international relations.2
These two camps represent two extremes of Qur’an interpretation on the subject of war and
peace, with most Muslim scholars past and present falling somewhere in between. But that in-
between place is perhaps most easily understood by first examining the extremes; that is, by first
examining more black-and-white interpretive approaches, we can better appreciate the many shades
of gray between them. To do so, we will look at one group on one end of the spectrum, whom
we will call “Islamophobes,” and contrast them with a group on the other end, whom we will call
“apologists.”
Islamophobes believe that Islam is inherently violent and that the Qur’an commands Muslims
to engage in perpetual warfare against non-Muslims. Their reading characterizes Muslims and the
Muslim community as a frightening force that must be countered by any means, even violent ones.3
Apologists, on the other hand, insist that the Qur’an is unambiguously peaceful and that Qur’anic
verses that might appear violent on first read in fact promote peace when read in their proper con-
text using the correct hermeneutic.
Both Islamophobes and apologists, despite their radically different conclusions, cite heavily from
the Qur’an to buttress their larger arguments. That is because the Qur’an contains numerous verses
334 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-33

War and Peace in the Qur’an
that can be easily read to promote either war or peace, depending on the specific verses being read
and the disposition of the reader.4 Some verses unequivocally denounce warfare, insist that war can
only be defensive, and command peaceful coexistence.5 Other verses command Muslims to fight,
to compel their enemies to submission, and to continue to fight until God’s religion is paramount.6
Islamophobes and apologists both selectively cite from the Qur’an, highlighting some verses while
ignoring or explaining away others, in order to make a text that seems to command both war and
peace at the same time speak to a simple and straightforward ideological vision.
To do so, they often use a time-honored tradition of categorizing Qur’anic verses about war and
peace as being either universal or specific, that is, to argue that some verses are timeless dictates that
provide Muslims with general rules of conduct, whereas others only apply to particular circum-
stances. If, for example, the verses commanding peace are thought to be universal, then the verses
about war must have been specific exceptions to that universal rule, and vice-versa. To determine
which verses are universal and which specific, interpreters identify contextual markers that provide
a larger backdrop to the verses in question.
The most popular of these contextual markers is Muhammad’s personal history. The Qur’an
can be read as a kind of biography for Muhammad, since it was revealed over his 23-year prophetic
career and responded to specific problems that Muhammad faced. Through the Qur’an, one can
get a sense of how his prophethood unfolded and evolved. Some have argued that verses revealed
earlier in Muhammad’s prophethood laid the ethical groundwork for Islam’s abiding message and so
should be seen as universal.7 These verses are peaceful in nature and deal with Muhammad’s many
attempts to spread his message in his hometown of Mecca. Others have argued that verses revealed
later in Muhammad’s life – in which he was the leader of the city-state of Medina and embarked on
military campaigns – should override, or “abrogate” (naskh) the Meccan revelations.8 So, depending
on the interpreter, one might argue that the earlier, peaceful verses are universal and that later verses
are exceptional. Or one could say exactly the opposite.9
Making either argument, however, is fraught with difficulty because it is often difficult to defini-
tively separate out “earlier” verses from “later” verses. That is partly because the Qur’an is not
arranged in chronological order, and single chapters are regularly comprised of verses that were
likely revealed at different times. An entire genre of literature, known as “the occasions of revelation”
(asbāb al-nuzūl), tries to create a timeline of revelation by using reports from Muhammad and his
Companions to assign chronological order to particular verses. Still, the reason that a single timeline
cannot be conclusively established is that the reports being referenced are not very reliable, and quite
often contradict one another.10 For instance, there are differing reports about which verses were
revealed first (whether Q 1:1–7, 74:1–5, 96:1–5, or the phrase “In the name of God, Most Merciful,
Most Compassionate”) and which were revealed last (whether Q 2:281, 2:282, 2:278, 3:195, 4:93,
4:176, 9:128–129, or 18:110).11 Likewise, controversies abound regarding the occasion of revelation
for most of the verses in between. This poses a huge challenge to determining which verses in the
Qur’an are “earlier” and which “later” and, by extension, which are meant to be universal and/or
abrogating and which are specific and/or abrogated.
One might think that the Qur’anic text itself could give us clues as to when its verses were
revealed; perhaps some verses mention specific events that could only have happened at certain times
in Muhammad’s life, and thus we would know for sure when they were revealed. That is the case
with a few verses, but when the Qur’an narrates events, especially with regard to war and peace, it
tends to be exceedingly vague. Consider the following verse: “When a single disaster smites you,
although you smote with one twice as great, you say, ‘From where does this come to us?’ Say, ‘It
is from yourselves.’ And God has power over all things” (Q 3:165). There is no indication in the
verse – or the surrounding verses – about what, exactly, the “single disaster” refers to or even the
“one twice as great.” We could surmise that the believers struck a great victory and then suffered a
loss approximately half as severe as that victory. But what was the victory and what was the disaster?
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Rumee Ahmed
The verses do not provide an answer. The subsequent verse is of little help here: “Whatever you suf-
fered on the day when the two groups faced each other was by the will of God, in order to know the
believers” (Q 3:166). Who are the two groups? When did they face each other? What was suffered
on that day? Since the text is not clear, readers need to fill in the gaps with assumptions and reported
stories of Muhammad’s history, many of which are conflicting, and all of which have degrees of con-
jecture. Muslim sources tend to agree that the “single disaster” refers to the second major battle that
took place around Mount Uh.ud between Muhammad’s Medinese army and the Meccan polytheists
(625 ce) and that the “one twice as great” refers to their first battle that took place around the wells
of Badr (624 ce), but that information is not forthcoming in the Qur’anic text. The Qur’an requires
external context to definitively identify the events it recounts, let alone the causes and justifications
for such events.
Determining what particular Qur’anic verses say about war and peace, therefore, requires one
to first suggest relevant historical events, then to explain the context and justifications behind those
events, then to conjecture about how Muhammad enacted those verses in the contexts in which
they were likely revealed, and then to describe how Muslims should understand the application of
said verses in contexts both past and present. All of this involves a lot of guesswork and hinges upon
our assumptions about Islam, Muhammad, and Muslims. Islamophobes argue that Muhammad was
a relentless warlord who would not rest until all had submitted to his authority. That means that he
was primarily concerned with establishing his own rule and secondarily concerned with converting
everyone to his religion of Islam. According to Islamophobes, Muslims who wish to follow Muham-
mad’s example must strive to conquer all others; if non-Muslims convert as a result, that is well and
good, but one way or another they must be subdued. Indeed, the Qur’an states:
Fight those People of the Book who do not believe in God, nor the Last Day, and [who]
do not take as unlawful what God and His messenger have declared unlawful, and [who]
do not profess the Faith of Truth; until they pay the poll-tax ( jizya) and they are subdued.
(Q 9:29)
This could suggest that Muslims must “subdue” – though not necessarily convert – adherents to
other religions in order for Muhammad’s mission to be fulfilled.
Apologists counter that this is a misreading of Muhammad and his mission. They argue that
Muhammad was primarily sent to bring peace to humanity, as Q 21:107 states, “You have not been
sent except as a mercy to humankind.” Verses like Q 9:29, they contend, are the exception to the
overall peaceful message of the Qur’an and thus should be read as exceptional. Well-intentioned
readers should start not with Q 9:29 but with verses like, “If they incline toward peace, then so
should you incline toward it, and place your trust in God. He is the Hearer, Omniscient” (Q 8:61),
and “If they leave you alone, refrain from fighting you, and offer you peace, then God gives you
no excuse to fight them” (Q 4:90), and the many verses that state, “You shall not kill except in the
cause of justice” (e.g., Q 17:33, 25:68). For apologists, it is clear from these verses that war is only
sanctioned when it is defensive; offensive war is never sanctioned, as the Qur’an states, “Do not be
aggressors, God does not love aggressors” (Q 5:87). Verses like Q 9:29 should therefore be read as
describing a situation in which Muslims are attacked by a party that has no interest in peace and thus
have to be physically subdued for peace to have a chance.12
Islamophobes might respond to this line of reasoning by pointing out several places in the Qur’an
in which violence seems to be a normative command for Muslims in all places and at all times.
Qur’an 8:39, for instance, states, “And fight them until dissension [fitna] is no more, and the Reli-
gion [dīn] is for God,” followed later by, “Prepare against them any force you can, and the trained
horses whereby you frighten God’s enemy, your own enemy, and others besides them whom you
do not know” (Q 8:60). For Islamophobes, these verses characterize perpetual warfare as a virtue
336
in Islam, asking Muslims to be ever ready to engage in battle. Apologists would respond that these
verses must be read in the context of the very next one which states, “But if they incline toward
peace, then you too should incline toward it, and place your trust in God” (Q 8:61), so that Muslims
should only fight in self-defense against those who would attack them, and they should opt for peace
and diplomacy whenever possible.
And so Islamophobes and apologists refer to alternating verses in the Qur’an, each claiming to
represent the true spirit of the text, and each claiming that the other is reading verses out of context.
For both, the presumed contextual background is the most important factor when deciding which
texts are universal and meant for all times, and which are specific and intended only for Muhammad’s
immediate community. Such arguments over the contextual background of the Qur’anic text are not
only found between Islamophobes and apologists but are part of a millennium-long Islamic exegeti-
cal tradition.13 Muslims themselves have been arguing over Muhammad’s true mission and how the
Qur’an should be read with regard to war and peace since the earliest times, and these debates con-
tinue into the modern day. Militant Islamists, for example, tend to espouse opinions similar to the
Islamophobic reading of the text, whereas many Muslim diplomats lean toward the apologist camp.
But these represent minority voices when it comes to Muslim scholarship; between the black-and-
white readings put forward by Islamophobes and apologists are many shades of gray, and Muslims
scholars have historically argued for more nuanced readings of Qur’anic verses that might be termed
“aggressive” or “defensive” but that are not wholly either.
This gray area in which Muslim scholars debate involves close readings of Qur’anic texts and
results in more sophisticated understandings of war and peace in Islam. Characterizing the Qur’an
as either aggressive or defensive is easy; it only requires cherry-picking certain verses and exalting
them over others. Reconciling the aggressive verses with the defensive verses, however, is a bit more
difficult, and Muslims have been debating for over a thousand years about how war and peace in the
Qur’an should be understood. This intra-Muslim debate is less immediately politicized, and more
concerned with larger religious concepts in Islam. Most importantly, the intra-Muslim debate is not
so much interested in whether the Qur’an prescribes either war or peace as it is in the socioreligious
implications of war and peace. That is, Muslim scholars assumed that war and peace are social reali-
ties and that the Qur’an instructs Muslims on when to engage in both in order to fulfill their moral
and ethical responsibilities. The primary concern, then, was justice in this life and salvation in the
next, and so scholarly approaches to war and peace were intimately connected with key religious
terms, the definition of which would determine when Muslims ought to fight to achieve justice and
salvation and when they ought to strive their utmost toward peace.
The Internal Debate

To get a sense of how Muslim scholarly debates about war and peace are embedded within larger
socioreligious frameworks, it will be helpful to look at some verses of the Qur’an on the topic and
see how scholars interpreted key religious terms. For example, in Q 8:39 previously cited– “And
fight them until dissension [fitna] is no more, and the Religion [dīn] is for God” – there are two terms
whose definitions have been contested throughout Muslim history. These are dīn and fitna, and the
definitions that one gives to these two terms change the way the text is read. Consider the following
passage from Chapter 2 of the Qur’an, which also contains the terms dīn and fitna:
190 Fight in the way of God against those who attack you, but do not be aggressors. God does not
love aggressors.
191 Kill those who fought against you, and expel them from where they expelled you. Fitna is
worse than killing. Do not fight them in the Holy Sanctuary, unless they attack you therein.
If they attack you, kill them. This is just retribution for disbelievers.
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Rumee Ahmed
192 If they refrain, then God is the Forgiver, Most Merciful.

193 Fight them until fitna is no more and the dīn is for God. If they refrain, do not be aggressors;
aggression is permitted only against aggressors (Q 2:190–193).
Islamophobes might focus on the command to fight contained in these verses to suggest that the
Qur’an commands violence and retribution in war and that Muslims should fight until they sub-
due their enemy, whether through conversion or the paying of a poll tax, as mentioned in Q 9:29.
Apologists might point out that the final verse (Q 2:193), prohibits fighting if the enemy “refrains”
and also prohibits Muslims from being “aggressors.” Thus, they would argue, these verses can only
be understood as permitting self-defense rather than encouraging aggression. Within Muslim schol-
arly circles, however, the argument would be very different than that between Islamophobes and
apologists. Historically, scholars were less concerned with aggression or self-defense in these verses
than with two key terms – fitna and dīn – that determine the religious context in which the verses
should be read.
Muslim scholars trying to decipher God’s intention focus on words like fitna and dīn because, for
believers, the most important function of Qur’anic interpretation is to elucidate the larger ethical
framework that the Qur’an is trying to convey for achieving social harmony and salvation. Individual
legal commands are important but comprise less than 10% of the Qur’an. The grand narrative in
which those legal verses are to be understood and applied is therefore paramount, and terms like
fitna and dīn – repeated several times in the Qur’an in different contexts – are central to determining
how legal dictates should be read.14
These key terms help scholars determine how to act in this world in order to be saved in the
next. What is clear from the command in Q 2:190–193 is that dīn should be “for God” and that fitna
should be “no more,” though it is not immediately clear what those phrases might mean. Neverthe-
less, the verses contain a familiar theme in the Qur’an, that of working toward good and eradicating
evil. Qur’an 3:110, for instance, states, “You are the best community raised from amongst human-
kind. You enjoin what is good and forbid what is evil.” “Enjoining good and forbidding evil” (amr
bi l-maʿrūf wa nahy ʿan al-munkar) is a dominant theme in the Qur’an that is central to salvation and
provides a crucial backdrop for understanding other verses. Of course, several key questions come
up, including: how does one “enjoin what is good” and “forbid what is evil”? Is it in a physical sense
or in a rhetorical sense, or something else? For that matter, what is meant by “good” and “evil”?
Muslim scholars look for clues in the Qur’an to answer these questions because the answer could
determine one’s salvation.
In the case of Qur’an 2:193, the verse suggests that dīn is “good” and fitna is “evil.” So, by analogy
to Q 3:110, one should enjoin dīn and forbid fitna. But the two terms – dīn and fitna – are not easily
defined. Muslims have historically defined dīn and fitna in many and divergent ways. Examining two
ways in which Q 2:193 has historically been read – one of which leans toward aggression, and one
of which leans toward reconciliation – will help illustrate how the Qur’an is a malleable text that
can promote an array of interpretations beyond simplistic ones that promote either absolute war or
peace.
Following are two examples of historical Muslim interpretations that will showcase the interpre-
tive process that goes into assessing the Qur’an’s stance on warfare. We will see how two opposing
interpretations of fitna and dīn might both have textual legitimacy, both use valid arguments, and
both claim authority. We will also see how the assumptions that readers bring to the text inform
how they will ultimately read the text itself. It can be frustrating to have two or more valid readings
of a single text, but that is a reality of hermeneutics and interpretation, and it is no less the case with
scriptural interpretation. We will conclude by reflecting, through the example of the term jihad on
what this multiplicity of interpretations means for a Muslim community that continues to interact
with the Qur’an and its many interpretations.
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Fitna and Dīn in the Context of Religious Persecution

One common way that Muslim scholars read Q 2:193 and other such verses is to assume that they
were intended for a Muslim community under attack. In this reading, the verses of Chapter 2 were
intended to instruct the community on how to defend against an aggressive enemy bent on its
destruction. This is based on a belief – which can be objectively neither proved nor disproved – that
most of Chapter 2 of the Qur’an was revealed soon after the fledgling, persecuted Muslim commu-
nity fled Mecca and sought safe haven in Medina. The Meccan polytheists, in this presumed context,
were enraged that the Meccan Muslims dared set up a community in Medina that rejected polythe-
ism and saw this new community as a threat to Meccan power and prestige. Thus they were bent on
stamping out the Medinan Muslim community before it grew in size and stature.
To that end, the Meccan polytheists gathered an army of 1,000 soldiers and marched toward
Medina. In response to this act of aggression, Muhammad and his community were given permis-
sion by God to resist the Meccan force in the following:
To those upon whom war is made, permission is given [to fight] because they are oppressed
[z․ulimū]; and indeed, God is most powerful for their aid. They have been expelled from
their homes for no reason except that they say, “Our Lord is God.”
(Q 22:39–40)
On initial read, Q 22:39–40 suggests three things: first, prior to this verse, Muslims did not have
permission to fight; second, permission to fight was only granted because the Muslims had been
“oppressed” (z․ulimū); and third, the oppression cited here is the fact that the early Muslims were
expelled merely for expressing fidelity to monotheism. They were expelled from Mecca as they had
no means to defend themselves and were forced to take up residence in Medina. Now the Meccans
were trying to expel the Muslims from their new home in Medina.
To sum up, Muslims were granted permission to fight after being expelled from their homes and
then oppressed due to their belief in one God and only after they had acquired the means to defend
themselves. This aligns with the ethos presented in Q 4:75:
What is wrong with you that you do not fight in the way of God and for the oppressed
amongst men, women, and children who say “Our Lord, take us out from this town whose
people are oppressors [al-z․ālim ahluhā], and raise from amongst us a supporter from Your-
self, and raise for us a champion from Yourself.”
There is a theme in both Q 22:39–40 and 4:75 in which fighting is linked to oppression for
religious convictions and in which “oppression” (z․ulm) occasions permission to fight back when
necessary.
If we presume that Q 2:190–193 was revealed to the early community in Medina, then we read
the verses in a context in which Muslims were oppressed for their religious convictions, expelled
from their homes in Mecca, and were now threatened with expulsion from Medina. In that light, Q
2:191 gave Muslims permission to fight the Meccans and defend themselves and their adopted city
of Medina. However, if the Meccans were to relent and allow the Muslims to live in peace, then the
Muslims could not continue fighting, as per Q 2:192.
In this scenario, fitna and dīn have very particular meanings. Fitna is linked to oppression from
Meccans who are trying to expel Muslims from their homes. This is a form of oppression that must
be defended against when Muslims have the means to do so. Therefore, “fight them until fitna is no
more” means that Muslims should defend themselves and their homes until there is no longer an
external force trying to expel them.
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The phrase “the dīn is for God” must therefore be read in light of this definition of fitna as
religious persecution. If fitna is persecution for religious belief, then “the dīn is for God” is when
believers can express fidelity to monotheism without fear of retribution. The term dīn is thereby
understood in the sense of religious belief, and in this reading of Q 2:190–193, Muslims must have
the ability to profess their beliefs in peace and security. If that security is not present, and Muslims
are in danger of being expelled from their homes for their beliefs, then Muslims have the right to
fight against such oppression. Otherwise, Muslims have no religious right to fight, as Q 2:256 states,
“there is no compulsion in the dīn,” and as does the prevailing Qur’anic dictate, “For you is your dīn,
and for me is my dīn” (Q 109:6).
Terms like fitna and dīn are always defined according to a larger Qur’anic and historical context
that readers bring to the text. If the larger context is one in which a persecuted community is
defending itself, then fitna is about oppression, and dīn is about religious freedom. Qur’an 2:190–
193, in such a reading, sanctions fighting against oppression that stifles freedom of religious expres-
sion in order to achieve a state of peaceful coexistence. Once peaceful coexistence is achieved, then
“the dīn is for God,” and all fighting must cease.
Fitna and Dīn in the Context of Religious Purity

However, there is another way to read fitna and dīn that is faithful to the Qur’an and to historical
sources but that has a different set of assumptions. Some sources suggest that Q 2:190–193 was
not revealed to the early Medinan community, but instead near the end of Muhammad’s mission,
when Medina was a strong city-state. Over a period of several years in Medina, Muhammad and his
community won several battles, negotiated favorable treaties, and became a force to be reckoned
with in the Arabian Peninsula. One of those treaties was with the Meccan polytheists themselves,
known as the Treaty of H.udaybiyya (s.alah. al-h.udaybiyya, circa 629 ce), in which both parties agreed
to cease hostilities, whether in direct combat or through allied proxies. However, one year after
the treaty was concluded, the Meccans violated the treaty when one of their allied tribes attacked
another tribe allied with Medina. Some historical sources claim that Q 2:190–193 was revealed in
response to this act of aggression and commanded the Medina-based Muslims to march on Mecca,
eradicate both polytheists and polytheism from the city, and reclaim the Kaʿba for God’s exclusive
worship.
There is no way to know for sure whether these verses were indeed revealed at this point, but
proponents of this view point to “Do not fight them in the Holy Sanctuary unless they attack you”
(Q 2:191) to justify their position, since the Holy Sanctuary is most often interpreted to mean the
Kaʿba and its environs. Qur’an 2:191 might reflect an expectation that the Muslims would be fight-
ing in the vicinity of the Kaʿba rather than on some battlefield or in the city of Medina. If the verses
were revealed early on, then the command “Do not fight them in the Holy Sanctuary” would seem
like an odd admonition about some future event. It might make more sense if the conquest of Mecca
were imminent.
Further, proponents point out that Qur’an 2:191 states that Muslims must “expel them from
where they expelled you.” The place of expulsion could only mean Mecca, and thus this verse can
be read as a command to expel polytheists from Mecca, lending further credence to the idea that it
was revealed shortly before the conquest of Mecca. In this light, the verses may be seen as a theoreti-
cal backdrop for Q 9:5 – largely presumed to have been revealed just before Muhammad conquered
Mecca – which commands Muslims to “Kill the polytheists wherever you find them.”
Proponents of this version of events also point out that the tone of Q 2:190–193 is markedly dif-
ferent from other verses about fighting revealed earlier in Muhammad’s career. Q 22:39–40, which
we read earlier, gives Muslims permission to fight back against oppression, whereas Q 2:190–193
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seems to presume that hostilities had already been underway for some time and, rather than giving
permission to fight, gives instructions for how to fight. Other verses in the Qur’an cajole and exhort
Muslims to take up fighting, as though they were hesitant and in need of persuasion, like this one:
“Fighting is ordained for you, though you hate it; but it may be that you hate a thing that is good
for you. And it may be that you love a thing that is bad for you. God knows, and you know not”
(Q 2:216).
In stark contrast, Q 2:190–193 contains no permission or exhortation to fight. Rather, the verses
assume that Muslims have the power not only to engage their enemy in battle but to expel them
from their own lands. The tone is so different from earlier verses that one might assume that the
context is different as well.
In this presumed context, fitna would not be about oppression, since the Muslims were powerful,
not oppressed. It might instead be about the beliefs espoused by the Meccans, who are now ordered
to be expelled. In this reading, fitna is presumed to be polytheism, and the Muslims are being ordered
to expel it from Mecca until “the dīn is for God.” Since fitna is presumed to be polytheism, dīn, in this
reading, is presumed to be its polar opposite; namely, monotheism. In sum, this reading presumes
that the Medina-based Muslims were commanded in Q 2:190–193 to fight against the Meccans until
polytheism was expelled from Mecca and replaced by monotheism.
Rather than reading Q 2:190–193 as fighting against oppression in order to achieve peaceful
coexistence, this reading suggests that these are verses of geographically limited religious intolerance.
This reading does not suggest that the Qur’an commands perpetual warfare, but it does suggest that
the Qur’an encouraged eradicating nonmonotheistic beliefs and believers from the area surround-
ing the Holy Sanctuary. In this reading, liberating Mecca from polytheism requires warfare, and the
Medina-based Muslims were right to engage in hostilities with the Meccan polytheists once the
Treaty of H . udaybiyya had been violated. Even though they did not end up fighting at all – Mecca
was conquered without a battle – the general ethos of Q 2:190–193 is that fitna and dīn must not
co-exist in the Holy Sanctuary, and that Muslims are charged with keeping the Holy Sanctuary free
from polytheism, even if by force.
Of course, interpreting fitna and dīn as maintaining religious purity in the Holy Sanctuary only
works if Q 2:190–193 were indeed revealed later in Muhammad’s mission. Likewise, the reading of
the two terms in the context of religious persecution only works if Q 2:190–193 were revealed in
the early Medinan period. Because historical sources conflict on this issue, we can never really know
when the verses were actually revealed. Both readings are possible, and both are fully justifiable. That
means that interpreters have a great deal of leeway when defining key terms that determine whether
the Qur’an encourages fighting for either religious freedom or religious purity within the Holy
Sanctuary as a path to salvation.
All of this leaves several open questions that need to be answered in order to understand how
war and peace fit into larger socioreligious conceptions of Islam. Is fitna best defined as oppression
or polytheism? Is the “dīn for God” when believers can express monotheism without fear of retri-
bution, or is it when polytheism is eradicated in Mecca? The answers to these questions determine
when and where fighting is sanctioned, whether only in self-defense or for ensuring the dominance
of a particular ideology in the Holy Sanctuary. And these definitions do not exhaust all possibilities;
there are any number of ways to interpret these terms that concern issues as diverse as individual
spirituality, highway robbery, sexual propriety, obedience to rulers, and much more. The history of
Muslim scholarship is replete with passionate arguments about these and related terms, and their
debate continues into the modern day.15 It seems that there will be no resolution to what the text
and its central terms mean and that the text will always be read according to the presumptions that
readers bring with them. Nowhere is that reality more apparent than with the most controversial
term in the Qur’an related to war and peace: jihad.
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Reading Jihad
Jihad ( jihād) is often defined as “holy war,” but the term has a far more nuanced meaning. Jihad
technically means “struggle,” though the object of the struggle is debatable. Some have taken jihad
to refer to an inner struggle that might or might not be externally realized.16 Others have under-
stood struggle in a military sense, such that jihad is primarily about combat.17 Yet others understand
struggle in the sense of social and political reform, though not necessarily through military means.18
Again, the Qur’an allows for all of these readings of the term, depending on the presumed context.
The Qur’an speaks of jihad in broad language, usually in general exhortations rather than in specific
injunctions.
Muslims are encouraged to engage in jihad as the ultimate expression of their faith. Many verses
encourage jihad “in the way of God” (fī sabīl Allāh) and condemn failure to engage in jihad. For
example, the Qur’an states:
O you who believe! Shall I tell you of a bargain that will save you from a painful torment?
[It is] that you believe in God and God’s messenger, and that you do jihad with your wealth
and your lives. That is better for you, if you only knew. [God] will forgive your sins, and
will admit you to gardens beneath which rivers flow, and to pleasant dwellings in eternal
gardens. That is the greatest achievement.
(Q 61:10–12)
The Qur’an regularly links “belief ” (imān) and jihad, much as it regularly links “belief ” and “good
works” (ʿamal al-s.ālih.). Jihad and good works at times seem interchangeable, as though jihad is the
highest embodiment of good works. The Qur’an unambiguously promotes jihad as the ultimate
expression of obedience to God, as in, “And do jihad in the way of God, as it is God’s right that you
do jihad” (Q 22:78).
Thus understanding jihad as a technical term is crucial toward understanding the message of the
Qur’an. Yet the term itself is vague and once again requires context to give it meaning. To make
sense of jihad, some turn to the words attributed to Muhammad. Many prominent medieval schol-
ars said that jihad ought to be understood in light of an incident in which Muhammad welcomed
returning soldiers by saying:
“Greetings to you! You have returned from the lesser struggle [jihād al-as.ghar] to [com-
mence] the greater struggle [jihād al-akbar].”
They asked, “O Messenger of God, what is the greater struggle?”
He replied, “The struggle against oneself.”19
In that context, warfare is but one part of jihad – a lesser part – whereas struggling with one’s soul
is the greater jihad. Scholars who held this hadith to be the operating principle of jihad would often
buttress their view by citing other statements of Muhammad, such as when he reportedly stated that
the greatest jihad for women is the Hajj pilgrimage,20 or that jihad for one’s parents supersedes jihad
on the battlefield,21 or that the “best jihad is a just word in the presence of a tyrannical ruler,”22 or the
ever popular: “the one who engages in jihad [mujāhid] is the one who struggles with the self.”23 They
would then go back to the Qur’an and read verses in which jihad is mentioned with the understand-
ing that the term refers to daily, spiritual struggles.24
Others scholars disagreed with this reading, pointing out that whenever the Prophet spoke of
jihad, he seemed to assume that his audience understood it to mean something close to “fighting.”
He might have sometimes qualified jihad or said something unexpected about it, but such state-
ments still assume that jihad in its normative sense pertains to fighting.25 In that case, the default
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presumption should be, they argue, that whenever jihad is mentioned in the Qur’an it refers to
warfare, unless there is some compelling reason to believe otherwise.
Once again, we see that the presumed context of the term jihad determines whether it is inter-
preted in the Qur’an to command either personal struggle or warfare. That, in turn, influences how
one reads the Qur’an with respect to war and peace. What is evident thus far is that the act of deter-
mining the message of the Qur’an is a deeply personal and subjective enterprise. Depending on one’s
personal predisposition, one might view the Qur’an as promoting diametrically opposed messages.
Like all scriptures, the Qur’an’s message is highly contingent on the reading habits of its readers.
Conclusion
As mentioned previously, Muslims have historically interpreted the Qur’an and its key terms in
multiple ways so that there are numerous interpretations of how war and peace function to create a
just society and attain salvation. The burning question that remains, then, is: which interpretation
is authoritative? Since there is no universally agreed upon clerical hierarchy in Islam, there is no
way to easily assess the authoritativeness of any one reading. We might rephrase the question to ask:
which interpretation do Muslims gravitate toward? Several polls have been conducted in Muslim-
majority and -minority contexts that attempt to answer this question. The results are conclusive: the
vast majority of Muslims condemn any violence in the name of Islam, other than in self-defense.26
However, this condemnation is not universal, nor is it consistent across Muslim contexts. There
are small minorities in many countries like Pakistan (3%), Tunisia (5%), and Indonesia (9%) that
believe that aggression against noncombatants in the name of defending Islam might sometimes be
justified. In other countries, much larger percentages believe that such aggression might sometimes
be justified, such as Nigeria (19%), Bangladesh (47%), and the Gaza Strip (62%).27 These data points
are difficult to interpret because there is no discernible pattern to them. It would be tempting to
assume, for instance, that countries in which violence is widespread would have citizens who read
the Qur’an as condoning violence, but the evidence for that is not forthcoming. It seems that there
is no direct correlation to be made between the level of relative everyday violence in a particular
country and its citizens’ views on justifiable aggression against noncombatants.
There is also no correlation to be found between beliefs about the Qur’an condoning or con-
demning aggression and unemployment, education, views on the authority of the sharia, and a
number of socioeconomic markers. The only observed trend that might shed light on Muslim
reading practices is that there was a spike in the belief that the Qur’an condones aggression after the
invasion of Afghanistan in 2001 and the Iraq War in 2003. After 2003, this belief steadily declined
amongst Muslims, and the trend seems to continue downward.28 A popular explanation for this trend
is that the Qur’an is read by Muslims in a way that helps them make sense of political events they
see unfolding. When Muslims saw Afghans and Iraqi civilians killed under what most deemed to be
unjustified aggression by Western powers, they justified fighting back in kind; when they saw the
horror that some Muslim resistance groups wrought in the name of fighting against those Western
powers, they revoked that justification. In other words, some have argued, certain Qur’anic inter-
pretations help Muslims make sense of the world around them, and popular interpretations of terms
like fitna, dīn, and jihad map onto the problems of the day. If different interpretations seem to offer
a better remedy, then those gain in popularity.29
What are we to make of this information and such hypotheses? We simply do not have enough
data to make sweeping judgments. We cannot, at this point, definitively say why Muslims might
read the Qur’an in one way or another, whether in fidelity to historical readings or in response to
current events. What is clear, however, is that the Qur’an lends itself to multiple readings that can
justify different and sometimes opposing positions. This is perhaps the legacy of scriptural texts:
they can be mobilized to great effect for the cause of peace, just as they can be mobilized to great
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effect for the cause of war. The text alone does not predetermine any reading; rather, communities
of interpreters variously render the text based on their particular concerns and presumed audiences.
Their renderings might align with our primary concerns about the Qur’an, in this case its position
on war and peace, but they more likely reflect the broader socioreligious concerns that community
members bring with them to the text. Islamophobes, apologists, militants, and politicians might
argue for what the Qur’an really says about a particular topic, but the power of interpretation resides
in the hands of a diverse community of believers for whom the text provides layered meanings and
guidance.
Notes
1 Seyyed Hossein Nasr, “The Pertinence of Islam to the Modern World,” in The World Religions Speak on “The
Relevance of Religion in the Modern World,” ed. Finley Dunne (Netherlands: Springer, 1970), 133–134.
2 Mohammed Abu-Nimer “A Framework for Nonviolence and Peacebuilding in Islam,” Journal of Law and
Religion 15, no. 1/2 (2000–2001): 232ff.
3 These critics have a long history, especially in the Western world, of linking violent presumptions about the
Qur’anic message, Muhammad’s mission, and Muslim practice. The sixth president of the United States,
John Quincy Adams (d. 1848), for instance, wrote, “The precept of the koran is, perpetual war against all
who deny, that Mahomet is the prophet of God. . . . [T]he command to propagate the Moslem creed by the
sword is always obligatory, when it can be made effective. The commands of the prophet may be performed
alike, by fraud or by force.” The American Annual Register for the Years 1827–8–9, ed. Joseph Blunt (New
York: E.&G.W. Blunt, 1830), 29:274. Modern versions of this arguments have gained a level of sophistica-
tion and familiarity with the Qur’anic text but retain Adams’s central thesis.
4 For a list of verses most often cited on one side or another, see A. Walter Dorn and Anne F. Cation, “The
Justifications for War and Peace in World Religions. Part I: Extracts, Summaries and Comparisons of
Scriptures in the Abrahamic Religions (Christianity, Islam and Judaism),” Defence R&D, Toronto, CR
2009–125, www.dtic.mil/get-tr-doc/pdf?AD=ADA509464 (accessed May 31, 2019).
5 Amitabh Pal, Islam Means “Peace”: Understanding the Muslim Principle of Nonviolence Today (Santa Barbara, CA:
Prager, 2011), 13–44.
6 Ibn Warraq, Leaving Islam: Apostates Speak Out (New York: Prometheus Books, 2003), 405–424.
7 To see how this plays out in both theory and practice, see Marwa Sharafeldin, “Islamic Law Meets Human
Rights: Reformulating Qiwamah and Wilayah for Personal Status Law Reform Advocacy in Egypt,” in Men
in Charge? Rethinking Authority in Muslim Legal Tradition (London: Oneworld, 2015), 163–196.
8 See Lena Salaymeh, “Early Islamic Legal-historical Precedents: Prisoners of War,” Law and History Review
26, no. 3 (Fall 2008): 521–544.
9 Of course, numerous factors go into Qur’an interpretation. To get a sense of how religious doctrines inter-
act with law and sociocultural change to produce new and changing interpretations, see Cynthia Shawam-
reh, “Islamic Legal Theory and the Context of Islamist Movements,” Notre Dame Journal of International and
Comparative Law 2, no. 1 (Spring 2012): 197–223; Ingrid Mattson, The Story of the Qur’an: Its History and
Place in Muslim Life (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2008), 175–219.
10 Many of the challenges in reconstructing the early Muslim community through the asbāb al-nuzūl literature
is captured in Andrew Rippin, “The Construction of the Arabian Historical Context in Muslim Interpre-
tation of the Qur’an,” in Aim, Methods and Contexts of Qur’anic Exegesis (2nd/8th-9th/15th C.), ed. Karen
Bauer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 173–198.
11 The various opinions on which verses were revealed first and which last are found in Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūt․ī,
al-Itqān fī ʿulūm al-qurʾān (Beirut: Dar Ibn Kathir, 2000), 76–91.
12 See, for example, The Qur’an: A Reformist Translation, trans. Edip Yüksel, Layth Saleh al-Shaiban, and Martha
Schulte-Nafeh (N.p.: Brainbow Press, 2007).
13 Natana DeLong-Bas, Wahhabi Islam: From Revival and Reform to Global Jihad (New York: I.B. Tauris, 2007),
228–230.
14 See, for example, Vanessa De Gifis, Shaping a Qur’anic Worldview: Scriptural Hermeneutics and the Rhetoric of
Moral Reform in the Caliphate of al-Maʾmūn (New York: Routledge, 2014), especially 76–90.
15 Asma Asfaruddin “In Defense of All Houses of Worship? Jihad in the Context of Interfaith Relations,” in
Just Wars, Holy Wars, and Jihads: Christian, Jewish, and Muslim Encounters and Exchanges, ed. Sohail H. Hashmi
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 40ff. See also many of the articles in The Qur’an and Its Readers,
ed. Suha Taji-Farouki (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016).
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16 Deina Abdelkader, “Coercion, Peace, and the Issue of Jihad” Digest of Middle East Studies 20, no. 2 (2011):
178–185.
17 Shireen Khan Burki, “Haram or Halal? Islamists’ Use of Suicide Attacks as ‘Jihad’,” Terrorism and Political
Violence 23, no. 4 (2011): 582–601.
18 Rebecca Skreslet Hernandez, The Legal Thought of Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūt․ī: Authority and Legacy (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2017), 124–126.
19 For a representative discussion of this tradition, see Abū H.āmid al-Ghazālī, Ih.yāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn (Beirut: Dar
al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1998), 3:60.
20 Muh.ammad ibn Ismāʿīl al-Bukharī, Mukhtas.ar .sah.īh. al-Bukhārī (Riyadh: Maktaba Dar-us-Salam, 1994),
382.
21 Ibid., 611.
22 Abū Zakariyya al-Nawawī, Riyād al-s.ālih.īn (Cairo: Dar al-Rayyan, n.d.), 73.
23 This narration in particular is commonly found in exegetical works on the subject of jihad.
24 This is particularly true for verses like “And do jihad in God’s way as it is God’s right that you do so” (Q
22:78). See Muh.ammad ibn Jarī al-T ․ abarī, Tafsīr al-T
․ abarī (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1999), 9:191;
Muh.ammad ibn ʿUmar al-Zamakhsharī, Tafsīr al-kashshāf (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2003), 3:168–
169, Muh.ammad ibn Ah.mad al-Qurt․ubī, al-Jāmiʿ li ah.kām al-qur’ān (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-ʿArabī, 1997),
12:91–92; ʿAbd Allah ibn ʿUmar al-Baydāwī, Anwār al-tanzīl wa asrār al-tanzīl (Beirut: Dar Ihya al-Turath
al-ʿArabī, n.d.), 4:80; Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, al-Tafsīr al-kabīr (Beirut: Dar Ihya al-Turath al-ʿArabī, 1997),
8:254–255.
25 Muh.ammad ibn Yūsuf Abū H . ayyān, al-Bah.r al-muh.īt․ (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-Ilmiyya, 1993), 6:361; ʿAlī
ibn Muh.ammad al-Khāzin al-Baghdādī, Tafsīr al-qurʾān al-jalīl (Egypt: Mustafa al-Babi al-Halabi, 1910),
3:318–319.
26 For a full description of relevant polls and results, see John L. Esposito and Dalia Mogahed, Who Speaks for
Islam? What a Billion Muslims Really Think (New York: Gallup Press, 2008).
27 Pew Research Center, “Concerns About Islamic Extremism on the Rise in the Middle East: Negative
Opinions of al Qaeda, Hamas and Hezbollah Widespread” (Washington, DC: Pew Research Center, 2014),
www.pewresearch.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2014/06/PG-2014-07-01-Islamic-Extremism-Full-
Report.pdf (accessed May 31, 2019).
28 Ibid., 10.
29 Karen Armstrong, Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (New York: Anchor Books, 2015),
202–232; Ayesha Jalal, Partisans of Allah: Jihad in South Asia (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press),
306ff.
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31
MUH.AMMAD ʿABDUH AND
SAYYID QUT
․B
The Qur’an as a Tool of Transformation
Massimo Campanini1
Nichilismus: the end is missing; the answer to “why?” is missing; what does nihilism
mean? That supreme values are devaluated.
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Will to Power
We [God] hurl the Truth [h. aqq] against falsehood [bātil], and Truth obliterates it – see
how falsehood vanishes away!
Qur’an 21:182
Introduction
These two statements are obviously profoundly antithetical. Nietzsche expresses modern man’s
uneasiness vis-à-vis the crisis of values and certainties. The Qur’an claims that Truth is unwavering
in the face of the transience of things, of nothingness and crisis. On the one hand, nihilism represents
values being emptied: “Nihilism is thus the “senselessness” that intervenes when the binding power
of traditional responses to the “whys?” of life and being fails, and this happens during the historical
process during which the supreme traditional values that used to provide an answer to that “why?”
– God, Truth, Good – lose their worth and perish, generating the condition of “senselessness,” in
which contemporary mankind finds itself.”3 On the other hand, the Qur’an reaffirms the values’
permanence, ensured by the fact that God has created the world according to an end and a logic –
a permanence that all men gifted with understanding are fully aware of. The God of the Qur’an
says indeed: “We did not create the heavens and the earth and everything between them for play
[lāʿibīna]. If We had wished for a pastime, We had it in Us” (Q 21:16–17); and again: “There truly
are signs in the creation of the heavens and earth and in the alternation of night and day, for those
with understanding, who remember God standing, sitting and lying down, who reflect on the crea-
tion of the heavens and earth: ‘Our Lord! You have not created all this without purpose [bātilan]’ ”
(Q 3:190–191).
The Qur’anic verses well represent Islam’s ideological character, or rather its valence as a “school
of thought and action,” as ʿAlī Sharīʿatī (d. 1977) put it.4 As a matter of fact, one of the main fea-
tures of contemporary Islamic thought is its emphasis on praxis. The point is not merely to interpret
the world but to change it. The point is not simply to cope with issues facing the modern Islamic
world – from questions of identity to the conflict between renewal and tradition, from the problem
346 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-34

Muḥammad ʿAbduh and Sayyid Qut․b
of poverty to the fight against imperialism and autocracy – in order to respond to them in a theoreti-
cal way. Rather, the goal is to study the possibility of the overall transformation of the present world
through changing people’s social and political lives. This attitude is reflected in Qur’anic research as
well, and it represents the motif that connects thinkers as different as Muh.ammad ʿAbduh (d. 1905)
and Sayyid Qut․b (d. 1966). Their approach to the Qur’an has been identified with the desire to
make the scripture the key to modifying contemporary reality profoundly. They applied an intel-
lectual paradigm that, for ʿAbduh, was aimed at educationally and morally reforming society, and for
Qut․b, at overturning the status quo and establishing an Islamic state. This common methodological
attitude, which indeed produces different outcomes and a different project for the modification of
reality, should not obscure the profound differences separating ʿAbduh from Qut․b.
Muh.ammad ʿAbduh and the Qur’an

Muh.ammad ʿAbduh was the main representative of the intellectual rebirth of the Arabic-Islamic
world between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, in connection with and in response to
the political and cultural imperialism of the Western world. At the height of his development, he
represented the Salafiyya as a movement that intellectually promoted the reformist intentions of his
master, Jamāl al-Dīn al-Afghānī (d. 1897). Although al-Afghānī’s influence over ʿAbduh was deci-
sive and formative, the two men were deeply different. The former was essentially a politician – a
revolutionary agitator who spent his whole life trying to arouse the Muslims’ waning energies and
direct them toward anti-imperialistic action. ʿAbduh was a gradualist reformer who believed that in
order to restore Muslims’ past splendor, it was necessary to educate them in science and civilization
in order to recover their Islamic heritage (turāth).5
Nevertheless, al-Afghānī and ʿAbduh had a common understanding of the term Salafiyya as a
name for the movement they had initiated: the community needed to return to the example of
the salaf, the “Pious Ancestors,” Islam’s first generations, especially those who had met the Prophet
and had drunk from the freshness of revelation and who were entirely untainted by the arrogance
of Western imperialism. For al-Afghānī and ʿAbduh, this meant islamizing modernity, so that Islam
could experience a process of rebirth (nahd.a) through the reformation (is·lāh· ) of its structures – first its
conceptual structures and then its political ones. It is essential to understand the difference between
the “modernization of Islam” and the “Islamization of modernity,” which were the two conceptual
and spiritual tendencies contending for influence over the Muslim world between the nineteenth
and twentieth centuries.6 The Islamization of modernity is grounded on a rather easy principle: Islam
is naturally modern and rational, and it can subsume within its own categories both the ideological
concepts and the sociopolitical structures generated by the Western world. If the West is by definition
modern,7 Muslims are automatically capable of governing modernity as well as and even better than
the West by reclaiming the ideology of the salaf and purifying the Islamic message from the historical
backwardness that burdened it. At the same time, they would oppose Western values that had been
perverted by individualism, economism, and atheistic secularism, with the values of an ideology
as inclined as ever toward actively affecting reality. The Islamization of modernity is, of course, an
alternative to the modernization of Islam, i.e., the belief that Islam is unable to face modernity and
that it must be profoundly transformed, betrayed, or even abandoned and given up, thus favoring
the political emptying of religion. To sum up, the Islamization of modernity implies that Islam has
subsumed modernity within itself; Islam’s modernization implies that modernity has subsumed Islam.
ʿAbduh was a proponent of the Islamization of modernity, and according to this view the Qur’an
is a document that, on the one hand, testifies to Islam’s rationality and its ability to govern modernity
and that, on the other, provides the essential reference for influencing historical and social reality.
This is the peculiar theoretical formulation ʿAbduh gave to his Qur’anic commentary, which was
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published by his disciple, Rashīd Rid.ā (d. 1935), in his magazine al-Manār (The Lighthouse) and
which was collected under the all-comprehensive title of Tafsīr al-Manār.8 Actually, ʿAbduh’s own
commentary is limited to the first two suras. Yet Rid.ā often introduces his master’s opinions by the
formula, “the professor and master says . . .” (qāla al-ustādh al-imām. . .) throughout the whole com-
mentary, so we can extrapolate contributions that can directly be attributed to him.
As it is impossible to provide a detailed analysis of the Tafsīr al-Manār in the brief space available
here, I will limit my discussion to the issue of rationality, which well exemplifies ʿAbduh’s exegetical
approach. The rational approach to the Qur’an represents the methodological key to his commen-
tary, but his programmatic definition can be found in the Treatise on God’s Oneness (Risālat al-tawh.īd),
ʿAbduh’s theological work, which represented a watershed in the development of the contemporary
Islamic thought:
Religious chiefs have often declared that religion is an enemy to reason, to its premises and
its conclusions. And the teachings of theology have been filled with quibbles and useless
comments, going into raptures over miracles and giving free rein to imagination. This is
acknowledged by everybody who knows the condition of peoples before Islam.
Then came the Qur’an and it set religion on a path that the previous Holy Books had
not followed, a way acceptable both to the men who lived at the time of its revelation and
to their successors. To prove Muhammad’s mission, the argumentation that the former
prophets had used was abandoned. The main evidence consisted of showing us that, despite
the Prophet being a man like the others, in the Book he had brought us even the smallest
verse possessed an unequalled eloquence. The Qur’an taught us what God allowed and
ordered [us] to know about the Deity, but He did not force us to believe in Him dogmati-
cally. On the contrary, he has proven all His statements, He has exposed diverging doctrines
and refuted them with arguments; He has appealed to reason and aroused intelligence; He
has shown us the order that reigns in the universe, the laws that govern it and the perfec-
tion by which they manifest themselves. . . . Reason [ʿaql] and religion [dīn] fraternize for
the first time in a Holy Book.9
From this theoretical perspective, ʿAbduh derived some important conclusions. First of all, he must
be considered one of the innovators in the contemporary age of the ancient Muʿtazilī10 theological
school. Muʿtazilīs, without being “rationalists” in the Greek sense of the word, applied reason’s tools
and rules to the study of theology and the Holy Book. One of their central theses is the createdness
of the Qur’an: the Qur’an is not, as the “orthodox” believe, especially Ashʿarīs and H.anbalīs, God’s
eternal and literal word, co-existing with His essence; it is a creation of His and so is ontologically
inferior to His essence. In this manner, the way is paved for a rational interpretation of the Qur’an,
free from the ties of tradition and obedience to authority. ʿAbduh proposed the thesis of the Qur’an’s
createdness anew, and, even if he didn’t find the courage to defend it to the end against traditionalists,
he contributed to breaking the hold of this theological taboo. Contemporary Neo-Muʿtazilīs like
Ahmad Amīn (d. 1954) and Nasr Abū Zayd (d. 2010) have inherited this hermeneutical approach.
A second innovative theological thesis advanced by ʿAbduh can also be read as a neo-Muʿtazilī
view: the existence, in the world, of secondary causes, which have been imprinted by God onto
reality but which work autonomously. The idea of the existence of secondary causes and of a rational
order in the universe is precisely expressed by the concept of the customary action (sunna) of God:
“Creation follows a custom [sunna] which does not change and leans on a foundation that does not
overturn.”11 Reference is made here to those verses stating that “no change [can be found] in God’s
sunna” (e.g., Q 48:23). God has decreed, in his eternal knowledge, that the cosmos follow specific
and determined laws. His signs in the construction of the world (āyāt allāh fī ·sanʿ al-ʿālam) reveal the
order that God has imprinted onto reality according to His sunna.12 In this way, ʿAbduh disputed
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the occasionalism that was typical for the Ashʿarī theological school, prevalent within Sunni Islam,
in the name of a coincidence between the structures of the human mind, open to science, and the
structures of reality: the human mind grasps the order of reality recognizing therein the imprint of
divine action.
The rational approach to the Qur’an does not exhaust ʿAbduh’s message. If the Qur’an’s rationality
provides a suitable tool for the theological restructuring of Islam, ʿAbduh also wanted to strengthen
its usefulness, not only for the interpretation of the world, but for its modification:
We can sum up this attitude in writing as follows: [the founders] of Manār believe that Islam
is the religion of individual perfection, political supremacy, and civilization. In their opin-
ion, Muslims are in a pitiful condition not because they are Muslims, but because they are
bad Muslims. The Manār commentary shall have as its aim to make them aware of the true
needs of their religion. Its mission is to explain to contemporaries how the Qur’an can let
them out of the schemes pre-defined by tradition, [and] lead them to power and well-being
in this world and to happiness in the next.13
The rationalistic approach to the Qur’an assumes a performative aim, globally, culturally, and anthro-
pologically. In this view, one of the most interesting topoi in ʿAbduh’s intellectual activity is justified:
namely, Islam’s defense against its detractors and, most of all, against the ideology that was thought
to inspire and control modernity, Christianity. The shaykh wrote a book named Islam and Christianity
in Regard to Science and Civilization (Al-Islām wa l-Nas·rāniyya maʿa al-ʿilm wa l-madāniyya) to claim that
Islam has nothing to envy about Christianity, either in terms of scientific methodology or intellectual
achievements. It is in this very context that ʿAbduh seems to move, even if only transiently, toward
the rationalist positions of Averroes (Ah.mad ibn Rushd, d. 1198). Indeed, when discussing the inter-
pretation of the Holy Text and of the Law, he writes that, “if reason and tradition are opposed to one
another (idha taʿārad.a al-ʿaql wa l-naql), the solution indicated by reason must be chosen. To interpret
tradition, then, there are two possibilities: either accepting, without understanding the validity of tra-
dition and trusting in God, or suggesting an [alternate] interpretation which may be compatible with
the rules of Arabic grammar, so that a meaning can be reached in accord with what reason requires.”14
This is not a verbatim quotation from Averroes, but one cannot help to see the connection between
this statement and the following famous excerpt from the Decisive Treatise (Fa.sl al-maqāl) by Averroes:
“Whenever the conclusion of a demonstration is in conflict with the apparent meaning of Scripture,
that apparent meaning admits of allegorical interpretation according to the rules for such interpreta-
tion in Arabic.”15 The defense of Averroes’s thought gives ʿAbduh the opportunity to claim Islam’s
intrinsically rational character, aimed toward science and progress. Quoting Averroes means reclaim-
ing him for Islam, precisely as a philosopher and rationalist and as the most effective representative of
the positive attitude toward knowledge and science emerging from the most genuine form of Islam.
Despite acknowledging the social and revealed value of religion, Averroes set no limitations on
reason. ʿAbduh does. On the one hand, the most intimate essence of things, the noumenon as Kant
would have called it, escapes rational comprehension. On the other, there are the limits of the Law,
which circumscribe the area in which reason can unfold:
[Islam] has freed reason from all its chains and from the blind imitation [taqlīd] that she was
slave to. Yet it must stoop before God and stop before the limits set by religion. Within
these limits, it knows no restraining boundaries for its activity and there is no end to the
speculations that might develop under its auspices.16
If ʿAbduh’s rationalism is not as absolute as Averroes’s, it nonetheless opened Muslim intellectuals to

the appropriation of modernity on a Qur’anic base.
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Massimo Campanini
Sayyid Qut.b and the Qur’an

Sayyid Qut․b is the man who radicalized the thought of the Muslim Brotherhood as a reaction to
the autocracy and secularism of the Nasserist regime, in particular, and of military regimes in gen-
eral, which were managing the postcolonial transition in various Arab countries. It is a well-known
fact that, in the 1950s and 1960s, this system was exemplified and taken to the highest level by the
Egyptian president Jamāl ʿAbd al-Nās.ir (Gamal Abdel Nasser, d. 1970). After studies in his native
village, Qut․b completed his education at the Dār al-ʿUlūm in Cairo. Keen on literature, especially
in English, he wrote several critical essays while working as an officer at the Ministry of Education.
From 1949 to 1951, he lived in the United States; this experience was formative for Qut․b, since
it convinced him that Western civilization and society were atheist and corrupt and that all of the
evils he saw in the Arab and Muslim peoples were provoked by the imitation of perverted Western
habits. Back in Egypt, he wrote his first work on an “Islamic” topic, Social Justice in Islam, and later
joined the organization of the Muslim Brotherhood, founded by H.asan al-Bannā (d. 1949) in 1928.
Social Justice in Islam is a work that Qut․b corrected and reviewed almost until his death, progressively
radicalizing his positions and taking an increasingly intransigent attitude, totally rejecting any “creed-
less” political system. In 1954, he was arrested in the course of a purge initiated by President Nasser
against the Muslim Brotherhood. He remained in jail basically for the rest of his life, until 1966,
when he was hanged during a second, tougher wave of repression against the Brotherhood. In jail,
he composed a monumental commentary on the Qur’an (In the Shade of the Qur’an), in which he
delivered his most mature reflections about society, religion, and politics.
In a certain sense, Qut․b was a Salafi, at least insofar as he looked back with nostalgia to the perfect
generation of the first Muslims – the Companions of the Prophet – and to the extent he wanted to
renovate society through religion. From a certain perspective, the Muslim Brotherhood is the heir
and realization of al-Afghānī and ʿAbduh’s Islamic reformism.17 However, Qut․b’s thought represents
a radicalization of al-Bannā’s18 original views, so one can say that the distance from Muh.ammad
ʿAbduh is quite remarkable and possibly unbridgeable. In fact, Qut․b viewed ʿAbduh and his school
with suspicion, accusing them of, among other things, an excessive “rationalism” and of having
come to terms with the historical exegesis, typical of Western freethinking.19 Yet, just as ʿAbduh’s
theoretical work represented the greatest globalizing effort to reread Islam in light of modernity at
the climax of the reforming process of islāh, so Qut․b’s theoretical work represents the greatest effort
to formulate a global, totalizing conception of Islam, at the time when radical thought and politi-
cal praxis were reaching their height. In the former as in the latter case, the point was to regain the
meaning of Islam’s centrality in connection to the political, institutional, cultural, and social realities
of an Islamic world that, in general, but especially in Arab countries, had been subjected to the chal-
lenges of secularization and Westernization. The Qur’an is a battle instrument Muslims cannot do
without, otherwise they risk marginalization:
The situation today is not very different [from the one at the Prophet’s time]: the same
battles continue to rage on. Human nature has not changed, and the enemies of Islam can
be found everywhere. But the Qur’an is also there. Neither man nor the Muslim world
community will be safe until the Qur’an assumes conduct of the battle as it did for the first
generation of Muslims. Unless Muslims realize this fact, they cannot hope to succeed or
prosper.20
Qut․b was no doubt influenced by the Pakistani thinker, al-Mawdūdī (d. 1979), who can be con-
sidered chronologically as the first to have uttered certain ideas. But the Egyptian Qut․b was, at least
in my opinion, more complex and effective than his Indian contemporary. His Islamic thought is
350
consequentially stringent. Qut․b was convinced that the world in general, and the Islamic world in
particular, had plunged into a condition of “ignorance” ( jāhiliyya), similar to that of pre-Islamic
Arabs. Society lives far away from God, overcome by unbelief and corruption. It is therefore neces-
sary to engage in propaganda activity (daʿwa) in order to summon men back to faith and start a jihād,
a “strong, even military effort,” to defend the threatened Islamic society. ʿAbduh had been discuss-
ing this on an eminently theoretical level, but inciting men to making a strong, practical effort for
reform and revolution belongs to more radical thought, especially Qut․b’s, operating on an eminently
political level. In his Qur’anic commentary In the Shade of the Qur’an, commenting on verses Q
2:190–195, Qut․b provides a very clear definition for jihād as he understands it:
Jihād in Islam is pursued to protect the faith against outside attacks as well as internal
strife. Its aim is at the preservation of the Islamic way of life establishing it as a force to be
respected and reckoned with in the world. Anyone who willingly wishes to enter the fold
of Islam should have no fear of being prevented from doing so and should not have to suffer
for making that choice.21
According to Qut․b, jihād has defensive features because, indeed, nowadays Islam is on the defensive,
threatened by the ideological and political aggression by the West who would like to sweep it up
and erase it. But jihād also possesses offensive features, in the sense of propaganda and organizational
activity, including the opposition to atheistic Arab regimes (like Nasser’s), against which a declara-
tion of unbelief (takfīr) should be pronounced. In a later passage, the struggle against Islam’s enemies
appear as a jihād.
Islam is not merely “belief.” Islam is a declaration of the freedom of man from servitude to
other men. . . . If we insist on calling Islamic jihād a defensive movement, then we must
change the meaning of the word “defence” and mean by it “the defence of man” against all
those elements which limit his freedom.22
In this sense, jihād features offensive traits that might also, in extreme cases, transform into an armed
conflict. War is fully included in the Islamic theoretical horizon as long as it is waged for the sake
of God:
The aims of war [h.arb] in Islam are clearly defined right at the outset: “Fight for the
cause of God those who fight against you” [Q 2:190] . . . Fighting should therefore be
undertaken for the sake of God, and for no other purpose that may be defined by human
desires or motivations. War should not be pursued for glory or dominance, not for mate-
rial aggrandizement, not to gain new markets or control raw materials. It should not be
pursued to give one class, race or nation of people dominance over another. Fighting in
Islam must be undertaken only to promote the aims defined by Islam: to make God’s word
supreme in the world, to establish His order, and to protect the believers against persecu-
tion, coercion, corruption, and all efforts to force them to betray their faith or abandon it.23
The call to jihād would have little meaning if it were not conceived within a wider theoretical frame-
work whose pillars are the unitary conception of reality in exact dependence on God’s Oneness and
Uniqueness, whence God’s sovereignty (h.ākimiyya) derives. H.̣ākimiyya means the dissolution of all
servitudes connected with false idols and the absolute equality of all men before the transcendant.24
These are perhaps the two essential foundations of Qut․b’s religious thought, which he used to justify
his further political orientation.
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Massimo Campanini
The first movement concerns tawh.īd: God’s Oneness and Uniqueness. Tawh.īd makes Islam an
all-comprehensive understanding of the world (shumuliyya) whose various realities or elements find
a well-ordered and harmonious coexistence:
Islam is the religion of unification of all the forces of being; not by chance is it the religion
of Uniqueness [tawh.īd]: God’s Uniqueness, the unification of all religions in God’s religion,
the uniformity of the message delivered by all prophets ever since the dawn of life. . . .
Islam is the religion that unifies the act of worship and the social act, dogma and Law, spirit
and matter, economical and essential values, the afterlife and this life, earth and sky.25
It is obvious that in Islam the homogeneity of all cosmic forces should be realized. We also find, in
other works by Qut․b, the notion of Islam as a natural religion that corresponds and adheres to the
system of the universe in an agreeable harmony.26 From this perspective, the Qur’an’s role is a cosmic
one; as Carré writes, “[A]n idea which is dear to [Qut․b’s Qur’anic commentary] is the harmony
between the book of the universe and that of the Qur’an, and the history book as well. Science
and faith are fundamentally and strictly unified and tied together.”27 The fact is that God rules the
cosmos according to a Law (nāmūs), in which continuity and harmony are never broken but rather
confirm the Qur’anic principle of uninterrupted creation, continuously renewed, and unexhausted
(cf. Q 29:20, Q 36:78–79, etc.):
In the shade of the Qur’an, I learned that in this existence there is no room for blind
coincidence or haphazard events: “We have created everything according to a measure”
[Q 54:49]. “He has created all things and assigned everything its appropriate measure” [Q
25:2]. Everything is there for a purpose, but the true and deep wisdom underlying our
existence may not always be apparent to the limited human mind.28
This cosmos is well-ordered and works perfectly because God “reigns” over it, the sole sovereign
who is authentically worthy of the name. God’s sovereignty (hākimiyya),29 has a theological aspect
and a political one. Theologically, it means that God is the sole One worthy of being worshipped.
The Meccan Qur’an’s method is grounded upon this exclusiveness of worship, which prepares men
for the effort ( jihād) “in God’s way”:
During the Meccan period, the Qur’an explained to man the secret of his existence and
the secret of the universe surrounding him. It told him who he is, where he has come
from, for what purpose and where he will go in the end. . . . The Meccan period of the
Qur’an has this glorious attribute, that it imprints “There is no deity except God” [lā ilāha
illā Allāh] on hearts and minds, and teaches Muslims to adopt this method and no other
and to persist in this method.
This is because:
Islam is not a theory based on “assumptions”; rather it is a way of life working with
“actuality.”30
From a political point of view, h.ākimiyya means reaffirming that all legislative power (tashrīʿ), as well
as the ethical foundation of customs (al-aʿrāf wa l-taqālīd), and statements of dogma and conceptu-
alizations (al-iʿtiqād wa l-tasawwur)31 must go back to God. The very foundation of politics is the
proclamation of God’s Oneness and Uniqueness, which means, on the one hand, an awareness that
“divinity means supreme sovereignty” (al-ulūhiyya taʿnā al-h.ākimiyya al-ʿaliyya) and, on the other, a
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“revolution against human power usurping one of the Deity’s features” – namely that of legislating.32
This is, naturally, a militant declaration that is not limited to the theoretical level but rather leads,
on the one hand, to the fight against “creedless” regimes (like Nasser’s, but the idea can be made
universal) and on the other, to the implementation of social justice: “there’s no doubt social justice
derives from a universal dogmatic concept that wants all reality to be God’s.”33
To sum up, the Meccan Qur’an, centered on the proclamation of God’s “divinity” (ulūhiyya),
prepares the Medinan Qur’an, where God’s “sovereignty” is illustrated. The Medinan Qur’an rep-
resents the “constitution” (dustūr) of the Muslim community; it is the document that allows men to
orientate themselves in this world. The excellence of the extraordinary “first generation” of Muslims
can then be revived, and a truly Islamic state can be founded. The realized Islamic state is founded on
the basis of consultation (shūrā). Commenting on Q 42:38, as Abdullah Saeed put it, “[Qut․b] asserts
that it is the basis of Islam’s political order and that without it no system is truly Islamic. He supports
this by citing the fact that God commanded shūrā even after the disastrous result of its application at
the battle of ʿUhud.”34
Conclusions
The Muslim Brotherhood’s35 political experience represents the crossroads of ʿAbduh and Qut․b’s
intellectual elaboration. Muh.ammad ʿAbduh started a process of intellectual revision which, through
Rashīd Rid· ā’s mediation, profoundly influenced the Muslim Brotherhood. Certainly, Rid· ā moder-
ated the rationalistic approach of his master, supplying the Islamic reformism of the first half of the
twentieth century with a more markedly traditionalist and conservative character, both in its use of
Islamic sources and in proposing strategies. Furthermore, the Muslim Brotherhood emphasized the
political aspect of religion to the point of proposing the creation of an Islamic state in Egypt and in
the Arab world (a goal that ʿAbduh had not set). As stated in this organization’s official documents,
inspired by Qut․b, “the Qur’an is the constitution [dustūr] of the Islamic state.” The political character
of the Holy Book is thus emphasized, an aspect that ʿAbduh had not considered, at least in such a
marked and totalizing manner. The Qur’an, for the Muslim Brotherhood, is something more than a
guide to action, in accordance with a view that ʿAbduh would have shared: it is the founding docu-
ment of social life and of institutional construction.
For his part, since Qut․b considered Islam to be a “stirring” religion (dīn h.arakī), he would go
beyond the limits imposed by al-Bannā, making of Islam a revolutionary ideology, capable of over-
throwing the status quo and establishing a new system upon its ruins. Al-Bannā never supported the
belief, as Qut․b did regarding Nasser’s regime, that the Egyptian state of his time had to be taken
down. In Qut․b’s view, Islam represented a third way between capitalism and socialism, capable of
implementing social justice and taking mankind back to exclusive obedience to God.36 The Qur’an,
most of all its Medinan revelations, provides the privileged source of inspiration upon which to erect
the new society and the new state.
The path from ʿAbduh to the Muslim Brotherhood to Qut․b is consecutive, but it is certainly
not a straight line. Islam acquired an ideological function, and the Qur’an became something more
than – and different from – a merely religious text. Invoked as the foundation of the moral, political,
and institutional transformation of Islamic society, the Qur’an provides Muslims with the essential
directions of God’s will, and obeying them will lead to the triumph of Truth (h.aqq) over the whole
world.
Notes
1 Editor’s note: To the loss of all those in the Islamic Studies’ community around the world, Massimo Cam-
panini passed away in 2020. Unfortunately, this means he also did not get to make any final edits of this
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chapter before publication. To honor Massimo Campanini’s work and legacy, the editors of this volume
decided to continue with the publication of this chapter in its present form.
2 All translations of the Qur’an are taken from M.A.S. Abdel Haleem, The Qur’an: A New Translation (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2004).
3 Franco Volpi, Il Nichilismo (Roma-Bari: Laterza, 2004), 53–54.
4 ʿAlī Sharīʿatī, School of Thought and Action (Albuquerque, NM: Abjad, n.d.): “Islam is an ideology, a social
philosophy, an ethical school of thought, that orients the people on a path of liberation.”
5 On ʿAbduh there is now the useful biography by M. Sedgwick, Muhammad ʿAbduh (Cairo: American Uni-
versity in Cairo Press, 2009), showing the multifaceted personality of the shaykh.
6 I discussed this issue in depth in M. Campanini, Islam e politica (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2015).
7 See G. Krämer’s entry Pluralism and Tolerance, in G. Bowering, ed., Islamic Political Thought. An Introduction
(Princeton–Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2015), 170.
8 Tafsīr al-Qur’ān al-ʿAz․īm al-maʿrūf bi-Tafsīr al-Manār, Samīr Mustafā al-Rabāb ed. (Beirut: Dār Ihyā’ al-Turāth
al-ʿArabī, 2002).
9 Muh.ammad ʿAbduh, Risālat al-Tawh.īd (Beirut: Dār Ihyāʾ al-‘Ulūm, 1992), 44–45; French translation Ris-
salat al-Tawhid. Exposé de la religion musulmane, tran. B. Michel and Mustafa ‘Abdel Razik (Paris: Geuthner,
1978).
10 See already R. Caspar, “Le Renoveau du Mo‘tazilisme,” in Mélanges de l’Institut Domenicain d’Etudes Ori-
entales (M.I.D.E.O., 1957), 141–202, and now my “Mu‘tazila in Islamic History and Thought,” in Religion
Compass 2012, on the web http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1749-8171.2011.00273.x.
11 ʿAbduh, Risāla, 44.
12 Ibid., 141.
13 Jacques Jomier, Le Commentaire Coranique du Manār (Paris: Maisonneuve, 1954), 50.
14 Al-Islām wa’l-Nas.rāniyya quoted in Jomier, Le Commentaire Coranique, 83.
15 G. Hourani, Averroes on the Harmony of Religion and Philosophy (London: Luzac, 1961), 51.
16 ʿAbduh, Risāla, 133.
17 Tariq Ramadan, Aux sources du renouveau musulman: d'al-Afghānī à H.assan al-Bannā, un siècle de réformisme
islamique (Paris: Bayard, 1998).
18 About al-Bannā’s quietistic tendencies and the contradictions in his relationship to power, cf. The book by
Brjniyar Lia, The Society of the Muslim Brothers in Egypt. The Rise of an Islamic Mass Movement (1928–1942)
(Reading: Ithaca, 1998). According to a different interpretation, Qut․b’s words are radical, al-Bannā’s and
the Muslim Brotherhood’s are neotraditionalist. By “radical” and “neotraditionalist” two partially diverging
inclinations of contemporary Islamism are meant, the former focused on political struggle and the conquest
of power from above, the latter on social activism and Islamization of customs from the bottom.
19 See Olivier Carré, Mystique et politique. Lecture révolutionnaire du Coran par Sayyed Qut․b (Paris: Cerf, 1984),
33–34.
20 Sayyid Qut․b, In the Shade of the Qur’an. Fī Zilāl al-Qur’ān, trans. and ed. M.A. Salahi and A.A. Shamis
(Leicester: Islamic Foundation, 1999), vol. I, 198 (commenting on sura 2 of the Qur’an).
21 Qut․b, In the Shade of the Qur’an, vol. I, 209.
22 Sayyed Qut․b, Ma‘ālim fī’ l-t․arīq (Cairo: Dār al-Shurūq, 1983), 71–72.
23 Qut․b, In the Shade of the Qur’an, vol. I, 209–210.
24 This indication by Qut․b has been made methodologically fecund by Hasan Hanafī and his phenomeno-
logical interpretation of the Qur’an and Islam, for which I here modestly refer to Massimo Campanini,
“Dall’Unicità di Dio alla rivoluzione. Un percorso fenomenologico di Hasan Hanafî [From God’s Unique-
ness to Revolution. A Phenomenological Path by Hasan Hanafî],” in Teologie Politiche. Modelli a confronto,
ed. Giovanni Filoramo (Brescia: Morcelliana, 2005), 215–230. Living horizontally for Hanafī means to
overcome social and economic inequalities and allowing humans to realize an equitable social justice and a
political system whose guarantor is God.
25 Sayyed Qut․b, Al-ʿAdāla al-Ijtimāʿiyya fī’ l-Islām (Cairo: Dār al-Shurūq, 1987), 26. English tran. William
Shepard, Sayyid Qut․b and Islamic Activism: A Translation and Critical Analysis of Social Justice in Islam (Leiden:
Brill, 1996).
26 Sayyid Qut․b, Islam, the True Religion (Karachi: International Islamic Publisher, 1991), 24.
27 Carré, Mystique et politique, p. 63.
28 Qut․b, In the Shade of the Qur’an, vol. I, XIX. Cfr. Al-ʿAdāla al-Ijtimāʿiyya fī’ l-Islām, p. 22.
29 Cfr. Seyed Khatab, The Power of Sovereignty: The Political and Ideological Philosophy of Sayyid Qut․b (London and
New York: Routledge, 2006).
30 Qut․b, Maʿālim fī’ l-t․arīq, 25, 35–36.
31 Carré, Mystique et politique, 211.
354
3 2 Qut․b, Maʿālim fī’ l-t․arīq, 26.

33 Ibid., p. 30.
34 A. Saeed, Reading the Qur’an in the Twenty-first Century. A Contextualist Approach (London and New York:
Routledge, 2014), 152.
35 Robert Mitchell’s research is still valuable: The Society of the Muslim Brothers (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1969). More recently a comprehensive overview in Amr Elshobaki, Les Frères Musulmans des origins à
nos jours (Paris: Karthala, 2009). After the so-called Arab Spring, the Muslim Brotherhood, at least in Egypt,
is in full disarray.
36 Sayyid Qut․b, Maʿraka al-Islām wa’l-raʾsmāliyya (Cairo: Dār al-Shurūq, 2006).
355
32
READINGS OF THE QUR’AN
FROM OUTSIDE THE
TRADITION
Emran El-Badawi
Introduction
The term Islamic tradition refers to the body of Islamic literature written during its classical period,
also known as the ʿAbbāsid Era (750–1258 ce). These sources teach that the Qur’an was first uttered
by Muhammad to his Companions during his prophecy (circa 610–632). The sources divide the
period of Qur’anic revelation into two parts: those delivered in the Arabian city of Mecca (610–622)
and those delivered in the city of Medina (622–632). The Companions of Muhammad were said
to have recorded parts of the Qur’an during his lifetime on parchment or bones. However, the
systematic collection, writing, and canonization of the Qur’an as a codex would not be completed
until the advent of the earliest caliphs, especially the third caliph ʿUthmān (d. 656). The sources also
teach that under the great Arabization reforms of the Umayyad caliph ʿAbd al-Malik (r. 685–705)
the Qur’an’s text was edited and recopied. Nevertheless, this story has not gone unchallenged over
the ages; scholars of the Qur’an strongly disagree about the origin and historical context of the textus
receptus, many proposing readings from outside the traditional narrative just cited.
The Qur’an is the first witness to the rise of Islamic civilization. However, unearthing the begin-
nings of this civilization is particularly challenging because beyond the pages of the Qur’an itself
there is a lack of documentary evidence capable of clearly exhibiting the milieu in which it was
revealed and the precise scriptural texts with which it was in dialogue. That is to say, documentary
evidence explaining the rise of Islam is extremely rare. Furthermore, because the Qur’an emerged
from the humble sectarian landscape in which it did, not from a well established metropolis of the
Near East where advanced religious and legal writing were prevalent – like Alexandria, Jerusalem,
or Babylon, for example – the Qur’an’s milieu and the life of Muhammad are not entirely clear and
remain a matter of serious, persistent debate.
The paucity of documentary evidence is made more difficult due to the paucity of the archaeo-
logical record as well, which does not preserve evidence of widespread destruction or of large-scale
flight as one would expect from the time period of the earliest Arab conquests (circa 630–656).
While some non-Arabic sources are dated to the latter half of the seventh century from nearby lands
that mention the advent of a new Arabian prophet and the conquests of hordes coming from Ara-
bia,1 there exists no narrative of the Prophet Muhammad and the revelation of the Qur’an prior to
the Sīra literature – written over one century after the fact (after 750).2 Subsequent Islamic literary
sources, far removed from the Qur’an’s milieu and Muhammad’s lifetime, embellish historical fact
with pious lore and political forgery. This reality was acknowledged by early hadith compilers and
356 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-35

The Qur’an From Outside the Tradition
was brought to light by orientalist and traditional scholars alike. Studies on “interpreting the Qur’an
through the Qur’an” (tafsīr al-Qurʾān bi l-Qurʾān) comprise an important but rather small part of
classical and modern Islamic literature.3 Secular European scholars would take the work of their
Muslim counterparts to the extreme, insisting that one can only understand the Qur’an through the
Qur’an and not through the accretions of later ascribed hadith reports.4 Abandoning the hadiths’
exegetical qualities and focusing on understanding the Qur’an through itself was also a methodologi-
cal consideration by Islamic modernists and secularists of Muslim majority societies (see later in the
chapter). The lack of documentary evidence and problematic nature of the literary sources has had
great implications for modern readings of the Qur’an from outside the tradition.
Classical (German) Philological Readings

Although premodern Jews and Christians (circa eighth–eighteenth centuries) wrote treatises debat-
ing Muslims and citing the Qur’an, this chapter will not address this body of literature directly.
This is because medieval apologetics did not constitute a reception of the Qur’an as much as it did
polemics against their Muslim interlocutors. The reader will find no shortage of scholarship on this
lively subject elsewhere.5
German-speaking orientalists in the nineteenth century were pioneers in the study of the Qur’an
and disseminating its knowledge for a modern Western audience. Some scholars, including Jullius
Wellhausen (d. 1918), situated the belief system inherent in the Qur’an’s milieu within a polytheistic
Arabian context, as the Islamic sources portray. This view holds that the jāhiliyya was a purely idola-
trous world within which marginal Jewish and Christian characters made their mark.6 However, it
was the German orientalist Abraham Geiger (d. 1874) who established the importance of philology
in modern Qur’anic Studies in the West. Despite its clear polemics, his Was hat Mohammed aus dem
Judenthume aufgenommen? (translated as Judaism and Islam, but literally What Did Muhammad Take from
Judaism?) is an edifice for the philological study of the Qur’an and Rabbinic tradition.7 Scholarly
interest in the Qur’an’s language – Arabic – developed overnight. But the nature of the Qur’an’s
original dialect and its relationship to the Arabic language (North Arabian) proved more compli-
cated. In his monumental Geschichte des Qorāns Theodor Nöldeke (d. 1930) recognized the frequent
use of – among other things – Christian and Rabbinic formulae in the Qur’an.8 Nöldeke also pro-
poses a chronology of Qur’anic revelation – Early Meccan, Late Meccan, and Medinan – more or
less adopted from Islamic sources. He also agrees with the traditional theory that classical Arabic or
fus.h.ā existed as a spoken language among Arab tribes even prior to the rise of Islam and that this,
therefore, reflects the original expression of the Qur’an.9 Karl Vollers (d. 1909) refutes this claim by
arguing that before the rise of Islam, Arab tribes spoke various dialects of Arabic koiné and that fus.h.ā
only developed with later Islamic civilization.10 Voller’s thesis is aided by research demonstrating that
dialects of ancient west Arabian, in which the Qur’an was originally expressed, exhibit phonological
qualities found in Aramaic dialects farther north.11
The Arabic oral tradition to which the Qur’an belongs and which it challenges, that is, the “pro-
nouncements of poets and priests” (Q 68:41–42), is demonstrated clearly in passages of rhymed prose
(sajʿ), which was the primary attribute of Arabian prophetic speech. Some have disqualified most of
the pre-Islamic poetry preserved as Islamicized or fabricated by later Islamic sources and stress rather
that the Qur’an is the only reliable example of pre-Islamic Arabian oral tradition.12 Others have
argued that some of the pre-Islamic poetry preserved in Islamic sources can be reliably traced back
to the jāhilī context ascribed to the Qur’an.13 Typifying the German philological approach, Angelika
Neuwirth builds on Nöldeke’s chronology adopted from Islamic sources, as well as new research in
biblical and post-biblical literature. This “diachronic approach” sees the Qur’an as a scripture of late
antiquity (Der Koran als Text der Spätantike).14 Neuwirth’s work and the classical German philological
approach have also coalesced into the Corpus Coranicum project in Potsdam, Germany, which studies
357
Emran El-Badawi
the “historical-critical development of the [Qur’an’s] textual history.”15 The German philological
approach is a reading of the Qur’an from outside the tradition; however, it can be argued that it cor-
roborates, develops, and enhances that very tradition. This approach has therefore had a great impact
on modern Qur’an scholarship in both Western as well as Muslim majority societies.
Revisionist Readings
London in the late twentieth century became the next scene of scholarly readings of the Qur’an
outside the tradition preserved in the Islamic sources. Thus the traditional reading concerning both
the time period and geographic location of the Qur’an text we possess today was decisively chal-
lenged by John Wansbrough and the “skeptical school” that developed in concert with his ideas.
Wansbrough’s Qur’ānic Studies investigates the Qur’an in the context of earlier topoi and through the
lens of the biblical writing and Rabbinic exegesis.16 The purpose behind Wansbrough’s highly tech-
nical investigation was to transform the modern study of the Qur’an into a rigorous and systematic
exercise of textual criticism. His new methodology relegates Qur’anic chronology, “occasions of
revelation” (asbāb al-nuzūl), and the concept of “abrogation” (naskh) as the products of later Islamic
exegesis.17 One result of Wansbrough’s research is that the Qur’an, as a “closed canon,” was subse-
quently placed in a ninth-century Mesopotamian context with ambient Jewish and Christian liter-
ary traditions. Whereas Wansbrough’s study was a purely literary endeavor, other authors whom he
inspired applied the skeptical methodology to a historical analysis of the Qur’an and Islam’s origins.
In Hagarism: The Making of the Islamic World, Patricia Crone and Michael Cook cast further doubt
on the traditional narrative and claim that the Qur’an was the product of eighth-century Palestine.18
Other studies argue, using scanty documentary and archaeological evidence, that the Byzantines
were already in a state of military withdrawal from the Near East when the Islamic conquests began,
claiming that the epoch of Muhammad and the rightly guided caliphs is a myth. Rather, they argue,
a basic understanding of Judeo-Christian or Abrahamic monotheism took hold in the Umayyad
period (661–750) and the Qur’anic text became codified in the ʿAbbāsid period due to nationalist
and legal exigencies of the growing Islamic community.19 Other skeptics situate the teachings of the
Qur’an and its textual development in the Umayyad Period, well after the time of Muhammad.20
The skeptical school brings to light the significant problems with the traditional narrative of how
the Qur’an crystalized, but even so its methodological limitations caused some of its proponents
to dampen their more radical theories over the years. That being said, Crone would contribute
a number of important studies on the Jewish, Christian, and pagan environment of the Qur’an.21
Revisionist readings starting with Wansbrough inspired a “synchronic approach,” since it does not
take classical Islamic literary sources into consideration and undertakes a literary study of the Qur’an
alone. Still it is noteworthy that Wansbrough-style Qur’anic revisionism inspired some scholars to
reject the Islamic historical and exegetical sources regarding the Qur’an, while it inspired others,
namely Andrew Rippin, to study the classical Islamic literary sources – especially Tafsir – more seri-
ously and critically.22 However, a novel, transformative scholarly movement was at hand. The new
millennium was to usher in a new series of Qur’an publications and a new way of reading the Qur’an
that would underscore the importance of Syriac for traditionalists and revisionists alike.
The Syriac Turn

In 2000, Christoph Luxenberg’s Die syro-aramäische Lesart des Koran: Ein Beitrag zur Entschlüsselung der
Koransprache (translated into English in 2009 as The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran: A Contribution
to the Decoding of the Language of the Koran) argues the Qur’an was originally a Syriac Christian lection-
ary that was misinterpreted by classical Muslim exegetes.23 He emends the meaning and orthography
of dozens of Qur’anic verses to fit what he deems to be a suitable Syro-Aramaic reading. Luxenberg’s
358
work represents the joining of two preexisting trends in twentieth-century Qur’anic Studies. The
first is characterized by philological approaches to the Qur’an by Alphonse Mingana (d. 1937), Tor
Andrae (d. 1947), and others who make various Syriac Christian parallels.24 The second trend is
represented by an alternative philological approach by Günter Lüling who argued that beneath the
Qur’anic textus receptus is a more ancient text – an “Urtext” – composed of Christian Arabic strophic
hymns. Luxenberg now argued for a “Syriac Urtext.” His work has both received adamant opposi-
tion in some corners and garnered eager followers elsewhere. However, it has sparked new interest
in the Qur’an vis-à-vis Syriac Christian literature, which has fundamentally changed readings of the
Qur’an as a whole. Sidney H. Griffith argues that the religious, cultural, and linguistic landscape of
seventh-century Arabia was for centuries inextricably tied to communities in the greater Near East,
which compels one to avoid simplistic generalizations, like those posed by Luxenberg. Griffith cau-
tions against reductionist theories of direct or linear “influences” and expounds upon the complex,
diffuse, diverse, and free-flowing ideas present in the Qur’an’s “thematic context.”25
The Syriac turn has (1) shaped a new generation of Qur’an scholars with mastery in Arabic as
well as Syriac sources, (2) reintroduced the formerly obscure Urtext argument, (3) and enriched the
debate between traditionalists and revisionists. In this respect, Luxenberg has inspired Karl-Heinz
Ohlig and the INARA group headquartered in Saarbrücken, Germany, who have published exten-
sively on the “Christian origins” ’ of Islam, especially the Qur’an.26 In the American context, Gabriel
Reynolds has convened collaborative studies on the Qur’an’s historical context, disposed of Qur’anic
chronology, and has argued for the Qur’an’s “biblical subtext,” with special attention paid to the
homilies of the Syriac churches.27 Further studies on The Qurʾān and the Aramaic Gospel Traditions,
The Qur’ān and Its Legal Culture and “The Syriac Milieu of the Qur’an: The Recasting of Bibli-
cal Narratives” situate the Qur’an within the literature and traditions of the Late Antique Syriac-
speaking churches.28 However, these studies also take a more agnostic position on the Qur’an’s status
as an Urtext or Qur’anic chronology. The Syriac turn has also sparked new debate on the vitality
of Late Antique Christianity (or Jewish Christianity) in the Qur’an’s context and pushed scholars
to reconsider the cosmology of the Qur’an – especially in light of the Hymns of Ephrem the Syrian
(d. 373 ce).29
Literary, Rhetorical, and Aesthetic Readings of the Qur’an

A number of Western studies – often focusing on specific suras at first – on the symmetry, rhetoric,
and rhyme of suras are both informative and important readings of the Qur’an outside, or perhaps
adjacent to the tradition.30 These studies are more in line with classical Islamic literary sources for
two reasons. First these studies accept the Qur’an “as is,” meaning they do not debate the text’s
origins but rather clarify its meaning and structure. Second, such studies “supplement,” so to speak,
a large body of Islamic sources examining the meaning and function of language in the text. The
Qur’an presents its “clear Arabic tongue” (Q 16:103) as superior to other languages, which contrib-
uted to the development of the Islamic doctrine of scriptural “inimitability” (iʿjāz).
Michel Cuyper’s conceptualization of “Semitic rhetoric” and “ring structure” at the heart of sura
5 has presented the field a new way of looking at each sura as a highly structured, self-contained
unit.31 The essence of Cuyper’s method is reading individual suras through chiasmus. In other words,
each sura is composed of two equal halves, with the content of the first half reading A, B, C, and
so on, and the second half reading C′, B′, A′. Other studies have examined the Qur’an’s awareness
of itself as a fixed text or the text’s discourse with its audience.32 Still others have underscored the
crescendo of sura 2 or the aesthetics of Qur’anic recitation and reception.33 Finally, manuscript stud-
ies tend to catalogue, date, or describe text rather than argue for a particular reading. However, a
number of important studies in this respect have been published recently that do impact modern
approaches to the Qur’an.34 To say this differently, studies producing Qur’an manuscripts provide
359
Emran El-Badawi
the earliest physical evidence of the text in the seventh century, as well as the vitality of its form and
messages during later centuries. Details including handwriting, vocalization, ink color, decoration
and so on indirectly demonstrate how the text was appreciated by its authors and patrons.
Secular and Modernist Readings

A number of readings of the Qur’an exist from within a modern Muslim cultural framework but that
are highly critical of classical Islamic literary sources. The living nature of the Qur’anic text is essen-
tial for the Islamic Modernist and secular Arab Enlightenment schools, which from an exegetical
viewpoint hold that, while the Qur’an’s text is fixed, its interpretation is a progressive and evolution-
ary science. Furthermore, in order to understand the Qur’an’s teachings and values, one cannot rely
on Islamic sources only, but rather one should have recourse to rational, philosophical, and humanist
principles. These approaches regularly integrate Western theories and have at their core, the goal
of eradicating the antiquated interpretations of classical “exegesis” (tafsīr) and renew independent
scholarly insights (ijtihād). This attitude is typified by Mohammed Arkoun who seeks to remedy the
“intellectual blockage” of tradition through an anthropological approach to studying the Qur’an.35
A number of insightful secular studies, which hybridize Islamic and Western scholarship on the
Qur’an, have been contributed by several secularized Muslim intellectuals.36
A central debate among Islamic Modernists is how much of the Qur’an comes from Muham-
mad and how much from the divine spark. In this vein, the nature of the text’s divinity is explained
by Fazlur Rahman. He proposed that the Qur’an descended upon Muhammad’s heart (Q 2:97;
26:193–194) and was therefore a divine experience whose verbal manifestation was mediated
through the Prophet’s own mental faculties and emotional sensibilities.37 In relation to this point,
Abdolkarim Soroush argues that from an experiential perspective the Qur’an is as much God’s word
as it is Muhammad’s word.38 Others undermine the veracity of Muhammad’s revelations and argue
that the Qur’an is not the word of God but rather a human synthesis of earlier traditions and wis-
dom.39 On the other hand, Malik Bennabi asserts that Muhammad’s absolute conviction at the time
of revelation means that the source of revelation was completely objective and came from outside his
person.40 Nasr H. Abu Zayd claims that it is the “instruments of the text” (āliyāt al-nas..s) that deter-
mine what parts are human and what parts are divine.41 Ali Mabrouk indirectly proposes a theory
differentiating an original and inaccessible “Urtext” he designates simply as Qur’an and its imperfect,
contemporary recension he calls mus.h.af (“codex”).42 Finally, this category also includes a number
of scholars of the “Qur’an only” approach or proponents of the “Qur’anist” school (ahl al-qurʾān;
qurʾāniyyūn) who accept the veracity of the Qur’an but reject that of the hadith corpus.43
Gendered Readings
Gendered readings of the Qur’an are highly critical of, but nonetheless engaged in debate with, clas-
sical Islamic literary sources. While not unique to them, famous in this regard are American-based
scholars. Amina Wadud’s Qur’an and Woman: Rereading the Sacred Text from a Woman’s Perspective is
a landmark work in this regard and comprises a near-comprehensive encyclopedia on the subject.44
Also significant is Laleh Bakhtiar, who offers a groundbreaking woman’s translation of the Qur’an.45
Accompanying these works is The Feminist Edges of the Qurʾan by Aysha Hidayatullah, both critiquing
Wadud’s work as well as offering a historical and hermeneutical introduction to Islamic feminist
exegesis.46 (See also Chapter 29 in this volume by Hadia Mubarak.) However, gendered readings of
the Qur’an are not limited to an American or Western context. Gendered readings also have deep
roots in North Africa where Asma Lamrabet offers an “emancipatory reading” (qirāʾa li-ttah.arrur)
of scripture and where Ulfat Youssef examines the gender, social, and psychological dimensions of
360
the Qur’an today.47 Islamic Modernists and Arab secularists also took an interest in readings of the Qur’an
that were egalitarian and emancipatory for women (see “Secular and Modernist Readings” section).
Where feminist studies on scripture constitute a second wave of gendered readings on the Qur’an,
LGBTQ Studies constitute a third wave of gendered readings. Some of these studies explore “queer-
ing” Islamic scripture and offering a new critical assessment of the Islamic sources. In this regard, a
small but growing corpus exists.48
Final Remarks
Each and every reading of the Qur’an from outside the Islamic literary sources is complex, nuanced,
and deserving of the student’s and scholar’s full attention. The field of modern Qur’anic Studies is
fairly young, and new and innovative literary, aesthetic, and other trends are emerging every day.
This summary has sought to draw attention to the foremost studies in this regard, but I recognize the
inevitable shortcomings of trying to encapsulate the otherwise vast array of rich and sophisticated
scholarship that makes up an integral part of a growing field in just one chapter. Given the growth in
each of the readings of the Qur’an outside the tradition, the final word will not be spoken anytime
soon.
Notes
1 See Robert Hoyland, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It: A Survey and Evaluation of Christian, Jewish and Zoroastrian
Writings on Early Islam (Princeton, NJ: Darwin Press, 1997).
2 Fred Donner, Narratives of Islamic Origin: The Beginnings of Islamic Historical Writing (Princeton, NJ: Dar-
win Press, 1998), 132. These conquests became the subject of the maghāzī/futūh.āt genre of later Islamic
literature.
3 E.g., Muh.ammad Abū Zayd, Al-hidāya wa l-ʿirfān fi tafsīr al-qurʾān bi l-qurʾān (Cairo: Mus.․tafā al-Bābī
al-H.alabī, 1931).
4 Joseph Schacht, The Legacy of Islam (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974), 139. From within Islamic literary
sources, Schacht also cites Sayyid Ahmad Khan (d. 1898). In this category also is Muh.ammad ʿAbduh (d.
1905). See also Kate Zebiri, Mahmud Shaltut and Islamic Modernism (Oxford: Clarendon Press; New York:
Oxford University Press, 1993), 134.
5 See Reuven Firestone, “Muhammad, the Jews, and the Composition of the Qur’an: Sacred History and
Counter-history,” Religions 10, no. 1 (2019): 63; Arab Christians and the Qurʾan from the Origins of Islam to the
Medieval Period, ed. Mark Beaumont (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2013).
6 Julius Wellhausen, Muhammed in Medina: das ist Vakidi’s Kitāb alMaghazi, in verkürzter deutscher Wiedergabe
(Berlin: G. Reimer, 1882), 41, 310, 370–372; Reste arabischen heidentums, gesammelt und erläutert (Berlin: G.
Reimer, 1897); see also Ignác Goldziher, Muhammedanische Studien (Halle a. S.: M. Niemeyer, 1888–90);
translated into English as Muslim Studies, ed. and trans. S.M. Stern and C.R. Barber (New Brunswick, NJ:
Aldine Transaction, 2006), 31–32, 44, 237.
7 Abraham Geiger, Was hat Mohammed aus dem Judenthume aufgenommen? Eine von der König. Preussischen Rhei-
nuniversität gekrönte Preisschrift (Leipzig: Verlag von M.W. Kaufman, 1902); translated into English as Judaism
and Islam, trans. F.M. Young (Madras: MDCSPCK Press, 1896).
8 Theodor Nöldeke, Geschichte des Qorāns (Göttingen: Verlag der Dieterichschen Buchhandlung, 1860), 6–7,
13, 25, 39, 270, 309; translated into English as The History of the Qurʾān, trans. Wolfgang H. Behn (Leiden
and Boston, Brill, 2013).
9 Theodor Nöldeke, Neue Beitrage zur semitischen Sprachwissenschaft (Strassburg: APA-Philo Press, 1904), 2–23.
10 Karl Vollers, Volkssprache und Schriftsprache im alten Arabien (Strassburg: K.J. Trübner, 1906), 185–195.
11 Chaim Rabin, Ancient West-Arabian (London: Taylor’s Foreign Press, 1951), 107, 109, 123, 129, 167.
12 Eg., T ․ āhā H. usayn, Fī al-shiʿr al-jāhilī (Cairo: Dār al-Maʿārif, 1925), 27–35.
13 Nicolai Sinai, “Religious Poetry from the Quranic Milieu: Umayya b. Abī l-S.alt on the Fate of the Thamūd,”
Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies (2011): 397–416. See generally Nicolai Sinai, The Qur’an:
A Historical-critical Introduction (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2017).
14 Angelika Neuwirth, Der Koran als Text der Spätantike: Ein europäischer Zugang (Berlin: Verlag der Weltreli-
gionen, 2010). See further The Qur’an in Context (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2009).
361
Emran El-Badawi
15 “Über das Projekt,” Corpus Coranicum, https://corpuscoranicum.de/index/einleitung/sure/1/vers/1

( June 3, 2019).
16 John Wansbrough, Qur’anic Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977).
17 Ibid., 38–52.
18 Patricia Crone and Michael Cook, Hagarism: The Making of the Islamic World (Cambridge: New York: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1977), 29–30.
19 Yehuda Nevo and Judith Koren, Crossroads to Islam: The Origins of the Arab Religion and the Arab State
(Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 2003), 87–168, 255–281.
20 Alfred-Louis de Premare, Aux origines du Coran: questions d’hier, approches d’aujourd’hui (Paris: Téraèdre;
Tunis: Ceres Editions; Casablanca: Editions Le Fennec, 2005), 97–99, 135–136.
21 Patricia Crone, The Qur’anic Pagans and Related Matters: Collected Studies in Three Volumes, Vol. 1 (Leiden:
Brill, 2016).
22 Andrew Rippin, The Qur’an and Its Interpretive Tradition (London: Ashgate, 2001).
23 Christoph Luxenberg, Die syro-aramäische Lesart des Koran: Ein Beitrag zur Entschlüsselung der Koransprache
(Berlin: Verlag Hans Schiler, 2000), 20.
24 Tor Andrae, Der Ursprung der Islams und das Christentum (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksells, 1926); Alphonse
Mingana, “Syriac Influence on the Style of the Kurʾān,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 2 (1927).
25 Sidney Griffith, “Christian Lore and the Arabic Qur’ān: The ‘Companions of the Cave’ in Sūrat al-Kahf and
in Syriac Christian Tradition,” in The Qur’an in Its Historical Context, ed. Gabriel Said Reynolds (London:
Routledge, 2008), 111.
26 Recent studies include Vom Koran zum Islam: Schriften zur frühen Islamgeschichte und zum Koran. Inârah, Schrif-
ten zur frühen Islamgeschichte und zum Koran. Band 4, ed. Markus Gross and Karl-Heinz Ohlig (Berlin: Institut
zur Erforschung der frühen Islamgeschichte und des Koran, Schiler, 2009); Die Entstehung einer Weltreligion:
Von der koranischen Bewegung zum Frühislam, ed. Markus Gross and Karl-Heinz Ohlig (Berlin: Schiler, 2010).
27 Recent studies include Gabriel Reynolds, “Le problème de la chronologie du Coran,” Arabica 58 (2011):
477–502; The Qur’an and Its Biblical Subtext (New York and London: Routledge, 2012); The Qur’an Seminar
Commentary/Le Qur’an Seminar: A Collaborative Study of 50 Qur’anic Passages/Commentaire collaboratif de 50
passages coraniques, ed. Mehdi Azaiez et al. (Berlin and Boston: De Gruyter, 2016).
28 Joseph Witztum, “The Syriac Milieu of the Qur’ān” (PhD diss., Princeton University, 2011); Emran El-
Badawi, The Qur’an and the Aramaic Gospel Traditions (London: Routledge, 2013); Holger Zellentin, The
Qur’an’s Legal Culture: The Didascalia Apostolorum as a Point of Departure (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013).
29 Recent and insightful works in these areas include Guillaume Dye, “Lieux saints communs, partagés ou
confisqués: Aux sources de quelques péricopes coraniques (Q 19:16–33),” in Partage du sacré: Transferts,
dévotions mixtes, rivalités interconfessionnelles, ed. Isabelle Dépret and Guillaume Dye (Fernelmont, Belgium:
Editions Modulaires Européennes Inter Communication SPRL, 2012), 55–121; Tommaso Tesei, “Some
Cosmological Notions from Late Antiquity in Q 18:60–65: The Quran in Light of Its Cultural Context,”
Journal of the American Oriental Society 135, no. 1 (2015): 19–32.
30 Eg., Pierre de Caprona, Le Coran: Aux sources de la parole oraculaire: Structures rythmiques des sourates mec-
quoises (Paris: Publications orientalistes de France, 1981); Shawkat Toorawa, “ ‘The Inimitable Rose’,” being
Qur’anic sajʿ from Surat al-Nas (Q 93–114) in English Rhyming Prose,” Journal of Qur’ānic Studies 8, no.
2 (2006): 143–153; Devin Stewart, “The Mysterious Letters and Other Formal Features of the Qur’an in
Light of Greek and Babylonian Oracular Texts,” in New Perspectives on the Qur’an: The Qur’an in Historical
Context 2, ed. Gabriel Said Reynolds (London: Routledge, 2011), 321–346.
31 Michel Cuypers, Le festin: Une lecture de la sourate al-māʾida (Paris: Lethielleux, 2007). Translated into Eng-
lish as The Banquet: A Reading of the Fifth Sura of the Qur’an (Miami, FL: Convivium Press, 2009).
32 E.g., Daniel Madigan, The Qur’ân’s Self-Image (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001); Anne-
Sylvie Boisliveau, Le Coran par lui-même: Vocabulaire et argumentation du discours coranique (Leiden and Boston:
Brill, 2014); Mehdi Azaiez, Le contre-discours coranique (Berlin and Boston: De Gruyter, 2015).
33 Navid Kermani, Gott ist schön: das ästhetische Erleben des Koran (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1999); Nevin Reda,
The al-Baqara Crescendo: Understanding the Qur’an’s Style, Narrative Structure, and Running Themes (Montreal:
McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2017). See further Sandow Birk, American Qur’an (New York: Liveright,
2015).
34 Behnam Sadeghi and Uwe Bergmann, “The Codex of a Companion of the Prophet and the Qur’an of the
Prophet” Arabica 57 (2010): 370–371; Keith Small, Textual Criticism and Qur’an Manuscripts (Lanham, MA:
Lexington Books, 2011); François Déroche, Qur’ans of the Umayyads: A First Overview (Leiden: Brill, 2013);
Asma Hilali, The Sanaa Palimpsest: The Transmission of the Qur’an in the First Centuries AH (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2017).
35 See especially Mohammed Arkoun, Lectures du Coran (Paris: G.-P. Maisonneuve et Larose, 1982), 115–116.
362
36 See especially Muh.ammad Shah.rūr, al-Kitāb wa al-qur’an: qirāʾa muʿās.ira (Damascus: al-Ahālī li al-T ․ ibāʿa
wa al-Nashr wa al-Tawzīʿ, 1990), 4, 484–499; T ․ ayyib al-Tīzīnī, al-Nas..s al-qur’anī amāma ishkāliyyat al-binya
wa-al-qirāʾa (Damascus: Dār al-Yanābīʿ, 1997), 419–421; Gamāl al-Bannā, Tathwīr al-Qur’an (Cairo: Dār
al-Fikr al-Islāmī, 2000), 106; Mondher Sfar, Le Coran Est-il Authentique? (Paris: Les Editions Sfar, Diffusion
Le Cerf, 2000); H . asan H.anafī, Min al-nas..s ilā al-wāqiʿ (Beirut: Dār al-Madār al-Islāmī, 2004), 5–17; Hishām
Jaʿīt., Tārīkhiyyat al-daʿwa al-muh. ammadiyyah fī makka (Beirut: Dār al-T ․alīʿa li al-T
․ibāʿa wa al-Nashr, 2007),
152–174.
37 Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an (Minneapolis, MN: Bibliotheca Islamica, 1980), 97.
38 Abdolkarim Soroush, Bast-i Tajrubay-i Nabavī (Moasese Farhangi Serat, 1999), translated into English as The
Expansion of Prophetic Experience, trans. Nilou Mobasser (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 1–25.
39 ʿAlī Dashtī, Bīst va sīh sāl (Paris: Forghan, 1990–1994); trans. F. Bagley, Twenty Three Years: A Study of the
Prophetic Career of Mohammad (London and Boston: G. Allen & Unwin, 1985), 50–164.
40 Malek Bennabi, Le phénomène caranique: Essai d’une théorie sur le Coran, 1968, Arab. trans. ʿAbd al-S.abūr
Shāhīn, al-Z ․ āhira al-Qur’aniyya (Beirut: Dār al-Fikr, 1968), 360.
41 Nasr H. Abu Zayd, Mafhūm al-nas.s.: dirāsa fī ʿulūm al-Qurʾān (Cairo: al-Hayʾa al-Mis.riyya al-ʿĀmma lil-
Kitāb, 1990), 59–63.
42 Ali Mabrouk, “Al-Qur’an mā baʿd abī zayd wa mā qabl al-mus.h.af,” Journal of the International Qur’anic Studies
Association 1 (2016): 1–14.
43 Muh.ammad Abu Zayd, al-Hidāya wa-al-ʿirfān fī tafsīr al-qurʾān bi l-Qurʾān (Cairo: Mat․baʿat Mus.․tafā al-Bābī
al-H. alabī, 1930) is an example of the former. For the Qur’anist school, see Rashad Khalifa, Quran, Hadith,
and Islam (Fremont, CA: Universal Unity, 2001); Ahmad S. Mansur, al-Qur’an wa kafā: mas.daran li al-tashrīʿ
al-islāmī (Beirut: Muʾasasat al-Intishār al-ʿArabī, 2005); Nihrū T ․ ant․āwī, Qirāʾa li al-islām min jadīd (Cairo:
Nihrū Tant․āwī, 2005). Cf. in relation Ibn Qirnās, Sunnat al-awwalīn: tah.līl mawāqif al-nās min al-dīn wa
taʿlīlihā (Cologne: Manshūrat al-Jamal, 2006).
44 Amina Wadud, Qur’an and Woman: Rereading the Sacred Text from a Woman’s Perspective (New York and
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999).
45 Laleh Bakhtiar, The Sublime Quran (Chicago: Kazi Publications, 2011).
46 Aysha Hidayatullah, The Feminist Edges of the Qur’an (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). See also
Karen Bauer, Gender Hierarchy in the Qur’an: Medieval Interpretations, Modern Responses (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 2015); Kecia Ali, Sexual Ethics and Islam: Feminist Reflections on Qur’an, Hadith, and
Jurisprudence (London: Oneworld, 2016).
47 Asma Lamrabet, Women in the Qur’an: An Emancipatory Reading, trans. Myriam Francois-Cerrah (Leices-
tershire, UK: Square View, 2016); Ulfat Youssef, Le Coran au risque de la psychanalyse (Paris: Albin-Michel,
2007).
48 Cf., specifically, Scott Kugle, “The Reception of the Qur’an in the LGBTQ Muslim Community,” in Com-
munities of the Qur’an: Dialogue, Debate and Diversity in the 21st Century, ed. Emran El-Badawi and Paula
Sanders (London: Oneworld, 2019), 98–131. Cf., generally, Samar Habib, Islam and Homosexuality, 2 vols.
(Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO, 2010); Scott Kugle, Homosexuality in Islam: Critical Reflection on Gay, Les-
bian, and Transgender Muslims (London: Oneworld, 2010); Junaid Jahangir and Hussein Abdullatif, Islamic
Law and Muslim Same-Sex Unions (Lanham, UK: Lexington Books, 2016).
363
33
TRANSLATION
Johanna Pink
(Un-)Translatability and Translation: Dogmatic Considerations

When dealing with Muslim Qur’an translations, there appears to be a striking contradiction between
the oft-heard claim that, according to Muslim dogma, the Qur’an must not be translated and the
fact that it has been translated by Muslims for more than a thousand years. Part of that contradiction
stems from the ambiguity of the concept of translation. Translation might be understood as a process
whose end result replaces the original text and assumes, for the reader, all of its functions, thereby
making it unnecessary to engage with the original. This particular concept of translation is indeed
rejected by the vast majority of Muslims, including most Muslim scholars. If, on the other hand,
translation is understood as a type of exegesis in a language other than Arabic, serving to explain the
meaning of the Arabic Qur’an but not to rival its stylistic perfection or assume its recitational func-
tion, then this is a concept that, despite having been the subject of some debate, has been widely
embraced by Muslims throughout their intellectual history and is ubiquitous today.1
The need for translation arose as soon as speakers of languages other than Arabic started to
embrace Islam. For these converts and for those who sought to instruct them in the requirements
of their new religion, the question of whether and how to translate the Qur’an arose on several
levels. There was little conflict over the widespread use of translations for homiletic and exegetical
purposes; these translations were essentially seen as a type of commentary on the text. The Arabic
word tarjama, today often understood as an equivalent of the English term “translation,” denoted a
permissible adaptation, explanation, or interpretation of the meaning of the text and was thus rather
close to the concept of Qur’anic “exegesis” (tafsīr).2
In support of the permissibility of tarjama, the Andalusian Mālikī jurist Ibrāhīm ibn Mūsā
al-Shāt․ibī (d. 790/1388) expressed the opinion that it is perfectly legitimate to translate the Qur’an
for common Muslims who do not understand Arabic. Such a translation, he held, can certainly not
transfer the rhetoric of the Arabic Qur’an and the uniqueness of its style into another language. It
can, however, explain its meaning. This, al-Shāt․ibī claimed, reflects the consensus of Muslims.3 The
fact that the Qur’an had, by this time, already been translated for centuries into various languages
without much opposition from Muslim jurists strongly supports this claim.4
As al-Shāt․ibī’s argument shows, the debate around the translatability of the Qur’an was intimately
tied to the notion of “the inimitability of the Qur’an” (iʿjāz al-Qur’an). This doctrine, which had
evolved by the third/ninth century, was based on the conviction that human beings were incapable
364 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-36

Translation
of producing any text on the stylistic level of the Qur’an.5 A translation could only hope to describe
the contents, not to capture the full and precise meaning that was transported by the Qur’an’s elo-
quent Arabic. For this reason, Abū H.āmid al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111) cautioned against the use of
translations in place of the Arabic original since a translator will invariably have to make choices that
do not fully correspond to the Arabic source text and might thus obfuscate its meaning,6 in contrast
to a commentary that has sufficient space to discuss the meaning at length. Moreover, attempts to
imitate the Qur’an’s language might even be considered sacrilegious since the Qur’an, in the so-
called “challenge verses” (āyāt al-tah.addī), repeatedly challenges people to produce a text like it and
implies they would not be able to do so even if they tried (e.g., Q 2:24, 17:88).
However, such dogmatic concerns were a rather theoretical matter. Premodern Qur’an transla-
tions often took the form of interlinear word-by-word translations where the Arabic text maintains
its integrity and its individual words are explained between the lines in non-Arabic glosses that do
not form a coherent text of their own.7 Other forms – for example, running intraverse or paraphras-
tic translations – emerged at an early stage as well, always retaining the Arabic text.8
The question of reciting the Qur’an in another language, especially during ritual prayer, was a
separate issue altogether and engendered a major legal debate. It arose as soon as non-Arabs embraced
Islam in massive numbers. The obligatory ritual prayer contains al-Fātih.a (“the Opening” sura, Q
1) and other short segments of the Qur’an. Is it permissible to recite those in translation if a Mus-
lim is unable to recite them in Arabic or is bound to mispronounce them? The majority of jurists
responded negatively; they held that if the text cannot be spoken in Arabic, it should be replaced
either by a silent pause or by the repeated recitation of the name of God. The notable exception
was the H . anafī school, which was particularly strong in the Persianate East of the Islamicate world.
While Abū H . anīfa (d. 150/767), the putative founder of that school, had explicitly allowed to any-
one the use of Persian translations in recitation, later H.anafī jurists generally restricted this permis-
sion to persons who had not yet mastered Arabic, which they considered the ideal, or who had not
even memorized the relevant fragments of the Qur’an to a sufficient degree, which they required of
every Muslim who was at all capable of doing so.9
Translation and Exegesis in the Premodern Islamic Tradition

Qur’an translations played various roles in different social contexts. Besides the contested ritual use,
non-Arabic versions of the Qur’an – or of Qur’anic material – were employed for homiletic, educa-
tional or scholarly purposes. They played an important role in conversions to Islam. Oral translation
activity occurred early and presumably in the languages of all peoples that interacted with Muslims
frequently. The first and initially most prominent language in which written translations emerged
was Persian. This was connected to the rise of New Persian as a literary language and the emergence
of a Persianate court culture in the fourth/tenth century.10
At least from the fifth/eleventh century, Turkic translations were produced. They often built
upon the Persian tradition of vernacular exegesis and, like their Persian counterparts, were used in
formal education, especially as Turkish court culture emerged. The strong influence of Persian is
evident in the frequency of trilingual Qur’an manuscripts, that is, the Arabic Qur’an with Turkic
and Persian glosses.11
A different context was that of Iberia, where the Christian Reconquista forced Muslim religious
practice into secrecy and led to a loss of Arabic among Mudejars (Iberian Muslims who maintained
their religion after the conquest) and Moriscos (Muslims who converted to Christianity, which all
Mudejars were forced to do between 1502 and 1526). Between the fifteenth and seventeenth centu-
ries, until the expulsion of the remaining Moriscos from Spain, the Qur’an was frequently translated
into Aljamiado (ʿajamī, “foreign”), that is, Romance languages written in Arabic script. Most of these
365
Johanna Pink
translations did not cover the complete Qur’an but contained selections of important segments for
ritual purposes.12
From around the sixteenth century onward, there was a significant rise of vernacular literary
activity and thus also of written Qur’anic exegesis in vernacular languages across the Muslim world –
again often in Arabic scripts. For example, in the Malay world, written exegetical activity in Malay
languages goes back to the sixteenth century, and the oldest surviving manuscript containing a trans-
lation of and commentary on a complete sura of the Qur’an dates from around 1600.13 The oldest
evidence of a written translation or periphrasis of the Qur’an into an African language – Kanembu,
spoken in what is today North Nigeria – also dates from the seventeenth century but is probably
based on much older precursors.14 In India, the twelfth-/eighteenth-century reformer Shāh Walī
Allāh al-Dihlāwī (d. 1176/1762) considered it essential to translate the Qur’an for educational pur-
poses. His own translation was into Persian, the language of Indian Muslim courts and scholarship.
His sons produced Urdu translations toward the end of the eighteenth century.15 Around the same
time Sindhi translations emerged. Those had their roots not in the court culture but in mystical
traditions; they were used by Sufi masters to instruct their disciples.16
In all these cases, the boundaries between translation and vernacular exegesis were blurred.
The text of the Qur’an might be combined with interlinear word-by-word translations or running
commentaries; alternatively, or in addition, it might have a paraphrase or more extensive com-
mentary, either in the margins or below the Qur’anic text. The commentary might have been
written by a native speaker of the language in question, or it might be a translation from Arabic,
drawing on popular Qur’anic commentaries like the Tafsīr al-Jalālayn. Furthermore, it might be
interspersed with vernacular poetry. There have also been translations or adaptations of extensive
Qur’anic commentaries, a famous example being the Persian Tafsīr-i T ․ abarī, which, while not at
all corresponding to al-T ․ abarī’s extensive Arabic Jāmiʿ al-Bayān, draws on material associated with
al-T․ abarī in order to adapt the Qur’an to the needs of a Persian court, especially by connecting it
with Persian history and mythology.17 In such cases, the complete text of the Qur’an was inter-
preted in the target language. However, partial translations, often in the form of prayer books, were
far more common.
Given the multitude of forms in which a vernacular engagement with the Qur’an took place and
the fluidity of the boundaries between them, it is doubtful whether it would make sense or even
be possible to distinguish clearly between a translation and a work of exegesis. This reflects the fact
that the concept of tarjama as an explanation and interpretation of the source text is rather close to
the notion of tafsīr. Besides, there is no such thing as a “literal” translation. Every translation is a
hermeneutical activity.18 Even the author of an interlinear word-by-word translation who does not
seek to produce a separate text with a coherent meaning will have to make choices when deciding
on the equivalent of Qur’anic terms. After all, it is well accepted among exegetes that the Qur’an
is “polysemic” (dhū wujūh). The authors of interlinear translation-glosses responded to this problem
in various ways: from translating a single word by a complex expression19 to picking one among
several possible meanings seemingly at random, possibly from a glossary.20 The Arabic word amr,
for example, can mean “command” as well as “affair.” One Persian–Turkic interlinear translation
provides a Turkic term with one of the meanings and a Persian term with the other. The intention
behind such glosses was clearly to provide not a version of the Qur’an in the vernacular but rather
an aid to comprehension or a tool to help readers of the Qur’an learn Arabic.21 The only meaningful
way to distinguish such activities from what modern readers would recognize as a “translation” is to
define “translation” not as an activity but as a literary genre characterized by the attempt to produce
a stand-alone text that can be read without any reference to or knowledge of the original. This genre
of Qur’an translation only emerged in the late nineteenth century and became pervasive in the first
third of the twentieth century.
366
Translation
Print Culture and Modern Statehood

The nineteenth century brought about two decisive changes: the rise of printing and the spread
of formal, nonreligious schooling throughout the Muslim world. Both developments not only
enormously increased the rate at which Qur’an translations were produced but also fundamentally
changed their role. Premodern written translations and commentaries had predominantly been used
for educational and scholarly purposes. The illiterate masses had no direct access to them; their
contact with religious teachings was more commonly through Sufi rituals, sermons that built upon
narrative material like the stories of the prophets, and catechisms.22 With the rise of modern state
structures, whether they were imposed by a colonial authority or developed from within as was the
case in the Ottoman Empire and Egypt, a new educated class emerged. Its members had not usu-
ally received religious training, had rarely memorized the Qur’an, and were literate in their native
languages but not in Arabic. The printing press offered the means to provide this new educated class
with direct access to religious sources. All these developments seriously challenged the prevailing
system of Islamic learning in which oral and personal modes of transmission had always played a
central role.23 This allowed for new forms and styles of writing, often produced by authors outside
the ranks of religious scholarship.
The Arabic Qur’an itself was first printed by Muslims in the East of the Islamic World – in Russia,
India, and Persia – in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Resistance in the Ottoman
Empire was higher. The first Istanbul Qur’an edition was only published in 1874.24 The nineteenth
century also saw the burgeoning of printed Qur’an translations that more and more commonly took
the form of a coherent text, usually printed alongside the Arabic text. Numerous translations into
various South Asian languages were printed beginning in the 1820s. Printed Turkish and Persian
translations followed around the middle of the nineteenth century. The first effort to translate the
complete Qur’an into Chinese, not in the form of a gloss or interlinear translation but as a stand-
alone text, was undertaken in the second half of the nineteenth century.25 By the 1920s, printed
translations of the Qur’an into local languages existed all over the Muslim world, from West Africa
to South East Asia.26
The traditions of Islamic learning also came under attack from reformist scholars who called for
a return to the fundamentals: the Qur’an, the Sunna, and the practice of the first generations of
Muslims. In these reformist discourses, the Qur’an gained a new centrality; it was to be stripped of
exegetical “innovations” (bidaʿ), additions, and distortions. For Walī Allāh al-Dihlāwī, teaching the
Arabic Qur’an directly, not through commentaries, was crucial in order to reform the Muslim com-
munity. Nonetheless, he obviously had no qualms about making the Qur’an accessible in Persian.
Many intellectuals in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, at least in parts of the Islamic
world, had more scruples about the concept of translating the Qur’an. In the Ottoman Empire espe-
cially, writers preferred to call their works “commentaries” (tefsir), “summaries” (meal), or “explana-
tions” (beyan), making a point of avoiding the term tercüme (Turkish for tarjama).27 In other regions,
like South and Southeast Asia, the term tarjama in its local variants was used freely, though with the
understanding that it denoted a paraphrase of the meanings, not an independent work meant to
replace the original.28
In the nineteenth century, through the experience of colonialism and Christian missionary activi-
ties, Muslims also became increasingly aware of and exposed to Qur’an translations produced by
non-Muslims. These were either imported or written at the request of colonial administrators, dip-
lomats, and missionaries. They were frequently used to provide arguments for anti-Islamic polemics.
Especially in Sub-Saharan Africa, the first Qur’an translations to be produced in local languages like
Yoruba and Swahili were written by Christian missionaries, sometimes on the basis of English trans-
lations. This occasionally elicited direct reactions in the form of a Muslim “counter-translation.”29
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Johanna Pink
The debates on Qur’an translation were relevant not only to discourses of religious reform but
also to processes of nation-state building. Questions of national identity were often intimately con-
nected to the promotion of a national language. This became particularly apparent in Turkey where,
in the final stages of the Ottoman Empire, Turkish nationalists dreamed of a Turkish Qur’an. After
the Turkish Republic was founded, the government of Kemal Atatürk (d. 1938) commissioned an
official Turkish Qur’an translation, although the label “Turkish Qur’an” was rejected by the scholars
working on the project, and the end result was an Arabic Qur’an with a Turkish commentary rather
than a Turkish text standing on its own. The issue was tied in with debates around the use of Turkish
in ritual prayer and received much attention across the Islamic world.30
Later, and much more successfully, the newly independent Indonesian nation state followed suit
with a government translation that was first published in the 1960s and that has seen several edi-
tions. Major political transformations and changes in the religious field resulted in changes in the
translation’s rhetoric. Thus, the revolutionary language of the introduction that revolved around
the first president Sukarno’s (d. 1970) idea of the “fire of Islam” (api Islam) was replaced with one
of citizenship; the translation became more literal in many instances, but it also took the interests
of the state into account more clearly. For example, in its translation of wa-ka-dhālika jaʿalnā fī kulli
qaryatin akābira mujrimīhā li-yamkurū fīhā (“And even so We appointed in every city great ones among
its sinners, to devise there,” Q 6:123), the first edition seemed to imply that God had appointed
“in every country” (negeri) authorities or “high-ranking functionaries” (pembesar-pembesar) who are
“evil” or “criminal” (yang jahat). The subsequent editions took care to avoid the political implica-
tions this translation might have and replaced it with the far more innocuous statement that God had
appointed “very great criminals” (penjahat-penjahat yang terbesar).31
The government translation is the most widespread printed bilingual version of the Qur’an in
Indonesia, but it also makes the official religious discourse vulnerable to attacks. In 2011, Muham-
mad Thalib, head of the Islamist organization Majelis Mujahedin Indonesia, published an extensive
criticism of the government translation along with a counter-translation. He accused the govern-
ment of distorting the meaning of the Qur’an by neglecting to provide indispensable exegetical
explanations. Such explanations should, according to Thalib, highlight the negative role of the Jews
as clarified in exegetical hadiths and emphasize the need to apply the sharia in all places and times.
They should also spell out restrictions on violence and warfare that are not explicitly mentioned
in the Qur’an. Since the government translation does not make extensive reference to such restric-
tion, Thalib accuses it of fostering terrorism, thereby seeking to delegitimize the official religious
discourse.32
Politics and Polemics: Twentieth-Century Debates

With the spread of Christian missionary translations and the attempts of Turkish nationalists to cre-
ate a distinctive Turkish Islam, the stage was set for a renewed debate around the permissibility of
translating the Qur’an. This debate was framed within the political and ideological conflicts of the
first third of the twentieth century. A third factor also fueled the debate: the translation activities of
the Ahmadiyya movement, which had been founded by Mīrzā Ghulām Ah.mad (d. 1908) in India. In
1914, his followers split into two branches over the question of whether Mīrzā Ghulām Ah.mad was
a messiah or merely a reformer. Both branches were highly active in spreading their teachings in the
Muslim world, Europe, and the United States, and Qur’an translations played a pivotal role in their
proselytizing strategies, which often followed Christian models. However, their ideas, especially
those of the messianic Qādyānī branch, were highly controversial among Muslims and were rejected
as heretical by most. Nonetheless, the Ahmadiyya movement was often among the first to publish a
Qur’an translation in a particular language. The English translation by Muh.ammad ʿAlī33 (d. 1951)
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especially, with its layout in which English and Arabic were printed in side-by-side columns, served
as a model for many later translators.
Several factors conspired to make many Muslim intellectuals feel that the authority and unifying
force of the Qur’an itself were under threat: colonialism, the abolition of the Caliphate in 1924, the
emergence of nation-states, the efforts of Christian missionaries to prove the superiority of the Bible
over the Qur’an, and the proliferation of the allegedly heterodox Ahmadiyya Qur’an translations.
Therefore, during the first third of the twentieth century, a number of fatwas, articles, and statements
were published vehemently attacking the ubiquitous attempts to translate the Qur’an, while other
publications called just as strongly for the spreading of the true Qur’anic message through sound
translations. Cairo was the main locus of this debate.
Among the opponents of Qur’an translations were the influential reformer Muh.ammad Rashīd
Riā (d. 1935), editor of the journal al-Manār, the two-time Shaykh al-Islām of the Ottoman Empire
Mus.․tafā S.abrī (d. 1954), and the high-ranking Azhar scholar Muh.ammad Shākir (d. 1939). They
feared that translating the Qur’an into a multitude of languages would bring about “divisions” (fitna)
and would undermine the restoration of unity under a caliphate that Rashīd Rid.a, in particular,
envisaged as an Arab caliphate. Moreover, they saw little value in granting uneducated Muslims
access to a vernacularized version of their holy scripture and instead recommended the spread of
Arabic education as a means of achieving Muslim unity. Muslims who were unable to understand the
Qur’an should ask religious scholars for its meaning. Thus the opposition to Qur’an translations also
served to bolster the authority of traditional religious “scholars” (ʿulamāʾ). The opponents of Qur’an
translations furthermore felt that such works promoted secular nationalism, fell in line with a tradi-
tion of Christian anti-Muslim polemics, and made the Qur’an too easily accessible to non-Muslims
who might deride it. Rashīd Rid.ā saw Qur’an translations as part of a colonialist strategy to misguide
and divide Muslims. Any translation would invariably distort the Qur’an’s message and reduce the
range of possible meanings to a single one, chosen by fallible humans who expect Muslims to follow
their opinions instead of God’s word. Finally, the extensive publication efforts of the Ahmadiyya, and
especially the attempt of the Lahore branch to import Muh.ammad ʿAlī’s English Qur’an translation
into Egypt, aroused fears of the spread of heterodox ideas. Thus the Muh.ammad ʿAlī translation was
publicly burned in the courtyard of the Azhar mosque in Cairo in 1925.34
On the other hand, eminent scholars such as Mus.․tafā al-Marāghī (d. 1945), Shaykh al-Azhar from
1928 to 1929 and again from 1935 to 1945, Mah.mūd Shaltūt (d. 1963), Shaykh al-Azhar from 1958
till his death, and Farīd Wajdī (d. 1954) strongly supported the idea of Qur’an translations. In their
opinion, sound Qur’an translations were desperately needed in order to counteract the harmful
influence of Christian missionaries and to propagate Islam. For the latter purpose, English transla-
tions were seen as particularly desirable. Theologically, al-Marāghī drew upon the ideas of al-Shāt․ibī
in order to defend the idea of translation. He went so far as to suggest that a translation could serve
as a basis for legal rulings. In the 1930s, even Rashīd Rid.ā gave up his opposition to Qur’an transla-
tions, especially as their supporters stressed that these were not meant to replace the Arabic Qur’an
but merely to explain its meanings.35
In 1938, the translation by Abdullah Yusuf Ali (d. 1953) was the first English Qur’an translation
to be printed in Egypt.36 The opposition to translating had by then all but lost its case. The only
remaining concession to their arguments is a terminological one, since many Muslim Qur’an trans-
lators continue to avoid the label “translation” and prefer designations that point to the exegetical
nature of their works, such as “interpretation of the meanings of the Qur’an.”
The general loss of reservations about Qur’an translations is exemplified by the fact that an insti-
tution in Saudi Arabia – a state that is generally opposed to the concept of “illicit innovations” in
religious matters – is today the most important global actor in the production and distribution of
Qur’an translations. This is in line with the country’s missionary policies. The King Fahd Complex
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for the Printing of the Holy Qur’an in Medina was founded by King Fahd in 1982. Since then, it
has printed translations into more than 50 languages. Some of these were new editions of existing
works, while others have been commissioned or produced by the staff of the Complex. The target
languages include many that do not have a strong literary tradition and had therefore previously not
had their own version of the Qur’an, such as Tamazight, Chichewa, or the Roma languages. The
King Fahd Complex justifies its activity with a fatwa that declares it permissible for Muslims to recite
and memorize the Qur’an in other languages if they cannot do so in Arabic. This is a remarkably
liberal position, especially given the explicit reference to recitation.37
Translators’ Choices
While there are various studies discussing the merits and drawbacks of different translations or meth-
ods of translation, Wilson notes that “the interesting choices made by translators are often lost amid
compulsive evaluations of accuracy, which is an elusive concept.”38
Among the first basic choices a translator has to make is the question whether – or rather, how
far – to aim for a “literal” representation of the text.39 One example might illustrate some of the
problems inherent in this concept. Sura 100 speaks of humanity’s ingratitude toward God (Q 100:6)
and continues: innahū li-h.ubbi l-khayri la-shadīdun (Q 100:8). Laleh Bakhtiar renders this in her trans-
lation as “And he is more severe in the cherishing of good.”40 She follows the meaning of the Arabic
words so closely that the result is hardly comprehensible or meaningful, coming close to the style of
premodern interlinear translations. One alternative is to move away from word-by-word translation
and present the meaning upon which most exegetes agree. Abdullah Yusuf Ali, for example, writes:
“And violent is he in his love of wealth.”41
Such choices are based on an exegetical framework that might reflect the translator’s own under-
standing or a broader exegetical trend. More fundamentally, it touches upon the question whether
translation is understood as a process of establishing coherence, either within the Qur’anic text or
between the text and ideas upon which the community of believers – or specific communities of
believers – agree.
For example, a centuries-long theological debate addressed the nature of the seemingly anthro-
pomorphic attributes of God that are repeatedly mentioned in the Qur’an: God’s hand, God’s face,
God’s throne, and so forth. Translators have to decide whether to simply follow the Qur’anic word-
ing in these cases or to take a position in favor of a metaphorical meaning.42 Thus, while most
authors of English Qur’an translations choose to render the Arabic word kursī in the “Throne Verse”
(Q 2:255) literally as God’s “seat” or “throne,” Muhammad Asad speaks of God’s “eternal power.”43
The Saheeh International Translation, on the other hand, pursues a distinct brand of literalness by
opting for the translation “His Kursi,”44 which expresses the view that many Qur’anic terms are so
specific to Islam that they cannot properly be reproduced in a language other than Arabic.45
Another question in this context is whether to use Qur’anic terms in the sense in which they
have usually been understood by later Muslims or in the sense that they might originally have had.
This concerns very fundamental terms like zakāt, a word that exists as a loan word in most languages
predominantly spoken by Muslims and that is taken to denote the “alms tax,” one of the “pillars
of Islam.” In the Qur’an, however, it is repeatedly used in the sense of righteousness or of general
almsgiving. Translating it as “zakat” might thus distort the original meaning.46 Similarly, the word
muslim occurs in the Qur’an in the general sense of a person who submits to God, a category that
is not necessarily limited to the followers of the message proclaimed by Muh.ammad. If translated as
“Muslim,” however, it will be understood precisely in that restricted sense.47
Furthermore, translators, especially Muslim translators, have to deal with the key hermeneutical
question of whether to incorporate exegetical hadith material that is generally considered authentic.
Some translators have caused controversy by basing their translations of Q 1:7 on a hadith that is
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included in many Qur’an commentaries and that Muslim scholars have generally taken to be sound.
The verse talks of those who have “earned [God’s] wrath on themselves” (al-maghd. ūb ʿalayhim) and
“those who go astray” (al-d. āllīn), and the hadith clarifies that this means the Jews and Christians.48
Several versions of translations distributed by the King Fahd Complex incorporated this interpreta-
tion into their rendition of the sura but later omitted it due to fierce protests. Likewise, Thalib’s
previously mentioned Islamist Indonesian translation presented it as part of the running text in order
to express opposition to the official government discourse on religious pluralism.49
As the latter case illustrates, local power dynamics often play an important role in the process of
writing and publishing Qur’an translations. They might find their expression in such contentious
topics as the status of non-Muslims and women50 or in seemingly less controversial and therefore less
frequently studied questions of ritual or belief.51 These dynamics have to be taken into account in
order to understand the choices Qur’an translators make.
Types, Purposes, and Target Languages of Translations

For any more systematic understanding of Qur’an translations, it is inadvisable to limit the enquiry
to the category of translations that have primarily been discussed so far, that is, works produced
by Muslims for a Muslim audience. In fact, Qur’an translations that have been written outside the
Islamic world, especially in Western languages, from Latin to English, have hitherto attracted far
more scholarly attention and have received much broader coverage in survey articles than those
into languages predominantly spoken by Muslims.52 The distinction between “Muslim” and “non-
Muslim” translations, or those produced inside and outside of the Islamic world, has often been
implicitly taken for granted in scholarship. The pitfalls of such an approach become immediately
apparent when taking the universal role of English into account. English translations have often
served as base translations for translations into other vernaculars and have been the subject of heated
debates in Muslim-majority countries like Egypt.53
In the following, an alternative categorization according to intention and target group will be
proposed. These categories should, like all categorizations, be understood as a framework for analysis
rather than as being exclusive and as explaining everything; indeed, the overlap between them may
be significant in certain instances.54 The religious orientation of the author and the religious envi-
ronment in which the translation is published play a role in the definition of the categories, but the
most important factors are their purpose and the intended audience. These directly influence the
style and form of the translations and the exegetical choices made by the translator.
A first major category is that of educational Qur’an translations. They are directed toward Muslims
who do not know sufficient Arabic to understand the Qur’an and want to learn about its meaning.
Since the target audience does not have advanced religious education, the authors of such transla-
tions are interested in providing their readers with a “correct” understanding of the text, which is,
of course, dependent on the author’s perspective. This might be achieved by clarifying the “real
meaning” of Qur’anic expressions in parentheses or notes. Often the boundaries between these
translations and paraphrastic commentaries are porous. Some of them contain aids for the recitation
of the Arabic Qur’an – for example, transliterations – thus underlining Arabic’s privileged position.
A second category – one that has played an important role historically – has its roots in inter-
religious polemics. The desire to refute Islam was what motivated translations into Greek and possibly
into Syriac (though the latter of these have not been preserved) and later a number of translations
into Latin as well as European vernaculars. The polemical tradition continued at least into the eight-
eenth century. It later merged with certain Orientalist discourses, for example, the attempt to prove
that the Qur’an had extensively borrowed from Judaism.55 In the twentieth century, it lived on in
the works of Christian missionaries who translated the Qur’an in order to be better able to preach
the Bible to Muslims.56
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A third category, the scholarly Qur’an translation, goes back to the seventeenth century and is
connected to the emergence of Oriental Studies in Europe and later in the United States, Japan,
and other countries. It is based on philological scholarship, often takes into account the Muslim
exegetical tradition, and frequently aims at reconstructing the Qur’anic meaning as it must have been
understood by its first listeners. These translations are meant to be suitable for use in the academy,
although some translators might also try to make them appealing for a general public that has an
interest in Islam.57
Satisfying this interest is, indeed, the main aim of translations belonging to the fourth category.
They want to inform a broader public of the content of the Qur’an. Sometimes such translations,
regardless of whether they have been written by Muslims or non-Muslims, are heavily influenced
by Muslim exegetical traditions. Those that have been written by Muslims sometimes lean toward
apologetics and might also have a missionary impetus.
A small subgroup of the translations belonging to this category make an effort not only to convey
the meaning but also to represent the style of the Qur’an to an audience incapable of appreciating
it in Arabic. Usually this only concerns parts of the Qur’an, most commonly the early Meccan
suras, constituting an interesting analogy to the prevalence of commentaries on the last part of the
Qur’an, the juzʾ ʿammā, in the Muslim world. For example, works by Michael Sells in English
and Angelika Neuwirth in German propose to approach the Qur’an through the early Meccan
suras. Their translations of these suras aim at capturing the intensity and poetry of the original.58
Several nineteenth-century German-speaking Orientalists – Friedrich Rückert (d. 1866), Joseph
von Hammer-Purgstall (d. 1856), and Martin Klamroth (d. 1890) – even went so far as to present
rhyming translations in German of Meccan suras in which they aimed to convey an impression of
the “monorhyme prose” (sajʿ) that is characteristic of most of the Qur’anic text.59 More recently,
Shawkat Toorawa made a similar attempt to translate several Meccan suras into English while retain-
ing the stylistic feature of sajʿ.60
Rhyming translations have, however, been written not only to acquaint a non-Muslim audience
with the literary and emotional impression that the Arabic Qur’an leaves on its listeners, but they
also have a place in the history of Muslim Qur’an translations as part of a rather unique category that
could be termed devotional. These translations are highly poetic and have often been written by Sufis
or members of movements that are associated with Sufism.61 In recent times, such projects run the
risk of being considered a heretical attempt at imitating God’s inimitable style.62
The Translator’s Lens and the Question of Origins

Most Qur’an translations written by Muslims and a considerable number of those written by non-
Muslims are largely based on the perspective of Muslim exegetical traditions, taking into account
their repertoire of exegetical hadiths, occasions of revelation, and semantic explanations pertaining
to the Qur’anic text. In the words of one reviewer, “[T]he Qur’an can only be truly understood if
it is read in conjunction with the other Islamic literature like tafsirs and hadith which elucidate its
meanings. These texts all refer and interact with each other to form a complex tapestry of belief.”63
A different approach was pursued by another category of translations, mainly written by Orien-
talists. In their authors’ opinions, Muslim exegetical traditions are not necessarily congruent with
what the Qur’an originally wanted to say. The recovery of this original meaning is the main aim of
such translations. The German Orientalist Rudi Paret, representing a fairly typical example of this
endeavor, stated that a historical interpretation of the Qur’an means “to read out of every sentence
the meaning that Muh.ammad originally wanted to convey in a situation that was shaped by distinct
historical circumstances and a specific milieu.”64 In order to retrieve this meaning, Paret considers it
advisable to follow the Qur’anic text itself, as opposed to later Muslim exegesis, as closely as possible,
for example, by identifying parallel usages of words and expressions within the text. His reading of
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the text is based on the assumption that the Qur’an was an Arabic text from the outset and thus
has to be understood against the backdrop of pre-Islamic Arabic literature. As for the historical cir-
cumstances of its origins, Paret sees no reason to doubt the essentials of the information about Muh.
ammad’s life in first/seventh century Mecca and Medina that is provided by Muslim historians.65
In this sense, translations belonging to this category are often to a large extent based on the same
sources as those that prefer reading the Qur’an through the Muslim exegetical tradition.
Both approaches have been heavily criticized in recent decades for uncritically reproducing Mus-
lim narratives and not taking into account possible non-Arabic and/or non-Muslim influences on
the Qur’an or even sources for the Qur’anic text. This criticism is tied in with larger debates about
revisionist approaches to early Islamic history that frequently find their expression in controversies
about the translation of specific terms in the Qur’an. In these controversies, the role of biblical and
more generally of Jewish and Christian sources in reading the Qur’an is a central point of contention.
Some extreme revisionist theories argue that the Qur’an is originally a Christian text and that its
terminology needs to be translated accordingly.66 In the beginning of the 2000s, the increasing popu-
larity of revisionist approaches to the early history of Islam and the Qur’an, which had started to
emerge in the 1970s, was reflected in the broad reception of Christoph Luxenberg’s proposal to read
the Qur’an as a Syro-Aramaic Christian liturgical text, especially of his translation of the Qur’anic
term h.ūr ʿīn, normally understood to denote the “virgins [of Paradise],” as “white grapes of crystal
clarity” (e.g., Q 56:22). In a later text, Luxenberg claimed that the Qur’anic Laylat al-Qadr (“the
Night of Destiny”) is in reality a reference to Christmas. Such theories have been subject to massive
scholarly criticism, pointing out philological and methodological flaws and the thin evidence that
supports their proponents’ far-reaching conclusions.67 It has to be mentioned that none of the revi-
sionists has so far produced a translation of the Qur’an or of larger coherent segments of the Qur’an.
Luxenberg, for example, focuses on one Qur’anic passage in which the h.ūr ʿīn are mentioned and
leaves aside other passages in which the description clearly pertains to women and not to fruit. This
selective approach to the text is one of the main points of criticism. At the same time, some critics
acknowledge the fresh perspectives it opens up to think about the Qur’an as interacting with Jewish,
Christian, Persian, and Hellenistic texts rather than postulating that it is originally a Christian text.68
This way of historically situating the Qur’an is becoming increasingly popular in scholarship.69
Thus Gabriel Said Reynolds, besides many others, argues that the Qur’an counts on its audi-
ence’s knowledge of the Bible and cannot be understood without taking this biblical backdrop into
account. For example, when Qur’an 4:155 charges the Jews with saying that their hearts are ghufl,
this is, according to Reynolds, clearly a reference to the Biblical metaphor of the “uncircumcised
heart” that goes back to Jeremiah and that Luke and Paul in the New Testament direct against the
Jews.70 The proposal to translate the verse in this way is not exactly new; Paret had already translated
ghufl as “uncircumcised,” as did the British Orientalist Arthur John Arberry (d. 1969). Muslim trans-
lators, on the other hand, largely ignore the biblical allusion and render the expression in other ways,
for example, “our hearts are hardened,” “covered up,” “already full of knowledge,” or “the wrap-
pings (which preserve God’s word).”71 Reynolds’ argument is thus mainly directed against Muslim
translators and exegetes whose refusal to take the Bible into account,72 in his opinion, leads to seri-
ous misrepresentations. Likewise, Angelika Neuwirth, in her translation of the early Meccan suras,
firmly argues against teleological interpretations that look at the Qur’anic text from the perspective
of Islam’s later expansion. Rather, she proposes to read it as a literary text whose proclamation was
an open-ended process and whose contents, as well as its literary form, speak of an interaction with
its Jewish and Christian religious environment, most notably in its allusions to the Psalms. Neuwirth
does not deny the simultaneous influence of pre-Islamic Arabic poetry, however, which she likewise
takes into account as part of the environment in which the Qur’an originated.73
The lens through which a Qur’an translator reads the text is thus invariably tied to his or her
position on the origins of the Qur’an and its first audience. Whether the Qur’an is conceived of as
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an Arabic Qur’an rooted in the literature of pre-Islamic Arabia, as a Muslim Qur’an that already pre-
cludes the results of later exegetical, theological, and juridical debates, as a Jewish-Christian Qur’an,
or as a mixture of all three, will have a profound impact on a translator’s choices.
Notes
1 Travis Zadeh, The Vernacular Qur’an: Translation and the Rise of Persian Exegesis (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2012), 2–6; M. Brett Wilson, Translating the Qur'an in an Age of Nationalism: Print Culture and Modern
Islam in Turkey (London: Oxford University Press, in association with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2014), 5.
2 Zadeh, The Vernacular Qur’an, 27.
3 Ibid., 126f.
4 Ibid., 53.
5 Richard C. Martin. “Inimitability,” in Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, vol. 2, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe (Lei-
den: Brill, 2002), 526–536.
6 Zadeh, The Vernacular Qur’an, 428–432.
7 Ibid., 245; Hartmut Bobzin, “Translations of the Qurʾān,” in Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, vol. 5, ed. Jane
Dammen McAuliffe (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 340–358, here: 341.
8 Zadeh, The Vernacular Qur’an, 16f.
9 Rudi Paret and J.D. Pearson. “K ․ urʾān: Translation of the K ․ urʾān,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, vol. 5, 2nd ed.,
ed. P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C.E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, and W.P. Heinrichs (Leiden: Brill, 1987),
429–432; for an extensive discussion, see Zadeh, The Vernacular Qur’an, 53–145.
10 For a recent extensive and authoritative study of early Persian Qurʾan translations and commentaries, see
Zadeh, The Vernacular Qur’an.
11 Glyn M. Meredith-Owens, “Notes on an Old Ottoman Translation of the Kur’an,” Oriens 10 (1957): 258–
276; Eleazar Birnbaum, “On Some Turkish Interlinear Translations of the Koran,” Journal of Turkish Studies
14 (1990): 113–138; A. Zeki Validi Togan, “The Earliest Translation of the Qur’an into Turkish,” İslâm Tet-
kikleri Enstitüsü Dergisi: Review of the Institute of Islamic Studies 4 (1964): 1–19; A.J.E. Bodrogligeti, “Ghosts,
Copulating Friends, and Pedestrian Locusts in Some Reviews of Eckmann’s ‘Middle Turkic Glosses’,” Jour-
nal of the American Oriental Society 104, no. 3 (1984): 455.
12 Consuelo López-Morillas, “Lost and Found? Yça of Segovia and the Qur’an Among the Mudejars and
Moriscos,” Journal of Islamic Studies 10 (1999): 277–292; Consuelo López-Morillas, El Corán de Toledo:
Edición y estudio del manuscrito 235 de la Biblioteca de Castilla-La Mancha (Gijón: Ed. Trea, 2011); Akasoy,
“Review of: El Corán de Toledo, by Consuelo López-Morillas.”
13 Peter G. Riddell, “Camb. MS Or. Ii.6.45: The Oldest Surviving Qur’anic Commentary from Southeast
Asia,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 16, no. 1 (2014): 120–139.
14 Andrea Brigaglia, “Tafsīr and the Intellectual History of Islam in West Africa: The Nigerian Case,” in Tafsīr
and Islamic Intellectual History: Exploring the Boundaries of a Genre, ed. Andreas Görke and Johanna Pink
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 379–415.
15 Francis Robinson, “Perso-Islamic Culture in India from the Seventeenth to the Early Twentieth Century,”
in Turko-Persia in Historical Perspective, ed. Robert L. Canfield (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1991), 119.
16 Annemarie Schimmel, “Translations and Commentaries of the Qur’an in Sindhi Languages,” Oriens 16
(1963): 224–243.
17 Zadeh, The Vernacular Qur’an, 302–330.
18 George Steiner, After Babel. Aspects of Language and Translation, 3rd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1998), 312–319.
19 Bodrogligeti, “Ghosts, Copulating Friends, and Pedestrian Locusts,” 455.
20 Akasoy, “Review of: El Corán de Toledo, by Consuelo López-Morillas,” 127.
21 Bodrogligeti, “Ghosts, Copulating Friends, and Pedestrian Locusts,” 456.
22 Wilson, Translating the Qur’an in an Age of Nationalism, 85f.
23 Francis Robinson, “Technology and Religious Change: Islam and the Impact of Print,” Modern Asian Studies
27, no. 1 (1993): 229–251.
24 Wilson, Translating the Qur’an in an Age of Nationalism, 42–68.
25 Kristian Petersen, Interpreting Islam in China. Pilgrimage, Scripture, & Language in the Han Kitab (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2018), 126–127, 143.
26 Bobzin, “Translations of the Qur’an,” 342–344.
27 Wilson, Translating the Qur’an in an Age of Nationalism, 136.
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2 8 Cf., for example, Junus, Tarjamah, one of the earliest translations of the Qurʾan into Bahasa Indonesia.
29 Bobzin, “Translations of the Qur’an,” 342; Solihu, “The Earliest Yoruba Translation of the Qur’an”;
Loimeier, “Translating the Qur’ān in Sub-Saharan Africa: Dynamics and Disputes.”
30 Wilson, Translating the Qur’an in an Age of Nationalism, 221–247.
31 Nur Ichwan, “Negara, Kitab Suci dan Politik”; see also Pink, Sunnitischer Tafsīr, 136.
32 Thalib, Koreksi tarjamah; Ikhwan, “Fī tah.addī al-dawla.”
33 Ali, The Holy Qur-án.
34 Wilson, Translating the Qur’an in an Age of Nationalism, 119–123, 190–196, 213–215.
35 Ibid., 210–213, 215f.
36 Ali, The Holy Qur’an: Text, Translation and Commentary.
37 Ibid., 255–258.
38 Wilson, Translating the Qur’an in an Age of Nationalism, 5.
39 While a truly “literal” representation of a text is, of course, impossible and the accuracy of any given trans-
lation always debatable, a translator might nonetheless aim for a translation that follows the source text as
closely as possible.
40 Laleh Bakhtiar, The Sublime Quran (Chicago: Kazi Publications, 2011).
41 Ali, The Holy Qur’an: Translation and Commentary, 1775.
42 Pink, “ ‘Literal Meaning’ or ‘Correct ʿaqīda’?”
43 Asad, The Message of the Qurʾan, 98f.
44 Saheeh International, The Qur’an – Saheeh International Translation. The translation is available for download
on https://archive.org/details/Quran-SaheehInternationalTranslationEnglish. More information on Saheeh
International is available on www.saheehinternational.com (accessed April 12, 2015).
45 An equivalent to the Saheeh International Translation would be Amir Zaidan’s German Qurʾan translation
(2000) that he himself labels as “Tafsīr.”
46 Zysow, “Zakāt.”
47 Izutsu, God and Man in the Koran. Semantics of the Koranic Weltanschauung, 52–58.
48 For an example and further references, see Shawkānī, Fath. al-bayān, 1:93–95.
49 Wild, “Muslim Translators and Translations of the Qurʾan into English”; Ikhwan, “Fī tah.addī al-dawla”;
Pink, “ ‘Literal Meaning’ or ‘Correct ʿaqīda’?”
50 For example, Laleh Bakhtiar’s entire translation project was inspired by a desire to reinterpret Q 4:34, a
verse that according to conventional readings allows husbands to “beat” (d.araba) their wives. Cf. www.subli
mequran.org (accessed April 12, 2015).
51 For the social embeddedness of Qurʾan translations, see especially van de Bruinhorst, “ ‘I Didn’t Want to
Write This.’ ” See also Wilson, “Ritual and Rhyme”; Pink, “ ‘Literal Meaning’ or ‘Correct ʿaqīda’?”
52 Cf. Paret and Pearson, “K ․ urʾān: Translation of the K
․ urʾān”; Bobzin, “Translations of the Qur’an.”
53 Pink, “ ‘Literal Meaning’ or ‘Correct ʿaqīda’?”; Wilson, Translating the Qur’an in an Age of Nationalism,
190–208.
54 The categories employed here owe much to a study by Andrew Rippin, “Contemporary Translation.”
55 See Bobzin, “Translations of the Qur’an,” 344–350, for additional references on the history of Christian
Qur’an translations.
56 See, for example, Solihu, “The Earliest Yoruba Translation of the Qur’an.”
57 Compare, for example, the recent scholarly German Qur’an translation by Hartmut Bobzin (2010), which
clearly aims at readability and a certain aesthetic appeal, with the translation by Rudi Paret (1962), which has
been the academic standard in German-speaking countries for decades but whose tight layout and cumber-
some, technical style tend to make it unattractive to a broader public. Cf. Paret, Der Koran; Bobzin, Der Koran.
58 Sells, Approaching the Qur’án; Neuwirth, Der Koran, vol. I.
59 Rückert, Der Koran; von Hammer-Purgstall, “Die letzten vierzig Suren des Korans”; Klamroth, Die fünfzig
ältesten Suren des Korans.
60 Shawkat Toorawa, “ ‘The Inimitable Rose’,” being Qur’anic sajʿ from Surat al-Nas (Q 93–114) in English
Rhyming Prose,” Journal of Qur’ānic Studies 8, no. 2 (2006): 143–153; idem, “Toward an English Rhymed
Prose Translation,” Al-ʿArabiyya 38/39 (2005–2006): 129–135.
61 Schimmel, “Translations and Commentaries of the Qur’an in Sindhi Languages”; Zadeh, The Vernacular
Qur’an, 268–295; Wilson, “Ritual and Rhyme.”
62 Yusuf Rahman, “The Controversy Around H.B. Jassin: A Study of His al-Quranu’l-Karim Bacaan Mulia
and al-Qur’an Al-Karim Berjawah Puisia,” in Approaches to the Qur’an in Contemporary Indonesia, ed. Abdullah
Saeed (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 85–105.
63 David Giovacchini, Review of Al-Qur’an: A Contemporary Translation, by Ahmed Ali. MELA Notes 80
(2007): 71.
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Johanna Pink
6 4 Paret, Der Koran, 5 (quotation translated from German).

65 Ibid., 5–9.
66 See, for example, Lüling, Über den Ur-Qur’an; Lüling, Die Wiederentdeckung des Propheten Muhammad, S. 162f.,
where terms like muslim and mushrik are thought to denote various Late Antique branches of Christianity.
67 Walid Saleh, “The Etymological Fallacy and Qurʾānic Studies: Muhammad, Paradise, and Late Antiquity,”
in The Qurʾān in Context: Historical and Literary Investigations into the Qurʾānic Milieu, ed. Angelika Neu-
wirth, Nicolai Sinai, and Michael Marx (Leiden: Brill, 2011), esp. 670–693, cf. Neuwirth, Der Koran, vol.
I, 633f., for arguments in favor of the conventional translation of h.ūr ʿīn.
68 A.A. Brockett, Review of “Günter Lüling, Die Wiederentdeckung des Propheten Muhammad. Eine Kritik am
“christlichen’ Abendland,” International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 13, no. 4 (1981): 519–521; Sinai,
“ ‘Weihnachten im Koran’.” Cf. also Neuwirth, Der Koran, vol. I, that consistently reads the early Meccan
suras in the light of Jewish-Christian scriptures, with a special emphasis on the Psalms.
69 See especially the Potsdam-based Corpus Coranicum project: www.corpuscoranicum.de (accessed Septem-
ber 4, 2015).
70 Gabriel Reynolds, The Qur’an and Its Biblical Subtext (New York and London: Routledge, 2012), 147–155.
71 The translations by Marmaduke Pickthall, the Royal Aal al-Bayt Foundation, Muhammad Asad, and Abdul-
lah Yusuf Ali, respectively, http://altafsir.com/ViewTranslations.asp?Display=yes&SoraNo=4&Ayah155&to
Ayah =155&Language=2&LanguageID=2 (accessed September 4, 2015).
72 It needs to be pointed out that, while disinterest in the Bible is, up to now, the mainstream tendency in the
Muslim exegetical tradition, it is not unanimous and has not even been so in premodern times. Cf. Saleh,
“A Fifteenth-Century Muslim Hebraist.”
73 Neuwirth, Der Koran, vol. I, 15–22.
376
34
THE QUR’AN AND MATERIAL
CULTURE
Travis Zadeh

One of the most detailed literary sources for the formative history of the Qur’an as a physical book
is the Kitāb al-mas.āh.if (The Book of Qur’an Codices) by the Baghdadi traditionist Ibn Abī Dāwūd
al-Sijistānī (d. 316/929). The title takes its name from the word mus.h.af, which is a “codex” of
the Qur’an. Notably, this post-Qur’anic term is absent from the lexicon of the Prophet, at least as
indexed in the canonical Sunni hadith collections. The word mus.h.af rather reflects the later collec-
tion and subsequent canonization and codification of the Qur’an as a book. The history of codifica-
tion marks an important development of the Qur’anic text, as it transformed from the direct oral
character of the revelation communicated by the Prophet Muhammad to the early community into
the form of a physical text. This process, well underway during the course of the first century of the
Islamic Era, is born out in the codicological evidence of surviving manuscripts and in the literary
corpus that documents the early rise of Qur’anic book culture.
According to Muslim tradition, while there were earlier efforts at standardization, the Qur’anic
text only came to take a canonical form, at least in terms of the consonantal ductus (rasm) of the
text, during the reign of the third caliph, ʿUthmān ibn ʿAffān (r. 23–35/644–56), who initiated an
effort to codify the Qur’an as a state sanctioned text. Copies from this master text were then sent
to the major urban centers of the early Muslim community. Despite this process of standardization,
non-ʿUthmānic codices, as well as nonstandard forms of the Qur’an are known to have survived.
Furthermore, the move toward canonization only fixed the consonantal form of the text; it left open
notable variants in vocalization. While some of these divergences consisted merely of natural lexical
variations inherent in the oral transmission of any text, there survive accounts, particularly among
proto-Shiʿi factions, of significant distortions in theological meaning.
Ibn Abī Dāwūd’s collection eschews these charges of “alteration” (tah.rīf ). Rather his work forms
part of a series of early treatises documenting textual variance preserved in codices. Such treatises are
identified with early Qur’an reciters and with the major metropolitan centers of the Muslim polity
in the Hijaz, Iraq, and the Levant. These divergences, known as qirāʾāt (plural of qirāʾa, “recitation”),
are ultimately the product of the oral transmission of the Qur’an in the form of a liturgical text
that was embodied through physical practices of memorization and recitation that were passed on
over generations. Yet, as a genre, these works on codicological variance, also referred to as ikhtilāf
al-mas.āh.if (“divergences among codices”), reflect both the oral and written character of Qur’anic
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-37 377

Travis Zadeh
transmission. Associated with major Qur’an reciters of the early ʿAbbāsid Era, this body of writing
points to the concomitant written dissemination and standardization of the Qur’anic text.
The early prosopographical materials on the lives of prominent Qur’an reciters document a
dual process of oral and textual transmission. Take, for instance, the case of Sulaymān ibn Mihrān
al-Aʿmash (d. 147/764), an eminent jurist from the Iraqi garrison city of Kufa. A celebrated reciter,
al-Aʿmash had a prominent pedigree: he studied under teachers who in turn traced their mastery of
the text to Ibn Masʿūd (d. 32/652–653), a Companion of the Prophet renowned for his recitation
of the Qur’an. Importantly, Ibn Masʿūd’s recitation was known to diverge from the standardized
ʿUthmānic recension; so too Ibn Masʿūd was remembered for having produced a physical codex of
the text. Although the oral preservation of the Qur’an was often valorized, throughout this process
of transmission, written texts were readily at hand. For his part, al-Aʿmash held teaching sessions
during which students presented their “copies” of the Qur’an (mas.āh.if ) for correction and collation,
a common practice for the period. Under his tutelage students would dutifully copy his reading or
vocalization of the Qur’anic rasm, that is, the unvocalized consonantal ductus of the text, which
al-Aʿmash would recite before them by memory viva voce. Such codices were likely not published
in the traditional sense of finished manuscripts designed as authoritative records of the text. Rather,
such materials likely served as memory aids for students in the process of internalizing the Qur’anic
corpus. Based on his embodied mastery of the text, al-Aʿmash was known by the honorific al-mus.h.af
(“the codex”), as his fidelity to the Qur’an was like that of the written word. This literary account,
which can be matched with surviving Qur’anic codices from the period, points to the sophisticated
system that had developed during the course of the first two centuries of the Islamic Era for vocaliz-
ing the text with the use of colored dots. This notional system was also deployed as a way to account
for variant readings in the text itself.
In addition to its significance for the history of early variants, Ibn Abī Dāwūd’s collection also
provides valuable insight into the broader anxieties related to the historical emergence of the Qur’an
as a physical text. These tensions took the form of juridical debates over the lawful use of the sacred
text as it came to intersect with a broader nexus of objects and bodies in the physical world, sub-
ject to transaction, exchange, and possession, as well as contamination, violation, and decay. These
juridical debates found voice in earlier legal opinions, as reflected in the respective mus.annaf collec-
tions of the traditionists ʿAbd al-Razzāq (d. 211/826) and Ibn Abī Shayba (d. 235/849), as well as
in the Fad. āʾil al-Qurʾān (Virtues of the Qur’an) by Abū ʿUbayd al-Qāsim ibn Sallām (d. 224/838).
While earlier materials address, in some fashion, the legal debates over the proper handling, use, and
production of Qur’anic codices, Ibn Abī Dāwūd’s work is entirely dedicated to the full anatomy of
the physical form of the text. His study collates in a single collection an array of juridical opinions
on the legal and ritual status of the Qur’an as a material object.
The Changing Form of the Physical Qur’an

Ibn Abī Dāwūd prefaces these legal questions with a history of textual formation drawn from
accounts documenting the codification of the Qur’an as a physical book, the formation of the
ʿUthmānic codex, and the textual divergences between the written copies of the codices ascribed
to various early Companions of the Prophet and the successive generation of Qur’an reciters. The
issues of text formation, in turn, accompany a range of juridical questions and probe such matters
as taking payment for copying codices; employing non-Muslims to copy the text; the lawfulness of
buying, selling, bequeathing, and pawning codices; the legal status of handling the codex in various
states of ritual impurity; the proper form of writing the text and vocalizing it; the use of diacritical
marks for vocalization; the appropriate surfaces and sizes for writing the Qur’an; the importance
of distinguishing the Qur’an calligraphically from other forms of writing; the lawfulness of gild-
ing, decorating, and perfuming codices; the use of verse markings, sura headings, and marginal
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The Qur’an and Material Culture
medallions for demarcating groups of verses; the practice of reading from the Qur’an and checking it
against other codices; debates over placing codices in the mih.rāb (i.e., the “niche” marking the direc-
tion of prayer within a mosque), traveling with codices into the territory of infidels, or placing codi-
ces on the ground; leading prayer by reciting from a codex; and the proper disposal of old codices.
Much of the material in Ibn Abī Dāwūd’s collection reflects the formation of a juridical discourse
for treating the Qur’an as an object of veneration. Yet many of the debates also preserve notably
archaic attitudes toward the preservation and dissemination of the Qur’an in its physical form and
as such they serve as important indices for the historical evolution and transformation of the nature
and purpose of the Qur’an as a material object. Foremost, these archaisms are characterized by a
palpable juridical resistance to any form of embellishment as a means of either beautifying the text
or facilitating its use, such as the insertion of diacritics, orthographic developments designed to
remove ambiguities, various types of verse markers in the body of the text and its margins, and the
addition of sura headings. Some jurists also censored the inscriptional use of the Qur’an in mosques,
particularly within the space of the mih.rāb, the appearance of Qur’anic material on coins, and the
practice of reading from codices while reciting the Qur’an. Such attitudes are scattered throughout
the early juridical corpus and are not, by any measure, unique to a specific legal school or region.
They reflect a set of anxieties that date to the first century of the Islamic Era concerning the nature
and purpose of the physical text of the Qur’an. Above all, these attitudes privilege the oral character
of the Qur’an as the consummate and fully legitimate expression of revelation, while they largely
relegate the written word to the status of an aide-mémoire.
Several early palimpsests from this period also point to the practice of writing the Qur’an on
parchment only to wash off the ink to rewrite the text once again. Such practices of erasure continue
today, most notably in the context of traditional Islamic education in West Africa where writing
tablets are used to internalize and memorize the Qur’an through the repeated process of writing and
erasing the sacred text. Apart from fragmentary evidence documenting the use of papyrus, the earli-
est Qur’ans were written on parchment, the preferred writing surface for Qur’anic codices.
The early codicological and inscriptional evidence from the period complements many of the
juridical debates over the status of the written text of the Qur’an. This takes the form of the earliest
fragments and codices in the so-called h.ijāzī script from the first/seventh century; this script exhibits
significant archaisms in orthography. Much of this material lacks a consistent use of diacritical mark-
ers and vocalization, as well as verse and sura divisions, though such textual practices of marking up
the Qur’an emerged at a very early period. Similarly, the juridical debates track the use of Qur’anic
material on coins, which date to the monetary reforms of the Umayyad caliph ʿAbd al-Malik (r.
65–86/685–705), who first introduced purely epigraphic coinage in 77/695–696. The coins feature
a variation of Sūrat al-Ikhlās. (Q 112).
Over the succeeding generations, many of these juridical concerns largely dissipated, particularly
those related to the public presentation of the Qur’an as a supreme manifestation of calligraphic
beauty, both in the production of Qur’anic codices and in the inscriptional articulation of sacred
space as expressed in architectural terms. However, what ensues from these archaic disputes is a jurid-
ical focus on the relationship between the Qur’anic codex and the larger body of regulations gov-
erning ritual purity. Jurists drew on Qur’anic verses and an array of sayings ascribed to the Prophet
and early Companions to affirm that only those in a state of “[ritual] purity” (t․ahāra, a legal state of
the body obtained by performing the major ablution, or ghusl) should touch or handle the physical
Qur’an. This position also has implications for the oral recitation of the Qur’an, which, according
to many early jurists, required a lower threshold – that of the minor ablution (wud. ūʾ). This nexus
of meaning and practice has often been foregrounded on the covers of codices with the inscription
of the Qur’anic verse referencing a celestial scripture “which only the pure touch” (Q 56:78–79).
Over the course of the second/eighth and third/ninth centuries, the literary and codicological
records also document significant changes in Qur’anic orthography, calligraphy, and the divisions of
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Travis Zadeh
the text added for ease of navigation. By the end of this period, an entirely new diacritical system
for the text also had emerged and formed the direct basis for the standard diacritics used for ortho-
graphically vocalizing Arabic today. These developments took place against the backdrop of signifi-
cant historical changes that included several interlinking elements: the introduction of paper, the rise
of a class of trained secretaries and scribes, the theological debates concerning the very nature of the
Qur’an as the word of God, and the shifting social and ethnic composition of the Muslim polity as
it expanded across North Africa and Iberia and deep into Iraq, Iran, Central Asia, and South Asia. It
is also possible to view these developments in Qur’anic book culture as part of a greater shift toward
legibility, particularly as the relationships governing the transmission of the text from teacher to
student began to shift. Here caution must be used, however, as the monumental expressions of these
new styles in their book form still required a visual mastery of complex calligraphic systems. That
said, the full and complete vocalization of the Qur’an in symbolic and practical terms meant that the
calligraphic form of the Qur’anic text could speak for itself, as it were, without the aid of a master
who governed its proper oral vocalization and transmission.
In addition to numerous orthographic and calligraphic developments, Qur’anic codices came to
exhibit a range of forms from the micrographic to the monumental. The variation of size has served
a variety of purposes from talismanic prophylactics to be worn on the body, to display copies that
could be carried in ceremonial processions or during military incursions. It also became common
practice to divide the Qur’anic text into a group of 30 large fascicules for public use in a variety of
settings from mosques to funerary complexes. The 30-part division of these monumental codices
was designed, above all, for the nightly recitations (tarāwīh.) of the entire Qur’an over Ramadan, the
sacred month of fasting. While the codex emerged as the dominant form for transmitting books in
Late Antiquity, scrolls served in a limited capacity as a writing surface for the Qur’an. Only a hand-
ful of fragments of such scrolls survive from the early period. It is noteworthy that jurists expressed
a particular disdain for the scroll as a medium for scripture, as it paralleled the form used by Jews for
conveying the Torah. That said, there are both literary accounts and surviving examples of miniature
scrolls with Qur’anic verses and suras that were inserted into reeds or metal cases and fastened to the
body for talismanic protection, which again highlights the manifold vehicles used for expressing and
containing the Qur’an.
The Charisma of the Written Word

A wide body of practices and beliefs emerged that promote the charismatic power of the physical
Qur’an. The ancient associations between scripture and divine presence, knowledge, and potency
form the larger backdrop to the early configurations of the Qur’an as a material site of charismatic
and transformative power. The literary record of the first two centuries of the Islamic Era details the
early talismanic use of Qur’anic writing as a means of harnessing divine protection and presence.
Numerous accounts ascribed to the Prophet, the Companions, and the early jurists highlight sundry
examples of Qur’anic theurgy – that is, the deployment of the Qur’an for its divine powers – in both
oral and written forms. From the earliest period, the Qur’an has intersected with the vast field of
bibliomancy and the occult deployment of scripture as a means of channeling both divine power and
cognition. The talismanic use of amulets (e.g., tawʿīdh, ʿazīma, ․tilasm, etc.) fashioned from a variety
of materials to be worn on the body, transcends historical periods and geographic regions and is not
unique to any one particular stratum deployed by both the elite and the masses. Such inscriptional
uses of the Qur’an draw on a range of materials, often imbued with symbolic potency, from precious
stones, metals, parchment, and animal bones, to entire swaths of fabric used to fashion talismanic
clothing.
Such calligraphic expressions of the Qur’an were often accompanied by a host of other prayers,
formulations, and symbolic writing that commonly took the form of indecipherable cyphers and
380
numerological magic squares. Also fairly ubiquitous to this material is the hexagram of the Solo-
monic seal. In the framework of Islamic cosmography, the identification of Solomon with esoteric
knowledge is rooted in the Qur’anic accounts of Solomon’s occult knowledge and his power over
demons and jinn (Q 21:81–82, 38:36–38). This picture, in turn, builds on earlier associations in Late
Antiquity that link Solomon with occult learning. The dazzling powers associated with Solomon
anchor the entire discursive complex of occult knowledge drawn from prophetic tradition. The use
of the Qur’an as a vehicle to harness the power of the unseen has also served as a means of granting
authority and legitimacy to diverse occult practices. Historically, the variegated material practices
of Qur’anic theurgy occupied a rather normative place in the fabric of Islamic piety and devotion.
These practices range from “divination” (istikhāra) by seeking “omens” (faʾl) in the Qur’anic text, to
imbibing and ingesting the Qur’an for its charismatic and curative powers.
The theological backdrop to such Qur’anic practices is noteworthy. The doctrine of the eternal
Qur’an as it was crystalized in the second/eighth and third/ninth centuries advanced the physical
power of the revelation in ontological terms as the ipsissima verba dei (“the very words of God”),
made manifest both in its oral and written forms. Even the Ashʿarī and Māturīdī theological refor-
mulations on the eternality of the Qur’an retained the notion of a numinous and mysterious power
to the physical articulation of the Qur’an as a charismatic reflection of eternal, divine speech within
the finite stratum of material existence, as expressed, for instance, in the acts of reciting and writing.
Yet the extent to which such complex theological formulations governed cultic praxis is unclear.
This is particularly so given the evidence of the rise of Qur’anic theurgy prior to the full theologi-
cal articulation and systematization of the eternality of the Qur’an as a doctrinal point of dogma.
Similarly, moving forward, even many theologians who objected to the eternality of the Qur’an on
so-called rationalist grounds came to affirm the prophylactic and charismatic power of the Qur’an
as divine writ.
Above all, the diverse practices of wearing and ingesting the Qur’an point to a desire to draw
close the corporeal power of the divine word, both on and inside the body. In this sphere of embod-
ied praxis, the internalization of the Qur’an as a corporal intersection with the divine is potently
expressed in the diverse ways of consuming Qur’anic scripture. These take various forms, such as
writing verses of the Qur’an on paper and dissolving the paper in water, which is in turn ingested.
Writing surfaces can be employed for similar ends by drinking the water used to wash off Qur’anic
verses written on a tablet or a blackboard. The classical sources generally refer to this as “erasure”
(mah.w), a ubiquitous practice documented in numerous contexts across diverse regions and histori-
cal periods. Often Qur’anic consumption could also take the form of eating sweets or other foods
marked with Qur’anic verses. The use of so-called magic bowls usually engraved with Qur’anic
material and an array of other occult inscriptions is also well attested. Numerous manuals document
the unique and efficacious “powers” (khawās..s) of the Qur’an and elaborate directions for the prepa-
ration of such bowls; this often involved the inscription of particular Qur’anic verses in saffron that
are then washed off and imbibed. Similarly, the selection of verses, expressions, and suras is tied to
the specific ends that any given performance seeks to actuate in the confluence of Qur’anic meaning
and its deployment, say, as an agent for therapeutic or apotropaic power. These practices also extend
into the realm of oral performance, where verses of the Qur’an are recited while slightly project-
ing saliva from the mouth by “blowing” (nafth) over water (preferably from the well of Zamzam in
Mecca), which is then ingested. Such forms of corporeal internalization have notable parallels with
diverse strands of Christian devotion toward the Eucharist, in the ingestion of the body and blood of
Christ during Holy Mass. The theological parallels are quite striking in the transubstantiative mani-
festation of sacred matter that is consumed. Yet Qur’anic consumption has never been communal or
sacramental, nor has it been governed by a priestly class responsible for its presentation and distribu-
tion. To be sure, there are numerous indications that the religious elite deployed the Qur’an for its
otherworldly power as a means of articulating their own authority. Yet Qur’anic theurgy was by no
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Travis Zadeh
means limited to clerics or saints. Rather it formed part of a broad tapestry that animated material
existence with the miraculous power of divine speech made manifest.
Similar observations can be made about the inscriptional use of the Qur’an in the architectural
creation of sacred space. The appearance of the Qur’an as a calligraphic sign in sites such as mosques,
tombs, and palaces communicates sacrality in both the visible and invisible planes. As with the
explicitly theurgical use of the Qur’an, the selection of verses can be sophisticated and dynamic
expressions of the confluence of meaning, form, and function; this is clear from the choice of spe-
cific Qur’anic material and its placement in particular spaces to interface with the use, purpose, and/
or symbolism of a given architectural element. Yet, despite the often intentional interplay between
the semantic sphere and its spatial placement, the problem of legibility draws into question the
intended purpose of the calligraphic sign. Quite often monumental calligraphic bands that expand
high above and wrap around domes, roofs, walls, vaulting arches, prayer niches, columns, porticos,
and minarets are only fully legible with careful and patient study and sometimes only with artificial
lighting and optical aids such as binoculars. Indeed, there are numerous examples in architectural
buildings of calligraphic material that is largely hidden from sight altogether. As with the talismanic
use of the Qur’an on the body, the question of visual absence in architectural terms points to the
efficacious power of the written word to encode space within a fabric of divine presence that extends
in all directions across the realms of both the seen and unseen, in the visible and invisible folds of
sacred space.
Access and the Reproducible Sign

The material sign of the Qur’an is shaped by a set of visual and ritual cues that are designed to
affirm the sacred nature of the text as divine scripture. In terms of book art, this came to include all
the major visual and material elements of the production of codices. The process of beautification
required the specialization of highly skilled calligraphers and bookmakers with a variety of skills
necessary for the production of books from gilding and binding, to all aspects in between. Despite
the wishes of some early jurists, Qur’anic codices emerged as material expressions of consummate
artistry, often with the ornate use of gold and the sophisticated interplay between color palettes, in
both the selection of ink and the writing surfaces used. As precious commodities, codices were often
luxury objects of adoration, privilege, and wealth, which circulated in the court, the madrasa, and
beyond.
Powerful patrons, both men and women in the orbit of the ruling elite, sponsored the most
refined echelons of Qur’anic book art. The production of splendid codices served as markers of
devotion and piety, as well as power and prestige. While historically there existed a range in quality
and refinement, as with all manuscripts, Qur’anic codices were valuable objects that required sig-
nificant capital and intellectual resources to produce and to preserve. The move from parchment to
paper starting near the end of the third/ninth century reduced the labor and cost necessary for the
production of manuscripts; this transformation in technology occasioned noticeable developments
in writerly culture. Yet, even with the rise of paper, the production and circulation of Qur’anic
codices remained a circumscribed activity, governed largely by the elite. The prohibitive cost limited
the scope of private ownership, although there would have been a range of diverse classes, from mer-
chants and tradesmen to landed gentry, with sufficient capital to possess private copies. Furthermore,
the wide availability of Qur’anic manuscripts is well documented in various religious institutions,
particularly in mosques, madrasas, and shrine complexes, where codices were often available for pub-
lic devotion, consultation, and study. It was not uncommon, however, for a Qur’anic codex to be
passed down from generation to generation within a patrician household. The practice of inscribing
family genealogies and the birth dates of children within such family copies is also attested in the
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premodern period. Similarly, the dedication of Qur’anic codices by individuals as pious “endow-
ments” (waqf, pl. awqāf ) to various religious institutions served as meritorious expressions of piety.
Embodied knowledge in the form of recitation and memorization also served as a means of
widely disseminating the Qur’an. Similarly, the use of Qur’anic ephemera in the form of short selec-
tions of text deployed for talismanic ends is widely attested. In the early medieval period a tradition
of block printing selections of the Qur’an also developed to enable the reproduction of Qur’anic
amulets. Such heterogeneous material contexts highlight diverse means of approaching and absorb-
ing the physicality of the sacred text.
Despite these earlier forays, Islamic print culture only emerged on a wide scale in the course of
the nineteenth century, foremost with the development of lithography and then with the adapta-
tion of movable type. Centuries before the Muslim elite ultimately adopted the practice, European
printing houses had published editions of the Qur’an, for polemical purposes, in the original Arabic
and in translation. The complex and often countervailing forces shaping the late embrace of print
technology across diverse geographical contexts of Islamic piety cannot be reduced to a single set of
factors. Importantly, the rise of print also witnessed debates among certain factions of the religious
elite about the probity of publishing the Qur’an in particular and religious material in general. Just
as the codex emerged in the face of early anxieties about the full textualization of the Qur’an in the
first centuries of the Islamic Era, printed copies of the Qur’an ultimately displaced the manuscript
forerunners that proceeded movable type.
As with the absorption of earlier technologies of the written word, the history of Qur’anic book
art in the age of mechanical reproduction exhibits an enduring continuity with earlier paradigms,
both in the format of the codex and in the typographic artistry used to telegraph the sacred word;
this artistry in turn builds on established calligraphic precedence. Yet notable changes also accompa-
nied this process, which extended beyond just matters of form. The rise of print has entailed a fur-
ther expansion in access with the wide dissemination of the Qur’an, across an ever wider readership
of Muslims and non-Muslims alike. The various social and epistemic changes that mark the turn to
numerous forms of modernity also point to radical ruptures in the structure of religious authority.
The development of Qur’anic print culture coincides with a wider body of readers who can access
the sacred text largely outside the established frameworks of religious education. These currents
form the backdrop for digital transformations of the Qur’anic text in the current age of information
technology. On computers, phones, and tablets, the ubiquity of the Qur’an cannot be understated,
with programs that wed the oral and the written by overlying the recitations of prominent Qur’an
readers with the text as it flows in real time across the digital page.
In certain arenas, changes in reading patterns have also given birth to the rise of literalism as a
privileged mode of exegesis. Similarly, in the age of print, the numinous power of the physical word
has also undergone significant realignments. Many of these currents find their roots in the course of
the Islamic reformist movements of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, which in great measure
sought to divest the material world of charismatic power. With this came the widespread censure
of the diverse practices of Qur’anic bibliomancy as deviant and superstitious expressions beyond the
pale of Islamic normativity, particularly among certain groups of the educated elite. Many premod-
ern practices have been reformulated and reexamined in light of the profound epistemic shifts occa-
sioned in the face of competing modernities. Yet the material power of the Qur’an has continued
to endure in various geographical and social spheres as the consummate expression of the divine
manifest in the material world.
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35
THE QUR’AN AND THE
INTERNET
Gary R. Bunt
Introduction
The Qur’an’s manifestation in digital media has extended across a multiplicity of formats and appli-
cations. This is the continuation of the diverse presentations in which the Qur’an has been articu-
lated over time, from recitation and illumination, through to interpretation, commentary, printing,
translation, audiovisual recording, and diverse religious, intellectual, political, and legal analyses.
Each of these reflect the social, cultural, linguistic, and historical settings in which Islam emerged
and then developed. Within a digital context, the sense in which a divine text retains its essence of
“sacredness” is, perhaps, open to question. What can be said is that Muslims in diverse circumstances
have embraced information technology as a means to fulfil their religious obligations of education
and propagation. The word of God as presented to His Prophet Muhammad via the Angel Gabriel
now has an online interface, through which it can be searched for terminologies and meanings, as
well as word-by-word recitation and reading advice.
To an extent, the multiple voices within the Qur’an and their intricate relationships have a liminal
space on the Internet, while the forms of style and structure can be encountered in all their diversity
through interactive apps available on mobile devices. These range from the presentation of Qur’anic
Arabic in textual form, including by exhibiting images of historical manuscripts, through to the
online publication of a plethora of translations in a multiplicity of languages. Similarly, the many
approaches toward reading the Qur’an have a distinct place online, for the numerous consumers of
what has become – in some cases – a commercially driven product in which technological applica-
tions compete for market space. This can be influenced by factors associated with the communities
of interpretation, seeking to convey their worldviews, and finding keys to new audiences (Muslim
and other) through “user friendly” online tools and products, which may present a level of influ-
ence for technical innovators that supersedes that of “traditional” authorities. The digital Qur’an
can also be presented through its selected use by advocates of contemporary and modern readings,
promoting their versions as both “divine” and “definitive.” As the digital divide closes, audiences for
the online versions of the Qur’an extend across networks, borders, and cyberspace. In a reflection
of analogue contexts, there is a digital contestation between advocates of different translations and
commentaries, as online providers vie for position in search engine rankings. Skill with the manage-
ment of the algorithms that drive online status has become a significant element for the propagators
of interpretation and influence. This reflects new dimensions of relationships between technology
and the sacred. The importance of the Qur’an memorized in the individual’s heart remains central
384 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-38

The Qur’an and the Internet
to Muslim beliefs, but its presence in people’s pockets and hard drives through the multiplicity of
online devices and platforms is increasingly integral to the outlook of Islamic organizations at global
and local levels. With this in mind, it is important to reflect here on how far the digital representation
of the Qur’an progressed within the space of two decades.
Development of the Digital Qur’an

The presentation of the Qur’an was a central component of many early Islamic websites, even before
the development of graphical browsers, where files might be transferred containing translations via
file transfer protocols across the Internet (prior to the invention of what became the World Wide
Web in 1989). There was an early recognition of the potential of the Internet as a means of present-
ing the Qur’an, although within the early phases much of this dissemination was in Latin charac-
ters because Arabic interfaces and protocols were limited in terms of hypertext markup language
(the encoding of websites).1 Consequently, key early presentations of the Qur’an on the Internet
emerged from English-speaking students primarily based in European and North American con-
texts, where they had proportionally greater access to computer servers than their counterparts in
Muslim-majority countries.
Early examples included the Qur’an Browser Basic Home Page, produced at Brown University,
which included a search box, through which passages, words, or word parts could be retrieved from a
choice of three English language Qur’an translations.2 Another example was located on the Univer-
sity of Southern California Muslim Students Association Islamic Server, one of the earliest search-
able indices of the Qur’an, containing three translations (as on the Qur’an Browser just discussed)
in which Boolean searches could be made.3 Sites not specifically focused on the study of Islam were
also significant in producing Qur’an resources. For instance, the Humanities Text Initiative of the
University of Michigan, founded in 1994, included a searchable Qur’an based around the transla-
tion produced by M.H. Shakir (d. 1939) – alongside religious texts from other traditions.4 These
and similar sources were significant in terms of demonstrating the potential for accessing the Qur’an
through a digitally mediated format. This offered a level of searchability based around themes and
keywords, which might open up the text via translation, especially for those seeking to develop their
knowledge of the Qur’an and Islam.
Improvements in technology led to sites with higher levels of interactivity being developed. The
Egyptian company, Harf Information Technology, developed content for the Saudi Arabian Ministry
of Islamic Affairs, Endowments, Da’wah, and Guidance – which controlled the high-level domain,
al-islam.com. This included a comprehensive database on the Qur’an with a multilanguage translation
of the meaning from the Arabic script and recitations. The database is searchable by subject, sura
number, and āya (“verse”) number, and interlinks to numerous other resources – including various
Saudi ministries.5
The Ahlul Bayt Digital Islamic Library Project presented its Minnesota-registered al-Islam.org,
which introduced its perspective on religious leadership and interpretation of the Qur’an (from one
Shiʿa perspective). Derived from content produced in Iran, the Qur’an resources featured transla-
tions and commentaries demonstrating how resources can be shared and produced collaboratively.
Drawing on an open source Arabic version of the Qur’an produced by tanzil.info, its Qur’an pages
offered a choice of Windows Arabic and Karbala Arabic font, the latter in particular being associated
with Shiʿa tradition. The translation includes five different versions of the text.6 It draws on transla-
tions based on Marmaduke Pickthall (d. 1936) and Abdullah Yusuf Ali (d. 1953). Additionally, they
apply translations more oriented to Shiʿism (Shakir and Pooya/Ali).7
Such resources did not facilitate an encounter with the sacred text in its original Arabic form,
which is traditionally considered to have been unchanged since its revelation. This could be acquired
online at that time through accessing scanned Arabic Qur’an images (of, for example, historical
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Gary R. Bunt
calligraphic manuscripts). One must recall, however, that in an age of dial-up connections and slow
processor speeds, those who had leapt across the “digital divide” faced the numerous challenges of
downloading and accessing anything that went over the limitations of basic text. As technology
improved and digital literacy was enhanced, interfaces associated with the Qur’an became more
creative in line with increased download speeds and new approaches toward presenting information
on the Internet – with a particular focus on the World Wide Web. This included a fusion of con-
ventional audio resources, produced for CD-ROM (which benefitted from no download require-
ments), audio CD, vinyl recordings, and cassettes, through which the Qur’an had been previously
presented. Audio files containing recitations were uploaded, for playing online primarily through
MP3 format. Recorded recitations were available through a variety of sites, some of which paid less
attention to specific copyright issues associated with recordings. Others presented extracts of several
forms of tartīl (“recitation”) as a means of encouraging the purchase of conventional CD recordings.
The appearance of the Qur’an online played a central role in the development of what became
significant “brands” associated with Islam in cyberspace. The U.S.- based IslamiCity provided the
entire Qur’an, in text, recitation, translation, and Arabic script – although without a direct com-
mentary – as a central part of its extensive “gateway” resource.8 Other sites emerged as well, to
provide recitations from popular reciters in a variety of formats, recognizing the complexities of the
marketplace in terms of accessibility and technology, with streaming and downloadable options. Use
of design features and provision of a “user friendly” experience also had an impact in terms of the
ways in which the Qur’an was disseminated.
Alongside such early audio and textual initiatives, the presentation of commentaries was a further
factor within this emerging field. These presented specific worldviews (often as “definitive” state-
ments) associated with interpretations of texts. This might be in conjunction with similar resources
associated with hadith materials. Within (at the time) a finite information marketplace, such content
might be seized upon as “definitive” by academics, journalists, politicians, and students, even if it
only represented a minority opinion or selective worldview. One example of this was presented from
the application of a commentary on the meaning of the Qur’an, based on an English translation of an
Urdu text by the influential Muslim reformer Sayyid Abul Aʿla Mawdudi (d. 1979). This gave one
interpretation of specific verses and chapters, introducing context, historical detail, and theological
dimensions of the Qur’an. But, of course, his commentary is not universally accepted. Mawdudi’s
influence reaches far beyond its Indian subcontinent origins, and this website provided his supporters
and their particular interpretation of Islam with what was at the time a high-profile and proactive
presence on the Internet. It was presented alongside the University of Southern California Muslim
Students Association Islamic Server Qur’an pages.9
In many ways, these and contemporaneous pages were forerunners of an exponential growth in
Qur’an content online. In part, this was stimulated by competitive perspectives and translations. The
marketplace was dominated with those who could invest money, resources, and time into page pro-
duction. To an extent, some of this became a professional occupation, but there were also numerous
examples of small groups and individuals providing their own content. Traditional authorities raised
concerns about the veracity of Qur’an materials online, especially when fabricated verses were pub-
lished online under the SurahLikeIt banner – to the consternation and confusion of some al-Azhar
University elders. SurahLikeIt purported to represent verses from the Qur’an. These verses – in
Arabic, English, and transliterated formats – contained negative suggestions about Muhammad and
the veracity of the revelation. Al-Azhar was unable to develop a measured response to technology,
and – as with some other authorities – responded with demands to ban the Internet itself. However,
clearly this was not a viable option.10
Efforts to catch up with rival authority claims on the Internet were not always successful for “tra-
ditional” authorities, resulting in a complex and competitive marketplace for influence in relation
to the Qur’an. While the core Arabic version may retain its consistency, associated interfaces and
386
products represents some of the divergence associated with historical and contemporary interpreta-
tions of Islam. Services able to provide a technologically proficient service and experience could
benefit from greater audience share. In some cases, this meant that “traditional” authorities, unable
to respond to technological innovation, were to lose influence online in comparison with Qur’an
service providers from a diversity of outlooks and perspectives.
Contemporary Approaches to the Qur’an on the Internet

The Qur’an is now presented through media channels and devices that correspond with technologi-
cal developments and innovations and often include a commercial element. This could be in the
form of apps for cell phones, including searchable Qur’an and hadith databases, automatic “Call to
Prayer” alerts, and digital attempts to reproduce the Qur’an in Arabic. The market for translations
ranges from apps to academic sources. Mobile apps provide opportunities for developing knowledge
about recitation and the content of the Qur’an. Apps feature specific reciters, translations into vari-
ous languages, and tools for teaching both children and adults to read and recite the text. Some come
with exegesis that reflects different worldviews. The meaning of the Qur’an has also been translated
into many languages, a number of which can be found online and are therefore available to mobile
Internet users. For example, al-quran.info lists translations in 47 languages, from Albanian to Uzbek –
in some cases with multiple versions in the same language. There are 40 English language versions,
from the 1734 version by George Sale (d. 1736) to a 2012 version by Talal Itani. Each follows a
similar format, with Arabic and English versions side by side.11
Online versions of translations reflect familiar printed editions, as in the English-language
versions of A.J. Arberry (d. 1969), Ali, Pickthall, and Muh.ammad Asad (d. 1962), among others.
More contemporary translations can also be found online. The Oxford Islamic Studies Online
website features the translation by M.A.S. Abdel-Haleem alongside Arberry’s.12 The status of the
Qur’an in search engine rankings can also be a significant factor, associated with meta data, algo-
rithms, and linkages, and its position can influence the amount of site traffic it receives. A num-
ber of sites have set themselves up as portals or online gateway entry points for accessing and
reading different versions of the Qur’an. IslamAwakened.com, maintained through an individual’s
personal effort, encompasses apps and social media. Over 50 different versions of the Qur’an in
the English language are listed, delivered line by line in a comparative approach. The page also
offers an āya of the day in Arabic with a translation. As an Android app, IslamAwakened contains
41 translations.13
Other online products reflect further diversity of approaches. Quran.com offers six translations
in English, nine reciters, and options to copy, follow, and post extracts from the Qur’an.14 House of
Quran (which has both a website and apps) offers a word-by-word memorization program, with over
30 reciters and the ability to set a level of practice and repetitions according to individual learning
ability.15 Such products allow users to develop – to varying degrees – skills associated with the style
and structure of the Qur’an, in relation to rhyme, rhythm, and meaning. They also offer a compara-
tive approach toward recitation styles and meanings of the text. The relationship between the revela-
tion in its pure oral format and its mediation in Arabic, as well as in translation, might be enhanced
for users through the use of online tools.
By contrast, quranexplorer.com provides access to the Qur’an through multiple platforms, with
commercial and free pathways. This includes “Online Quran Tutoring (Live),” with classes on many
aspects of learning the Qur’an, from basic understanding to memorization and competitive standard
recitation.16 This has become a lucrative and competitive area of online delivery in some contexts
and is one of several online options for tuition.17 Pakistan based ReadQuranOnline suggests that
“[a]nyone as young as 4 years to as old as 75 years, can avail this great opportunity of Online Quran
tutoring.” Delivery is through Skype.18
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Gary R. Bunt
Itani’s translation is featured on his ClearQuran website, where the English version has two options:
“Edition (A) uses the word ‘Allah’ to refer to the Creator. Edition (B) uses the word ‘God.’ ”19 How-
ever, the multiplicity of versions can be problematic in the eyes of some authorities: Itani’s translation
was challenged as being “unauthorized” by Dubai’s Grand Mufti Dr. Ahmad Abdulaziz Al Haddad
in 2013:
Dr. Al Haddad said he applauded the efforts of Mr Itani in trying to spread the message
of the Quran to others. “Unfortunately, his intentions are misplaced and he may be doing
more harm than good. He should not have published his work before having it approved
by an Islamic authority.”20
This did not prevent its continued presence online.

Sites seek to present the Qur’an with a perceived clarity of translation and presentation, adapt-
ing to technological requirements and shifts – such as a focus on cell phone delivery: quranwow.com
came in 44 languages, deliverable in multiple formats and views.21 The islamway.net site offers Qur’an
materials in 11 languages, alongside audiovisual sermons, religious opinions, and books.22 The ways
in which these materials can be approached via search engines can also be a significant factor. The
placing of a Qur’an site or service within a Google ranking, for example, may be dictated by com-
plex factors associated with meta data and linkages, and its position can influence the amount of site
traffic it receives. Once a surfer is on a site or product, the amount of time spent using the source is
also significant and often contingent on content and design issues. The extent to which the com-
plexity and subtlety of the Qur’an are lost to online readers may be open to question, if they do not
approach the text in its entirety and read or absorb it through “traditional” methods. However, this
is not the first time in history that a media transition has occurred in relation to the dissemination of
the Qur’an (for example, in the controversy that surrounded the first radio broadcasts of the Qur’an
in Saudi Arabia) – and it could be argued that the audience for the Qur’an is increasing because of
the emergence of multimedia (despite the continued digital divide).
There is also a fragmenting of services that specialize in specific aspects of Qur’an delivery. Paris-
registered Assabile.com includes nearly 33,000 recitation files, along with sermons, Islamic songs, and
over 5,000 lessons. Two hundred and fifty reciters are listed (and can be sorted into “most listened
to” or “least listened to” categories), along with a “Top 40” chart listing of recitations (dominated
by Abdul Rahman al-Sudais). Each portion from the Qur’an can be linked to social media, while
photos, videos, and background information on reciters are provided. Audio content can be freely
downloaded onto mp3. The site itself is offered in English, French, Spanish, and Arabic. Users can
comment on specific recitations and also link to them directly online. This “open source” approach
to Qur’an content is in contrast to paywalls built around other sites.
Interactive approaches can be located elsewhere, including apps specifically focused on linguistics
and definitions of the Qur’an and its language. AnalyzeQuran, for example, gave line-by-line search-
able and comparative interpretations of the Arabic (in Urdu and English), including the root words
and their definitions, drawing on the Qur’an translation by Muh.ammad Tahir ul-Qadri, leader of
the Minhaj-ul-Quran movement from Pakistan. This was available on Android, Windows, and
Apple apps.23
Numerous religious approaches toward the Qur’an are represented across the Internet, between
and within broad categories such as “Sunni’ and “Shiʿa.” It is significant that they may share the
same “source-code” in terms of Qur’anic multimedia. For instance, the Online Ahlulbayt Quran
Center offers a course that teaches Qur’anic recitation from a distance.24 Throughout this diversity
of approaches and worldviews, it is possible to locate online resources with recitation recorded in
a variety of locations. Sites sacred to Shiʿa, for example, are represented with clips on YouTube of
recitations, and live streaming services (such as Karbala TV).25
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Perspectives on the Qur’an with an esoteric emphasis can be located within the variety of “com-
mentaries” (sing. tafsīr) published online. The Aal al-Bayt Institute for Islamic Thought, Amman,
Jordan, produced its own translation of the Qur’an and also published English language commentar-
ies (in translation), including Tafsīr al-Jalālayn and Tafsīr al-Tustarī.26
Tafsīr can also take other forms. Ziauddin Sardar launched “Blogging the Qur’an” ’ in the UK-
based Guardian newspaper in 2008, in which individual verses were explored from week to week.27
In this format, Sardar endeavored to explain the Qur’an’s context and meaning to alternative audi-
ences who may not have encountered the text in any form before. This was inevitably contested by
some critics online.28 It also received substantial negative criticism from some readers (in the com-
ments section of the Guardian). The blog posts eventually appeared in book form.29
Dialogues, comments, commentaries, and interpretations associated with the Qur’an online can
also be present on online forums and question-and-answer websites. These may draw on specific
translations and interpretations to develop particular understandings and worldviews.30 It is signifi-
cant that, while it is possible to locate audio and YouTube clips of women reciting the Qur’an, it
can be more problematic to locate an entire Qur’an recitation by a woman via an online source.31
Attempts were made through online campaigns to add female reciters to popular sites such as Quran
Explorer. This may be an area where one observes further development.32
Further online formats, in which ideas about the relationships between the Qur’an and other
sources, including the hadiths and approaches to Islamic legal materials, are also available. The pres-
entation of “live fatwas” on Islam Online and its successor OnIslam incorporated commentaries on
portions of the Qur’an in the projection of religious opinions and understandings.33 In some ways,
this reflected the competition for authority and consensus within (and between) diverse Islamic
milieus.
It is not always feasible to separate out web-related content from other media regarding the
Qur’an. For example, some online platforms seamlessly integrate diverse multimedia to present their
output, and the Internet (in its many forms) is but one element of that. Shaykh Muh.ammad Saalih
al-Munajjid has been online since 1997 and takes advantage of multimedia, using Twitter, Facebook,
YouTube, and WhatsApp to present videos from his broadcasts (both live streams and recorded). This
is in conjunction with his IslamQA website.34 During the programs, IslamQA.info is promoted with
slick animated infomercials, showing online channels promoting its services in various languages and
using Qur’anic recitation.35
The Digital Search for Meaning(s)

Politically oriented activist platforms also present their messages through specific Qur’an sources
online. In terms of commentaries, the output of Sayyid Qutb (d. 1966) was significant in reform-
oriented movements. His 18-volume In the Shade of the Quran is freely available to download, in
a variety of languages.36 Key contemporary figures’ approaches to the Qur’an are well represented
online, such those of as Yusuf al-Qaradawi.37 Political platforms, organizations, and governments
from all sides operating in Muslim contexts will also present the Qur’an online in specific inter-
pretations and commentaries. For example, the Malaysian Department of Islamic Development
Malaysia ( JAKIM) provides an e-Quran (along with other sources) featuring a foreword by the then
prime minister.38 The Turkish government provides entry points to the Qur’an through a variety
of platforms and apps, including a searchable portal with recitation and an extensive commentary.
The reciters include 11 Arabic sources, from Turkey and beyond; there are also two recitations in
Turkish.39 By contrast, an example of a nongovernmental perspective in Turkey presenting a com-
mentary online would be that of supporters of Said Nursî (d. 1960), whose extensive Risale-i Nur
commentary on the Qur’an can be accessed online.40 A range of online applications associated with
the Qur’an have been developed in Turkey, including Quran Droid.41
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Gary R. Bunt
Specific networks, with adherents across borders, may also extend their influence through appli-
cation of Qur’an-oriented resources. There are numerous examples. The Deobandi Dar-ul-Ifta have
presented thousands of fatwas online, incorporating aspects of interpretation and opinion provided
by scholars.42 Minhaj ul-Quran provides its own translation of the Qur’an by Muh.ammad Tahir
al-Qadri.43
The production of Qur’an-oriented content extends to diverse militaristic jihad-oriented enti-
ties, who promote their own interpretations through a combination of generic sources and specific
worldviews, backed up by Internet content. This was a concept established in the 1990s by organiza-
tions such as Hamas and Hezbollah. It extended into the output of al-Qaeda, whose commentaries
included the thoughts of Osama bin Laden. These were developed through web pages and an evolv-
ing system of information distribution, encompassing sound files, downloadable magazines, and
video – presented in multiple languages and often nuanced toward specific audiences. The different
“franchises” and supporters of al-Qaeda were to take these ideas about the Qur’an and develop them
independently through their own media distribution. In turn, with the emergence of the “Islamic
State,” commentaries on the Qur’an were applied in justification for jihad-oriented campaigning in
Syria, Iraq, Libya, and beyond. Multimedia played a key role, in which the dominance of the Qur’an
as a “soundtrack” for jihadi activities including drawing on generic recitations and translations, as
well as applying specific visual motifs drawn from calligraphic sources. With both al-Qaeda and the
“Islamic State,” in their multifarious forms and allegiances, social media and the Internet were criti-
cal in disseminating their tafsīr to broader audiences.
The spectrum of interpretations of meanings associated with Salafism also take advantage of the
Internet as a mobilization and networking tool. Thenoblequran.com forms part of Salafi Publications.
It presents a searchable Qur’an with commentaries by Ibn Kathīr (d. 1373),44 T ․abarī (d. 923), and
Qurt․ubī (d. 1273). There are also links to articles on recitation, Qur’anic characteristics, and mean-
ing.45 A series of Qur’an Schemas present collected verses on specific themes. A typical example is
“Shirk Is Not Limited to Idols and Includes Seeking Intercession Through Prophets, Angels, Jinns,
and the Righteous,” which is explicit (and negative) in its views toward those whose views fall
outside of this specific “orthodox” fold of Salafism.46 Substantial advice appears in Salafi websites
relating to approaches toward the Qur’an, such as AbdurRahman.org, which makes value judgments
on the quality of various translations.47 This latter site also links to specific YouTube channels featur-
ing Qur’anic sources in translations sympathetic to Salafi interpretations, accompanied by recitation
from more “conventional” mainstream sources.48
Variant online readings of the Qur’an may also incorporate approaches drawn from diverse Sufi-
oriented perspectives. These may apply generic sources, as utilized elsewhere, but can also incorpo-
rate other elements associated with esoteric readings of the text. The Naqshbandi-Haqqani Order
published Mawlana Shaykh Hisham Kabbani’s tafsīr on 22 suras online. These are in a video format,
including recitation of the portion, followed by a discussion by the Shaykh. The style is informal,
as he sits on a sofa and talks to an unseen audience.49 These commentaries were recorded in diverse
locations and vary in audio quality. They seek to elaborate the themes of the Qur’an and present (in
this case) esoteric dimensions of interpretation. A commentary on the Naqshbandi NurMuhammad
website (linked to the Naqshbandi-Nazimiyya Sufi Order) integrates ideas of recitation with lectures
and sermons highlighting specific aspects of Sufi principles and beliefs.50 Elements of esoterically
oriented Sufi Qur’anic commentary that would be deemed “innovations” elsewhere can be found
on aspects of performance and ritual, including “Unseen Knowledge of Letters and Numbers.” The
presentation of Qur’anic recitation is an aspect of numerous sites associated with diverse Sufi per-
spectives, in various cultural, regional, and religious contexts. The discussions on these issues also
feature in commercial areas, such as online bookstores – including those associated with popular,
Western approaches toward Sufism.
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The Qur’an features in social media applications, which go beyond the confines of web browsers.
For example, a number of Twitter feeds feature daily or weekly portions of the Qur’an along with
related content such as hadith quotes and prayers from users.51 The #quran hashtag attracts a wider
range of traffic, including comments from detractors and critics of Islam (to varying degrees), which
can be amplified in response to particular events and news stories that may not have a direct rela-
tionship with the Qur’an (such as anti-Muslim rhetoric, anti-religious commentaries, abuse). The
hashtag stream can also feature products and services, such as tools for memorizing the Qur’an. The
Qur’an has also found a place in other forms of social media and message distribution. For instance,
WhatsApp featured a group that was working through the Qur’an verse by verse in Arabic and
English.52 Duta Quran offered a section of the Qur’an twice a day via WhatsApp.53
Concluding Comment
There is potential for information overload when exploring the multiplicity of sites presenting
information about the Qur’an, alongside translations and commentaries. The status of using a digital
interface as a means of accessing the Qur’an has even been contested. One source suggested that
there was no difference between reading an electronic version and a conventional printed version
and that issues of ritual cleanliness necessary for accessing and touching a physical copy of the Qur’an
did not apply to its digital equivalent.54 Other scholarly sources have encouraged the use of digital
Qur’an apps and websites as teaching aids, to be used in conjunction with their analogue equivalents
where possible.
It is significant that, while the core content of the Qur’an retains its consistency and integrity
that, according to tradition, date back to the time of the Prophet Muhammad, there continue to be
innovative ways for its presentation, in line with technological transformations and developments. As
the digital divide diminishes over time and as more people within Muslim contexts have opportuni-
ties to go online through a multiplicity of (cheaper) devices, the presentation of the Qur’an online
will increase in relevance as a core Islamic digital product. This goes beyond textual and audio tools
into more interactive and immersive zones of social media and the World Wide Web, not just in
Arabic – but in all languages in which Muslims operate and function. The Qur’an can form part
of wider surfing habits within cyber Islamic environments and wider online contexts. It does not
negate the presence of other forms of the revelation within analog environments, but it can aug-
ment the connectivity an individual may have with the revelation. This may vary from individual to
individual, and the ways in which the Qur’an is applied can also vary. It may only form a reminder
of the need to pray (perhaps linked to an adhān app), but it can also provide a digital entry point
into zones of spirituality – as well as more prosaic requirements specific to developing (in some
cases) ritual and legalistic approaches toward the text, through a variety of interfaces and platforms.
An individual may have these on varying technologies and indeed have several different versions on
a drive or in the Cloud. Space for the Qur’an on a digital device may compete with other, more
generic software forms and applications. Rather than seeing the forms of the Qur’an found online as
somehow unique or exceptional developments, within a contemporary context, they are now really
a natural component in forms of religious understanding and expression, the digital being integrated
(for many) as part of everyday Muslim life.
Notes
1 Gary R. Bunt, Virtually Islamic: Computer-mediated Communication and Cyber Islamic Environments (Cardiff:
University of Wales Press, 2000), 18–30.
2 Scholarly Technology Group, Brown University, “Qur’an Browser,” www.stg.brown.edu/webs/quran_
browser/pqeasy.shtml/ (accessed February 1, 2000 – link deleted).
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Gary R. Bunt
3 Muslim Students Association of the University of Southern California, www.usc.edu/dept/MSA/quran/

qmtintro.html (accessed February 1, 2000 – link deleted).
4 Humanities Text Initiative, University of Michigan, “The Koran,” www.hti.umich.edu/relig/koran/
(accessed April 4, 2016).
5 Endowments Saudi Arabian Ministry of Islamic Affairs, Da’wah and Guidance, “Islam – Resources and
Information,” www.al-islam.com/eng/ (accessed July 26, 2004). King Fahd Complex for the Printing of the
Holy Qur’an, www.qurancomplex.org (accessed July 26, 2004). Harf Information Technology, “The Holy
Qur’an,” www.harf.com (accessed July 26, 2004).
6 Al-Islam, “Multilingual Qurʾan,” www.al-islam.org/Qur’an (accessed September 4, 2005). Tanzil.info,
“Qur’an,” http://tanzil.info (accessed September 4, 2005).
7 Printed equivalents are listed here. They exist in multiple versions: Mohammad Marmaduke Pickthall, The
Meaning of the Glorious Koran: An Explanatory Translation (New York: Alfred Knopf, 1930); Agha Pooya Yazdi
and S.V. Mir Ahmed Ali, The Holy Quran (Elmhurst, NY: Tahrike Tarsile Qur’an, 1988); Mohammedali
Habib Shakir, The Qurʾan (Tehran: World Organization for Islamic Services, n.d.); The Holy Qurʾan:
Text, Translation and Commentary. trans. Abdullah Yusuf Ali ( Jeddah: Islamic Education Centre, 1946). See
also Bruce B. Lawrence, The Koran in English (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2017), 183 for a
discussion on the veracity of Shakir.
8 Islamicity, “Qur’an,” www.islamicity.com/quran/ (accessed April 4, 2016).
9 Sayyid Abul A’la Mawdudi, “Tafhim al-Qur’an – The Meaning of the Qur’an,” online version presented on
Muslim Students Association of the University of Southern California, www.usc.edu/dept/MSA/ (accessed
February 1, 2000 – link deleted).
10 Bunt, Virtually Islamic, 123–130.
11 Al-Quran.info, http://al-quran.info (accessed February 26, 2016).
12 Oxford Islamic Studies Online, “The Qurʾan,” trans. M.A.S. Abdel Haleem, www.oxfordislamicstudies.com
(accessed February 26, 2016).
13 IslamAwakened, http://islamawakened.com (accessed March 4, 2015).
14 Quran.com, http://quran.com (accessed March 4, 2015).
15 House of Quran, www.houseofquran.com (accessed March 4, 2015).
16 Many Muslim contexts hold competitions to judge Qur’an recitation, based on criteria including memo-
rization, age and gender of the participants, the clarity of their Arabic, and the beauty of their recitation.
Quran Explorer, http://quranexplorer.com (accessed February 26, 2016).
17 Tim Craig, “By way of Computers and Headsets, Islamic Teaching Flows out of Pakistan,” Washington Post,
February 1, 2016, http//www.washingtonpost.com.
18 ReadQuranOnline, http://readquranonline.com (accessed February 26, 2016).
19 Clear Quran, “About,” http://blog.clearquran.com/about/ (accessed February 26, 2016).
20 Mohammed N. Al-Khan, “Dubai’s Grand Mufti Warns Against Unauthorised Quran Translations on the
Internet, The National, June 21, 2013, www.thenational.ae/news/uae-news/dubais-grand-mufti-warns-
against-unauthorised-quran-translations-on-the-internet.
21 quranwow.com, http://quranwow.com (accessed February 26, 2016).
22 islamway.net, http://islamway.net (accessed November 5, 2018).
23 AnalyzeQuran, http://analyzequran.com (accessed November 5, 2018). This is based around The Glorious
Quran, trans. Muh.ammad Tahir ul-Qadri (London: Minhaj-ul-Quran, 2011). This version is also avail-
able as a separate app. Google Play, The Glorious Quran (Official), https://play.google.com/store/apps/
details?id=com.tgq.irfanulquran (accessed November 5, 2018). Apple Store, The Glorious Quran (Official),
https://itunes.apple.com/gb/app/the-glorious-quran-official/id998868019 (accessed November 5, 2018).
24 Shia Tutor, “Online Quranic Arabic Course for Kids & Youth Online Shia Quran Teacher,” www.shiatutor.
com (accessed April 4, 2016).
25 Shia Qur’an Recitation, “Shaykh al-Haeri – LIVE in Qom,” https://youtu.be/5mpTtzVLHPM (accessed
March 22, 2016). Karbala TV, www.karbala-tv.net/live.php (accessed March 22, 2016).
26 Jalāl al-Dīn al-Mah.allī and Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūt․ī, Tafsir al-Jalalayn, trans. Feras Hamza (Amman: Royal Aal al-
Bayt Institute for Islamic Thought, 2017); Sahl ibn ʿAbdallāh al-Tustarī, Tafsir al-Tustarī, trans. Ali Keeler and
Annabel Keeler (Louisville, KY: Fons Vitae/Royal Aal al-Bayt Institute for Islamic Thought, 2011). Both
accessed through Aal al-Bayt Institute for Islamic Thought, “Index,” www.altafsir.com (accessed Novem-
ber 2, 2018).
27 Ziauddin Sardar, “Blogging the Qur’an, 2008–,” http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/quran/ (link deleted).
28 Abdullah Al-Hasan, “Maqasid on ‘Blogging the Quran: A Letter to Ziauddin Sardar’,” January 16, 2008,
https://mtakbar.wordpress.com/2008/01/16/maqasid-on-blogging-the-quran-a-letter-to-ziauddin-
sardar/ (accessed March 22, 2016).
392
2 9 Ziauddin Sardar, Reading the Qur’an (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011).
30 Gary R. Bunt, Islam in the Digital Age (London: Pluto Press, 2003).
31 Examples of female recitation can be found at mp3lio, “Quran Best Voice of Women Mp3,” http://mp3lio.
co/quran-best-voice-of-women (accessed April 4, 2016).
32 Ken Chitwood, “At Ramadan, an Online Petition for Female Quran Reciters,” Religious News Service, Wash-
ington Post, June 29, 2015, www.washingtonpost.com (accessed October 19, 2018).
33 Gary R. Bunt, Hashtag Islam: How Cyber Islamic Environments Are Transforming Religious Authority (Chapel
Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2018), 84–87.
34 Muh.ammad al-Munajjid, “YouTube Channel,” www.youtube.com/user/almunajjid (accessed April 4,
2016).
35 Muh.ammad al-Munajjid, “ ‘Values’, 5 August 2015 (1436/10/20),”https://youtu.be/iHmW6exTjtI?t=3m52s
(accessed April 4, 2016).
36 For example, see kalamullah.com, “Sayyid Qutb, In the Shade of the Quran,” www.kalamullah.com/shade-of-
the-quran.html (accessed March 22, 2016); Tafsir fi Zilalil Quran, https://tafsirzilal.wordpress.com (accessed
March 22, 2016).
37 Yusuf al-Qaradawi, http://qaradawi.net (accessed April 4, 2016).
38 Sheikh Abdullah Basmeith, translation and commentary, Tafsir al-Rahman, Interpretation of the Meaning of the
Qur’an (Kuala Lumpur: Department of Islamic Development Malaysia, 2007); http://islamgrid.gov.my/
flipbook/product/index.html (accessed March 22, 2016).
39 T.C. Başbakanlık Diyanet İşleri Başkanlığı, “Kur’an Portali,” http://mushaf.diyanet.gov.tr/ (accessed Octo-
ber 10, 2015).
40 Said Nursî, “Risale-i Nur,” www.sorularlarisale.com/index.php?s=modules/kulliyat (accessed October 10,
2015).
41 Feyyaz Information and Publishing Services, “Quran Droid,” https://play.google.com/store/apps/
details?id=org.feyyaz.qurandroid (accessed October 10, 2015). Also see Kuran Ikerim, www.kuran-ikerim.
org/ (accessed October 10, 2015).
42 For example, see Dar-ul-Ifta, http://darulifta-deoband.org (accessed November 4, 2015).
43 Minhaj ul-Quran, Muh.ammad Tahir al-Qadri, “Irfan-ul-Quran,” www.irfan-ul-quran.com (accessed April 4,
2016).
44 See Younus Mirza’s Chapter 23 in this volume on the use of Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr in Salafi circles.
45 Salafi Publications, “The Noble Quran,” www.thenoblequran.com/sps/nbq/ (accessed March 22, 2016).
46 Ibid., “Public Schemas, Shirk Is Not Limited to Idols and Includes Seeking Intercession Through Prophets,
Angels, Jinns, and the Righteous,” www.thenoblequran.com/sps/nbq/ (accessed March 22, 2016).
47 AbdurRahman.org, “Qur’an,” http://abdurrahman.org (accessed March 22, 2016).
48 Muhsin Khan and Hilaali, Saʾad Al-Ghamdi (translators), “The Noble Qur’an,” http://noblequraan.abdur
rahman.org/2011/10/28/1-surat-al-fatihah-the-opener/ (accessed March 22, 2016).
49 Sufi Live, “Mawlana Shaykh Hisham Kabbani, Tafsir ad-Duha Part 1, March 5, 2007,” http://sufilive.com/
Tafsir-ad-Duha-Part-1-137.html (accessed March 20, 2016).
50 Naqshbandi Muhibeen, “Tafsir,” www.nurmuhammad.com/Dwnlds/Tafsirs/tafsirsurahannaas.pdf (accessed
March 10, 2016).
51 Quran Weekly, https://twitter.com/quranweekly (accessed, March 14, 2016). Allah Islam Quran, https://
twitter.com/AllahGreatQuran (accessed, March 14, 2016). The Noble Quran, https://twitter.com/The
NobleQuran (accessed March 14, 2016).
52 WhatsAppQuranGroup, http://whatsappqurangroup.blogspot.co.uk/ (accessed April 4, 2016).
53 Duta Quran, https://duta.in/quran.php (accessed April 4, 2016).
54 islamway.net, “Reading Qur’aan from the Computer,” http://iswy.co/e17ocb (accessed November 5,
2018).
393
36
THE QUR’AN IN
CONTEMPORARY MASS AND
POPULAR CULTURE1
N.A. Mansour
Introduction
I’m in Cairo and my cab driver keeps skipping through his playlist and it is starting to annoy me.
I empathize with him though. We all know the feeling: you get to a song you don’t quite feel in
the mood for and want to skip ahead. It was indeed his car, and thus I go by his rules. But the man
was not simply skipping through his “Monday Chill” playlist but through the different suras of the
Qur’an, and I was annoyed in part because he was subjecting me to it as well – the interrupted flow
of the verses, the very word of God. But again, I know the feeling, reaching for the right sura or āya
of the Qur’an to suit me on that particular day: the Qur’an also has themes woven into it. Sometimes
you are more in the mood for one particular sura rather than another, maybe even for certain verses
within a sura more than the others.
From the moment it was first revealed to the Prophet Muhammad, the Qur’an has always been
a part of popular and mass culture: it is meant to be recited, shared amongst people in public, and
read in private during the five daily prescribed prayers (s.alāt). As the Islamic conquests swept across
continents, the Qur’an was increasingly integrated into the public sphere through inscriptions on
buildings, both religious and otherwise. For example, the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem (circa
692) is iconic today not only for its golden dome but for the verses of Qur’an wrapped around the
base of the dome itself. When the Qur’an adorns buildings like this, it is meant to be consumed with
the glance of an eye, not even fully read; the only real purpose is to remind the viewer – due to its
style and placement – of the centrality of the Qur’an, as well as to celebrate it through visual artistry.
Recitation was developed into an art, and the Qur’an thus became a pivotal element of scholarship
and art, both textual and nontextual. Teaching the Qur’an has also been a persistent element of
Muslim culture: a child’s education in language and literature was often based in the Qur’an across
the Muslim world throughout Islam’s history. Quoting a verse is not an uncommon way to either
make a point in conversation or to convey a sentiment. This multivalent, multisensory approach to
the Qur’an, incorporating the visual, auditory, and more, continues even today. The Qur’an remains
part of the Muslim and broader Arabic-language experience through its ability to fit different medi-
ums, like décor, film, and music.
But these definitions of mass and popular culture are very different from the one that we see
applied to European-language popular culture and its theory. The assumption tends to be that
popular culture is something quite modern, that emerged with the industrial age – whereas previ-
ously, the division was between folk and elite cultures, according to pop culture scholars like Stuart
394 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-39

Contemporary Mass and Popular Culture
Hall.2 Another tension that exists in popular culture studies is the distinction between “mass culture”
and “popular culture,” which in turn produces a tendency to see people simply as consumers and
not as active agents. Ultimately, what we are left with is a distinction between so-called low and
high cultures, as well as culture that is consumed because it is mass culture, not because it inspires
or entertains. Mass culture in the Muslim context can be, for example, the buildings of the Muslim
world, the pottery that is used daily that might have an intricate pattern, and the candlestick holders
with Qur’an inscribed at the base. From the perspective of the history of Islamic Art, Wendy Shaw
has suggested, in What Is “Islamic” Art?, that the mass culture of the Muslim world should also be
considered art and that we should not ignore it because it is commercially produced and used in
everyday settings by all those living in majority-Muslim settings.3 In relation to both Muslim intel-
lectual history and Muslim material history, Richard McGregor has argued for a lack of distinction
between popular culture and elite culture, citing both Muslim devotion and relics as categories that
blur this distinction.4 I propose that the Qur’an likewise blurs this distinction. The Qur’an is con-
sidered a literary masterpiece, yet it is accessible to all both materially and textually. Furthermore, in
the late twentieth and early twenty-first-century contexts especially, mass and popular culture, are
beginning to converge, partly because of mass media and social media; another added layer is global
Islamophobia, which gives expression of Islam in both non-Muslim-majority and Muslim-majority
contexts all the more urgency.
This essay will approach late twentieth- and twenty-first-century mass and popular culture where
it references and incorporates the Qur’an. It will approach mass and popular culture as anything that
is or has the potential to be consumed by mass audiences, no matter the intention behind its crea-
tion. This includes fine art, pop art, film, music, television, and decor. I will look at producers who
are, for the most part, Muslims producing for Muslim audiences, although non-Muslim usage of
the Qur’an will also be included (even instances where the Qur’an is used to criticize Islam). Islam
is a global religion and has been for much of its existence: discussing the Qur’an in all of mass and
popular culture would require an entire library. Here, I will limit myself to the twenty and twenty-
first centuries and largely Anglophone and Arabophone Muslim cultures. I will address first how the
Qur’an is used to inspire, to remind, to frame, and to express; second, how the Qur’an is used to
discuss; and third, how the Qur’an is used to subvert.
To Inspire, to Remind, to Frame, to Express

In Spring 2020, I had a disagreement with a colleague who was also living in Egypt but was not from
Egypt herself. She noted how irreligious Egyptian mass culture had become. People were not buying
religious books anymore, she said. I told her buying religious books – works of Islamic philosophy
and Islamic law – was not an indication of religiosity. For instance, I follow accounts on Instagram
where people discuss religion extensively: the sites of engagement with religion had shifted and
redistributed themselves, I argued, and now included social media.
The Qur’an functions in the same way. In contemporary mass and pop culture, it can be a form
of Muslim devotion, inspiring Muslims toward the worship of God. It also serves as a reminder of
identity. Muslims express their multiple overlapping identities through the Qur’an as both a text and
an object; in some ways, this facilitates the portrayal of Muslims in media that target both Muslim
and non-Muslim audiences.
The first thing I thought of when the colleague disagreed with me about religious culture is how,
in roughly 70% of the cabs I take in Egypt – no matter the age of the driver – the Qur’an is play-
ing. As with Instagram, technology has adapted quickly to recitation culture, first through records
of reciters, then cassette tapes, and finally smartphone applications, some of which allow you to
download different chapters of the Qur’an to your phone with whichever reciter you please, from
a selection that varies from app to app, such as Qur’an Pro. One app named Qur’an Tafsir includes
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N.A. Mansour
Qur’anic commentaries alongside recitations and the text of the Qur’an itself. It also tracks one’s
reading and sends reminders to the user to keep up their daily use. The appeal to these apps is to
keep the Qur’an within one’s gaze, to inspire the user to engage with the text. And they are popular
because an interest in the Qur’an persists.
Popular reciters of the Qur’an have a culture around them as well. One has favorite reciters just
as one has favorite orchestras or favorite covers of popular songs. Contemporary reciter Noreen
Muh.ammad Siddique (d. 2020) has such a following online that each night of Ramadan his recita-
tions are streamed live on YouTube. The sheer diversity of reciters means that the listener is likely to
find one that they enjoy more than another. Yasser al-Dossari, for example, recites at a higher pitch,
whereas another popular reciter, Salman al-Utaybi, has a more baritone quality to his voice. There
is also a recent movement toward the incorporation of female reciters, referred to as “the Female
Reciters Movement.” In the UK, this is spearheaded by Madinah Javad, a law clerk; she, along
with developer John Austin, are developing an augmented reality app that that will use interactivity
to promote learning Qur’an recitation, tentatively called qARia, named for the Arabic word that
means “[female] Qur’an reciter.” However, the Female Reciters Movement more generally has faced
backlash from elements in the Muslim community who consider women reciting in public to be
without precedent in the Islamic tradition. Zainab Bint Younus, a Salafi thinker, has argued in turn
for the precedent in the Islamic tradition for the recitation of the Qur’an by female reciters based on
evidence that female reciters existed at the time of the Prophet Muhammad. Coming full circle, this
movement has also seen the incorporation of female reciters into Qur’an apps, namely Afrilang, an
app featuring both African reciters such as Abd Said Omar Allaoui and female reciters on different
iterations of the app, making them accessible to millions of users.
As already mentioned, engagement with the Qur’an has also spilled onto Instagram. Content
functions as both a reminder of the Qur’an and as an expression of an affinity with the text. In a digi-
tal world where content ranges from food to fashion, Muslim creators put their own spin on things
with a focus on modest fashion or Prophetic foods. In this world, the Qur’an manifests at its most
basic in the form of Qur’an quotations, meant to inspire and remind the individual who happens to
come across any given post of the Qur’an and of God. Qur’an journaling takes it to another level: a
notable Qur’an journaler is “faakihah,” a Qur’an teacher who offers classes online. She often notes
that journaling, manifesting in aesthetic representations of verses in translation, using homemade
stamps and stickers, facilitates her engagement with the Qur’anic text. Oftentimes, this is accompa-
nied by a reflective mini essay in the photo caption of whatever she has uploaded onto Instagram.
Muslim jewelry continues to be a site of religious expression, as well as a reminder to the wearer.
Often they harken to the past as well: in Egypt, rings with Qur’anic verses framed similarly to Egyp-
tian amulets are popular. Some feature verses that are often used as a duʿā, “invocations” to God,
such as the one said by Moses when he confronted Pharaoh, asking God to give him bravery and
eloquence (Q 20:25–26). With the introduction of websites like Etsy and Instagram, jewelry making
in North America and Western Europe has also taken off recently. Inspired by trends in minimalism,
Nominal, a US-based company, has produced verses of the Qur’an in neutral colors, like Āyat al-Kursī
(“the Throne Verse,” Q 2:255), a verse famous for its integration of basic elements of Muslim belief.
There is also a talismanic effect of having the Qur’an on you at all times; it can protect you from
h.asad, “malicious envy,” or nazar, another variety of envy that is somewhat less potent.
In some ways, street signage and home décor that feature the Qur’an in public and private
domains are talismanic, but they are also an expression of religiosity. In the Arabic-speaking world,
signs are used as talismans – notably Sūrat al-Falaq (Q 113), which specifically references h.asad – such
as on buildings undergoing construction or on food carts. In the Muslim world at large, one can buy
banners or framed Qur’anic verses to decorate the home, done in a variety of styles. More recently,
this has taken on the styles of the day, such as florals and pastels, like those sold by the Cairo-based
company, Joud. A honey company in Turkey has a line from the Qur’an describing what bees
396
produce is useful as a cure for people (Q 16:68–69) incorporated into its logo, in Istanbul’s Beyoğlu
district, which is known for being largely secular. This is a blatant choice to broadcast one’s religious
leanings by featuring Arabic in a font affiliated with the Qur’an. Even those who are not religious
or from religious families will understand that the Arabic text is Qur’an.
Qur’an-inspired décor carries onto representations of Muslims in popular culture. In trying to
create a representation of modern Muslim life that mimics reality, television and film representations
reach for this décor to furnish sets. In some cases, this is a quick attempt to emphasize Muslim-ness
because to non-Muslim audiences and non-Muslim creators of shows like the television series,
Homeland, Arabic text and the Qur’an are one. Citizen Khan, although produced by a Muslim, was
slammed, like Homeland for being Islamophobic, even though the creator said they were portraying
their “personal reality” or rather how the creator themselves experiences the world as a Muslim; this
reality includes Qur’anic wall hangings or the Qur’an propped up in a decorative fashion. In the
accompanying video to Riz Ahmed’s 2020 album The Long Goodbye, wall hangings can be seen in
the background with Qur’an and the names of God on them. In a similar manner – although with
tones that can cast Islam as oppressive – Craig Thompson’s 2010 graphic novel Habibi also uses the
Qur’an in the background of image panels, as well as quotations from the Qur’anic text itself, to
frame the characters’ Muslim identities.
Fine art takes this in another direction. With the rise of Internet retail and generations of Muslim
artists trained in both Islamic arts and other visual media, more experimental forms have been used
to artistically interpret the Qur’an. While home décor tends to be mass-produced, Muslim artists
often craft one-of-a-kind pieces that can also function as home décor. Muslim-made art on Muslim
topics have been increasingly displayed in galleries, as Muslim artists are being granted prestigious
fellowships to support their work, such as mixed media artist Nsenga Knight, photographer Peter
Sanders, or painter Mahmoud Farshchian, and such work is increasingly appreciated. Muslim artists
often feature the Qur’an in such work. One method is to include verses from the text itself. Art-
ist and filmmaker Suhad Khatib uses Qur’anic verses in paintings that incorporate calligraphy, also
accompanied by a short written piece when featured on her Instagram account. Faried Omarah also
uses social media to distribute his work, with accompanying reflections. He reimagines verses from
the Qur’an, sometimes putting them alongside illustrations. Representations of the Qur’an itself as
a physical book – referred to as the mus.h.af (“codex”) – are also common in work by Muslim art-
ists, either as part of scenes of Muslim life, as in the work of American artist and historian Beeta
Baghoolizadeh or American artist Hafsah Khan, who goes by “HafandHaf.” The Qur’an is thus
expressed as an element of everyday life and is also as a marker of Muslim identity.
The Qur’an in music evokes similar themes, as does the Qur’an in film. In devotional contexts,
it is incorporated as an interlude between songs, recited in the different styles that have emerged in
various historical and cultural contexts; this is most common in performances but is also mimicked
in album recordings, where a Qur’anic interlude is often found to break up the album and remind
the listener of the Qur’an, another aspect of Muslim performing arts that feeds devotional music.
But the Qur’an has also been incorporated into song itself. Devotional music often does quote the
Qur’an, even translated into languages other than Arabic – such as contemporary singer Khaled
Siddiq’s iteration of the classic Muslim Nashīd ․talaʿa l-badru ʿalaynā (“The Full Moon Rises Above
Us”), which makes a reference to the rope of God mentioned in Q 3:103. Poet Safia Elhello uses
a reference to Q 96 to discuss her own creation and composition as a human being. Non-Muslims
also quote the Qur’an in song: Jill Scott in “A Long Walk” cites Q 31:18 to make a statement about
human arrogance by stating outright: “maybe we can talk about 31:18.”5
When it comes to film – especially if the topic of the Qur’anic revelation is pivotal to the plot
itself – the Qur’an can be front and center. In 1976’s Arabic-language film al-Risāla and its English
equivalent The Message, the Qur’an is quoted by characters to one another frequently. The film tells
the story of the Qur’an’s revelation to the Prophet Muhammad – it is the eponymous “message”
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N.A. Mansour
– and it is natural that characters would use it in discourse, with one another. In other words, it
portrays the Qur’an as the original iteration of Muslim popular culture, being shared to motivate
and inspire Muslims around one another. More recently, Netflix’s 2020 show, Messiah, decried by
Muslims as both Islamophobic and Arabophobic, features a Messiah-like character. He quotes the
Qur’an and the Bible in part to inspire his followers and in part to convince them of his status as
some sort of messenger.
To Discuss
A constant theme of discussion in the Muslim community in non-Muslim majority countries is to
what extent Muslims should debate through their differences as a minority group in full view of the
non-Muslim community, be they religious, cultural, or political. When art is created around Muslim
platforms, it is consumed mainly by Muslims, and the conversation is contained. If it occurs in a
space that is easily accessible to non-Muslim communities, it is likely to be misunderstood and, in
extreme cases, abused by Islamophobes.
This was not what Aziz Ansari did when he wrote episode three of the second season of his Netf-
lix series Master of None, titled “Religion,” that tackled the intergenerational religious gulf in his fam-
ily. Toward the end of the episode, which looks namely at pork consumption, the protagonist Dev
sends a text to his mother: he tells her that he sees their religious differences through the Qur’an,
specifically Q 109, which states the difference between a believer and a kāfir, often translated as “dis-
believer.” Specifically, he cites Q 109:6 – “You have your religion and I have mine” – as evidence of
their ability to still have a relationship, despite their differences over his eating pork.
The Master of None episode is clearly an example of a portrayal of the Qur’an being used to
strike up a conversation: one character uses it to prompt another character into responding to their
thoughts on religion. But the episode started a conversation in Muslim circles about the portrayal of
Muslims in Western media: conversation regarding whether or not tensions between religious and
secular family members should be played out on screen when they have not really been resolved in
communities themselves. But there was also the conversation about whether or not Muslims should
be portrayed in any one particular way. The privileging of secular narratives over religious narratives
by Muslims in mainstream media – that is, media that would also make it to largely non-Muslim
audiences – was particularly provoked by this episode. And it rounded back to the portrayal of the
Qur’an: was Ansari’s use of the verse flippant? Was he simply putting it in there to please Western
audiences, who might find his use of the verse introspective, while to a practicing Muslims it would
seem insufficient for a real conversation about religion?
In some ways, visual art including the Qur’an – either as a mus.h.af or quotations from the text
itself – is also intended to spark a conversation. Artist Faried Omarah often draws on verses from the
Qur’an that speak to themes of patience. Omarah is clearly trying to inspire his audience to think of
the Qur’an as a moral text and is in particular highlighting how the Qur’an emphasizes the need for
the believer to be patient. Similarly, visual artist Saks Afridi’s Somewhere in America (2015) uses the
iconic Qur’anic mus.h.af ’s template, complete with illumination but sets into it the lyrics to Jay-Z’s
song of the same title in Arabic script. The reasoning behind casting the lyrics as such is to begin a
conversation about what Muslim education looks like and whether or not it encourages blind belief,
as well as the role of hip-hop in youth culture.
In other cases, the mus.h.af is used by non-Muslims in non-Muslim media, like the film adaptation
of the dystopian Alan Moore graphic novel V for Vendetta (2005). A TV presenter named Gordon
Deitrich shows the protagonist, Evey, a fourteenth-century copy of part of the Qur’an that he keeps
in secret, although it is banned because, as he says, it is beautiful and the poetry within it is moving.
Here, however, the Qur’an is removed from the Muslim context and simply exists to demonstrate
a character’s open-mindedness toward religion and its fruits. It stands for what the dystopian state
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hates, that is, faith in anything other than the state. But beyond that, the mere appearance of the
mus.h.af also says something about the Qur’an in mainstream culture: in the film, the Qur’an is never
explained but is rather referenced. Islam has begun to integrate into Anglophone popular culture.
To Subvert
I was in an all-women’s gym for the first time in the Arabic-speaking world. The gym itself was a
magnet for hijab- and niqab-wearing women who felt comfortable enough to remove their veils
and wear tank tops and tights amongst other women. Qur’an was often playing from speakers in the
morning, even though there was also available upon request the quick dub-step that inhabits all gym
environments. One day, as I stretched, I turned around and saw a stunning tattoo on a woman’s back:
it was easily the size of a dinner plate, on her left shoulder blade in navy blue. It was Sūrat al-Falaq
(Q 113). I wasn’t the only one staring: tattoos are haram or “forbidden” in the Sunni schools of
Islamic law, and opinions vary amongst the Shiʿa. Thus to tattoo the Qur’an to your body, in a place
that would be visible were you to regularly go to the gym, was downright subversive. However, it
was a particular type of subversion applicable only to the Qur’an. I have no doubt in my mind that
the woman tattooed this selection of the Qur’an to herself because she has a connection to the text
but that, in some ways, she was acting subversively. But there are also others, former Muslims and
non-Muslims, who use the Qur’an to subvert in a way that attacks the Qur’an, Muslims, and Islam.
Tattoos are not a new phenomenon in the Muslim-majority world. Coptic Christians in Egypt
have a tattoo culture, where tattoo artists go to major religious gatherings and set up stations to tat-
too the faithful. This can be as basic as a tattoo of a cross on the finger-webbing of the believer or
large tattoos of the Virgin Mary done in the Coptic style. Bedouin women tattoo themselves, often
even on their faces, in different parts of Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, Jordan, North Africa, and Sudan;
this is often described as a pre-Islamic practice. However, there is a prohibition on tattooing the body
for decorative purposes in Sunni Islam – because it changes the body that God created – and this
prohibition is well-known. Therefore, to tattoo oneself with the Qur’an could be seen as the greatest
subversion of all: one is taking the holiest of texts in the tradition and doing something that is seen
as haram within the lens of contemporary Islamic law.
Although it is not a widespread phenomenon, tattooing oneself with the Qur’an is increasingly
popular. So while they are knowingly doing something that the greater population is not in agree-
ment with, most individuals who tattoo the Qur’an to themselves pick the selections they tattoo for
a reason: they are picking the verses that mean something to them. One individual I spoke to told
me their sister tattooed onto their wrist fa-inna maʿa l-ʿus.ri yusrā, a verse that reads “With hardship
comes ease” (Q 94:5). The verse is meant to comfort the wearer, as well as anyone who looks at it.
This could also be seen as the Qur’an functioning as a reminder both of itself, of the particular verse,
and of God. The woman at the gym from all those years ago had Sūrat al-Falaq on her shoulder.
That sura, especially when read alongside others, is meant to ward off h.asad. The command, iqraʾ
(“Read!,” Q 96:1) is Qur’anic, in fact almost universally considered the first word of the first verse
revealed to the Prophet Muhammad. Tattooing it can thus have multiple levels of meaning and
engagement. But perhaps the most important element of any Qur’anic tattoo is the individual’s
visual affiliation with the Qur’anic verse, through the act of physically putting select verses on their
skin. In non-Muslim majority contexts, tattoos with Arabic script express Muslim or Arab identity,
but we can also think of them as subversive. In a politically charged, Islamophobic context, using
Arabic script is a reminder of religious and cultural pluralism in the public sphere. It is making Islam
visible to those who might want to harm Islam and Muslims.
However, there are cases when subversive use of the Qur’an is meant to combat Islam and Mus-
lims. One particularly famous case is that of Ayaan Hirsi Ali, who collaborated with Dutch film
producer Theo Van Gogh to produce Submission, a short film that criticized how women are treated
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in Muslim societies. They inserted passages of the Qur’an – ones that are often seen by both some
Muslims and Islamophobes as justifying abusive treatment of women such as Q 2:222 and Q 24:2 –
into scenes showing Muslim women suffering from abuse. One example features a woman with the
Qur’an written on her skin. The film can be seen as part of the Islamophobia that is rampant in
Dutch society. In this case, the Qur’an is taken out of context and is portrayed in ways that are meant
to provoke the viewer into a blind hatred of Islam and even Muslims. Some would even argue that it
is meant to provoke Muslims as well into reacting poorly to the film. The producers of the film could
in turn use this to justify their own portrayal of Muslims: in reality, Theo Van Gogh was assassinated
by a Dutch Muslim because of the film. This sort of subversion is very different from that of those
individuals tattooing the Qur’an to themselves. With tattoos, there is a declaration of identification
with the Qur’anic text. With Submission and similar forms of Islamophobic criticism of Muslims, the
aim is unfortunately to criticize and to provoke a whole range of Muslim and non-Muslim reactions.
Conclusion
In the 1700s, the Muslim scholar ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī (d. 1731) was on a journey to Egypt
and the Arabian Peninsula from his hometown of Damascus. His company came across a small vil-
lage outside of Damascus, and they stopped and spoke to the people of the town. The traveling
company – comprised of scholars – were surprised by how much Qur’an the villagers had memo-
rized and were even more surprised by how much tafsīr (Qur’anic exegesis) the people knew. They
promptly engaged them in a theological conversation. To the people of this village, the Qur’an was
popular culture: it was something they all shared and something they all engaged in together. They
could even engage in it with Muslims of different demographics.6
This is not unique to the eighteenth century. The Qur’an was always a part of popular and
mass cultures; we need to consider religion as an integral part of mass and popular culture, not
simply thinking of religion with regard to how it is portrayed in mass and popular culture. And this
reconsideration, motivated by Muslim societies, many of which exist alongside and overlap with
non-Muslim societies, can challenge perceptions and theories of mass and popular culture where
it is tied to the emergence of class, to the Industrial Revolution, and to European cultures more
generally. Furthermore, looking to the Qur’an and to Islam in how we see popular and mass cul-
ture can expand our expectations. The Qur’an shows us that mass and popular culture can be used
to express identity, to discuss, and to subvert. Here, we can think back to “HafandHaf,” American
artist Hafsa Khan’s moniker, whose images of the Qur’an and Muslim devotion inspire and provide
the Muslim viewer with a sense of representation and belonging. However, Khan has also produced
other artwork, mostly portraying romantic scenes leaning toward the more sexually explicit. In an
interview with the podcast Spilled Chai, she noted that the Muslim community questions her ability
and desire to portray such scenes, whereas she is simply expressing her own reality as an American
Muslim woman of color. In other words, her art is also meant to subvert and, as a result, to provoke.7
So what do we expect next of the Qur’an in mass and popular culture? In the future, how will
Muslims and non-Muslims evoke the Qur’an in culture? Any predictions we could make would
be laughable – like bad pulp science fiction from the 1940s that predicted flying cars for the mass
market. But I do suspect that the themes pointed out here will be consistent and carry on, albeit
in different audio, visual, material, and textual forms. After all, they have already been so for over
fourteen hundred years.
Notes
1 Many thanks to George Archer and Maria Dakake for inviting me to contribute to this volume. Tine
Lavent and Noha Mostafa deserve special recognition for being the librarians whose well organized and
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well stocked library made it easy to browse and pick books off the shelf. They were patient when I pulled
many artbooks down from the shelves to zip through. Tine Lavent especially was a great source of sugges-
tions. In addition to being a phenomenal librarian, she is a well of information on contemporary art. Marwa
Gadallah brainstormed with me as soon as I told her about the project. I also thank, for their comments and
volunteering information, Akram Abdallah, Maedah and Arefeh Agharazi, Sophia Rose Arjana, John Aus-
tin, Ayman Azlan, Rahma Baavelar, Beeta Baghoolizadeh, Esra ElHamel, Sara Elnemr, Yousef ElZalabany,
George Hanif, Madinah Javed, Maysa Khan, Nsenga Knight, Madonna Kalousian, Megan MacDonald, A.J.
Naddaf, Ida Nitter, Josefina Mansour, Cornelis Van Lit O.P., Zainab Bint Younis, Rabiah Alexis York, and
Farida Yousef. All mistakes are my own.
2 Stuart Hall, “Notes on Deconstructing the ‘Popular,’ ” in People’s History and Socialist Theory, ed. Raphael
Samuel (Boston: Routledge & K. Paul, 1981), 227–240.
3 Wendy M. K. Shaw, What Is “Islamic” Art? Between Religion and Perception (Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press, 2019), 1–3.
4 Richard McGregor, “Notes on the Literature of Sufi Prayer Commentaries,” Mamluk Studies Review 17
(2013), 199–211.
5 The verse Q 31:18 is translated, according to the Sahih International edition: “And do not turn your cheek
[in contempt] toward people and do not walk through the earth exultantly. Indeed, Allah does not like
everyone self-deluded and boastful.”
6 ʿAbd al-Ghanī ibn Ismāʿīl al-Nābulsī, al-H.aqīqa wa l-majāz fī l-rih.la ilā mas.r wa l-hijāz (Cairo: Ministry of
Culture, General Egyptian Book Organization, 1986), 43–46.
7 Spilled Chai. “HafandHaf,” https://spilledchai.com/post/150044612157/slumdog-hafandhaf-hafandhaf-
aka-hafsa-khan-a (accessed March 29, 2020).
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37
THE QUR’AN AND KALĀM
David Thomas
Introduction
Kalām is the distinctive Islamic discipline of discourse about the existence and being of God and
of the relationship between God and the created order. It approximates to theology in Christianity,
although its aims and methods rule out any direct equivalence. Its exact origins can no longer be
known with certainty. While the earliest sources indicate that it arose out of dialogue, the partici-
pants in this dialogue are not clearly identifiable, whether Muslims and followers of other traditions
outside Islam or Muslims who held divergent views within Islam. Scholars differ, with some favoring
an origin in the defensive opposition to challenges from outside and others in the discussion of ques-
tions of faith within.1 There is no strong reason to rule out a combination of influences and interests,
which in the cosmopolitan and intercultural society of the first Islamic centuries could together have
produced a variety of distinctive religious positions and questions on the part of Muslims, together
with the beginnings of theological methods. These were all characterized by their reliance on the
Qur’an and their constant appeal to it.
From its origins, kalām was argumentative by nature. The term itself can be translated as
“speech” or “discourse,” and its practitioners, mutakallimūn (sing. mutakallim), participated in a
form of analytical argument intended to defend or attack a position until it was shown to be
sound or had to be abandoned. It is not surprising that the mutakallimūn may have been regarded
as “forever talking”2 or that the later master of religious reflection Abū H.āmid al-Ghazālī (d. 1111)
should dismiss kalām as no more than an apologetic mechanism: “Its aim is simply to conserve the
creed of the orthodox for the orthodox and to guard it from the confusion introduced by the inno-
vators.”3 It was never quite accepted as a Qur’an-based discipline in the same way as, for example,
jurisprudence, though for several hundred years from the eighth century onward it served a crucial
purpose in establishing a rational basis for the teachings of the Qur’an, and in the process it set out
in detail the implications of what the Qur’an says about the being of God and his relationship with
the world in a coherent and systematic manner. In this way, it was possible for the mutakallimūn
to prove that Islam was not only congruent with reason but that it embodied rational principles
in ways that were far superior to other faiths. While it remained apologetic in its overall intention
and approach, in the hands of its most expert practitioners, kalām could be seen as revelation in
a systematized and rationalized form, with the Qur’an both its inspiration and the framework on
which it was constructed.
402 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-40

The Qur’an and Kalām
The Qur’an in Kalām

Muslims employed the Qur’an in religious disputes from the earliest times. The Khawārij, part of
the Caliph ʿAlī’s forces who deserted him after the Battle of S.iffīn in 657, proclaimed “There is no
judgement apart from God’s” (lā h.ukm illā li-llāh), by which they were probably signaling that since
God has given his law through the Qur’an, both sides in the battle were wrong. ʿAlī was wrong
because he derogated his position as leader in consenting to arbitration and his opponent Muʿāwiya
(d. 680) was wrong for rising against the rightful leader of the community. The slogan itself does
not appear in this exact form in the Qur’an, though it approximates to a number of verses (e.g., Q
6:57, 12:40), and it has been seen as enunciating the strict dictum that humans should not question
or interfere with what God has ordained.
This recourse to the Qur’an as an authority is evident in what is regarded as one of the earliest
known arguments in support of a theological position, the Risāla (“Treatise”) written by the ascetic
al-H.asan al-Bas.rī (d. 728) to the Umayyad Caliph ʿAbd al-Malik ibn Marwān (r. 685–705). This was
part of an early debate about the tension between, on the one hand, the preordaining power of God,
which the Umayyad regime favored as part of their claim to legitimacy, and on the other, those who
looked for ways to show that individuals and ruling elites could be accountable. Al-H.asan’s Risāla (if
it is by him rather than by a later author writing under his name) is substantially a concatenation of
verses from the Qur’an, skillfully linked together to show that any single verse appearing to suggest
that God’s omnipotence excludes human responsibility for action must be interpreted in relation to
verses that emphasize clearly human moral freedom and accountability. An example illustrates the
overall approach:
They [who differ from al-H.asan] also dispute about His saying: “Some of them will be
unfortunate, some fortunate” [Q 11:105]. They interpret this such that God created people
in their mothers’ wombs either fortunate or unfortunate so there is no way for whoever He
has made unfortunate to become fortunate nor is there any way for whoever He has made
fortunate to become unfortunate. If the matter were as they assert, God’s messengers and
books would be no use to them at all, but the messengers’ call to them, intent for them
and advice to them would not be of any use at all to them. However, the interpretation is
not what they mean.4
His point, underlined in the last two sentences here, is that this verse cannot mean that everything is
foreordained because if that were the case, God’s whole purpose in sending the prophetic messengers
to call to obey his guidance would have been thwarted, since humans could not themselves do any-
thing to respond to or ignore them. Even more seriously, if humans do not have moral responsibility,
then God’s whole plan, which was executed through his messengers and their proclamations, would
have been pointless. But God does not work in this way: there are purpose and advantage in what
he does.
Al-H . asan’s approach throughout this Risāla implies that the Qur’an must be read according to
appropriate methodological principles if its meaning is to be understood correctly. In his argument
here, he shows that individual verses must be set against the whole span of what the Qur’an teaches
about God’s relationship with His creatures – giving them guidance through his messengers and the
teachings revealed to them and at the last judging them according to their response – in order to be
given their proper meaning. In doing this, he heralds one of the major debates that developed in
kalām over the following three centuries at least, concerning the relationship between the teachings
of the Qur’an and the outcomes of rational reflection. The problem was set mainly by successors of
al-H.asan and his contemporaries who debated the extent to which some, at least, human acts were
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free from God’s control. These were known later as the Muʿtazila, traditionally regarded as taking
their name from an incident when one of their early exponents “withdrew” (iʿtazala) from al-H.asan
al-Bas.rī because of a doctrinal disagreement. With them, the practice of kalām reached maturity as a
precision instrument for exposing weaknesses in opposing arguments and for constructing a Qur’an-
inspired interpretation of the world that possessed enviable comprehensiveness and elegance. While
they were eventually condemned for their overemphasis on reason to the detriment of the Qur’an,
many of the issues they raised and the insights they achieved became part of a legacy that continues
to the present.
These rationalist thinkers often called themselves ahl al-tawh.īd wa-l-ʿadl (“the People of Divine
Unity and Justice”), after the first two of the five principles on which they agreed.5 Since the earli-
est generations of mutakallimūn who followed these principles were active in the decades around the
year 800 in intellectual surroundings where Zoroastrian dualism and Christian Trinitarianism were
widely followed and promoted, it is likely that they developed these two principles largely in con-
trast to competing claims about the being of God. Hence, the best known of the Muʿtazila of Bas.ra,
Abū l-Hudhayl al-ʿAllāf (d. circa 840), whose teachings were extensively quoted by later Muslims
though his works were all lost, insisted that God was an absolute unity in the most fundamental
terms. This meant that qualities predicated of Him in the Qur’an and by human reason, such as
“powerful,” “knowing,” “living,” and so on, could not be derived from any reality within His being
other than His actual being itself. While this safeguarded the absolute unity of His essence, it raised
serious difficulties according to the tenets of contemporary understanding. This was because there
was agreement that qualities predicated of a being derived from “attributes” (s.ifāt) within the being,
so that in addition to the actual essence of the being there would also be a series of “entities” (maʿānī)
within the being from which its perceptible characteristics arose: hence a being who possessed the
attribute of knowledge would be characterized by the quality of knowing. But Abū l-Hudhayl could
not accept this. In a carefully worded explanation, summarized about 80 years after his time by Abū
l-H.asan al-Ashʿarī (d. 935), who was himself a Muʿtazilī for the first 40 or so years of his life, he said:
[God] is knowing by knowledge which is Him [huwa ʿālim bi-ʿilm huwa huwa]. . . . If I say
that God is knowing, I affirm that He has knowledge which is God, I have denied igno-
rance of God, and I have specified something known that has been or will be.6
This is equivalent to saying that God can undoubtedly be said to be a knowing and therefore a rational
being, but it avoids any notion of there being a plurality of eternals in addition to the essence of God
and thus of opening any possibility of comparison with the divinities of the Zoroastrians or Christians.
Other Muslims disagreed with this attitude, among them ʿAbdallāh ibn Kullāb (d. circa 854),
a mutakallim who was active at the same time as Abū l-Hudhayl. His view was that God is eternal
together with His names and attributes and that these are neither God nor other than Him and are
“located in Him” (qāʾima bi-llāh).7 This is a much more evident guarantee that God is endowed
with the qualities that are ascribed to Him by revelation and reason because it derives each from
an entity that is part of the essence of God. It also depicts a God who is more readily accessible to
human understanding than the apophatically mysterious Other of Abū l-Hudhayl and his supporters,
as well as a being who is closer to the Qur’anic descriptions of Him.
Although it is not cited in the summaries of the two opposing scholars’ views, the Qur’an is
crucial to the whole of this debate. On the one side, Abū l-Hudhayl is attempting to uphold the
conception of God as utterly one in his being and totally different from all other things that exist
(as is expressed magisterially in Q 112), and on the other Ibn Kullāb is intent on safeguarding a
divine Being who is not so remote from human comprehension as to be virtually absent (cf. Q
50:16). As though to quell any doubt that the Qur’an was central to these theological speculations,
al-Ashʿarī completes his summary of Abū l-Hudhayl’s teaching on God and his attributes by listing
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the explanations given by Abū l-Hudhayl of Qur’an verses that could be taken to mean that God
had anthropomorphic characteristics:
He used to say: “God has a face [e.g., Q 2:115] which is Him because His face is Him and
His self (nafs) is Him.” He used to interpret God almighty’s words about the hand [e.g., Q
3:73] that it is His grace, and he used to interpret God’s (great and mighty) words, “So that
you [Moses] may be reared under My eyes” [Q 20:39] as “by My knowledge.”8
Following his interpretation of what divine unity signifies, Abū l-Hudhayl is careful here to give
meanings to these verses that exclude anthropomorphic connotations, while still upholding the
teaching of the Qur’an itself.
Whether Abū l-Hudhayl succeeded in his attempt to distinguish the being of God from any pos-
sible comparison with creatures, he ran the clear risk of subordinating the teachings of the Qur’an
to reason by seeming to deny the depiction of God given there in the interests of logical order. It is
telling that a contemporary Christian, ʿAmmār al-Bas.rī (fl. circa 850), against whom Abū l-Hudhayl
wrote a polemic, mocked an unnamed “believer in the One” (al-muʾmin bi-l-wāh.id), possibly the
Muʿtazilī himself, for denying that God has life as an attribute of His being and therefore having to
concede that He must have an attribute of death.9 Whatever the case, this risk of subordinating the
Qur’an appears to have driven Abū l-H.asan al-Ashʿarī to abandon the Muʿtazila for a more moder-
ate path that was to provide one of the major Sunni approaches to kalām in later Islam.
Al-Ashʿarī was a Muʿtazilī in the first part of his life. But following a split with his teacher, Abū
ʿAlī l-Jubbāʾī (d. circa 950), after the latter reputedly failed to solve a conundrum about the differ-
ent fates of brothers in the afterlife, al-Ashʿarī renounced his affiliation and set himself to expose the
errors of the Muʿtazila by employing their own methods against them, thus upholding the authority
of the Qur’an. In many parts of the Islamic world, his approach to kalām became the “orthodox”
way, but even so very few of his original works survive. Of these, the Kitāb al-lumaʿ fī l-radd ʿalā ahl
al-zaygh wa l-bidaʿ (The Book of Flashes, on the Refutation of the People of Deviation and Excess), which
is an epitome of a series of successively longer treatises and can therefore be regarded as representing
the essence of his thought, is quite definitely in the kalām style, including the question-and-answer
format that probably looks back to the origins of the discipline in live debate and was typical of kalām
works throughout the classical period. Distinctively, it combines rational arguments with Qur’an-
based proofs, as in the following example:
Question: Why do you say that the Creator has knowledge by which He knows?
Answer: Just as works of wisdom do not proceed from one of us unless he is knowing,
so also they do not proceed from one of us unless he has knowledge. If the works did not
prove the knowledge of the man from whom they proceed, then they would not prove
that the man from whom they proceed is knowing. Consequently, if works proved that the
Creator is knowing by analogy with their proving that we are knowing, but did not prove
that the Creator has knowledge by analogy with their proving that we have knowledge, it
would be allowable for someone to claim that works prove our knowledge but do not prove
that we are knowing. If this be impossible, the assertion of this speaker is also impossible.10
God has said: “He has sent it down with His knowledge” [Q 4:166]; and “No female
conceives or bears save with His knowledge” [35:11]. Thus God affirmed knowledge of
Himself.11
Here, al-Ashʿarī is clearly taking issue with notions such as those of Abū l-Hudhayl and is following
the way of Ibn Kullāb. Maybe like the latter, whose teachings have only survived in fragmentary
form, he quotes the Qur’an to show exactly how it agrees with and lends authority to his arguments.
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Another example from one of al-Ashʿarī’s surviving works shows even more clearly how he com-
bined revelation and reason in a single argument. This comes from his short treatise, Risāla ilā ahl al-
thaghr bi-bāb al-abwāb (Letter to the People of the Frontier at Derbent), a summing up of what he regarded
as orthodox for scholars in the northern frontier town of Derbent (present-day Russian Republic of
Dagestan). Although it is brief, the work is very valuable because, alone among al-Ashʿarī’s surviving
writings, it preserves some features of the systematic structure that quite probably formed the basis
of his lost major works.
The treatise begins, in characteristically systematic manner, with a proof of the existence of God,
where al-Ashʿarī argues that it was Muh.ammad who demonstrated this to the different groups and
religions, as follows:
He (blessing and peace be upon him) called them all to [obedience to the law of God] and
reminded them of their contingency by the variation of forms and shapes among them and
also by the variation of languages. He revealed to them the way of knowing the One who
made them [al-fāʾil lahum] by what was in them and in other things that necessitate His
existence and prove His will and oversight. For He, great and mighty, said: “And in your-
selves. Can you then not see?” [Q 51:21], thus reminding them of this, great and mighty
as He is, through their changing into the many shapes in which they were. [Muh.ammad]
explained by the words of the great and mighty One: “Indeed, We created man from a
product of wet earth, then placed him as a drop in a safe lodging; then We created the drop
as a clot, then We created the clot as a little lump, then We created the little lump as bones,
then clothed the bones with flesh, and then produced it as another creation. So blessed be
God, the best of creators!” [Q 23:12–14] This is the clearest indication of the necessity of
His existence, and it proves His will and oversight.12
From what al-Ashʿarī says here, it is obvious that he sees the Qur’an embodying exactly the same
truths as reason, the two showing how the Islamic perception of God and His relationship with the
world was logical and persuasive.
This brief work gives one of the earliest surviving glimpses of the systematic treatises that began
to be produced by kalām practitioners in the ninth century and that were continued in the tenth and
beyond.13 From the tenth century itself, possibly the single most impressive theological work is the
Muʿtazilī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s (d. 1025) al-Mughnī fī abwāb al-tawh.īd wa-l-ʿadl (The Summa on the Matters of
Divine Unity and Justice), a massive 20-volume exposition of the main Muʿtazilī principles. As might
be expected from an exponent of rationalist theological discourse, this work is established along lines
of strict logic, beginning with the nature of knowledge, the existence of God and His character,
and continuing from this to expound the manner and forms in which He engages with the world.
Although there is little in this elaborate structure that explicitly refers to the Qur’an, the whole of
the argument can be seen as an exposition of Qur’anic truth and a vindication of the agreement
between revelation and reason.
The harmonious relationship between the two is demonstrated as fully as anywhere in the sec-
tions of the Mughnī that deal with non-Islamic forms of belief. At various points in the progression
of the work, ʿAbd al-Jabbār turns from his main task of presenting Muʿtazilī Islam as the most cogent
and coherent formulation of the faith to refute the teachings of other religions. For example, after
establishing in books one through four the existence of God and explaining his characteristics, as
well as what can and cannot be predicated of God, he devotes much of book five to the refutation
of “dualist” and Christian doctrines. In respect of the latter, it is significant that he does not address
the whole range of Christian teachings (for example, the atonement is not mentioned) but only the
Trinity (al-tathlīth) and the act of uniting of the divine and human natures in Christ (al-ittih.ād), the
two doctrines that compete most fiercely against the Muslim doctrine he has been expounding in
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the previous books of the Mughnī. By demonstrating, at length, the fallaciousness of what Christians
believe by attacking the various formulations of the two doctrines in turn with an array of his own
and earlier Muʿtazilī arguments, he can expose their emptiness and by contrast present the Islamic
alternatives as the most logical doctrines and most obvious beliefs to follow.
As ʿAbd al-Jabbār presents kalām in the Mughnī, it is a vindication of Islam and its basis in the
Qur’an, a revelation which, through the application of reason, produces the flawless array of teachings
that organically develop into the elaborate structural growth that is explored in the volumes of the
work. By contrast, the corresponding Christian structure is shown to be decayed and logically stunted
because its roots in the Gospel were cut away when the original revelation to Jesus was lost, and the
four men who afterward tried to piece it together made mistakes or may even have conspired together
to misrepresent the original.14 While the contrasting relationships between the doctrinal structures of
the two faiths and their originating revelations are not explicitly set against each other, there is little
doubt that ʿAbd al-Jabbār confidently regards his own faith as deriving from the revelation given by
God and dismisses the other as doomed to confusion because its revealed basis has been corrupted.
ʿAbd al-Jabbār was followed by a succession of generations of mutakallimūn, both Muʿtazilīs and
Ashʿarīs, among them Abū al-Maʿālī al-Juwaynī (d. 1085), the teacher of the great al-Ghazālī. But
even by ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s own time, kalām was already declining from the preeminent position it had
enjoyed in the early ninth century, and its doctrines and methods were no longer seen as the obvious
form that intellectual reflection on Islam should take. People who favored a more immediate reading
of the Qur’an over a patient investigation according to rational method rose to positions of eminence
in Islamic institutions, and it consequently subsided into more of a private academic pursuit. But
its main preoccupations with the being of God and His relationship with creation left an indelible
mark, and in that respect they have continued to influence religious discourse in Islam ever since.
Kalām on the Qur’an

As much as for their defense of the absolute oneness and justice of God, the early Muʿtazila were
also known for their assertion that the Qur’an was not eternal but was rather created by God in
time. Theologically, this followed as a consequence of their portrayal of God as one in His divinity.
For if the Qur’an were eternal, it would be a second eternal entity alongside God, thus denying His
uniqueness, and it would also fix in eternal preordination the events to which it refers. An example
frequently cited was that of Abū Lahab, Muhammad’s uncle and fierce opponent in Mecca, accord-
ing to what is said in Q 111:1–3, being condemned to hell from all eternity and thus being deprived
of any responsibility for his own actions.
The precise origins of this doctrine are not easy to pinpoint, though as early as the eighth century
it may have been part of debates about God’s eternal preordaining of human actions and about indi-
vidual human responsibility. In the early ninth century, the Caliph al-Maʾmūn (d. 833) advocated
it as a corrective to what he saw as error on the part of the common people. Writing in the last year
of his reign, he says:
The masses and the great multitude of the mean people and the lowest classes do not think,
do not reflect, and they do not use the arguments and the guidance God has provided. . . .
They show this most clearly by putting God – the blessed and exalted – on the same level
with the Qur’an, which He has sent down; they are all agreed, unanimously and unequivo-
cally, that the Qur’an is eternal, exists from the first beginning, and is not created nor
produced nor originated by God.15
He appears to be intent upon upholding the unique oneness of God. However, it has also frequently
been suggested that he was betraying a political interest because, as W.M. Watt suggests, a created
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David Thomas
Qur’an could be overruled by a legitimate ruler, thus boosting the power of the caliph, while the
authority of an eternal Qur’an could not be questioned but only interpreted and applied, thus giving
power to the scholars who presented themselves as its main experts.16 Whether or not al-Maʾmūn
was motivated by such self-interest, his letter is usually taken as the inauguration of the mih.na (the
“inquisition”), according to which all public officials were required to declare they accepted that the
Qur’an was created. This process, in which the Muʿtazila gained precedence over other mutakallimūn,
continued until about 849, when it was discontinued by the Caliph al-Mutawakkil (d. 861).
While the question of the eternity or created-ness of the Qur’an divided scholars, with individu-
als such as ʿAbdallāh ibn Kullāb in the early ninth century resisting the prevailing view and insisting
that it was uncreated, among the mutakallimūn the debate took on a technical character that was
evidently intended to settle scruples about the nature of the revelation in the form in which it was
accessible to humans. Ibn Kullāb himself puts it as follows:
God almighty has always been speaking, God almighty’s word [kalām] being an attribute of
Himself located within Him, and He is eternal with His word [bi-kalāmihi]. . . . The word
is not letters or sound, and is not split up, broken up, divided up or separated out; it is one
entity with God, great and mighty [maʿnan wāh.id bi-llāh]. The writing is the different letters
and this is the reading of the Qur’an.17
He goes on to distinguish further between the transcendent word of God and the Qur’an that is used
by humans, differentiating between the original heavenly utterance and the commands, prohibi-
tions, and other stipulations that can be read from the page. He explains that these are “expressions”
(ʿibārāt) of the revelation as it has come in Arabic form rather than in the word of God itself (he also
points out that the transcendent kalām was also heard in Hebrew). Almost like a Christian explain-
ing the relationship between the eternal word of God and the incarnate Son of God,18 he seeks to
distinguish between what is eternal and universal, and what is contingent and particular.
Ibn Kullāb was evidently alert to avoiding the error of others who upheld the eternity of the
Qur’an and who said that even the Qur’an that was heard, written, and separated out is uncreated
and also that the many letters of which the Qur’an was constituted were eternally spoken by God
(lam yazal allāh subh.ānahu mutakalliman bi-hā).19 They were forced to the bizarre conclusion that the
copies of the Qur’an that people actually made, held in their hands, and read were all eternal.
Abū l-Hudhayl, who denied the eternity of the Qur’an, said that God created it as an “accident”
(ʿarad. ) of “the preserved tablet” (lawh. mah.fūz․, Q 85:21–22) and that it existed in the places where it
was preserved, written, recited, and heard. In calling it an accident, he was emphasizing that it was
not unchanging or fixed, and he underlined this by going on to say that God’s word could exist in
many places without the Qur’an itself being transported, moved, or extinguished in any real sense.20
In this way he was suggesting that there was nothing unchanging or permanent about the Qur’an
and implying that God’s will was related to the locations or circumstances in which it was mani-
fest – a far cry from what became orthodox dogma not long afterward about the eternal unchanging
revelation. It was also an acknowledgment that human discernment was as important as any textual
guidance.
The risks implicit in this teaching, exciting and challenging as it was, were not explored in any
depth within the Muslim community in classical times.21 Not many decades after Abū l-Hudhayl’s
death, a change set in and the doctrinal advances made by the Muʿtazila came under increasingly
heavy pressures from more traditional thinkers. Even so, Muʿtazilī mutakallimūn continued to defend
the created-ness of the Qur’an, and in the late tenth century ʿAbd al-Jabbār devoted the whole
of book seven of the Mughnī to exploring exactly what God’s created speech was and to refuting
opponents.22 The essence of his argument is that God communicates with His creatures through His
408
created speech as part of His just and good actions toward the world (this continues from book six,
where ʿAbd al-Jabbār establishes that God is just and that all His actions are good). It is therefore an
act of communication that requires recipients, and it must be fashioned so as to be comprehensible to
them.23 For him, like his Muʿtazilī predecessors, its created-ness is beyond question because it cannot
be an eternal entity alongside God. The matter of importance is that it is an act of a good and just
God, created for his communicative purpose, and hence comprises the sounds and letters that will
be received and acted upon. It will therefore be composed in a language that is already in use and
will be comprehensible according to the norms of that language.
In these elaborations of earlier Muʿtazilī teachings, ʿAbd al-Jabbār underlines the principle that
the Qur’an is related to the specific community for which it is intended. In what he says there is no
sense of humankind encountering the eternal utterance of God when they read the Qur’an, much
less the ineffable and unreachable being of God himself. To him both this idea and the followers of
Ibn Kullāb who maintained it were anathema.
Nevertheless, it was the followers of Ibn Kullāb in the person of al-Ashʿarī and his school who
won the day over the status of the Qur’an. Al-Ashʿarī’s own argument in favor of God’s speech being
uncreated is quite simple, at least in the Lumaʿ (and it provides another excellent example of his use
of the Qur’an as part of rational argument):
We hold that [God’s speech is uncreated] because God has said: “When we will a thing
our only utterance is that we say to it ‘Be!,’ and it is” [Q 16:40]. So if the Qur’an had been
created, God would have said to it “Be!” But the Qur’an is His speech, and it is impossible
that His speech be spoken to. For this would necessitate a second speech, and we should
have to say of this second speech and its relation to a third speech what we say of the first
speech and its relation to a second speech. But this would necessitate speeches without
end – which is false. And if this be false, it is false that the Qur’an is created.24
He goes on to explain that the verse at the center of this proof is meant literally and to argue that if
God had ever been nonspeaking, He must have been qualified by the contrary of speaking “such as
silence or some ailment.” This contrary attribute would have been eternal and therefore could not
cease to exist, and therefore God could never start to speak.25 He does not discuss here the relation-
ship between the eternal speech of God and the Qur’an in its material form, as though in this short
summary of his thought it is sufficient for him to establish his main point: that God could not create
his own speech. As he sees it, God’s speech is an attribute of God and is therefore neither distinguish-
able from God’s essence nor identical with it. It is this teaching that gradually edged the Muʿtazilī
alternative aside and became accepted as the “normative” teaching about the Qur’an, elaborated by
later thinkers but essentially unchanged. Hence, in the fourteenth century, the Ashʿarī ʿAd.ud al-Dīn
al-Ījī (d. 1355) needed to do no more in his creed, the ʿAd. udiyya, than to state briefly:
The Qur’an is the speech of God, uncreated. It is written in the copies, recited by the
tongues, and remembered in the breasts; what is written is other than the writing, what is
recited is other than the reciting and what is remembered is other than the remembering.26
Conclusion
The Qur’an provided both the essential basis of kalām debates, and it also constituted an important
topic within them. Effectively, these debates were a form of extended commentary on the Qur’an
and an attempt at systematic expression of its contents and the implications within them. As such,
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David Thomas
kalām could be seen as an apologetic activity that often appeared to proceed according to the method
of wrong-footing an opponent and defending a position by ingenuity. That is why it was often
despised by those who looked on at its endless discussions over apparent minutiae. But in the hands
of the great mutakallimūn it went far beyond this to become a true theological science through which
the nature of transcendent and contingent reality could be understood.27 One of its great achieve-
ments was to demonstrate the connection between the teachings of revelation and reason, as well as
to establish lines of theological discourse that have characterized Islam ever since. In the discussions
that were conducted over the relationship between the transcendent word of God and its particu-
larization in the written and recited Qur’an, it broached a topic that had universal dimensions. Mus-
lims might still do well to study the insights of the great kalām scholars, to rediscover some of their
methods, and to ponder the findings at which they arrived. In a world at least as complex as that of
the Islamic cities in which the insights of the mutakallimūn attained enviable levels of sophistication,
there is much to be learned from this heritage about the nature of God’s communication with the
created world.
Notes
1 For a summary of the different positions, see Gabriel S. Reynolds, A Muslim Theologian in the Sectarian
Milieu: ʿAbd al-Jabbār and the Critique of Christian Origins (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 21–28.
2 W. Montgomery Watt, The Formative Period of Islamic Thought (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press,
1973), 182–183.
3 Abū H.āmid al-Ghazālī, Deliverance from Error, trans. R.J. McCarthy (Louisville, KY: Fons Vitae, 2004), 59.
4 Translated from the text in Suleyman Ali Mourad, Early Islam Between Myth and History: al-H . asan al-Bas.rī (d.
10H/728ce) and the Formation of His Legacy in Classical Islamic Scholarship (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 291.
5 The other three principles were: “the promise and the threat” (al-waʿd wa-l-waʿīd), meaning that God
adheres to the promise of reward and threat of punishment He makes in the Qur’an; “the intermediate posi-
tion” (al-manzila bayna l-manzilatayn), refraining from judging whether sinners were or were not any longer
Muslims; and “commanding the right and forbidding the wrong” (al-amr bi l-maʿrūf wa l-nahī ʿan al-munkar),
exhorting others to live morally.
6 Al-Ashʿarī, Maqālāt al-islāmiyyīn wa-ikhtilāf al-mus.allīn (Wiesbaden, Germany: Franz Steiner, 1963), 165.
7 Ibid., 169.
8 Ibid., 165.
9 ʿAmmār al-Bas.rī, Kitāb al-burhān (Beirut: Dār al-Mashriq, 1977), 46.
10 R.J. McCarthy, The Theology of al-Ashʿarī (Beirut: Imprimerie catholique, 1953), 12, 15.
11 Ibid., 14 and 18.
12 Al-Ashʿarī, “Risāla ilā ahl al-thaghr bi-bāb al-abwāb,” Ilayihat Facultesi Mecmuasi 8 (1928): 82.
13 It is astonishing to think that al-Ashʿarī’s own Al-Fus.ūl (The Chapters) – a huge 12-volume work – has disap-
peared without any trace other than a brief paragraph outlining its contents.
14 David Thomas, Christian Doctrines in Islamic Theology (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 358–359.
15 Abū Jaʿfar al-T ․ abarī, Tārīkh al-rusul wa l-mulūk, vol. III, ed. M.J. de Goeje et al. (Leiden: Brill, 1879–1901),
1112–1113. See also al-T ․abarī, God’s Created Speech, trans. J.R.T.M. Peters (Leiden: Brill, 1976), 2–3.
16 Watt, The Formative Period, 179.
17 Al-Ashʿarī, Maqālāt, p. 584.
18 Interestingly, in the later tenth century, Abū l-Faraj ibn al-Nadīm (d. 990) quotes a remark of Ibn Kullāb
in which he draws a parallel between the status of Christ and of the Qur’an: Kitāb al-fihrist, ed. M. Rid.ā-
Tajaddud (Beirut: Dār al-Masīra, 1980), 230.
19 Al-Ashʿarī, Maqālāt, 585–586.
20 Ibid., 598–599.
21 In the modern era, Mohammed Arkoun has proposed a similar distinction between what he terms “Book,”
as the transcendent word of God, and “book,” as its revealed form in the human sphere. “New Perspectives
for a Jewish-Christian-Muslim Dialogue,” Journal of Ecumenical Studies 26 (1989): 345–352. While he refers
in general to the Muʿtazila, (350), he does not make any acknowledgment of their teaching on this particu-
lar point.
22 Peters, God’s Created Speech, is devoted to a study of what ʿAbd al-Jabbār says here.
410
2 3 Ibid., 35–38.
24 McCarthy, The Theology of al-Ashʿarī, 15 and 20–21.
25 Ibid., 17 and 23.
26 Islamic Creeds: A Selection, ed. W. Montgomery Watt (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1994), 87.
27 See Richard M. Frank, “The Kalām, an Art of Contradiction-making or Theological Science? Some
Remarks on the Question,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 88, no. 2 (1968): 295–305, for an impres-
sive defense of kalām as a true scientific enterprise.
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38
THE IMPACT OF THE QUR’AN
ON ISLAMIC PHILOSOPHY
Gholamreza Aavani
Bismillāh
Rabbī adriknī wa lā tuhliknī
The word philosophy (philosophia, “love of wisdom”), being a Greek term, is not found in the
Qur’an. Instead, the word h.ikma (“wisdom”) is frequently used, as well as one of the Divine Attrib-
utes, al-H.akīm (“the Absolutely Wise”), which signifies that every kind of wisdom, whether in the
created order or in human beings, goes back to Him. This word is often repeated in conjunction
with the teaching of the Qur’an, the Torah, the Gospels, and all the sacred scriptures (Q 2:129,
2:151, 2:231, 3:48, 3:164, 4:54, 4:113, 5:110, 62:2). Many verses in the Qur’an associate the Qur’an,
as well as other scriptures (designating them each as “the book,” al-kitāb), with “wisdom” (h.ikma).
The Qur’an asserts that God has bestowed wisdom upon all of His messengers, who are presented
as teachers of al-h.ikma (Q 3:81). Elsewhere in the Qur’an, wisdom is referred to as the greatest
good, which God grants to whomsoever He wills (Q 2:269). Muslims, moreover, are commanded
to believe in all the prophets and messengers, whether mentioned in the Qur’an or not, a fact that
signifies the universal and nonexclusive nature of al-h.ikma.
In addition to the wisdom the Qur’an attributes to the message of the prophets and to scripture,
the Qur’an also acknowledges the existence of great sages who were neither prophets nor transmit-
ted a scripture. For example, in the sura entitled Luqmān (Q 31), the figure of Luqmān is understood
by Muslim exegetes to be a black slave and neither a messenger nor a prophet.1 He is mentioned
by name as one who has been granted wisdom.2 His sapiential3 wisdom, expressed in the Qur’an
in the form of advice Luqmān gives to his son, is principally congruent with the essential teachings
of sages in diverse religions and cultures, and includes the belief in one God, the necessity of filial
piety, and the significance of virtues such as gratefulness and patience. In the Qur’an, the Prophet
Muhammad is also commanded to call people to the way of the Lord, “with wisdom and goodly
exhortation” or to “dispute with them in the most virtuous manner” (Q 16:125). The Qur’an, as
revered by Muslims, is a guide to reading the wisdom of God in the created order and in one’s own
self (Q 41:53, see the discussion later in this chapter). This might be the reason why God swears by
the “wise Qur’an” (al-Qurʾān al-h.akīm, Q 36:2).
H.ikma in the Qur’an is associated with other key terms related to philosophical inquiry and epis-
temology more broadly, such as “knowledge” (ʿilm), “understanding” (fiqh), “guidance” (al-hidāya),
“reasoning” or “intellection” (ʿaql), “meditation” (tafakkur), “deliberation” (tadabbur), “speculation”
(naz․ar), “truth” (h.aqq), “justice” (ʿadl), “love” (h.ubb), “righteous deeds” (s.ālih.āt), and so on. Moreover,
412 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-41

The Impact of the Qur’an on Islamic Philosophy
many Qur’anic terms have found their way into Islamic philosophy, such as burhān (“proof ”), h.ujja
(“argument,” “demonstration”), jadal (“disputation”), and taʾwīl (hermeneutic “interpretation”).
Many verses and concepts are philosophically significant in the Qur’an, and have without doubt
contributed to the rise and development of philosophy in the lands of Islam. A solid theory of
knowledge is to be found in the Qur’an. God’s knowledge, for example, is all-encompassing and is
the cause of the creation of the world. Knowledge in everything, including humans, derives from
and is a manifestation of this Divine knowledge. Indeed, it is He who is the First Teacher, who
has “taught the human being what he does not know” (Q 96:5). Knowledge, moreover, cannot be
grounded on mere “conjecture” (z․ann) and “doubt” (shakk), and that is why the Qur’an rebukes
those “who follow naught but conjecture” because “conjecture avails naught against the Truth” (Q
53:28). Doubt as such will never end in “certainty” (yaqīn).
Three phrases in the Qur’an, referring to different kinds of certainty, have been emphasized by
Muslim “sages” (h.ukamāʾ) and “gnostics” (ʿārifūn) in their epistemological doctrines:
1 “Knowledge of certainty” (ʿilm al-yaqīn, Q 102:5), for instance, knowing the concept called
“fire”;
2 “Vision of certainty” (ʿayn al-yaqīn, Q 102:7), for instance, seeing a fire burning;
3 “Realization of certainty” (h.aqq al-yaqīn, Q 56:95, 69:51), for instance, having one’s hand
burned by a fire.
The Safavid-era Shiʿi philosopher Mullā S.adrā (d. 1635), for example, sees a direct connection between
perfecting one’s “faith” (īmān) and perfecting one’s knowledge and explains this point through refer-
ence to the levels of certainty just discussed. First, he argues that knowledge is a constitutive compo-
nent of faith and that one should not think that faith is simply a blind imitation without knowing the
object of belief. Moreover, faith has degrees that follow closely the three levels of certainty. He uses
the simile of a man desiring to see the sun to clarify this point. On the first level, that is, “knowledge
of certainty,” one’s knowledge is similar to a blind man in a dark room who has only heard about
the sun. This level of faith corresponds to conceptual knowledge acquired through rational proof in
which one does not directly see the object of knowledge. “Vision of certainty” is similar to the case
of a man who sees the world directly with his eyes. This stage corresponds to a form of direct and
experiential knowledge in which one directly and nonconceptually witnesses the objects of belief.
Yet, for Mullā S.adrā, the sensory images are not capable of doing justice to, or fully conveying, the
message. Therefore the final stage involves a form of unitive knowledge in which there is no duality
between the subject and the object, and one acquires this form of knowledge after completing the
spiritual journey toward God that culminates in “annihilation” (fanāʾ) of the carnal ego.4
In Islamic understanding, prophets and messengers do not obtain their knowledge through for-
mal instruction by human beings. Rather, they are directly taught by God. Such knowledge is
referred to in the Qur’an as ʿilm ladunnī (knowledge from the Divine Presence, Q 18:65), and this
concept (which is lacking in modern epistemology), as well as the Qur’anic phrase associated with
it, has been adopted as part of Islamic theories of knowledge. The Qur’an, in addition, refers to itself
as a book of guidance that directs the intellect in the right direction in its search for Truth. Truth,
the final aim of all knowledge, cannot in the last analysis be obtained without intellection, reasoning,
understanding, and contemplation, all of which are frequently emphasized in the Qur’an.
Many verses in the Qur’an refer to the Divine Names. Believers are commanded to call God by
His Beautiful Names (Q 7:180). He has, moreover, taught Adam, the prototype of all human beings,
“all of the names” (Q 2:31), which means that every human being is potentially an image of God,
who is “the All-Knowing” (al-ʿAlīm). According to some Muslim sages, all creatures are manifesta-
tions of the Divine Names, which have an ontological, epistemological, moral, cosmological, and
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Gholamreza Aavani
psychological significance in relation to creation. God is the First, the Last, the Hidden, and the
Manifest (Q 57:3). His knowledge encompasses everything (Q 65:12), but nobody can encompass
His knowledge (Q 20:110). One might say generally that no other scripture or philosophical opus
can match the Qur’an in the enumeration and specification of Divine Names.5
All being, like all the verses of the Qur’an, is said to be the words of God, which means that there
are three “books” or three “revelations” of God: the anthropological (the human self ), the cosmo-
logical (the external world), and the scriptural (the revealed book). This last, that is, the Qur’an, is
a guidebook for reading and understanding the two other “books,” for as the Qur’an says, “We shall
show them Our signs in the horizons and within their own selves till it becomes clear to them that
He is the Real” (Q 41:53). Many other verses in the Qur’an have extremely profound metaphysical
significance, for example “the Light Verse” (Āyat al-Nūr, Q 24:35), which declares God to the be
“the Light of the Heavens and the earth,” a concept that the verse itself, and some of its philosophical
and mystical commentaries, associate with knowledge.
Before proceeding to briefly analyze the contributions of the Qur’an to the spiritual and intellec-
tual horizon of individual Muslim philosophers, the mention of a few points are in order. In Islamic
civilization, a clear-cut distinction is made between dogmatic “theology” (kalām) and “philosophy”
(falsafa or h.ikma). Dogmatic theology is based on a specific scripture to the exclusion of others. More-
over, in each religious community, there are various factions and sects. This means that the dogmatic
theologians have an exclusivist tendency. H.ikma, being universal in nature, based on the concepts of
divine intellect and discursive reason and considered to be the supreme form of knowledge, does not
take its premises from a particular scripture. Rather it is based on realized and justified knowledge,
bestowed on or acquired by human beings. This would explain why Islamic philosophers such as Ibn
Rushd (Averroes in Latin, d. 1198) or Suhrawardī (d. 1191) can consider Plato (d. 347 bce) and Aris-
totle (d. 322 bce) as interlocutors, why a philosopher like St. Thomas Aquinas (d. 1274) can mention
the Islamic philosopher Ibn Sīna (Avicenna in Latin, d. 1037) in his works, or why Mullā S.adrā can
include frequent references to and quotations from many preceding philosophers – both Muslim and
non-Muslim – known to him. For the early Islamic philosopher, al-Kindī (d. circa 870), philosophy
is a search for truth and is not the exclusive property of one race, nation, or community. One should
not be ashamed to acknowledge truth and to assimilate it from whatever source it derives, even if it is
transmitted by former generations; there is nothing of higher value than the truth itself.
In his treatise on definitions, al-Kindī gives several definitions of the term falsafa, which were
accepted by later Muslim philosophers and which are congruous and in accord with the spirit of
h.ikma, as mentioned in the Qur’an. Philosophy means “love of wisdom.” It is also defined as assimila-
tion to the Divinity inasmuch as is humanly possible. It has again been defined as care and concern
for death, by which the philosophers mean the mortification of the concupiscent soul and the carnal
passions. It is considered to be the knowledge of the “Self,” because by knowing it, one comes to
know everything. That is why the sages have called man the microcosm.6 To give yet another defini-
tion of philosophy, we can say that it is the knowledge of eternal and universal things with respect to
their essences, principles, and causes in the measure of human capacity.
In another context, al-Kindī compares the knowledge of the prophets with ordinary human
knowledge. The knowledge of the prophets is bestowed upon them by God. Unlike human knowl-
edge, it is received without exertion, effort, and industry. It is obtained by the Divine ordination
through the purification and illumination of the soul. Ordinary human beings are unable by nature
to attain to a similar status and have to obtain knowledge through their human cognitive faculties in
the course of time.
Al-Fārābī (d. 950) is called “the second teacher” (magister sucundus, al-muʿallim al-thānī) after Aris-
totle because he was the first among Muslim philosophers to compile works in almost all rational
sciences, and he delimited their contours within a systematic and unified whole. Perhaps for the
first time, he made a classification of the sciences of the day in his well-known Ih..sāʾ al-ʿulūm (The
414
Enumeration of the Sciences), in which he introduced the religious sciences as well and so paved the
way for the harmonization between the traditional and intellectual sciences.
Even if there are seldom direct references to the Qur’an in al-Fārābī’s works, one can say that he
was deeply impressed by its spiritual impact. His philosophical depiction of the ideal and virtuous
city in his work al-Madīna al-fād. ila (The Virtuous City) is congruous with the ideal Muslim commu-
nity, especially when counterposed to the multifarious sorts of unvirtuous cities. The influence of
Islamic revelation on his work is also witnessed in the arrangements of his political treatises, in which
he begins with the proof of the existence of the First Cause, followed by the hierarchical ranks of the
created order and the status of human beings therein, in tandem with the necessity of communal life
and the specifications of virtuous cities.7
Al-Fārābī is the political philosopher par excellence in Islamic civilization and has composed
numerous works on the subject. The ideal or virtuous city for al-Fārābī is the ideal religious com-
munity, which is governed by the virtues and excellences required of believers in the Qur’an such
as truthfulness, adherence to Divine laws, etc. A virtuous city is similar to a human organism in
which all the organs function harmoniously toward the attainment of health. The head of the vir-
tuous community, like the human heart, is served by all the members of that community, who are
also arranged in a hierarchical order among themselves. Al-Fārābī mentions 12 characteristics8 for
the head of the virtuous city, which could only be collectively associated with a prophet, a Divine
messenger, or, according to some, the inerrant Shiʿi Imam. According to al-Fārābī, prophets and
messengers have the unique privilege of receiving the intelligible forms from above, through the
agency of the “acquired intellect” (intellectus adeptus), whereas philosophers acquire the same forms
by abstraction from material bodies. Prophets, moreover, have another unique feature, whereby
intelligible forms endowed by the Active Intellect are particularized in their imagination, such that
they can foretell future events.
Ibn Sīnā is no doubt one of the greatest philosophers in the annals of both Islamic and world
philosophy. He broadly expanded and deepened the scope of philosophy, so as to comprise a much
wider range of problems. Whereas almost all the previous Muslim peripatetic philosophers (those
who follow closely Aristotle’s philosophical methods) were commentators, as a philosopher, Ibn
Sīnā axiomatized all the sciences by axiomatizing the science of proof, i.e., logic. In contrast to all
his predecessors, he divided metaphysics into metaphysica generalis, which had being qua being as its
subject matter, and metaphysica specialis, which dealt with God and His Attributes.
Unlike Aristotle, who founded his metaphysics on the ten categories of substance and accidents,
Ibn Sīnā based his metaphysics on the essence–existence distinction. Essence is the same as existence
in the Necessary Being, while existence is superadded to and conceptually different from essence
in contingent beings. Thus the world as a totality of contingent beings requires a necessary being
for its actual existence. Ibn Sīnā, for the first time, formulated the preceding contingency-necessity
proof for the existence of God, which is mentioned later by St. Thomas Aquinas among his “five
ways” (quinta via), or five proofs, of God’s existence. Against the mutakallimūn, or “[dogmatic] theo-
logians,” who only believed in the temporal origination of the world, he postulated the doctrine of
the “essential origination” (h.udūth dhātī) for all contingent beings, as well as “temporal origination”
(h.udūth zamānī) for temporal beings.
In his different books and treatises on the soul, Ibn Sīnā demonstrated by various proofs both
the immateriality of the soul and its survival after death. He sincerely avers that he wholeheartedly
believes in the doctrine of bodily resurrection, which is clearly referred to in the Qur’an, even if he
is not able to prove it. Furthermore, Ibn Sīnā’s cosmology is closely connected with his angelology.
His universe is filled with immaterial and spiritual substances that intervene between God and the
cosmos, ever engaged in a loving and adoring contemplation of God. The tenth intellect, which he
identifies with the Archangel Gabriel, is both the giver of forms for terrestrial beings and the actual-
izer of human beings’ potential knowledge.
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Gholamreza Aavani
In his works on practical philosophy, Ibn Sīnā is seldom influenced by Greek or peripatetic
philosophy. In lieu of it, he substitutes the metaphysical foundations of the Islamic sharia. In the
classification of the sciences discussed in several of his books, we find that in the section on practi-
cal philosophy, Ibn Sīnā gives priority to the so-called nāmūs (“sharia” or “Divine Law”; the Greek
nomos) over “statesmanship” (siyāsa). In the tenth book of the metaphysics of his magnum opus,
Kitāb al-Shifāʾ (The Book of Healing), he treats such topics as the beginning and the end (God and
the hereafter); inspirations, dreams, the nature of prophecy, and premonitions; the acts of worship
and their benefits, here and in the hereafter; the administration of the city and the household; and
the Caliph and the Imam, and the necessity of obeying them. At the top of all moral excellences
are temperance, practical wisdom, and courage; their sum is justice. “Whoever combines theoretical
wisdom with justice is indeed the happy man; and whoever in addition to this wins the prophetic
qualities becomes almost a human God.”9
Later in life, Ibn Sīnā turned away from peripatetic and Greek philosophy, in general, toward
what he called “Oriental Philosophy” (al-h.ikma al-mashriqiyya). In a work by this name, in the sec-
tion on practical philosophy, with its tripartite divisions, Ibn Sīnā says:
It is not appropriate that the legislator for household management and state administration
be different persons. The lawgiver should take into consideration the specific traits of each
person and also different communities. It is better that one single individual and one art
[s.ināʿa] should take care of them all, and that is the prophet.10
In his last philosophical work, The Book of Directives and Remarks (al-Ishārāt wa l-tanbīhāt), when
interpreting “the Light Verse,” Ibn Sīnā compares the different degrees of light mentioned to the
different ranks of the intellect and the associated ranks of knowledge, thus setting a model for many
other commentaries on the Light Verse, such as those written by al-Ghazālī (d. 1111), Fakhr al-Dīn
al-Rāzī (d. 1210), Mullā S.adrā, and others. The Ishārāt ends with a discussion of “the stations of the
gnostics” (maqāmāt al-ʿārifīn), which, according to al-Rāzī, the critical commentator on this work, is
the best exposition of speculative gnosis ever written by a philosopher. Thus Ibn Sīnā introduced a
large dose of speculative gnosis into the mainstream of Islamic philosophy.
In almost all of his systematic works one finds allusions to three “[distinctive] characteristics of
prophecy” (khawās..s al-nubuwwa):
1 Direct reception of intelligible forms from the Active Intellect;

2 The “revelation” and the perception of those intelligible forms through the imagination in
sensible forms;
3 Foreseeing future events and performing the “miracles” of messengers (muʿjizāt) and the “won-
ders” of saints (karāmāt).
The first characteristic is common among the messengers, saints, and sages, even if it is of a most
exalted nature in messengers; the second characteristic is peculiar to prophets and messengers who
receive revelation; and only messengers are qualified to perform miracles. Ibn Sīnā’s theory of proph-
ecy is bolstered by some metaphysical and epistemological presuppositions, such as his theory of
intellectual “intuition” (h.ads); his new theory about the relationship between the human intellect
and the Active Intellect; and his philosophical exposition of the similarity of veridical dreams and
prophetic experience.
Human beings differ in their capacity or preparedness for intellectual intuition, from boorish
people who almost completely lack it, to sages, in which this preparedness is very intense, such
that they do not need mental exertion and instruction in order to come in contact with the Active
Intellect. The reality that philosophers only grasp through the combination of premises and “middle
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terms” is self-evident to the sages. This is the highest degree of preparedness, and this state of the
intellect ought to be called the “sacred intellect” (ʿaql qudsī). So Ibn Sīnā posits a higher type of intel-
lect above that of “acquired reason” (ʿaql mustafād) posited by previous commentators, which is the
culmination of the inferior ranks of intellect, such as “potential intellect” (ʿaql bi l-quwwa), “habitual
intellect” (ʿaql bi l-malaka), and “intellect in actuality” (ʿaql bi l-fiʿl). Intellectus sanctus (the sacred intel-
lect), unlike intellectus adeptus, which does not obtain intelligibles directly from God but rather as
the end result of the process of abstraction, directly receives them from the Active Intellect, without
such a process.11 Prophets and messengers have the additional privilege of having received the intel-
ligible forms directly from the Active Intellect (which for Ibn Sīnā is equivalent to the Holy Spirit);
because of their superior spiritual powers, these forms overflow onto their imaginative faculty and
take on sensible forms accompanied by audible sounds. They experience it in wakefulness as others
experience it in a veridical dream.
Ibn Sīnā has the singular merit among all the early philosophers of Islam to have written mono-
graphs and treatises concerning various aspects of religious theory and practice, which would be
emulated and imitated by later philosophers, even by his dogmatic adversaries, such as al-Ghazālī,
al-Rāzī, and some later Ashʿarī theologians. Some bibliographic works credit Ibn Sīnā with commen-
taries on certain suras of the Qur’an, including al-Ikhlās. (“Sincerity,” Q 112), al-Falaq (“Daybreak,” Q
113), al-Nās (“Mankind,” Q 114), and al-Aʿlā (“the Most High,” Q 87), as well as commentaries on
individual verses, such as “the Light Verse,” and one verse of sura 41 (Fus..silat, “Expounded”). He also
composed philosophical treatises expounding upon the nature of some specifically religious themes,
such as Asrār al-s.alāt (The Secrets of the Ritual Prayer); Ithbāt al-nubuwwa (Concerning the Demonstration
of Prophecy); Sabab ijābat al-duʿāʾ (The Cause for Prayers Being Answered); Sirr al-qadar (The Mystery of
the Divine Decree); al-H.athth ʿalā l-ishtighāl bi l-dhikr (Exhortation to the Invocation [of the Divine Names]);
Sarayān al-ʿishq fī l-mawjūdāt (The Permeation of Love through All Creatures); Fī l-malāʾika (Concerning
the Angels). These works are in addition to his visionary recitals, most of which became exemplary
models to be emulated by later Muslim philosophers.
Islamic philosophy has benefitted much from the attacks of its opponents from different arenas.
Here, one should specifically mention al-Ghazālī. Even though he accused the philosophers of
unbelief, he nonetheless contributed to the mainstream of Islamic philosophy by introducing a new
epistemology based on the concept of “knowledge by tasting” (ʿilm al-adhwāq); by offering a new
metaphysics of light in his Mishkāt al-anwār (The Niche of Lights), based on “the Light Verse” and
numerous prophetic traditions concerning light; and by founding a systematic practical philosophy
derived from previous Sufi texts, found particularly in his Ih.yāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn (Revivification of the
Religious Sciences). Similar attacks on philosophy in the name of religious orthodoxy by authors such
as al-Shahrastānī (d. 1153) and Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī were refuted in philosophical terms by the
outstanding figure of Nas. īr al-Dīn T ․ ūsī (d. 1274) in his various works.
In the Western lands of Islam, Ibn Rushd responded to al-Ghazālī’s charges of disbelief against
the philosophers in Tahāfut al-falāsifa (The Incoherence of the Philosophers) with his own work, the
Tahāfut al-tahāfut (The Incoherence of the Incoherence), and he tried to harmonize faith and reason
in his Fas.l al-maqāl (The Decisive Word). In this book he asks whether philosophy is, religiously
speaking, permitted, prohibited, recommended, reprehensible, or obligatory, according to the
Qur’an. Philosophy is “nothing but speculation and the contemplation of things” (laysa shayʾ
ākhar akthar min al-naz․ar).12 Contemplation of the created order is highly recommended in the
Qur’an, and Ibn Rushd corroborates his view by quoting several verses where such contempla-
tion is encouraged (for instance, Q 7:185; 6:75; 88:17). This type of contemplation is attainable
only through rational demonstration and the science of hermeneutic interpretation, which is
accessible only to philosophers and not to the common run of human beings. The latter should
make do with what they learn from “good preaching” (al-mawʿiz․a al-h.asana), that is to say, rhe-
torical persuasion.
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The reconciliation of Qur’anic wisdom and Muslim philosophy reaches a pinnacle in the writ-
ings of Shahāb al-Dīn Suhrawardī (d. 1191), an eastern contemporary of Ibn Rushd, who was
martyred by the command of S.alāh. al-Dīn (Saladin, d. 1193), the founder of the Ayyūbid Dynasty,
at the behest of the exoteric scholars and jurisprudents. In the introduction to his H.ikmat al-ishrāq
(The Philosophy of Illumination), in order to prove the perennial nature of wisdom, both philosophical
and prophetic, he emphasizes the fact that wisdom is not the monopoly of one people, because it
is a Divine Light that God has deposited in every soul with varying degrees of intensity. The gates
of knowledge, moreover, are not exclusive to one people, such that others are deprived of it. The
Giver of knowledge is not stingy so as to give it to some and withhold it from others. In this book
he proclaims that he will follow a method other than the peripatetic, one that is “more orderly and
precise . . . which [he has] obtained through ‘tasting’ (dhawq) in spiritual retreats and through self-
renunciation.”13 One could safely say that Suhrawardī’s philosophy of illumination is a psychological,
ontological, epistemological, and cosmological elaboration of the Qur’anic “Light Verse.” Light is
defined as that which is manifest in itself and makes other things manifest. Physical light is accidental
because not all bodies have it, and moreover a luminous body, as such, is not the real cause of the
light emitted from it, which should be sought elsewhere. The human soul is considered the sub-
stantial light because it knows itself and is present to itself. God is the Light of Lights because it is a
light in, for, and by itself.
Suhrawardī, moreover, broadens and deepens the scope of philosophy by presenting a more pro-
found theory of knowledge, comprising both traditional philosophy and religious wisdom. The low-
est rank in the hierarchy of knowers is the “discursive” (bah.thī) philosophers, such as the peripatetics.
Much higher in rank and dignity are those in possession of “knowledge by tasting” (ʿilm dhawqī),
and they alone are entitled to be called “theosophers” (h.akīm mutaʾallih) who are illuminated by
Divine Light. In a dream vision, Aristotle appears to Suhrawardī and informs him that the Muslim
peripatetics have failed to achieve the wisdom of such great gnostics such as Abū Yazīd al-Bist․āmī
(d. 874) and al-H.allāj (d. 922), who have gone far beyond discursive philosophy and have attained to
the peak of prophetic wisdom and to Divine union.
Inserting sapiential wisdom into his Illuminationist epistemological framework, he often adduces
Qur’anic verses in support of the philosophical themes he has logically demonstrated. For example,
in his al-Alwāh. al-ʿImādiyya (The Tablets Dedicated to ʿImād), he stipulates that for each philosophical
proof he will adduce two verses of the Qur’an. Suhrawardī often employs symbolic language espe-
cially in his Persian philosophical treatises. In his al-Ghurbat al-gharbiyya (The Occidental Exile) almost
every significant word is a symbolic reference to a verse in the Qur’an. The same procedure was fol-
lowed by Suhrawardī’s two great commentators, Shahrazūrī (d. after 1288) and Qut․b al-Dīn Shīrāzī
(d. 1311), in their commentaries on The Philosophy of Illumination, as well as in the former’s al-Shajara
al-ilāhiyya (The Divine Tree), a philosophical encyclopedia in Arabic, and in the latter’s Durrat al-tāj
(Pearl of the Crown), a philosophical encyclopedia in Persian.
If Ibn Sīnā systematized peripatetic philosophy, surpassing it with his own “oriental philosophy”
and culminating in speculative gnosis in his Ishārāt, Ibn ʿArabī (d. 1165), the great Andalusian master,
systematized in his so-called speculative Sufism (ʿirfān naz․arī) all of the previous Sufi heritage. In his
multifarious works, especially in his Fus.ūs al-h.ikam (The Bezels of Wisdom), he expounds the wisdom
of the 27 prophets mentioned in the Qur’an, and in his monumental al-Futūh.āt al-makkiyya (The
Meccan Revelations, or the Meccan Openings), he elaborates on issues discussed by the previous masters
and the Sufi saints, with reference to their ranks in the attainment of gnosis. He both posed and
expounded upon many old problems in a new light and opened distant horizons for later philoso-
phers, especially Mullā S.adrā. It is noteworthy that nearly all his followers, such as Qūnawī (d. 1274),
Jandī (d. circa 1300), ʿAbd al-Razzāq al-Kāshānī (d. 1329), al-Qays. arī (d. 1350), and Ibn Turka (d.
1432) were well versed both in Peripatetic and Illuminationist philosophy and thus were of great
help in reconciling formal philosophy and Qur’anic wisdom. In other words, they introduced into
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the mainstream of Islamic philosophy a strong current of speculative mysticism based on the Qur’an
and the prophetic traditions.
Persian philosophers also wrote commentaries on certain chapters or verses of the Qur’an on
a purely sapiential basis, including Qād.ī Sirāj al-Dīn Mah.mūd Urmawī (d. 1283), a contemporary
of al-Qūnawī and Nas. īr al-Dīn T ․ ūsī, and a peripatetic logician and philosopher. He made copious
use of both Qur’anic verses and prophetic traditions in the exposition of many philosophical issues.
Many philosopher-sages between Ibn ʿArabī and Mullā S.adrā have written commentaries on certain
chapters or verses of the Qur’an, among which one can mention the commentary of Jalāl al-Dīn
Dawānī (d. 1502) on sura 109 (al-Kāfirūn, “the Disbelievers”), the commentary of Shams al-Dīn
Muh.ammad ibn Ah.mad al-Khafrī (d. 1550) on Āyat al-Kursī (“the Throne Verse,” Q 2:255), or the
commentary of Mīr Dāmād (d. 1631 or 1632) on Āyat al-Amāna (“the Verse of the [Divine] Trust,”
Q 33:72), among many others.
With Muh.ammad ibn Ibrāhīm ibn Yah.yā Qawāmī Shīrāzī, also known as S.adr al-Dīn, Mullā
S.adrā and S.adr al-Mutaʾallihīn (“the foremost among Divine philosophers”), we enter perhaps the
latest and most crucial phase in the sapiential exegesis of the Qur’an. As in his transcendent theoso-
phy (al-H.ikma al-muta‘āliya), so also in his Qur’anic commentaries, he demonstrates a prodigiously
vast knowledge of all the previous literature available to him. Thus he has a deep background in
and benefits from Qur’anic commentaries written by various authors belonging to different schools
and trends, including Sunni, Shiʿi, Sufi, Ashʿarī, and Muʿtazilī works, as well as many other sources.
Although he was a Shiʿi theosopher, he was not shy about using the main commentaries from
other denominations, with the difference being that his understanding of the Qur’an was based on
al-h.ikma, or “[sapiential] wisdom.” I do not mean by this that he used the Qur’an to bolster his philo-
sophical views or that his commentary is nothing but philosophical glosses upon Qur’anic verses
but rather that he delved deeply into the esoteric meaning of the Scripture without forgetting its
exoteric and literal aspects. We can say that Mullā S.adrā was among those few commentators who
was, to use a Qur’anic expression, among those “deeply rooted in knowledge” (al-rāsikhūn fī l-ʿilm,
Q 3:7), that is, those who are able to interpret the “ambiguous” or “symbolic” verses (mutashābihāt)
of the Qur’an.
Among his various theoretical discussions regarding the themes, general rules, principles, con-
cepts, and methods of Qur’anic exegesis, one can mention those found in several of his works:
Mutashābihāt al-Qur’ān (The Symbolic or Ambiguous Verses of the Qur’an), Asrār al-āyāt (The Secret
of the Qur’anic Verses), and his widely read masterpiece Mafātīh. al-ghayb (The Keys of the Invisible
Treasures), whose very title is borrowed from Q 6:59. Seyyed Hossein Nasr mentions that authen-
tic works of Mullā S.adrā in the field of Qur’anic commentary include exegeses on al-Fātih.a (“The
Opening,” Q 1); al-Baqara (“The Cow,” Q 2) up to verse 65, as well as “the Throne Verse”; a
commentary on “the Light Verse”; al-Naml (“The Ants,” Q 27) verse 88; al-Sajda (“Prostration,”
Q 32); Yā Sīn (Q 36); al-Wāqiʿ (“The Event,” Q 56); al-H.adīd (“Iron,” Q 57); al-Jumʿa (“The
Congregational Prayer,” Q 62); al-T ․ alāq (“Divorce,” Q 65); al-T ․ āriq (“The Night Star,” Q 86);
al-Aʿlā (“The Most High,” Q 87); al-D . uhā (“The Morning Brightness,” Q 93); and al-Zilzāl
(“The Earthquake,” Q 99).14
Mullā S.adrā has written an extensive commentary on the Us.ūl al-kāfī of al-Kulaynī (d. 941), the
first massive and most authentic collection of traditions narrated from the Prophet and the Imams,
who are believed to be inerrant by Twelver Shiʿis. It is a unique opus of its kind, due to the fact that
it deals in a sapiential manner with the most basic themes of the Shiʿi hadith literature, although the
commentary of the text reaches only up to Chapter 11 of the Kitāb al-h.ujja. He has also written a
commentary on the well-known hadith, “Men are asleep and when they die they awaken.”
Mullā S.adrā’s methodology in hadith interpretation was followed by his disciple and son-in-law
Fayd. Kāshānī (d. 1680) and others. His Qur’anic commentaries were glossed by Mullā ʿAlī Nūrī
(d. 1830 or 1831), the reputed sage-scholar of the Qajar period, and glosses on some suras were
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Gholamreza Aavani
written by other contemporary sages. Mullā Hādī Sabzawarī’s (d. 1873) sapiential commentary on
the thousand and one Divine Names in his Sharh. duʿāʾ al-jawshan al-kabīr (Supplication of the Great
Armor), and also his Sharh. duʿāʾ al-s.abāh. (The Morning Litanies), both attributed to Imam ʿAli, fol-
low the exegetical rules delineated by Mullā S.adrā. The sapiential Qur’anic exegesis, initiated by Ibn
Sīnā and perfected and elaborated by Mullā S.adrā, reached its culmination in the twentieth century
with ʿAllāma Muh.ammad H.usayn T ․ abāt․abāʾī (d. 1981) in his monumental al-Mīzān (The Balance),
a twenty-volume exegesis of the entire Qur’an.15
In sum, Islamic philosophy takes its inspiration and root from the teachings of the Qur’an. While
the word philosophy does not appear in the Qur’an, h.ikma instead is used, which means Divine
Wisdom. The Qur’an often associates revealed scriptures with h.ikma and encourages the believers
to think upon and contemplate creation and the signs of God therein. In particular the story of
Luqmān in the Qur’an lays out the principles of such wisdom. Muslim peripatetic philosophers such
as al-Kindī, al-Fārābī, and Ibn Sīnā were all inspired by the Qurān, and their philosophy is consist-
ent with the Qur’anic teachings about h.ikma. With Suhrawardī and Mullā S.adrā, the exposition of
Divine wisdom reached new heights. Suhrawardī founded his entire philosophy upon the Qur’anic
image of God as Light, and Mullā S.adrā continued this heritage by writing extensive commentaries
on certain chapters of the Qur’an in which he shows that there is an inherent harmony and agree-
ment between reason, revelation, and spiritual vision.
Notes
1 See Joseph Lumbard, “Commentary on Sūrat Luqmān,” in The Study Quran: A New Translation and Com-
mentary, ed. Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Caner Dagli, Maria Dakake, Joseph Lumbard, and Mohammed Rustom
(San Francisco: HarperOne, 2015), 999–1008, 1000.
2 See Q 31:12: “And indeed We gave Luqmān wisdom.”
3 By “sapiential,” we mean wisdom that is conveyed through direct spiritual experience. This wisdom is meta-
phorically “tasted,” rather than developed through discursive practices or acquired through human learning.
Such spiritual experiences were often described as a kind of dhawq in Arabic, meaning “tasting.” Hence,
we will use the corresponding English term, sapiential, whose philological origin is related to the word for
“taste.”
4 Mullā S.adrā, Asfār (Beirut: Dār Ih.yāʾ al-Turāth al-ʿArabi), 3: 518.
5 Islamic philosophers, dealt extensively with the issue of the Divine Names. One important question is the
relationship between the Divine Names and the Divine Essence. Islamic philosophers hold the view that
the Divine Names are identical with the Divine Essence. Moreover, in cosmology, Divine Names found in
the Qur’an such as “the All-Merciful” (al-Rah.mān) are used to explain how God brings creation into exist-
ence through His Mercy.
6 M. Abū Rīdah, Rasāʾil al-Kindī al-falsafīyah, al-T ․ abʿah 2 (Cairo: Dār Al-Fikr al-ʿArabī, Lajnat al-Taʾlīf;
Maktabat Al-Khānjī, 1978), 122.
7 Al-Fārābī, Ārāʾ ahl al-madīna al-fad. īla, ed. ʻAlī Bū Mulh.im (Beirut: Dār wa-Maktabat al-Hilāl, 1995),
chapter 1.
8 These characteristics include being in good health, having an acute mind, having a strong memory, being
eloquent in speech, being a lover of teaching and learning, being truthful, not being after the acquisition of
wealth, being dignified in manners, being a lover of justice, and having a strong will for following what is
right to do. Although the Qur’an does not mention some of these characteristics when it addresses the lives
of the prophets, one might say that al-Fārābī’s description is in accord with the image of the prophets in the
Qur’ān; moreover, such characteristics are often attributed to the Prophet of Islam in the biographies of the
Prophet (sīra).
9 Ibn Sīnā, al-Ilāhiyyāt min kitāb al-shifā’, ed. H
. Āmulī (Qom: Daftar-i Tablīghāt-i Islāmī, 1997), 508.
10 Ibn Sīnā, Mant․iq al-mashriqiyyīn (Qom: Marʿashī Najafī, 1984), 7.
11 According to Ibn Sīnā, intellect goes from potentiality to actuality in four stages: (1) potential intellect,
where the intellect only possesses the capacity to acquire the intelligibles but does not have intelligible form;
(2) habitual intellect, where the intelligible forms of the most basic kind such as the law of contradiction
appear; (3) actual intellect, when the soul reaches the capacity to acquire rational forms through logical defi-
nition (h.add) and demonstration (burhān); (4) acquired intellect (ʿaql mustafād), where the intellect possesses
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all the intelligible forms. He places the sacred intellect above the acquired intellect since reason in that state
receives the intelligible forms directly from God and not via the mediation of the Active Intellect.
12 Ibn Rushd, Fas.l al-maqāl fī mā bayna al-h.ikma wa l-sharīʿa min al-ittis.āl, ed. M. ʿImārah Mus.․tafā (Egypt: Dār
Al-Maʿārif, 1972), 22.
13 Qut․b al-Dīn al-Shīrāzī, Sharh.-i h.ikmat al-ishrāq-i Suhravardī, Silsilah-'i Dānish-i Īrānī (Tehran: Mu'assasah-i
Mut․ālaʻāt-i Islāmī, Dānishgāh-i Tihrān, Dānishgāh-i Mak’gīl, 2001), 14.
14 See Seyyed Hossein Nasr, S.adr al-Dīn Shīrāzī and His Transcendent Theosophy: Background, Life and Works
(Tehran: Imperial Iranian Academy of Philosophy, 1979), 48.
15 See Chapter 25 in this volume by Abdulaziz Sachedina.
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39
POLITICAL THEOLOGY AND
THE QUR’AN
Paul L. Heck
The revelation of divine speech in Islam, the Qur’an, is evidence that God hands down “rulings”
(ah.kām, sing. h.ukm) to the “community” of believers (umma). Some have taken this idea as a call to
direct rule by God. For example, during the struggles within the community following the death of
the Prophet Muhammad, some among a group known as the Kharijites refused to acknowledge a
“leader” (imām) other than the Book of God; no human figure, however charismatic, could govern
the community in place of divine speech as set down in the Book. More recently, Islamists have
advanced the idea of monotheism not only as correct worship but also as correct rule (h.ākimiyya);
a polity not ruled by God is guilty of idolatry. Yet human decision-making has a place in Islam,
interacting in varied harmony with God’s rulings, but it is also true that the voice of God as trans-
mitted by the Qur’an has set the assumption that sovereignty is ultimately God’s even if governance
of worldly affairs rests with humans.
As for political theology, its concern is sovereignty. A polity – imperial or republican in form,
religious or secular in identity – assumes sovereignty to make and also to suspend the laws governing
society. A society may have its norms, but it is power that issues decisions to resolve dispute, establish
justice, and suppress crime and chaos. And yet power is open to abuse, making rule ambiguous by
nature. Power exists to maintain order but can be deployed arbitrarily by the ruling class for its own
interests. Thus, while power has divine purpose, namely, the protection and promotion of human
society, it is subject to the corruptibility of those in power, who tend to associate their purposes with
God’s. Thus, not unlike the prophets who admonished the kings of Ancient Israel when they failed
to worship God apart from idols, political theology has as its task not only to analyze but also to scru-
tinize the nature of sovereignty. Political theology is thus not about the study of religion(s) but the
study of power and its transcendent character. Is the state the incarnation of divine power? Does the
state then have divine purpose? Does that give it a transcendent character? Or is the political state so
fallen that a prophetic voice is needed to remind it of “the straight path”? To these concerns, critical
theological reflection is always in order when it comes to the nature of power.
The goal here is not to examine the Qur’an as agent of “a political theology,” as if one of many,
since political theology is a method of analysis. Scriptural declarations do shape attitudes about rule,
but political theology focuses on assumptions of sovereignty to make and suspend laws. Who has
the power to resolve dispute and suppress crime and chaos? Is a nation’s sovereignty limited to its
territory or is it universal in scope? Does a nation’s sovereign authority to make laws within its own
territory exist in harmony with – if not in subordination to – legal norms that are sovereign over all
nations?1 Does worldly rule exist to advance a nation’s otherworldly goods, making it the rightful
422 DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-42

Political Theology and the Qur’an
object of a people’s religious affections and loyalties? Or if not the object of religious affections and
loyalties, is rule expected to enforce laws of worship as mediated by a class of religious specialists?
(And worship in Islam can extend beyond prayer to include issues as mundane as banking prac-
tices and the division of family inheritance. All aspects of life, including the political, have value in
obtaining divine favor.) In other words, is worldly power at the service of the divine character of the
nation – its moral life – or is it the very expression of that divine character? In either case, the ruler
is expected to align with what the nation worships – whether free markets or biblically correct wor-
ship. For example, John Knox (d. 1572), who saw rightful sovereignty in terms of a nation’s bibli-
cally defined covenant with God, made a ruler’s attendance at a Catholic Mass grounds for rebellion.
And in today’s Saudi Arabia, national sovereignty is based on a particular formula of monotheism,
which assumes the suppression of what is considered incorrect worship as associated with Sufism
and Shi‘ism. And such transcendent assumptions extend to the secular: In a nation that worships free
markets, socialism would be seen as a limit on freedom, and so a ruler who aligns with it would be
promoting a system of slavery against capitalist freedom. Doing so would risk the nation’s glory and
the transcendent character of its sovereignty.
To what extent is human rule responsible – or even necessary – for ensuring divine favor upon
the umma? Isn’t it enough to pray and follow shariʿa rulings irrespective of the politics of the day? But
if one assumes that there can be no Islam without rule by Islam, as many Islamist types would claim,
does such rule enjoy sovereignty because of its relation to revelation or because it brings about justice
in society? And yet power that rules even in the name of Islam certainly can neglect the interests of
society, opening the door for protest in the name of Islam. This tension was apparent in the Arab
Spring (cir. 2010), where some religious authorities stood by dictators, castigating political activism
as disobedience to God, while others invoked democracy as the best means of realizing the purposes
of rule by Islam.
Conversely, the claim that scholars and saints, not sultans, are heirs to the Prophet suggests that
sovereignty in Islam lies beyond worldly power (imperium), giving such religious figures authority to
contest the pretensions of rulers to decide the community’s laws apart from consultation. This is to
speak of a dual nature to sovereignty in Islam: worldly power to govern and maintain public order;
and religious authority to steward Islam’s moral norms. Al-Māwardī (d. 1058), jurist and counselor
to caliphs, mentioned two kinds of discipline (adab) –shariʿa (religion) and siyāsa (governance), which
work together for the goals of Islam.2 However, the line between the two domains of law is not
clear. On the one hand, salvation is the task of religion (shariʿa), not governance. It is not obedience
to sultanic decree that ensures deliverance from hellfire and admission to the heavenly garden. On
the other hand, Muslim scholars as diverse as Ibn Taymiyya (d. 1328) and Ibn Khaldūn (d. 1406)
acknowledge that a society prospers through justice even apart from piety. Thus, even infidel rule
can achieve a society’s worldly interests. Still, rule by Islam is needed to serve its otherworldly inter-
ests as well as its worldly ones. Rule is not only to back shariʿa but also to ensure stability in society
for people to be able to perform religious duties. In that sense, rule represents God’s sovereign pur-
pose alongside and sometimes in competition to religious concerns. As the guarantor of justice in
society, human rule is imitative of God as source of all justice, making the ruler “the shadow of God
on earth” (z․ill allāh fī l-ard. ). And just as God uses the terror (rahba) of hellfire and enticement (raghba)
of paradise to order believers towards otherworldly interests, so the sultan is to use terror and entice-
ment to maintain order in this world. Rule thus has divine purpose no less than religion, and yet the
distinction between them – rule as product of worldly power (shawka), religion of divine speech – is
meant to ensure that worldly power not be conflated with God as the sole object of worship. When
such conflation happens, a polity as a worldly order takes on a heavenly stature, making the state
object of religious loyalties and not only of conditional allegiance. And in such a theo-political for-
mula, the law no longer exists simply to ensure a semblance of harmony between society’s diverse
communities. Its purpose becomes the purification of society of all “foreign” elements that do not aspire
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Paul L. Heck
to the religious idealization of cultural order. The goal is therefore to protect the pious folk from
the impurities of foreign peoples. The idea of law in service of cultural authenticity has featured in
Islamist projects, signaled in the call to implement religion (tat․bīq sharīʿa) not simply for justice but to
protect Muslims from the impurities of globalization, thereby risking the idea of Islam’s universality.
In other words, if Islam is a universal religion, it should not need to be confined to a single “pure”
culture, as the culture of the Arabs is sometimes presented by Islamists over other cultures.
It is worth noting that political theology emerged from reflection on the history of political
thought in the Christian West and is associated with the names of Augustine of Hippo (d. 430),
Thomas Hobbes (d. 1679), Karl Barth (d. 1968), and Carl Schmidt (d. 1985), among many others.
This article assumes that tensions around sovereignty in the history of the Christian West have par-
allels in Islam. Is the caliphate a space for people to worship God freely (freedom to worship God
being God’s glory)? Or does the holder of that office, the caliph, effectively become a mortal god (a
Hobbesian concept where rule exists as its own end, thus for its own glory, effectively conflating the
glory of worldly power with divine glory), a sovereign entity to be glorified in its own right as God’s
specially ordained representative on earth?
Assessments of rule in Islam do not generally flow from scriptural exegesis but from Muslim
reflection on precedents of governance set by the Prophet Muhammad and his Companions, begin-
ning in Medina and expanding through conquest from Spain in the West to Central Asia in the
East that eliminated the Sasanian Empire and cut into the Byzantine Empire. There is, however, a
noticeable if not decisive relation between the recognition of human interpretation of divine speech
and the recognition of the legitimacy of human rule.3 The Qur’an is arguably (albeit not uncon-
testably) silent on the details of the constitution and organization of rule. There are only general
references to God as the ultimate source of sovereignty: It is God who gives and takes rule (mulk)
as God wishes (Q 5:26). And while the Qur’an describes God administering all things in heaven
and earth (Q 32:5), it does not speak of governance (siyāsa) and political order (niz․ām), terms cen-
tral to discourse on rule in Islam. In other words, the Qur’an did not reveal a political order. But
divine revelation– Qur’an and Hadith and the divinely sanctioned way of life (shariʿa) derived from
them – includes concepts that have been at play in discourse on rule in Islam: the human as God’s
representative (caliph) on earth (Q 2:30), the community of Muhammad succeeding to that role in
prophetic history (Q 10:14); God’s decree that the righteous inherit the land (Q 21:106); the pledge
of allegiance to Muhammad as mediator of God’s authority (Q 48:10) along with the importance
of consultation (shūrā) in decision-making (Q 42:38); the humiliation of non-believers (Q 9:29) and
triumph of Islam over all religion (Q 9:33); the link of loyalty to monotheistic worship, of enmity
to those who do not believe in the one God (polytheist idolaters) as Abraham did (Q 60:4); and
obedience to God, His Messenger, and “those in power” (ūlū l-amr, Q 4:59).4 Jihad in the Qur’an
signals commitment to defend and extend God’s cause. The willingness to undertake jihad – by state
or non-state actors – can therefore serve to identify one’s actions as God’s work.
The narrative in the Qur’an with greatest impact on questions of rule in Islam is the discourse
on the perennial struggle between “righteousness” (s.alāh.) and “corruption” (fasād), a discourse that
weaves its way prominently across the Qur’anic text. Prophets are sent to their peoples with a mes-
sage of reform but are rejected by those in power out of fear for their own wealth and prestige. This
only increases corruption, jeopardizing the community, including weaker members with no choice
but to follow the powerful. The challenge has now fallen to the followers of Muhammad. The
umma, its rulers included, cannot neglect the call to righteousness, but scripture (Qur’an and h.adīth)
has little to say on the workings of governance apart from general calls to “justice” (ʿadl) and against
“injustice” (z․ulm), and yet rulers will be held accountable on the Day of Judgment for the fate of the
subjects (raʿiyya, lit. ‘flock’) entrusted to them to govern. (The idea is based on the widely known
hadith that all are responsible for the flock entrusted to them. Some early political commentary, such
as the eighth-century Book of the Land Tax by Abū Yūsuf, juristic counselor to caliphs of the Abbasid
424
Empire, suggests that the unjust ruler will be punished for the sins of his subjects, if it was his unjust
rule that caused them to sin.) In sum, while the goals of governance, righteousness and justice, have
been revealed, details of its constitution and organization are left to humans to devise.5
Are political institutions heir to the prophetic mission, making them part of the revealed order of
Islam no less than prayer is? Or are organs of governance worldly entities that exist to maintain order
in society, serving the ways of righteousness but not themselves divinely revealed? Debate over the
nature of rule began as early as the killing of the third of the Rightly Guided Caliphs, ʿUthmān b.
ʿAffān (r. 644-656). He claimed that the pledge of allegiance (bayʿa) given to him by the commu-
nity made his rule a divine affair, as the pledge to the Prophet Muhammad in his lifetime assumed
a pledge to God. The community could offer counsel but is obliged to obey him as God’s delegate.
His opponents, in contrast, claimed that the pledge of allegiance was conditional. It was rendered
irrelevant when the ruler failed to govern in line with tradition. (They were apparently grieved that
the proceeds of conquest had come under the control of a centralizing power in Medina and were
no longer distributed among the conquering fighters.) They protested that the sovereignty of the
caliphate was a communal affair, not the privilege of a single person who pretended to be robed in
a mantle of divine authority. Muhammad’s death thus left questions of sovereignty in Islam unan-
swered, including the charismatic stature of his successors. Did obedience to them imply obedience
to God, as it had in his case? As transmitter of divine speech, he had enjoyed a singular authority to
mediate the covenant with God. Who was to do so in his absence, the community entire or a single
figure? And if the latter, was this sole ruler endowed with a special charisma from God?
The “partisans” (shiʿa) of ʿAlī b. Abī T
․ ālib (r. 656-661) developed one response: divinely ordained
“leadership” (imāma) in the form of a line of imams descending from the Commander of the Faithful
ʿAlī b. Abī T․ ālib as true successor to the Prophet Muhammad. In Shi‘ism the House of the Prophet
(āl al-bayt) has its own ontological stature, including, for example, a share in sovereign decision-
making on the Day of Judgment. Today, representation of the charisma of the imams belongs not to
worldly rulers but religious scholars, giving them sovereignty to make laws for the community and
even for the polity but not to govern directly. But this charisma can translate into a claim to rule,
making the ruler a mortal god as conduit of divine law (mortal god, here, in the sense of being the
unquestioned “absolute” in the political system), as seen in the office of supreme leadership over
the Islamic Republic of Iran. Historically, Shi‘ism judged worldly power as essentially illegitimate
in the absence of the imam. This did not require one to withdraw from society, but worldly power
could never be seen as object of religious loyalty.6
History, however, took another course where a political office, the caliphate, was seen as having
a claim on religious loyalties, the assumption being that the caliph is the mediator of the covenant
with God in the absence of the Prophet Muhammad. The Qur’an describes caliphs as righteous
successors to past peoples, meaning that they are to assume responsibility for the covenant in place
of past peoples. (Of course, it’s not clear in the Qur’an that the category of caliphs, those succeed-
ing past peoples, implies only the ruling elite among the followers of Muhammad or includes all
of them.) In return for allegiance (obedience) to God, the Muslims, as successors of past covenant
peoples, inherit the land as promised by God.7 Thus, those who inherit land by conquest, it could
be concluded, are the righteous ones mentioned in the Qur’an, making them God’s caliphs as suc-
cessors in the land. The early conquests were seen in this fashion. As early as the Umayyad Dynasty
(r. 661-750), rulers based their claims to sovereignty not simply on conquest but on God’s ordination
of them as His caliphs on earth.
Within Sunnism, the caliphate, ordained by God, has never been viewed as merely a political
institution. Some have looked to it for the valorization of Islam. Even when the caliphate no longer
enjoyed worldly power, it still represented the universal aspirations of sovereignty in Islam with a
claim on the believer’s loyalties. One’s prayers may still be valid even in the absence of the caliphal
office, but it has long been object of both religious and political devotion.8 For example, the belief
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Paul L. Heck
that the Ottoman Dynasty had inherited the caliphate prompted Muslims beyond the lands under its
control to affirm loyalty to it and seek its protection.9 The idea of a global caliphate features today
in groups as diverse as Hizbut Tahrir and the Islamic State of Syria and Iraq (ISIS) under Abū Bakr
al-Baghdādī (1971-2019), whose 2014 election as caliph was acclaimed by some, denounced by oth-
ers. Still others argue that by caliph the Qur’an means that God entrusts caliphal responsibility to the
human being (istikhlāf al-insān) generally, not only the Muslim human being. It is thus not a political
institution, let alone Islam’s form of rule, but the basis of Islam’s call to democracy. This outlook
assumes a positive view of the human person, who is desirous of a moral society by nature even apart
from religious teachings. Tunisia’s Rāshid al-Ghannūshī (b. 1941) is one prominent advocate of this
outlook that would see democracy as the Qur’anic design for political life.10
The Umayyad Dynasty developed the idea of the caliphate as a divinely ordained office.11 God
would not leave the umma without strong rule to enforce His laws – chaos would ensue, jeopard-
izing the mission of Islam. Just as God had established the prophetic office to guide humanity, so
He ordained the caliphal office to mediate His covenant with his umma and administer its precepts,
making the dynasty worthy of religious loyalty. The idea features today, for example, in Saudi Arabia,
but the equation of divine allegiance and political loyalty is not unquestioned. A pious opposition in
Saudi Arabia that includes Salmān al-ʿAwda (b. 1956) and Muhammad al-ʿAbd al-Karīm, author of
Dismantling Tyranny (Tafkīk al-istbdād, published 2013), contend that the pledge of allegiance (bayʿa)
always came with conditions on rule.12 Their goal is not democracy per se but dissociating Islam from
tyranny. Still, it is worth noting that al-ʿAwda sees democracy as the best means to keep the bayʿa out
of the hands of tyrants and thus preserve its original intent. Democracy here is a means to preserve
Islam’s integrity.
As history bears out, rule over the lands of the Abode Islam largely fell to military strongmen,
who had power but no claim to descent from the family of the Prophet. They were thus sultans, not
caliphs, but it was their “decision-making” (raʾy) that established the justice that scripture mandates,
implying that governance in itself had divine purpose even if not clearly part of the revealed order.
But did the sovereignty of God that the sultans embodied extend to religion beyond the work of
establishing justice in society? In principle, the sovereignty of sultans did not include jurisdiction
over shariʿa rulings but was limited to decision-making on a host of issues that scripture did not treat,
such as tax collection, military salaries, public works, state correspondence, and courts for redress-
ing grievances against public officials. However, areas regulated by shariʿa, including commerce and
crime, were inseparable from questions of public order – maintenance of which fell to the sultan.
Moreover, in areas such as commerce and crime, traditionally the purview of shariʿa scholars, justice
had to be meted out for stability to be preserved. The jurisprudential expertise of shariʿa scholars
might say what the law is, but rulers made decisions on the justice of a case beyond the legal for-
malism of jurisprudential discourse and sometimes in disagreement with shariʿa authorities. Thus,
in practice if not in theory, the ruler was the arbiter of shariʿa and not only its enforcer.13 However,
religious scholars did not cede sovereignty over religion to sultans. While recognizing the need for
rulers for public order, they did not see them as religious figures. For example, the Abbasid Caliphs
(r. 750-1258) may have lost actual power to military strongmen, but they still retained sovereignty
over the Abode of Islam, which they delegated to sultans, as seen in the case of the Caliph al-T ․ āʿī
(r. 974-991), who ordained a scion of the Buyids, a military dynasty with no prophetic lineage, as
defender of the realm, granting him the titles of “Defender of the Caliphal Dynasty” (ʿAd. ud al-
Dawla) and “Crown of the Religious Community” (Tāj al-Milla).
However, while the caliph may have remained the conduit of sovereignty in Islam, it was now the
possession of sultans. Did that give their worldly power a religious aura? The question was pursued
in relation to the Friday Prayer, where the name of the sultan was mentioned along with that of
the caliph. As emblem of the political unity of the umma, the Friday Prayer was of concern to the
holders of worldly power, but did such a concern make worldly power a divine office? The matter
426
has long been a point of tension. Some jurists spoke of the presence of the sultan at Friday Prayer as
a local custom not a religious duty, undercutting the idea of worldly power as a divine office with
sovereignty over religion. Others made the validity of the Friday Prayer conditional upon the pres-
ence of the sultan or at least upon mention of his name in the sermon, integrating worldly power
more fully into the order of Islam that has its origins in divine speech.14 Today, the mosque remains
a place where political order is both reinforced and contested.15 Does the state have control over the
mosque? Or is the mosque the source of the sovereignty that validates worldly power? The question
was vividly illustrated on May 26, 2017, when Nās. ir al-Zafzāfī (b. 1979), leader of a protest move-
ment in Morocco centered in the northern city of Al Hoceima, interrupted the preacher at the
Friday Prayer, who had spoken of the protests as chaos (fitna). In response, al-Zafzāfī asserted that
the nation’s mosques are the mosques of God, not the mosques of “the court” (al-makhzan, a word
connoting worldly power).
Thus, despite recognition of the distinction between two spheres of discipline, governance and
religion, as noted above in reference to al-Māwardī, it is also possible to speak of a low-intensity
conflict between rulers and scholars over religious sovereignty. One sees this today in many places.
In Saudi Arabia, for example, the dynastic ruler has sovereignty as guarantor of justice, but religious
scholars have questioned his decisions that conflict with their interpretations (although their bold-
ness depends partly on political interests). For example, they have claimed the independence of
shariʿa from the state as a means to retard or even block its attempts to establish legal predictability
through the codification of commercial and criminal law.16 At the same time, rulers have a long tra-
dition on which to base claims to sovereignty in Islam. The need for strong rule to maintain order
made governance a part of God’s plan even if not revealed by divine speech. In this view, while God
alone is true sovereign, He chooses certain figures to rule in fulfillment of His purposes on earth, in
echo of the story of King David at Q 2:251. Classical treatises on governance, such as that of Niz․ām
al-Mulk (d. 1092), vizier to the Seljuq Empire (eleventh and twelfth centuries), drew heavily on dis-
tinctly Persian lore to explain the divine nature of rule. The sultan who rules with justice is divinely
ordained, but justice derives not so much from piety as from strong rule that maintains order in soci-
ety.17 If the ruler is not vigilant in maintaining a just order, chaos ensues, leading to the demise of his
reign and transfer of his heavenly blessing to another strongman capable of effective governance. In
other words, sovereignty was largely a function of competent rule, even if other factors were recog-
nized, such as royal lineage. In short, the sultan claimed sovereignty primarily as custodian of public
order (niz․ām). As the figure issuing and suspending rulings to ensure order, he enjoyed a divine aura,
as if playing the role of God in ensuring justice on earth (hence, the common title of sultans as the
shadow of God on earth). The norms and procedures of sultanic governance may have differed from
those of shariʿa, and political treatises instructed the sultan to heed the teachings of religious scholars,
but he was the bulwark against the corruption (fasād) the Qur’an attributed to a people’s failure to
heed its prophet. To be sure, the ruler was not the object of worship. He had no share in decision-
making on the Day of Judgment, but he was possessed of the awe-inspiring dignity (hayba) that made
him divine agent on earth. (It’s worth noting that kings in Muslim-majority regions, and even secu-
lar presidents-for-life, are expected to cultivate the divinely endowed aura of hayba.) This did not
put him above the moral order to govern at whim, a concept the Qur’an associates with polytheism
(Q 45:23). In principle, his rule functioned within a set of moral norms that allowed for effective
governance, and the failure to rule by such norms could turn the ruler into a rebel against society
and its purposes. But scholars encouraged obedience to unjust rule instead of the greater harm they
saw in the chaos of rebellion.18 The ruler was to be educated in a broad heritage of wisdom of both
divine and human providence, including the insights of philosophers and sages along with the ethi-
cal teachings of Islam. The education of the ruler features in a genre of literature known as “advice
to rulers” (nas.īh.at al-mulūk) in echo of Qur’anic description of prophets as advisors to rulers (e.g.
Q 7:68 and 7:79). Prominent examples include The Book of this World and the Next (Kitāb al-Maʿāsh
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Paul L. Heck
wa-l-Maʿād) by al-Jāh.iz (d. 869) and The Discipline of the World and Religion (Adab al-Dunyā wa-l-Dīn)
by al-Māwardī. In sum, ruler as agent of divine justice enjoyed sovereign authority to determine
law, including cases within the scope of shariʿa. In point of fact, when it came to the welfare of the
realm, religious authorities as early as Abū Yūsuf (d. 767) recognized the sovereignty of the ruler’s
decision as the law of Islam.
A key point of contention when it comes to the nature of rule in Islam is the scope of divinely
revealed knowledge. God’s communication in scripture spells out the truth of monotheistic wor-
ship, but does it not also indicate that the truth of all matters can be known with a manifest clarity
(bayyina)? If so, then the state, it might be concluded, has the task of enforcing truths of every kind
across all spheres of life, and may even use torture to do so to coerce people to align with truth.19 The
idea of using torture to enforce religious truth is suggested, for example, by al-Juwaynī (d. 1085) in
Salvation of the Nations (Giyāth al-Umam). In this view, worldly power has the role of ensuring that
society live according to clearly knowable truths, as revealed in Islam, above and beyond the task of
establishing stability in society.
One sees this viewpoint, for example, in the writings of Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn Qayyim al-
Jawziyya (d. 1350, henceforth Ibn al-Qayyim), who both remain influential today. They were dis-
turbed by the regnant juridical practices of their day, which they saw not as grounded in Islam but
rather as the product of a scholastic jurisprudence that served to maintain the prestige of the religious
establishment at the expense of justice. For them, the crisis was not the legitimacy of rule but the
failure of jurists to promulgate laws that accord with Islam’s message. To them, Islam’s clear teach-
ings, as reflected in the lives of the first Muslims, the righteous predecessors, got buried amidst the
obscurities of the legal casuistry of the religious establishment, which served only to veil the clarity
of truth to which the Qur’an called. As a result, the juridical practices that governed society had
ceased to have any relation to Islam.
Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim thus energetically called for the restoration of rule by Islam by
advancing the reports of the righteous predecessors as the message of Islam by which public officials
should govern society rather than the prevarications of the religious establishment. After all, the
Qur’an speaks of clear proof (bayyina), a concept jurists had reduced to juridical categories of wit-
nesses and oaths. But Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim saw the term in the sense of common sense
knowledge. For example, if you see a man standing over a bloodied corpse with a knife in hand, it is
clear he’s the murderer. You don’t need to search for witnesses, whose words, according to traditional
jurisprudence, have weight only if backed by oath-taking. Such juristic acrobatics, the two scholars
argued, were the innovation of the religious establishment, the very group tasked with announc-
ing, not obscuring, the message of Islam. A jurisprudential scholasticism might have served to keep
shariʿa authority in scholarly hands as opposed to the rulers,20 but as discussed above, the needs of
society had led rulers to assume authority over shariʿa matters if only to manage society effectively,
but Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim raised questions about the nature of the shariʿa over which rul-
ers had assumed authority. The revivalist piety in the face of jurisprudential decay, as they saw it, led
them to speak of crisis: The umma is governed by human opinion, that is, the concoctions of jurists
as opposed to the clarity of truth set forth in scripture, putting at risk the otherworldly interests of
Muslims, which depends on rule by the sovereignty of clearly revealed truth rather than the preten-
sions of jurists to be guardians of God’s law-making, which they had actually turned into human
device. In other words, the two revivalists weren’t calling for the overthrow of the rulers but asking
them to assume the duty of enforcing God’s clearly revealed truths.
Whatever their motives, Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim advanced a theo-political formula that
associates worldly power even more closely with religion. In their view, Muslims were to be ruled
only by evidence (dalīl) from scripture rather than human reasoning. This, then, is to assume that
rule does not have its own norms apart from the knowledge that God revealed and the righteous
predecessors faithfully transmitted. The knowledge to govern the realm is thus not to come from
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the accumulated wisdom of the centuries, but from the righteous forebears closest to Muhammad
as utterer of divine speech. But such exclusive grounding of rule in the narrative matrix of revela-
tion risks turning contestation over worldly power into a heavenly battle between God’s forces and
the power of idolatry. Ibn al-Qayyim argues: If you seek a “ruling” (h.ukm) from anything other
than what Muhammad conveyed, you have abandoned the worship of God for the worship of the
“idol” (t․āghūt), that is, the false authority that rules by something other than what is revealed from
God. For Ibn al-Qayyim, the arena of bayyina (the manifest clarity of truth) was one area where
such false authority, as embodied in the legal casuistry of the jurists, had taken root.21 For him, all
that manifestly indicates the truth of a matter, not just what a witness in court is willing to testify
under oath, qualifies as divinely sanctioned knowledge to be implemented in society for the sake of
its own deliverance. The result that follows from this view is that human rule becomes coterminous
with divinely revealed guidance, which is singularly clear in contrast to the endless divergence of
rulings in the traditional schools of law. The hope was that by giving governing processes greater
religious weight to implement the clear truths that juristic ways had obscured, injustices associated
with juridical procedures might be curbed. For example, limiting evidence in court to the words
of a witness, rather than allowing for clear proof even apart from witnesses and oath-taking, only
emboldens society’s powerholders, who know that none will speak against them (even under oath).
Such tyranny, in turn, only increases resentment and enmity in society.
Thus, Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim hoped a full grounding of governing processes in revela-
tion would restore harmony and protect the rights of both God and God’s slaves (i.e., humans) more
effectively than the status quo under the jurisprudential regime of their day. At the same time, even
if the goal was to replace human stratagem, defined as unjust by nature, with God’s justice, such
thinking has lent itself to the expectation of a divinely revealed order on earth and accompanying
calls to suppress ways of life that don’t clearly have a place in such order, as seen most recently in the
governing processes of the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria (ISIS). Even before ISIS, the assumption of
Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim that a divine order was waiting to be implemented, helped make
sense of calls to attack political institutions seen as religiously deficient even aside from questions of
political competence, notably but by no means only in Egypt, where non-state groups took it upon
themselves to apply Islam’s rulings in society, by force if needed, in the name of “commanding the
right and forbidding the wrong.”22
Some would exonerate Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya from association with today’s
jihadism, and there might be reason to do so, but it cannot be entirely denied, as suggested above.
The idea that it is idolatrous to fail to rule by God’s will, as advanced by Ibn al-Qayyim, is quite
different from the classical recognition of the need for strong rule for the sake of political order. In
this jihadist view, politics, rather than serving as a forum for the adjudication of justice, becomes
staging ground for a scripturally inspired narrative of battle, potentially unending, against the forces
of idolatry. In turn, state actors use such jihadist rhetoric to justify authoritarian rule and deflect
attention from demands for reform and justice.
Of course, the call of Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim to restore revealed politics in Islam (as
suggested in the title of the former’s treatise on governance in Islam, al-Siyāsa al-Shar‘iyya) repre-
sents only one of multiple views on the scope of divinely revealed knowledge and corresponding
assumptions about the nature of rule in Islam. In the same period, another view was advanced by
Tāj al-Dīn al-Subkī (d. 1370), a jurist and chief judge of Damascus. In his view, religion (shariʿa)
had its own independent sovereignty that worldly power could never assume. This allowed religion
to serve as a check against the excesses of worldly power and even to undermine the presumptions
of rule to transcendent status. Like Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim, al-Subkī supported the role
of worldly power in maintaining order but recognized – more than they – the inherent corrupt-
ibility of public officials. While Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim attributed political corruption to
the religious establishment’s failure to issue rulings with the clarity of divine revelation, al-Subkī
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Paul L. Heck
called attention to the ambiguity of power, which was necessary but nevertheless incapable – given
its corruptible nature – of bringing about God’s rule on earth simply by governing by revelation.
Indeed, the Qur’an speaks of wrongdoers who lie about God and “seek to twist God’s way” (sabīl
allah yabtaghūnahā ‘iwajan, Q 11:19). While he doesn’t use the term, of course, al-Subkī is very much
thinking in terms of the concept of the mortal god: rule that exists for its own way rather than God’s
way.
Al-Subkī therefore argued that religion is to play the role of admonishing those who use power
for their own interests. He certainly understood the moral purpose of worldly power, for example,
in restraining criminals, but in his view religion was distinct from power. When it came to the pro-
cesses governing society, shariʿa served to ensure that public officials govern with a gentle rather than
a heavy hand, a view emphasized by al-Subkī in a treatise on society’s various stations.23 He seems
to be offering a counter to scholars who saw the chaos of the day as evidence of God’s displeasure
with the umma – and thus its need for a new theo-political formula, such as the one advanced by
Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim. Their view, with echoes in Islamist calls for rule by Islam today,
arguably makes those in power God’s delegates on earth, tasked with ensuring political order as a
function of revealed truth rather than of societal stability, but this only runs the risk of turning rul-
ers into mortal gods, setting the assumption for the need to battle all that is not God. In contrast
to such quasi-eschatological expectations of rule, al-Subkī makes a distinction: The public nature
of religion is one thing, awarding rulers authority to determine God’s ways is another. He was no
revolutionary, but he clearly distinguished between shariʿa morality and the invariable moral failings
of worldly power.
Religion is thus not ordered to power but rather exists to check its abuses. Al-Subkī certainly
understood the moral purpose of government – to suppress crime and chaos and maintain order in
society. But he also observed how some used it for their own glory. It’s one thing to have strong rule,
another thing to use power to dominate others. This is where al-Subkī pushed back with shariʿa
-– with God’s way. Whenever public officials use their power to lord it over others, to abuse and
harm the weak, shariʿa is there to constrain them. Indeed, just as all people, regardless of station in
life, are obliged to be grateful for God’s blessings, so, too, public officials are to show gratitude to
God by ruling not for their own interests but for the common interest. They are not to be rapacious,
taking the possessions of others at whim. They are to be lenient when disciplining and punishing.
The reason they’re in power is to rule with care for God’s creation. God has not put them in power
to eat, drink, and line their pockets with public money. The ruler shouldn’t think that being tough
on people amounts to strong rule. And if he builds a mosque and hires poets to praise him for his
generosity, he’s only confused his glory with the glory of God (the essence of the notion of the mor-
tal god). In a remarkable statement for his day, al-Subkī says that public officials should be quick to
defend the poor and always recall that the peasant is not a slave but is a freeman and ‘his own master’
(amīr nafsihi)!
However, the problem is not only with those in power. People also tend to confuse power with
truth. They delight when rulers inflict harsh penalties that go beyond the limits ( justice) of God’s
way rather than spurring transgressors to repent and reform. Why do humans so often prefer and
even relish displays of state violence instead of the leniency that God’s way encourages? For this
reason, al-Subkī saw it, shariʿa- independence is needed to ensure against the conflation of political
power (and its penal practices) with God’s purposes. In contrast to Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim,
he assumes a more complex understanding of divinely revealed knowledge, one that would not allow
it to be claimed by worldly power as its jurisdiction.
In a telling passage on the duties of the military commander,24 al-Subkī discloses his suspicion of
rule by worldly power (siyāsa) as violent by its nature if not checked by religion. It brings no benefit,
he says, but only harms the lands and subjects. However, the military commander who fulfills his
duties out of gratitude to God will refer to religion since it is God who promulgated it – and God as
430
the Creator knows best what brings about the prosperity of His creation as well as its demise. Those
who administer the lands through rule by worldly power apart from the limits of shariʿa can expect
to be stripped of blessing, since ruling rapaciously, that is, without God’s purposes in mind, only
destroys a local economy. Does a public official think, al-Subkī asks, that he will not prosper unless
he sheds blood unjustly and beats innocent Muslims? The point is that rule by worldly power alone
is but merely a kind of violence.
It would seem that al-Subkī aligns with Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim in calling worldly
power to be more attentive to religion, and yet he couldn’t differ from them more in denying
authority over God’s law to worldly power. For him, power is to be restrained by religion, whereas
jurisdiction over religion remains in the hands of those with expertise in jurisprudence. In contrast
to the other two, for al-Subkī, God’s law is not so clear as to be left to public officials to apply, since
that would only confuse power with religion, limiting the capacity of religion to check the corrupt-
ibility of those who wield power. At this moment as at others, we see two different views, among
scholars in the same context, about the relation of political power to the revealed teachings of Islam
and thus about the very nature of political power itself.
Is rule to embody religion? And to what extent can political processes be constructed out of
divinely revealed knowledge? Or is religion always to be independent of worldly power so as to serve
as a check against its excesses whether through the admonishment of religious scholars or in the
name of popular aspirations for justice? Power in Islam is to serve the Qur’an’s call to righteousness
and justice, including the protection of basic human rights, but the idea that power exists for the
sake of justice in society is one thing, the idea that it is limited by republican notions of individual
freedom another. God certainly did not reveal the Qur’an to suppress people, but questions remain
about the nature of the individual freedom that the Qur’an affirms over against worldly power if not
over against the teachings of Islam. And yet limits that Islam puts on individual freedom are arguably
less a question of religious teachings than of the claim of worldly power – now in the form of the
modern nation state – to govern with the sovereignty of God as revealed by the Qur’an. This is not
to call – as many do – for greater separation of religion from politics in Islam. There is a “secular
naïveté” in thinking it possible to separate theological assumptions from worldly power. The ghost of
Carl Schmitt is always at hand when a state – religious or secular in constitutional identity – claims
sovereignty over human life and the ways of life of its citizens. Rather, the question is how the sov-
ereignty of God will be formulated amidst today’s political discourse in Islam that calls for individual
freedom but also distinction from the ways of the West – all that amidst increased recognition, among
many Muslims themselves, of the Islamist failure to present Islam as a utopian society over against the
presumptions of the superiority of the West. And traditional religious scholars continue to operate
out of classical understandings of the scope of religious knowledge that recognize the silence of God
in matters of governance. Thus, despite claims that traditional religious scholars have been co-opted
by authoritarian rulers today either by intimidation or enticement, they actually very consciously
align with the post-colonial state, doing so on the basis of a long-standing principled pragmatism in
Islam that sees worldly power as agent of order in society but not as protector of individual freedom.
One can conclude by noting the ongoing need to probe the nature of power in Islam more carefully
not apart from but through Islam’s own theological lens, namely, God’s sovereignty as revealed by
the Qur’an.
Notes
1 See, for example, Clement Fatovic, “The Political Theology of Prerogative: The Jurisprudential Miracle in
Liberal Constitutional Thought,” Perspectives on Politics 6, no. 3 (2008): 487–501.
2 See Paul L. Heck, “Mawardi and Augustine on Governance: How to Restrain the Restrainer?” Studies in
Christian Ethics 29, no. 2 (2016): 158–168.
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Paul L. Heck
3 See Paul L. Heck, “Politics and the Qur’an,” Encyclopaedia of the Qur’an.
4 All Quranic translations are the author’s.
5 See Paul L. Heck, “Knowledge,” in Islamic Political Thought: An Introduction, ed. Gerhard Bowering (Prince-
ton: Princeton University Press 2015), pp. 105–122.
6 See Sajjad Rizvi, “Authority in Absence? Shi‘i Politics of Salvation from the Classical Period to Modern
Republicanism,” Studies in Christian Ethics 29, no. 2 (2016): 204–212.
7 In echo of the biblical tale, e.g. Deuteronomy 7:1-6, but without the specific geography of the Land of
Israel.
8 See Mona Hassan, Longing for the Lost Caliphate: A Transregional History (Princeton: Princeton University
Press 2016).
9 See Giancarlo Casale, “Tordesillas and the Ottoman Caliphate: Early Modern Frontiers and the Renaissance
of an Ancient Islamic Institution,” Journal of Early Modern History 19 (2015): 485–511.
10 Rāshid al-Ghannūshī, al-Dīmuqrāt․īyya wa-H . uqūq al-Insān fī l-Islām (Beirut: al-Dār al-ʿArabiyya lil- ʿUlūm
2012).
11 See Wadad Kadi, “ʿAbd al-Hamid al-Katib b. Yahya al-ʿAmir (d. 750),” in The Princeton Encyclopedia of Islamic
Political Thought, ed. Gerhard Bowering (Princeton: Princeton University Press 2013), pp. 2–3.
12 See, for example, Madawi Al-Rasheed, Muted Modernists: The Struggle over Divine Politics in Saudi Arabia
(London: Hurst & Company 2015).
13 Yossef Rapoport, “Royal Justice and Religious Law: Siyāsah and Shariʿah under the Mamluks,” Mamluk
Studies Review 16 (2012): 71–202.
14 See Norman Calder, “Friday Prayer and the Juristic Theory of Government: Sarakhsī, Shīrāzī, Māwardī,”
Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 49, no. 1 (1986): 35–47.
15 See Aaron Rock-Singer, “Prayer and the Islamic Revival: A Timely Challenge,” International Journal of Mid-
dle Eastern Studies 48 (2016): 293–312.
16 Frank E. Vogel, Islamic Law and Legal Systems: Studies of Saudi Arabia (Leiden: Brill 2000).
17 See Louise Marlow, Hierarchy and Egalitarianism in Islamic Thought (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University
Press 1997).
18 Khaled Abou El Fadl, “Ahkam Al-Bughat: Irregular Warfare and the Law of Rebellion in Islam,” in Cross,
Crescent, and Sword: The Justification and Limitation of War in Western and Islamic Tradition, ed. James Turner
Johnson and John Kelsay (New York: Greenwood Press 1990), pp. 149–176.
19 Baber Johansen, “Signs as Evidence: The Doctrine of Ibn Taymiyya (1263-1328) and Ibn Qayyim al-
Jawziyya (d. 1351) in Proof,” Islamic Law and Society 9, no. 2 (2002): 168–193.
20 See, for example, Norman Calder, “Al-Nawawī’s Typology of Muftis and its Significance for a General
Theory of Islamic Law,” Islamic Law and Society 3, no. 2 (1996): 137–164.
21 Ibn al-Qayyim, Iʿlām al-Muwaqqiʿīn ʿan Rabb al-ʿĀlamīn, ed. Abū ʿUbayda Mashhūr Ibn H.asan Āl Salmān,
7 vols. (Riyadh: Dār Ibn al-Jawzī 1423AH), vol. 2, p. 168ff.
22 See, for example, Roel Meijer, “Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong as a Principle of Social Action:
The Case of the Egyptian al-Jama‘a al-Islamiyya,” in Global Salafism: Islam’s New Religious Movement (New
York: Columbia University Press 2009), pp. 189–220.
23 Kitāb Muʿīd al-Niʿam wa-Mubīd al-Niqam (The Restorer of Blessings and Destroyer of Afflictions) (Beirut:
Mu’assasat al-Kutub al-Thaqāfiyya 1986).
24 Ibid., pp. 38–39. The term used is chamberlain, but al-Subkī makes it clear that he means military
commander.
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40
THE QUR’AN AND MEDICINE
Elaine van Dalen
The Qur’an is not a medical text and contains few comments on medical practice. A small number
of verses refer to healing and illness. The Qur’an portrays itself as healing to mankind (Q 17:82) and
men’s hearts (Q 10:57), and it gives ethical directions to the ill (Q 2:185, 196) who should not fast,
or pay a ransom, give charity, or offer sacrifice. Besides this, it mentions honey as a cure, “from their
[bees’] bellies comes a drink of different colours in which there is healing for people” (Q 16:69).1
Overall, it does not say much about physical disease or medical practice. In contrast, the hadith liter-
ature contains many medical sayings of the Prophet and reports of his medical actions. These hadiths
were collected at an early stage; Ibn Mājā (d. 887), for instance, collected hadiths with medical con-
tent in a separate chapter in his Sunan, and al-Bukhārī (d. 870) had a chapter on the sick in his S.ah.īh..
Throughout history, scholars have dealt in different ways with the medical content of the hadith
literature and the Qur’an, while Muslims have also developed medical practices that go beyond
these sacred texts. Among a plethora of approaches, two major traditions emerged in the classical
Islamic period. Medicine (ʿilm al-t․ibb) as a theoretical and practical discipline, referred to as “formal,”
“Greco-Arabic,” or “Islamic” medicine, did not engage much with the Qur’an or the hadith mate-
rial. However, hadith scholars did engage with medical hadiths and developed a tradition referred
to as “Prophetic medicine” (al-t․ibb al-nabawī). This chapter will provide a historical overview of
these traditions and discuss the relationship between them. First, it will discuss the development of
medicine in the classical Islamic world, by Muslims and non-Muslims. Then, the chapter will turn
to the strictly Islamic tradition of Prophetic medicine and examine the relationship between these
two traditions. Finally, this chapter will consider the role the Qur’an itself plays and has played within
popular medical traditions.
The Greco-Arabic Tradition

In the Byzantine and Sassanid lands that the followers of Muhammad conquered, beginning in the
seventh century, many physicians practiced a medicine informed by Galenic theory. In addition
to the Greek tradition, other Indian and Persian works were used in the region, too. Some of the
Persian medical texts of the Sassanids themselves had been influenced by Greek medical thought.2
In the ʿAbbāsid Empire (750–1258), especially from the ninth century onward, many medical texts
were translated into Arabic. This was part of a broader translation movement in which the Abbasid
rulers and other patrons widely supported the translation of philosophical, scientific, and medical
texts from Greek and other languages. The size of this effort should not be underestimated. H.unayn
DOI: 10.4324/9781315885360-43 433

Elaine van Dalen
Ibn Ish.āq (d. 873 ce), a Nestorian Christian, and a number of his family members, translated a large
number of texts attributed to Hippocrates (d. circa 370 bce), Galen (d. circa 215 ce), and their fol-
lowers into Arabic from Greek or Syriac versions. H.unayn alone reports in a letter on his own works
that he has translated all of the Galenic corpus, which was of considerable size, in addition to many
Hippocratic texts. Other scholars translated Persian and Sanskrit medical sources, and these were
incorporated and cited in early Arabic medical compendia, such as the Paradise of Wisdom (Firdaws
al-H.ikma) of ʿAli Rabbān al-T ․ abarī (d. circa 858) and The Compendium of Medicine (al-H
. awī fī l-T
․ ibb)
by Abū Bakr al-Rāzī (d. circa 925).3 Overall, the Greek works would become more influential for
the formal medical tradition in the Islamic world, and later scholars would rely on Ancient and Late
Antique Greek medical theories rather than Indian and Sassanid material.
In ʿAbbāsid society, a learned medical tradition developed, or in a way continued, based on these
translations. Physicians used Greek writings to further develop Galenic medical theory and adopted
Greek medical genres and curricular practices in education. Examples of this tradition are the Chris-
tian scholar Qust․ā ibn Luqā (d. 912), and the Muslims ʿAlī Rabbān al-T ․abarī, Abū Bakr Muh.ammad
ibn Zakariyā al-Rāzī, ʿAlī ibn al-ʿAbbās al-Majūsī (d. circa 994), and Abū ʿAlī al-H.usayn Ibn Sīnā
(d. 1037). These physicians engaged extensively with Galenic, Hippocratic, and Late Antique works
in their research. Thus Galenic medical theory became central in the classical Islamic medical tradi-
tion. Besides research, Greek medical texts became central in classical Islamic medical education.
The Greek works translated by H.unayn included those that had been part of the Alexandrian cur-
riculum: 16 books of Galen and four Hippocratic works that had been central in medical education
in the region even before the Islamic period. After the conquests, these texts continued to be of key
importance in Islamic medical education, as appears, for instance, from ʿAli ibn Rid.wān’s descrip-
tion.4 As the field of medicine developed over time, works of Islamic physicians, such as Ibn Sīnā’s
The Canon of Medicine (al-Qānūn fī l-T ․ ibb) became increasingly important in medical education.
In the classical period, scholars of Islamic medicine were not necessarily Muslims themselves,
and a physician’s personal religion seems to have affected their professional success. The littérateur
al-Jāh.iz․ (d. 869), for instance, relates that a certain Muslim physician called Abū l-H.ārith Asad ibn
Jānī said that people believe that “Muslims are not successful in medicine” and that if his name had
been Christian or Jewish, he would have had more patients.5 A few centuries later, al-Jawbarī (fl.
circa 1222) warns again using Jewish physicians because they are considered untrustworthy. How-
ever, in terms of their theoretical work, religious influence is much harder to discern. Islamic physi-
cians participated in a shared medical discourse and relied on common methods of empiricism and
reasoning. They shared a mutual medical worldview, which centered around Galenic medical theory
and which was similar, according to some of them, to that of the Greeks. ʿAbd al-Lat․īf al-Baghdādī
(d. 1231) described the universal character of the medical art, writing:
Galen tested all of Hippocrates’ opinions and found them to agree [with what he observed];
and between them there are six hundred years. People still test until today what Galen said
and find it to agree [with what they observed]; and Galen lived roughly one thousand two
hundred years before!6
A central feature of this medical worldview was the idea of four “humors” (akhlāt․), which in varying
configurations made up the “mixture” (mizāj) of human bodies. Foodstuffs, and the air, consisted of
such mixtures too. The Hippocratic theory of the four humors in its initial form had been popular-
ized by Galen. After him, scholars in Late Antiquity developed it further to conceptualize different
temperaments. In the Hippocratic version, the humors had been separate from the four elements
that made up the macro cosmos – earth, water, air, and fire – but scholars after Galen posited a con-
nection between the elements and humors.7 Many Islamic physicians, including Ibn Hindū (d. circa
1030), thought the humors actually consisted of the elements. Other explanatory characteristics of
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The Qur’an and Medicine
the human body that Islamic physicians used were “innate heat” (h.arāra gharīziya) and “innate mois-
ture” (rut․ūba gharīziya).
Disease was interpreted as a corruption of one of these humors, or an excess or deficit of humors,
moisture, or heat. Such corruption or changed quantity was influenced by natural factors such as
a person’s age and sex, or six non-natural (not innate) factors, such as exercise, sleep, food, mood,
and air. The air and the season had a considerable influence on the balance of the human body, and
these could change due to heavenly influences. This view corresponds to the Neoplatonic idea that
everything in the sublunar world is influenced by the supralunar world. Thus Ibn Sīnā believed that
the way the planets moved could affect the constitution of the air, which in turn influenced the
diseases of human beings.8 These ideas were in line with Hippocrates’s views, who had written that
“the science of the stars is a key part of medicine.”9
Islamic physicians sometimes had to respond, among other criticisms, to accusations that framed
medicine as being unnecessary or blasphemous in view of God’s predestination and omnipotence.
This view was related to the concept of tawakkul (“trust” [in God]), especially popular among ascetic
Sufis. Illness was furthermore seen in some hadith as a means God uses to purify believers from sin.
Consider, for instance, the hadith: “a year’s fever equals a year’s penance.”10 Seeking medical care
could therefore be seen as contrary to God’s plan. In response to the imputation that medicine aims
to change a human’s life span as determined by God, physicians typically suggest (rhetorically) that
such critics refrain from eating and drinking, since that would affect the length of one’s life too.11
In fact, there had been mystics who upheld tawakkul to such an extent that they would refuse food.
The mystic H.ātim al-As. amm (d. 852) declined to eat unless it was put in his mouth. The Christian
physician Ibn al-Quff (d. 1286) does not think such practice is reverent. He argues that since God
has not created anything in vain, the attackers of medicine are actually themselves blasphemous by
implying drugs were unnecessarily created.12 Ibn al-Quff ’s answer demonstrates how sometimes the
physicians used theological arguments to defend their discipline. However, such theological topics
were not a point of contention among physicians themselves.
Another topic that left physicians unbothered was that of “contagion” (iʿdā).13 The word should
be used carefully as there was no concept of contagion in the sense of infection or transmission
through viruses. It meant that a disease could be transmitted among people, either because a sick
person corrupted the air that a healthy person breathed or because, in the case of “ophthalmia”
(ramad), somebody looked into a diseased eye. Sometimes the word was also used for inheritable
diseases. Physicians such as al-Majūsī (d. 994), Ibn Sīnā, and Ibn Luqā, who wrote a special treatise
on the topic, entitled On Contagion (Fī l-iʿdāʾ), all considered transmission possible. However, out-
side the medical discipline, the topic of contagion was controversial. Certain hadith scholars argued
contagion was impossible based on conflicting hadiths, as we will see in this chapter.
These examples might raise the question of which characteristics, beyond these examples, make
the medical discipline in the Classical Islamic world “Islamic.” The debate on this goes beyond the
scope of this chapter and is tied to particular understandings of the term “Islamic.” Historians of
Islamic medicine tend to use the term as referring to the medical discipline as practiced in a certain
time-space in lands under Muslim rule and thus use the term beyond its strict religious connota-
tion.14 Some, however, want to avoid the term becoming too abstract.15 It is difficult to pinpoint the
Islamic nature of medical thought without risking essentialization.16 Moreover, Islamic physicians
themselves, such as ʿAbd al-Lat․īf al-Baghdadī, did not think Islamic medicine was different from
Galenic medicine – more advanced, maybe – but working with the same theorems and methods.
Nonetheless, some contemporary research attempts to show how the Islamic worldview of
Islamic scholars would have influenced their medical theories. It is possible to discern conceptual
aspects of the Islamic medical tradition that set it apart from previous Greek thought, and some of
these appear to be culturally influenced. For instance, Nahyan Fancy has shown how Ibn al-Nafīs
rejected Galenic physiology and its Platonic doctrine of the tripartite soul for a unified concept
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Elaine van Dalen
of the soul in line with his interpretation of Islam.17 In the translations of Greek medical texts,
some elements specific to Greek culture were changed. The Arabic version of the Hippocratic
oath, which in Greek references multiple gods and goddesses, is changed to mention just one
God, Asqlaybiyūs (Asclepius), and “those close to God.”18 Physicians begin their writings with the
Qur’anic basmala (“In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate,” Q 1:1) and, when an
enigma is unresolved, defer to God with the phrase Allāhu aʿlam, (“God knows [better/best],” e.g.,
Q 3:36). The fact that the physicians operated in an Islamic world is also demonstrated by the Chris-
tian physician Qusta ibn Luqā, who published a text on the regimen of the pilgrimage to Mecca
(Fī tadbīr safar al-h.ajj).
However, generally these medical texts tend not to engage with hadiths, the Qur’an, or theologi-
cal views, neither in terms of theory nor in therapeutics. They do not resort to the Divine as a causal
principle to explain the occurrence of diseases, nor do they involve the Divine in cures, in the way
this happens in medical traditions that developed later in the Islamic world. Moreover, physicians
tend to have no problem in contradicting stricter interpretations of the Qur’an. Alcohol (from the
Arabic, al-kuh.l) is widely used as medicine. This reflects the heterogeneous character of Islamic soci-
ety in the classical world and the varied approaches to the Qur’anic text that existed. The author of
The Epitome of Medicine (al-Mūjaz fī l-t․ibb) describes how to have a good drinking party, in a beautiful
place, decorated with flowers, and in the company of friends, and the benefits this has for the soul
and body. He also describes same-sex sexual activities without judgment beyond describing it as less
natural for the body. While this work has traditionally been ascribed to Ibn al-Nafīs, recent scholars
have cast doubt on this for a variety of reasons.19 These recommendations, too, appear to stand in
tension with Ibn al-Nafīs’ later refusal to consume alcoholic medicine when on his deathbed20 and
the fact that he blamed the consumption of wine and sodomy as reasons for the Mongol invasions.21
This raises further doubts about the relation between the Mūjaz and Ibn al-Nafīs, even though the
text was accepted as Ibn al-Nafīs’s work by subsequent traditionalist scholars, including al-Dhahabī
(d. 1348).22
Prophetic Medicine
Even if Islamic physicians such as al-Baghdādī did not consider medicine to be specifically Islamic
in a religious or cultural sense, they did not consider it to contradict religion or prophetic tradi-
tion. Ibn Rushd (d. 1198), for example, wrote that whoever has been occupied with the science of
anatomy has increased his belief in God. ʿAbd al-Lat․īf al-Baghdādī was determined to demonstrate
that medical theory was in line with the Prophet’s medical sayings. ʿAbd al-Lat․īf was trained as a
physician and as a hadith scholar (among his training in other fields such as grammar). Besides being
a strong advocate of Greek medical learning, ʿAbd al-Lat․īf is also believed to have given a com-
mentary on medical sayings of the Prophet, which one of his students recorded as the Forty Medical
Traditions (al-Arbaʿīn al-t․ibbiyya).23 In this commentary, ʿAbd al-Lat․īf shows that the hadith was not
in conflict with contemporary medical theory.24 A second student of al-Baghdādī, the oculist ʿAlāʾ
al-Dīn al-Kah.h.āl ibn T
․ arkhān (d. 1320), did the same in another commentary on Prophetic medical
traditions, The Prophet’s Rulings on the Art of Medicine (al-Ah.kām al-nabawiyya fī l-s.ināʿa al-t․ibbiyya).
The commentaries of these physicians would influence the hadith scholars al-Dhahabī and Ibn
Qayyim al-Jawziyya (d. 1350), who extensively quote them in their medical works. Thus, in addition
to the formal Greco-Arabic medical tradition, a second tradition developed that specifically engaged
with hadiths, called “the medicine of the prophet” or “prophetic medicine” (al-t․ibb al-nabawī).
Scholars who worked within the tradition of prophetic medicine were typically religious scholars
and not physicians, although there were exceptions. Initially, the medicine of the Prophet referred to
sections within hadith collections, such as those in al-Bukhārī’s S.ah.īh.25 and Ibn Mājā’s Sunan,26 that
focused on hadith of a medical nature. These did not contain any analysis or medical explanation.
436
But from the thirteenth century onward, specifically after the commentaries of al-Baghdādī and
al-Kahhāl, this changed. The medical hadith became subject to analysis, especially in the works of
the Hanbalī scholars, Shams al-Dīn al-Dhahabī, Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, and Ibn Muflih. (d. 1362).
Unlike certain ascetics and speculative theologians, who considered medicine to be against God’s
will, these scholars thought medication was useful. The Prophet himself is said to have a doctor,
al-H.ārith ibn Kalada, they argued, and the Prophet recommended attending a doctor in case of ill-
ness. Al-Dhahabī interpreted the hadith that “God does not send down a malady without sending
the cure” as an incentive to study medicine.27
Different ideas exist regarding the rise of prophetic medicine, with some views arguing that
it arose as an answer against the former tradition that was not sufficiently in line with Qur’anic
thought. Nahyan Fancy argues, for instance, that ibn Qayyim and al-Dhahabī would have felt the
need to offer a counter-sound against the less religious physicians, and therefore championed Ibn
al-Nafīs over Ibn Sīnā, since the former’s mastery of the religious sciences and adherence to tradi-
tionalist dogmas such as bodily resurrection was more in line with their religious views.28 On the
other hand, scholars such as Lawrence Conrad, argue that prophetic medicine is a natural outcome
of “a continuing interest in medical questions among a religiously educated public” that had been
familiar with the hadith literature and wanted to engage with it in light of the Greek theoreti-
cal framework prevalent at the time.29 Finally, Irmeli Perho has suggested that prophetic medicine
intended to counter concerns regarding the supposed foreign character of Greco-Arabic medicine,
by placing the foundation of medicine in the Qur’an rather than in texts by Hippocrates and Galen.30
These views are not necessarily mutually exclusive.
At first, the prophetic genre constituted a purely exegetical exercise that aimed to explain the
hadiths and demonstrate how they corresponded to medical theory. This was the case in al-Dhahabī’s
al-T
․ ibb al-nabawī, in which he reflects on the hadiths using Galenic theory, citing both revelation and
medical sources without attempting to formulate novel medical theories. The work of Ibn Qayyim,
a leading scholar of hadith and jurisprudence, as Perho has shown, is of a more innovative nature,
altering medical theory in light of hadith, and reinterpreting given hadiths based on observation
and reason. His work Provisions for the Afterlife, on the Guidance of the Best Servant Muhammad (Zād
al-maʿād fī hadī khayr al-ʿibād Muh.ammad) contains a section called “al-T
․ ibb al-nabawī,” which became
popular as a separate treatise.31 This text shows that Ibn Qayyim accepts divine revelation as a source
of the Prophet’s medical knowledge. Based on this, Ibn Qayyim rejects certain Greek theorems
that, according to him, are not based any more on observation than the medical statements found
in hadiths or the Qur’an.
For instance, he rejected fire as one of the four elements constitutive of the four humors based
on his interpretation of the Qur’an. He could only find three of the four elements in the Qur’anic
text: air (Q 55:14, the drying element in clay), water (Q 25:54), and earth (Q 18:37). Fire was the
constitutive element of Iblīs, not humans (Q 7:12). He did accept the concept of innate heat but saw
this as separate from fire. In this case, his understanding of Greek theory is influenced by his reliance
on the Qur’anic text. Where medical theory was not, according to him, in conflict with the Qur’an,
he followed it. Thus he accepted the concept of the four humors that make up the human body but
reimagined the nature of the humors to fit it into his Qur’anic worldview.
On the other hand, Ibn Qayyim and other scholars reinterpreted many hadiths in light of “obser-
vation” (mushāhada) too. When observation contradicts a hadith, Ibn Qayyim goes around this by
emphasizing the relativity of the sacred text to the space and time of that hadith, arguing that some
hadiths are said to be true specifically for the Medinan and Meccan regions. Ibn al-Khat․īb (d. 1374),
the author of a famous treatise on the plague, argues that when there are seeming contradictions
with revelation stemming from observation, revelation needs to be re-interpreted. He argues that
“if the senses and observation oppose a revealed indication (al-dalīl al-samʿī), the latter needs to be
interpreted.”32
437
Elaine van Dalen
Another example of such reinterpretation was the previously mentioned topic of contagion. In
pre-Islamic Arabia, contagion was considered possible, but it was also considered as an animistic
force, which possibly led to later Islamic traditions denying it. According to the hadith, “[T]here is
no contagion, no augury, no owl, and no snake.” The Prophet seems to deny the possibility of inter-
personal disease transmission. This opposed other hadiths that seem to support the idea of contagion,
such as, “The sick should not be brought to the healthy,” and “Run away from the leper as you run
away from a lion.” This led to a debate among religious scholars from an early stage. In the time of
Ibn Qayyim and after the plague of 1348, the majority of scholars, including Ibn al-Wardī (d. 1349)
and al-Manbijī (d. 1383), seem to have opposed the possibility of person-to-person transmission.
However, Ibn Qayyim and Ibn al-Khat․īb sided with the physicians regarding contagion. According
to Ibn Qayyim, the Prophet included ʿadwa among those other practices referring to a pre-Islamic
superstition, which are refutable, while the transmittable nature of certain diseases was observable
and was therefore other than a mere false belief.33 For Ibn Qayyim, contagion was still dependent
on God as the primary cause, and admitting its possibility did not deny God’s omnipotence. He
thus departs from the Ashʿarī view that denied secondary causality and sides with prevalent medical
theory accepting the hierarchy of causes upheld, for instance, by Ibn Sīnā.
Yet Ibn Qayyim does not rely on contagion to explain the occurrence of plague. He writes that
God can use “spirits” (arwāh.) as secondary causes to cause plague. Spirits here refer possibly to jinn.34
Later, Ibn H . ajar al-ʿAsqalānī (d. 1449) likewise departed from formal medicine in suggesting that
plague was caused by jinn, accepting secondary causation, but, just like Ibn al-Wardī and al-Manbijī,
he denied the possibility of contagion.35 Ibn H . ajar, too, engages critically with Galenic material,
rejecting Galen’s theory of miasma based on his assumption that diseases with natural causes have
cures, which the plague does not have.36 What these authors shared was the idea that dying from
plague was a martyrdom, an idea not prevalent among physicians.
Not all examples of prophetic medicine entertained theoretical concerns. An instance of this
would be the collection by al-Suyūt․ī (d. 1505), entitled The Correct Method and the Thirst-quenching
Spring of the Prophet’s Medicine (al-Manhaj al-sawī wa l-manhal al-rawī fī l-t․ibb al-nabawī).37 He collected
hadiths but he did not engage in theorizing in the way of Ibn Qayyim, nor did he provide explana-
tions of the hadiths, only showing an emphasis on cures.
The Qur’an as Treatment

The cures advocated in the Prophetic tradition differ from those in the medical tradition in some
respects. For instance, the hadith scholars did not accept wine as medicine, as the physicians did.
Mind that they did accept the fact that wine could cure but rejected its use because of its prohibition
in the Qur’an (Q 2:219, 4:43, 5:90) and because religious patients might not be comfortable with
it, which would lead to an effect in opposition to being cured.38 Ibn Qayyim also prohibited the
use of cauterization, which was described in the medical texts, based on a hadith that reads, “There
is health in three things: the drinking of honey, incision made by the cupper’s knife, and cautery
with fire. I forbid my people to cauterize.”39 In addition, they advised something called “divine”
or “prophetic medicaments” (adwiyya nabawiyya), which included prayer, reading/reciting Qur’an,
patience, fasting, jihad, and incantations. Ibn Qayyim calls the Qur’an the most beneficial medicine
and cure for every disease, but he also lists foods that can cure in line with revelation, such as honey
and dates, as well as composed drugs. In addition to curing disease, it was important in medicine to
prevent disease and maintain health. To this end, the six non-naturals needed to cooperate with the
human body. To prevent plague and to keep their spirits up, Ibn al-Khātima (d. 1369) recommended
people sleep and eat well in line with Galenic medical ideas. As a way to keep up one’s spirits, he
recommends reading, first of all the Qur’an and also historical and satirical works, thus applying the
438
non-naturals to his Islamic context. Al-Dhahabī recommends people to eat seven dates a day and to
eat honey three times a month to avoid (physical) harm.40
The Qur’anic verses presenting the Qur’an as cure can be and have been interpreted as providing
a cure in a metaphorical sense. But the Qur’an was and is also used within the prophetic tradition as
well as popular practices in the premodern and modern Islamic world as a cure for physical illnesses.
In popular medicine, the Qur’an was used as part of prayers, invocations, amulets, and magic bowls.
Such bowls would be inscribed with Qur’anic verses, and an ill patient was recommended to fill the
bowl with water or other liquids, depending on the illness.41 Ibn H.ajar recommended reading “the
Throne Verse” (Āyat al-Kursī) from the Qur’an (Q 2:255) in a house for three consecutive nights to
prevent the plague entering.42 In popular practice, this and other verses from the Qur’an were also
used in amulets. However, without denying the power in sacred text, al-Dhahabī and Ibn Qayyim
only advised the use of verses of Qur’an to cure diseases and not to prevent them. Neither did either
of them support the use of amulets as a preventive.43
Conclusion
This chapter has shown the ways Muslims throughout Islamic history have dealt with health and
disease, sometimes in relationship to the Qur’an and hadith material relevant to these topics. Based
on this, we can distinguish two different traditions: the medical discipline, which does not engage
with medically significant revelations, and the hadith subdiscipline, which does. Yet the boundaries
between prophetic medicine and the Greco-Arabic tradition were not firm. Writers of prophetic
treatises also used Greek and contemporary medical theory and were familiar with Hippocratic and
Galenic works. They did not always reject the Greek medical worldview but attempted to harmo-
nize it with Qur’anic ideas whenever that was feasible. Sometimes when Prophetic sayings clashed
with theory, they would review both critically and reinterpret their understanding of either revela-
tion or the medical theory in question. But the boundaries were not open both ways. Whereas
hadith scholars relied on the medical discipline, classical Islamic physicians did not tend to engage
regularly with the Qur’an or hadiths. When they did, as in the case of al-Baghdādī, it is not to elu-
cidate medical theory by resorting to revelation but to understand the medically important hadiths
in the light of the medical theories of the time.
Another important distinction between Greco-Arabic medicine and prophetic medicine lies in
their relation to the divine as a causative agent. Where Prophetic scholars used God and divine forces
in their medical explanations and treatments, the physicians of the Greco-Arabic tradition did not
tend to do so. This did not mean that they saw their discipline as contradicting religion – many of
these Greco-Arabic physicians were Muslims themselves, and they upheld the idea of God as pri-
mary cause, but they did not resort to God to explain the occurrence of diseases.
In addition to these two traditions, popular practices throughout history engaged with the Qur’an
in their own way, using the text in prayer but also physically in amulets or inscribed on magical-
medicinal bowls. These traditions reveal a complex relationship between the Qur’an and medicine
in the Islamic world, along with a plethora of different attitudes to medical hadiths and scripture.
Notes
1 From the translation by M.A.S. Abdel Haleem, The Qur’an, A New Translation (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2016).
2 Thomas Benfey, “The Scholars of Sasanian Iran and Their Islamic Heirs” (PhD diss., Princeton University,
2020).
3 On Greek sources in al-Rāzī, see Ursula Weisser, “Zur Rezeption der Methodus Medendi im Continens
des Rhazes,” in Galen’s Method of Healing, ed. Richard Durling and Kudlien (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 123–146;
439
Elaine van Dalen
Jennifer Bryson, “The Kitāb al-H.āwi of Rāzī (Ca. 900 ad), Book One of The H.āwī on Brain, Nerve, and
Mental Disorders: Studies in The Transmission of Medical Texts from Greek into Arabic and Latin” (PhD
diss., Yale University, 2001). On the Persian, Sanskrit, and Syriac sources in al-Rāzī, see Kahl Oliver, The
Sanskrit, Syriac and Persian Sources in the Comprehensive Book of Rhazes (Leiden: Brill, 2015).
4 On this description, see Albert Z. Iskandar, “An Attempted Reconstruction of the Late Alexandrian Medi-
cal Curriculum,” Medical History 20, no. 3 (1976): 235–258.
5 In his Book of Misers, trans. R.B. Serjeant (Reading, UK: Garnet, 1997), 86; also in Peter E. Pormann and
Emilie Savage-Smith, Medieval Islamic Medicine (Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 2007), 80.
6 N. Peter Joosse. The Physician as a Rebellious Intellectual: The Book of the Two Pieces of Advice or “Kitāb al-
Nas.īh.atayn” by ʿAbd al-Lat․īf ibn Yūsuf al-Baghdādī (1162–1231) – Introduction, Edition and Translation of the
Medical Section (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang GmbH, Internationaler Verlag der Wissenschaften, 2014), 87.
7 See Jacques Jouanna, “The Legacy of the Hippocratic Treatise The Nature of Man: The Theory of the Four
Humours,” in Greek Medicine from Hippocrates to Galen, ed. Jacques Jouanna (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 335–361.
8 Ibn Sīnā, Canon of Medicine (Rome: Medici Press, 1593), book IV, 35.
9 “Hippocrates, Airs, Waters, Places,” in Medieval Islamic Medicine, ed. Pormann and Savage Smith, 154.
10 Al-Dhahabī, Shams al-din Muh.ammad, al-Tibb al-nabawī (Cairo: Mus.․tafā al-Bābī al-H.alabī, 1961), 174f.
11 Franz Rosenthal, “The Defense of Medicine in the Medieval Muslim World,” Bulletin of the History of Medi-
cine 43, no. 6 (1969): 519–532. See also Gregor M. Schwarb, “Early Kalām and the Medical Tradition,” in
Philosophy and Medicine in the Formative Period of Islam, ed. Peter Adamson and Peter E. Pormann (London:
Warburg Institute, 2018), 104–169.
12 Rosenthal, “The Defense of Medicine,” 525.
13 On the topic of contagion, see Justin Stearns, Infectious Ideas: Contagion in Premodern Islamic and Christian
Thought in the Western Mediterranean (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011) and Manfred Ull-
mann, Islamic Medicine (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1970), 242–250.
14 Used in the sense of Marshall Hodgson’s “Islamicate.” See, for instance, Pormann and Savage Smith, Medi-
eval Islamic Medicine, 32–33 and Manfred Ullmann, Die Medizin im Islam (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1970), 242, on
“typisch islamiche komponenten in der arabischen medizin.”
15 Nahyan Fancy uses “Islamic” to refer to medicine in the sense of “Islamicate,” referring to the social and
cultural complex historically associated with Islam and Muslims, rather than a given individual’s Islam itself.
See Nahyan Fancy, Science and Religion in Mamluk Egypt: Ibn al-Nafis, Pulmonary Transit and Bodily Resurrection
(London: Routledge, 2013).
16 See Abdelhamid Sabra, “Situating Arabic Science: Locality Versus Essence,” Isis 87, no. 4 (1996): 654–670.
17 Fancy, Science and Religion, 95.
18 Pormann and Savage Smith, Islamic Medicine, 33; Ibn Abī ʿUs.aibiʿa, Classes of Physicians, 4.1.3.1.
19 Fancy, Science and Religion, 116–120.
20 Ibid., 23.
21 Joseph Schacht and Max Meyerhof, eds., The Theologus Autodidactus of Ibn al-Nafīs (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1968), 96–99, esp. 99. Also discussed in Fancy, Science and Religion, 18.
22 Ibid., 116–120.
23 ʿAbd al-Lat․īf al-Baghdādī, Kitāb al-Arbaʿīn al-t․ibbīya al-mustah.raja min Sunan Ibn-Māja wa-sharh.uhā (Beirut:
Muʾassasat al-Kutub at-Taqāfīya, 1985). This is a different treatise from another work wrongly assigned to
al-Baghdādī, which is actually a treatise on Prophetic Medicine by al-Dhahabī. On this latter treatise, see
Irmeli Perho, The Prophet’s Medicine: A Creation of the Muslim Traditionalist Scholars (Helsinki: Finnish Orien-
tal Society, 1995), 36–40.
24 Perho, The Prophet’s Medicine, 69.
25 al-Bukhārī, al-Sah.īh., vol. 4, ed. M. Ludolf Krehl and Th. W. Juynboll (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1908).
26 Ibn Mājā, al-Sunan, vol. 2, ed. Mah.mud Fuʾad ʿAbd al-Baqi (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmīyya, 2013).
27 Perho, The Prophet’s Medicine, 50.
28 Fancy, Science and Religion, 22–27.
29 See Lawrence Conrad, “Arabic-Islamic Medicine” in Companion Encyclopedia History of Medicine, vol. 1, ed.
William F. Bynum and Roy Porter (London and New York: Routledge, 2006), 707.
30 Perho, The Prophet’s Medicine, 76–83, esp. 81; also “Medicine and the Qurʾān,” in Encyclopaedia of the
Qurʾān, vol. 3, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2006), 349–367.
31 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Medicine of the Prophet, trans. Penelope Johnstone (Cambridge, UK: Islamic Texts
Society, 1998) and Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Al-T ․ ibb al-nabawī (Beirut: Muʾassasat al-Risāla, 2005).
32 Stearns, Infectious Ideas, 80.
440
33 Irmeli Perho, “Ibn Qayyim Al-Ǧawziyyah’s Contribution to the Prophet’s Medicine,” in A Scholar in the
Shadow: Essays in the Legal and Theological Thought of Ibn Qayyim al-Ǧawziyyah, ed. Caterina Bori and Livnat
Holtzman (Rome: Istituto per l’Oriente C.A. Nallino, 2010), 191–210, 204.
34 See Liana Saif, “Between Medicine and Magic: Spiritual Aetiology and Therapeutics in Medieval Islam,” in
Demons and Illness from Antiquity to the Early-Modern Period, eds. Siam Bhayro and Catherine Rider (Leiden:
Brill, 2017), 313–338. See also Stearns, Infectious Ideas, 75.
35 Ah.mad al-Kātib ed., 97, 102–105.
36 Ibn H.ājar al-ʿAsqalānī, Badhl al-māʿūn (Riyadh: Dār al-ʿAs.ima, 1990), 106.
37 As-Suyuti’s Medicine of the Prophet, trans. Ahmad Thomson (London: Ta-Ha Publishers, 1414/1994).
38 See Perho, The Prophet’s Medicine, 110.
39 Sah.īh. al-Bukharī, vol. 4, 50.
40 Quoted in Pormann and Savage-Smith, Medieval Islamic Medicine, 145.
41 Ibid., 10.
42 Ibid., 146.
43 Ibid., 151.
441
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473
INDEX
[Numbers in bold indicate a table. Numbers in italics indicate a figure]
Aaron (Hārūn, prophet) Joshua and 24; Mary as sister Abū Muh.ammad al-Baghawī 139, 248
of 101, 102; Moses and 49, 90, 91, 103, 157 Abū ʿUbayd al-Qāsim ibn Sallām, 378
ʿAbbāsid Period xxiii, 256, 358, 378, 433 – 434 Abū Yūsuf (jurist) 424 – 425
ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz (king) 248 Abū Zayd, Nasr H. 134, 348, 360
ʿAbd al-Jabbār 237 – 238, 264, 268n45, 406; Mughnī Acts of the Apostles 17, 85; see also Luke; Paul
406 – 409 Adam (Ādam) 19; made in the form of God 287;
ʿAbd al-Malik ibn Marwān (caliph) 127, 128, 356, Children of 59, 60, 181, 263; creation of 46,
379, 403 49, 98, 148 – 150, 156, 192; descendants of 102;
ʿAbd al-Mut․․talib (grandfather of Muhammad) and Eve 39, 63 – 64, 149, 160, 170, 323; as first
25 – 27, 33 prophet 63, 313; “progeny of Adam” (bani Ādam)
ʿAbd al-Wahhāb, Muāammad 247, 248 183, 264; as prototype human 413; repentance
Abdel Haleem, M.A.S. 387 and mistakes of 171; second Adam 185
ʿAbduh, Muʿammad 275, 322, 346 – 353 Adams, John Quincy 344n3
AbdurRahman.org 390 ʿĀd, destruction of 160
Abou Bakr, Omaima 329 ʿadl (“justice”) 412, 424
Abraha (general) 15, 26, 30 al-Afghānī, Jamāl al-Dīn 347, 350
Abraham (Ibrāhīm, prophet): Children of Israel and Afghanistan 343
174; creed of 106, 117; daʿwa 312; descendants Afridi, Saks 398
of 102 – 103, 170, 309, 314; family of 80 – 87, Afrilang (app) 396
111; Kaʿba as legacy of 36, 37, 168, 275; Aga Khan IV, Karīm al-H.usaynī (Imām Shāh) see
legacy of 127; Mecca, blessing of 34; Israeli al-H.usaynī, Karīm (Mawlānā Shāh.)
covenant with 64; milla Ibrahim or “creed ʿahd (“covenant”) 58 – 63, 170
of Abraham” 40n47 ; Qur’anic accounts of ahl al-bayt (“People of the House”) 42, 277 – 279,
204, 313; “religion of ” 46; sabab 213; Sodom 303, 425
and Gomorrah, argument with God to save ahl al-h.adīth (“traditionalists”) 245, 248, 251n28
161 – 162. See also hanīf. ahl al-kitāb (“Scripture People,” or “People of the
Abrahamic monotheism 4, 358, 424 Book”) 5, 21n17, 42n79, 64, 121 – 130, 171,
ʿAbīd ibn al-Abras. (poet) 70 336; address to 172, 173; Muslims and 174;
abrogation see naskh ahl al-qurʾān (“Qur’anist” school) 288, 360
Abū Bakr al-Baghdādī 426 Ahlul Bayt Digital Islamic Library Project 385
Abū Bakr (caliph) 33, 253, 256 Ahmadiyya movement 368 – 369
Abū Dharr al-Ghifārī, 63, 64, 279 Ah.mad, Mīrzā Ghulām 368
Abū H . anīfa see al-Nuʿmān, Abū H . anīfa Ahmed, Riz 397
Abū Lahab 407 ʿĀʾisha bint Abī Bakr 105, 137, 287; authority of
Abū l-Hudhayl al-ʿAllāf 404, 405, 408 230, 279; rebellion against ʿAlī 256, 259
Abū l-Jārūd 257, 267n21, 267n26, 267n28 aʿjamī (foreign tongues) 153, 365
474
Index
akhlāt․ (“bodily humours”) 434 – 435, 437 ʿaql (“intellect”) 283, 286, 348, 412, 417
Aksumite Empire 96 Aquinas, Thomas 414 – 415
alcohol 233n56, 436; see also wine al-ʿarabiyya 152
Alexander Legend 5, 160 Arabophobia 398
Ali, Abdullah Yusuf 369, 370, 385, 387 Arab Spring 355n35
ʿAlī ibn Abī T ․ ālib 182, 222, 227, 259; fourfold al-aʿrāf (“the heights”) 75
account of scripture 297; rejection of leadership Aramaic 8; biblical 47; dialects of 357; Jewish 16;
of 131n16; as first Shi’i Imam 253, 265, 307; as Syriac 18, 373; in Qur’an 161
successor to the Prophet 303, 309, 310, 425 Arberry, Arthur John 373, 387
Ali, Ayaan Hirsi 399 argument see h.ujja (“argument” or “demonstration”)
ʿAlid Imams see Imams Aristotle 181, 415, 418
‘Alid movement 256 arkān al-islām (Five “Pillars of [Sunni] Islam”) 309
Alif Lām Mīm 174 Arkoun, Mohammed 360, 410n21
Ali, Kecia xxxii, 319, 322, 326, 331n6 Asad, Muh.ammad 370, 387
ʿAlī, Muh.ammad 368 asbāb (“causes”; sing. sabab) 218, 236
Aljamiado 94, 365 asbāb al-nuzūl (“occasions of revelation”) 211 – 220,
Allāh (“the God,” divine name) xxi, xxv, xxii, xxx, 228, 271, 320; later exegesis and 358; as literary
4, 8, 17 – 19, 29, 30, 45 – 55, 58 – 65, 76, 135, genre 335, 344n10
146, 192 – 198, 213 – 217, 238 – 240, 246 – 251; As. h.āb al-aʿrāf (“Companions of the Heights”) 75
255 – 264, 278 – 279, 282 – 289, 303 – 314, Aʿshā Nashal 69
319 – 327, 402 – 410: “al-ilāh” 22n36; al-ism al-Ashʿarī, Abū l-Hasan 404 – 407, 409
al-jāmiʿ (all-comprehensive name) 284, 287; Ashʿarīs 54, 237, 245, 246, 248; on the eternality
al-takhalluq bi-akhlāq Allāh (“character traits of of the Qur’an 381; scholastic theology of 249;
God”) 286; belief in 30; deity known as 47; Qur’anic commentary in works by 419; views
false daughters of 29; fī sabīl Allāh (way of God) on taʾwīl 310; views on God’s speech and word
342; folk of 288; h.abl Allāh (rope of God) 59; 306, 348
House of 26; kalām Allah (God’s speech) 306; al-asmāʾ al-h.usnā (“the most beauthiful names”) see
khalīl Allāh (God’s friend) 80; Meccan pagans’ divine names
familiarity with 47; min ‘inda Allāh 310; name al-ʿAsqalānī, Ibn H.ajar see Ibn H.ajar al-ʿAsqalānī
of 177, 178, 239; three daughters of 20; see also Asqlaybiyūs (Asclepius) 436
divine names, al-ism al-jāmiʿ; āyāt Allāh; al-H . aqq; Atatürk, Kemal 368
al-Rah.mān Augustine of Hippo 424
Allaoui, Abd Said Omar 396 Austin, John 396
Allāt (deity) 20, 29, 38n20, 39n29 Averroes see Ibn Rushd, Ah.mad
allusions see arbāb al-ishāra (“masters of allusion”) and Avicenna 283, 414; see also Ibn Sīna
ishārāt (“allusions”) al-ʿAwda, Salmān 426
Alsulaimi, Nadeen Mustafa 166 Aws clan 33
amāna (pl. amānāt, “trust”) 58, 143n21; see also Āyat āyāt (sing. āya) xxii, 54, 178, 180, 238, 284; God’s
al-amāna writ 306; perfect human’s reading of 289;
al-Aʿmash, Sulaymān ibn Mihrān 378 recitation of 203; āyāt Allāh 8, 46, 91, 98, 348
Amalekites 24 Āyat al-Amāna (“the Verse of the [Divine] Trust”) 419
Amīn, Ah.mad 348 Āyat al-Kursī (“the Throne Verse”) xxii, 188, 370,
Amiri, Belkacem 58 396, 419, 439
amulets 380, 383; Egyptian 396; medicinal 439 Āyat al-Nūr (“the Light Verse”) xxii, 304, 313 – 315;
al-Andalus (Islamic Spain) xxvi, 62, 76, 240, 320, apocalyptic intensity of 188; al-Ghazālī,
364, 418 influence of 417; glory motif 184; Mullā S.adrā’s
Andrae, Tor 359 commentary on 419; Ibn Sīnā’s interpretation
androcentrism 320, 329 of 416 – 417
Android app 387, 388 Āyat al-Sayf (“the Sword Verse”) xxii
animism 45 āyāt al-tah.addī (“challenge verses”) 365
Ans. ār (“Helpers”) 32 – 35, see also Medina ʿAyn al-Qud.āt 73
Ansari, Aziz 398 Ayoub, Mahmoud 132n31
anthropocentrism 49, 135 – 142 al-ʿAyyāshī (Abū l-Nad.r Muh.ammad ibn Masʿūd ibn
anthropological approaches to the Qur’an 360 ʿAyyāsh) 227, 230, 257, 261 – 263, 265
anthropomorphism 51, 197, 246 – 247, 273, 310, 405 Ayyūb see Job
Apocalypse 45, 71, 160; kerygma and 179; Qur’an as Āzar (Terah.) 81
183 – 185, 187 – 188; visual elements 163 Azazel 55n5
apocrypha 7, 12n43, 19, 92, 98 Aziz, Qutbuddin 308
apotheosis 46, 180 al-Azmeh, Aziz 13 – 14, 27
475
Index
Badawiʾ, Jamāl 135 Cain 227

Badran, Margot 328, 330n2, 331n22 Calder, Norman 228
Badr, Battle of 35, 172, 218, 336 caliph 253; ʿAbd al-Malik 356, 379, 403; ʿAlī
al-Baghdādī, ʿAbd al-Lat․īf 434, 436, 437, 439 256, 259, 403; al-Maʾmūn 407; al-Muʿizz
Baghoolizadeh, Beeta 397 li-Dīn Allāh (Imam-Caliph) 306, 307, 309;
Bakhtiar, Laleh 360, 370 al-Mutawakkil 408; “rightly guided” 358;
Bamyeh, Mohammed 30 ʿUthmān ibn ‘Affān 254, 356, 377, 425
Bangladesh 343 caliphate 13, 128, 424 – 426; abolition of 369; Arab
Bannā, Hasan al- 350, 353 369; divine ordainment of 426; Fatimid 303,
al-Bāqir, Muh.ammad (fifth Imam) 227, 230, 256, 306; Umayyad 127
257, 259, 260, 267n18; hadith attributed to calligraphy 189; designs 118; Qur’an 378 – 380, 382,
262, 263 383; Qur’anic, on visual and social media 386,
Baqlī, Rūzbihān 111 390, 397
Bar-Asher, Meir 226, 230, 268n43 Campanini, Massimo 171
Barlas, Asma 319, 321, 323 – 329 Canaanites 47
Barth, Karl 424 canon: biblical 101, 123; Christian 19; “closed”
basmala 52, 167, 182, 436 358; gospels 97; hadith 53, 229, 254, 258, 265,
Bas. ra 404 377; Qur’an 5, 125, 127, 211, 217 – 220, 358;
al-Bas. rī, ʿAmmār 405 Scripture 7, 99, 125, 207n28
al-Bas. rī, H. asan see al-H
. asan al-Bas. rī canonization 128, 200, 356
Batsheba (wife of Uriah) 161 Carré, Olivier 352
Bauer, Karen 323, 324, 329 – 330 Carson, Rachel 141
Bauer, Thomas 159 challenge verses see āyāt al-tah.addī
Bawarshi, Anis 292 chastisement 76, 91, 215
bayʿat al-h.arb (“Pact of War”) 33 Chodkiewicz, Michel 289n2, 291, 300n8
bayʿat al-nisāʾ (“Pact of the Women”) 33 Christ see ʿĪsā (Jesus); al-Masīh. (“Messiah” or “the
al-Bayd.āwī, Nas. īr al-Dīn ʿAbd Allāh ibn ʿUmar Christ”)
247, 249 Christianity and Christians xxv, xxix; Abraham,
al-bayt al-h.aram (“Sacred House”) 226 biblical versus Qur’anic 80 – 87; Bedouin 15;
bayt ha-midrash (“midrashic school”) 32, 40n57 Byzantium xxvi, 30, 31; Coptic 19, 399; early
al-bayt (“the House”) 86 3 – 8, 17, 55n2; Ethiopian 15; Eucharist 381;
bayyina (“clear proof ”) 428, 429 hadith, influence on 230; ideology 349; Islam
Becker, Adam, 133n36 and 349; ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s refutation of 406 – 407;
bees 396 – 397, 433; Sura of 241 in Mecca 23; New Testament xxvii; Qur’an
Believers see muʾminūn (“believers”) as Christian text 373 – 374; Reconquista 365;
benê elohīm (“sons of God”) 17 Roman Empire 123; among the “six peoples”
Bennabi, Malik 360 of al-Qummī 227; spread of 18 – 19; Syriac 8,
Berber 226 14, 46 – 48, 358 – 359; Trinity 19, 22n30, 46, 96,
Berg, Herbert 224, 229 99, 124, 129, 404, 406; in Yemen 28; see also
Bint al-Shāt.i, ʿĀʾisha ʿAbd al-Rah.mān 137 ahl al-kitāb; gentile; h.anīf; missionaries; Nas. ārā
al-Biqāʿī, Burhān al-Dīn Abū al-H . asan Ibrāhīm ibn Christmas 373
ʿUmar 129, 166 Christology, Qur’anic 98 – 99
bismillāh al-rah.mān al-rah.īm see basmala Citizen Khan 397
Black Stone of the Kaʿba 29, 240, 275 – 276 Cohen, Mark 134n43
Bohras 303, 307, 308, 316; Dāʾūdī 303, 308, 316 colonization (European) xxvi, xxvii, xxxiv
Böwering, Gerhard 60, 301n32 Companions of the Cave 191
Bowersock, G.W. 13 – 14 Companions of the Heights see as. h.āb al-aʿrāf
Brooks, Geraldine 134n46 Companions of the Prophet see s. ah.āba
Brown, Norman O. 177, 187 confession of faith see shahāda (“confession of faith”)
Brown University 385 Conrad, Lawrence 437
Buʿāth, Battle of 40n60, 41n62 Constantine (Emperor) 18
al-Bukhārī, Muh.ammad ibn Ismāʿīl xxiv; S.ah.īh. 225, contagion 435, 438
229, 233, 251, 345, 433, 436, 440 converts 33, 34, 219: Arabs to Judaism 15; Christians
burden see is. r (“burden”) to Islam 125, 230; Muslims to Christianity 365
Buyids dynasty 426 Cook, Hamilton 299n71
Byzantine Empire (Rūm) xxviii, 3 – 4, 13 – 18, 123, Cook, Michael xxxi, 14, 358
127 – 128, 30 – 31, 96, 424; medicine in 433; Cooke, Miriam 328
Roman-Persian Wars 15 Coptic Christians see Christianity and Christians
476
Index
Coptic vernacular 18, 97 dīn (“religion”) 30, 81, 85, 86, 87n8, 336 – 339;
Corbin, Henry 188, 314 Qur’anic 186; religious persecution and
corruption see fasād (“corruption”) 339 – 340; religious purity and 340 – 341
covenant: cosmic 60; divine 179; fidelity to 124; disbelief see kufr
humanity with God 58 – 65, 215, 423; Islamic disbelievers see kāfirūn
171; Israelite 64 – 65; Mosaic 168, 170; dissension see fitna (“dissension”)
primordial 180 – 181, 183, 184, 188; prophets divination 48, 146, 157, 160, 381
105 – 106, 119; Qur’an 7:172 60 – 62; Qur’anic divine names 49, 50, 52 – 54, 56, 157 – 158;
terms for 58 – 59; transgressing 122, 124; see also Qur’anic names 118; see also basmala
‘ahd; kitāb; mīthāq divine oneness (tawh.īd) 47, 63, 180, 188, 199n2,
Creation: ex nihilo 49, 56n26, 72; inner state of 248 – 249, 282, 324, 352, 404 – 406
138 – 140; signs in 140 – 141; see also Adam; divorce 168, 169, 171, 213 – 214
Eden Dome of the Rock 128, 394
Crone, Patricia xxxi, 6, 14, 39n27, 358 Donner, Fred 125 – 126, 131n9, 132n23, 267n19
cultus 47, 86 al-Dossari, Yasser 396
Cuypers, Michel 166, 188, 359 duʿāʾ (“invocations” to God) 316, 396
al-Duʾalī, Abū al-Aswad 279
Daftary, Farhad 316n2 Duta Quran 391
. ah.h.āk ibn Mazāh.im 63, 229
al-D
dāʿīs (missionaries) 304, 307, 309, 311, 315 ecology 135, 136, 137, 141 – 142
Dāʿi Mut․laq (“Chief Missionary”) 303, 308 Eden 51, 119; as residence 74 – 75
Dakake, Maria M. 193 Egypt 6, 92, 191; Ahl Firʾawn 122; Coptic
Dāmād, Mir 419 language 18; Coptic Christians 399; Fatimid
Daniélou, Jean 5 Caliphate 303; Islamic state 353; jinn, belief
Dar-ul-Ifta 390 in 150; Joseph in 92, 116 – 117; Moses’ flight
Darnell, Robert Carter 58, 64 from 89 – 91; plagues 52; president Jamāl
Dāʾūdī Bohras see Bohras ʿAbd al-Nāsir 350; Qur’anic recitation in 200;
David (Dāwūd, prophet) 24, 103, 116, 427; and Qur’an in popular culture 395 – 396; Qur’an
Bathsheba 161; and Goliath 118; prophet 138 translation 369, 371
Daʿwa (“missionary summons”) 303, 316, 351 Elah 47, 55n16
Day of Judgment 52 – 53, 427; bearing witness to Elhello, Safia 397
61; being mindful of 65; the Book as grand Elias, Jamal 300n18
register of deeds 73; bridge (s. irāt․) to cross Elias (Elijah, prophet) 17, 103, 155, 230
74; “devouring usury” and 276; fire after Eliot, T.S. 183, 187
195; House of the Prophet on 425; jinn and Elisha (prophet) 103
humans facing 146 – 147, 149, 151; Muslim Elizabeth (Ilīs. ābāt, mother of John) 99 – 100
nation and 168; nonbelievers in 133n33, 205; Elohim 47
predictions of 160; prophets as warners of 91; Enoch 17, 87n2; see also Idrīs
Qur’an’s view on 180, 184, 193; rulers’ fate environmental ethics, Islamic 141; see also ecology
on 424; ruler’s capacity for decision-making Ephrem the Syrian 100
on 427; ta’wil of the Book 193; as unfolding Esau 24
of innermost self 75; see also judgment see also esoteric exegesis see exegesis
Apocalypse; h.ukm ( judgment); yawm al-dīn Eucharist 381
(Day of Judgment); yom ha-din ex nihilo see Creation
Day of Resurrection see yawm al-qiyāma Ezra (ʿUzayr, prophet) 15, 17, 21
Day of the Covenant 105, 184, 186; see also covenant
Devil 148, 161; possession by 276 – 277; power of Fahd (King) 41n65, 369 – 371
149; ruses of 50; see also Iblīs; Satan faʾl (“omens”) 157, 381
Devitt, Amy J. 292 Fancy, Nahyan 435
al-Dhahabī, Shams al-dīn Muh.ammad 436, 437, 439 al-Fārābī 414 – 415, 420
dhimma (“pact of protection”) 128, 133n35 Farrin, Raymond 166
Dhū l-Qarnayn xxx, 207n28 Farshchian, Mahmoud 397
Diatessaron (Tatian) 18, 160 al-Faruqi, Maysam 319, 325, 326
diegesis 186 – 188 fasād (“corruption”) 424, 427
dietary laws 30, 88n29 fassara (“interpretation of scripture”) 16, 21n15
al-Dihlāwī, Walī Allāh see Walī Allāh al-Dihlāwī fat․ara (“cleave or split”) 67n33
(Shāh) al-Fātih.a see Sūrat al-Fātih.a
dimorphism, divine 52 Fāt․ima (daughter of Muhammad) 314
477
Index
Fāt․imid Caliphate 133n35, 303, 306 – 313 Gospel (injīl) 7, 8, 19, 45, 97 – 101, 131n11,
Female Reciters Movement 396 160 – 161; Diatesseron 18, 160; Infancy Gospel of
al-Fihrist (The Catalogue) (Ibn al-Nadīm) 254 Thomas 19, 101; of Luke 160, 162; parables of
fiqh (“jurisprudence,” “understanding”) 228, 270, Jesus 162; Pseudo-Matthew 19
412; methods of 304; Sunni 309; us. ūl al-fiqh goyim 82, 85
(“legal principles”) 273; us. ūl al-fiqh (“scholars Graham, William 140
of law”) 196 gratitude see shukr (“gratitude”)
fire giants see marīds (“fire giants”) Griffith, Sidney H. 359
fitna (“chaos” “strife”) 194, 195, 336, 337 – 338, 343, Gwynne, Rosalind Ward 52, 58, 140
369, 427; religious persecution and 339 – 340;
religious purity and 340 – 341 haberīm 16, 17
fit․ra (“original nature”) 46, 62 – 63, 263 Habibi (graphic novel) 397
Five Persons, the 279; see also ahl al-bayt habit see sunna (“habit”)
Five Pillars of Islam see arkān al-islām (Five “Pillars of h.abl Allāh (“the rope of God”) 59
[Sunni] Islam”) hadiths 23 – 24, 49, 74 – 76, 141, 150, 200, 325;
Five Prophets, the 313, 315; see also prophets “anecdotes” 84; angels 149; canonical 53;
five ways (quinta via) of the existence of God compilers xxiv, 147, 229, 356 – 357; databases
(Aquinas) 415 387; dreams 198; exegetical 228 – 230, 255, 368,
Flowers, Adam 166 370 – 372; Imams’ 256 – 257; jihad 342; medical
folklore 95; Islamic 149–152; Jesus, Mary, and John 433, 435 – 439; online 389; rejection of corpus
97–99, 101–102; Qurʾan in the context of 100 360; scholars of 211, 245, 247 – 249; Shi’i 230,
forbidden see haram 254, 258 – 265, 419; social media 391; Sufi 292,
forgiveness see maghfira 293, 296 – 298; Sunni 230, 377; tafsīrs, influence
Friday Prayer 426, 427 on 224 – 225, 231, 329; T․ abāt.abāʾī on 275,
Frye, Northrop 177, 185 – 187 278; unreliable 275; see also mufassir; muh.addith
Fudge, Bruce 259, 268n45 h.ads (“intuition”) 416
Furāt b. Furāt al-Kūfī 227, 230 HafandHaf see Khan, Hafsa
Hagar (Hajar, matriarch) 23, 24, 88n30
Gabriel see Jibrīl (Gabriel, angel) h.akīm (“wise”) 158
Galen 433 – 435, 437 – 439 al-Hakīm (“the Wise,” divine name) 52, 171, 412
Garden of Eden see Eden al-H.allāj, H.usayn Mans. ūr 240, 418
Gätje, Helmut 78n47 Hammer-Purgstall, Joseph von 372
Gaza Strip 343 hamza (letter) 152
Geiger, Abraham 7, 357 H.amza (uncle of Muhammad) 218
Geisinger, Aisha 329 – 330 H.anaf ī school 175n13, 365
gentile 35; Abraham 86, 87; h.anīf 82, 85; Muhammad Ibn H.anbal, Ah.mad 109, 113n24, 129, 250n11
92; term 41n73, 81; see also h.anīf; hanpē; ummī H.anbalīs 175n13, 306, 348
al-Ghannūshī, Rāshid 426 H.anbalites 51
ghayba (“occultation”) 257 – 265, 267n18 h.anīf (“gentile”) 31, 62, 63, 82, 85; Abraham 81, 85;
al-Ghazālī, Abū H . āmid 238 – 240, 287; al-Juwaynī as pre-Qur’anic monotheism 9n6, 21n7
teacher of 407; al-Rāzī’s references to 240; on hanpē see h.anīf
the exegete, role of 326; Ibn Sīnā, as adversary h.aqq (“truth”) 353, 412
of 417; Ih.yāʾ ulūm al-dīn (Revival of the Religious al-H.aqq (“the Truth,” divine name) 47, 49, 111, 346
Sciences) 239; Jawāhir al-Qurʾān 197 – 198; h.arām (“forbidden”) 399
on kalām 402; on the Light Verse 416; on h.aram (“sanctum”) 25, 26, 27, 29, 38n12
patience and its attributes 116; on rah.ma 52; on Harf Information Technology 385
translations of Qur’an 365 al-H.ārith Ibn Kalada 437
al-Ghirnāt․ī, Ibn al-Zubayr 166 hasad (“malicious envy”) 396, 399
ghulām h.alīm 84 al-H.asan al-Bas. rī xxv, 258, 403, 404
ghuluww 46 HaShem (“the [divine] name”) 48
Gilliot, Claude 160, 224 Hashimite clan 278
gnosis 298; speculative 416, 418 Hassan, Riffat 319, 321, 323, 325, 326
God see Allāh al-h.awāriyyūn (“the disciples”) 161
gold 14, 74, 203, 382; Mount S.afā miracle 219; in Hawting, Gerard 28
Paradise 276 H.awwāʾ (Eve) 149
Golden Calf 64, 90 – 92, 122, 124 H.awwā, Saʿīd 166, 173, 174
Goldziher, Ignác 134n41, 224 al-Hawwārī, Hūd ibn Muh.akkam 226 – 227
Goppelt, Leonard 185 Al-Hayba (television series) 427
“Gospel People” see Ahl al-Injīl heart see qalb (“heart”)
478
Index
Heer, Nicholas 250n7 Iberia 4, 365, 380

Hell 16, 25, 38, 53, 74 – 76, 149, 229; eternity of Iblīs xxx, 148 – 151, 161, 204; fire and 437
407; falaq (pit in Hell) 227 – 228; libertines in Ibn ʿAbbās, ʿAbd Allah 229, 279; Berg’s study of
238; seeking protection from 216; Paradise and 231n10; family of 278; Shi’i sympathies 257;
288; predestination 263; terror of (rahba) 423 tafsir 215, 224 – 225, 228; T․ ūsī’s mention of 258
henotheism 149 Ibn Abī Dāwūd see al-Sijistānī, Ibn Abī Dāwūd
hermeneutics 165, 167, 170 – 171, 195, 310 – 316, Ibn Abī Kathīr, Yah.yā 113n24
417; feminist 325, 328, 329, 360; intratextual Ibn Abī Layla 279
273 – 277, 279 – 280; Ismaili 303 – 304; legal Ibn Abī Shayba 378
308 – 310; Sufi 292 – 294; tafsīr and 326; Ibn Abī Us. aybīʿa, Ahmad ibn al-Qāsim 242
translation and 366, 370; see also ta’wil Ibn Abī Waqqās, Saʿd 279
Heschel, Abraham Joshua 142 Ibn ʿAjība, Ah.mad 62, 111, 113n27, 299n7
al-Hibri, Azizah 319, 321, 325, 326 Ibn al-H.ajjāj see Muslim ibn al-H.ajjāj
Hidayatullah, Aysha 319, 322, 325 – 328, 330n6, 360 Ibn al-Kalbī, Hishām 4, 56n23, 225
hijab (“veil”) 204, 399 Ibn al-Khat․īb 437 – 438
H . ijāz (northwestern Arabia) xxx, xxxii, 3 – 5; Arab Ibn al-Nadīm, Abū l-Faraj 254, 256, 410n18
tribes in 20; Christian communities in 19, 96; Ibn al-Nafīs 435 – 436
dialect of 152; Himyar and 15; Jews of 16; Ibn al-Quff 435
indigenous polytheism 14 Ibn ʿArabī, Muh.yi al-Dīn 54, 76, 295, 282 – 298,
h.ijazī script 379 300n8, 419; al-Futūh.āt al-Makkiyya (Meccan
hijra (“migration”) 33 – 34 Openings) 240, 284, 291, 418, 428; Fus.ūs
h.ikma (“wisdom,” “philosophy”) 412, 414, 420 al-h.ikam (The Bezels of Wisdom) 428;
al-h.ikma al-mashriqiyya (“Oriental Philosophy”) 416 ontology of 54
al-H . ikma al-mutaʿāliya (“theosophy”) 419 Ibn ʿAt․iyya, H.assān 113n24
al-H . ikma al-mutaʿāliya (“transcendent theosophy”) Ibn ʿAwf, ʿAbd al-Rah.mān 218
419 Ibn ʿAyyāsh, Muh.ammad ibn Masʿūd see al-ʿAyyāshi
H. ikmat al-ishrāq (The Philosophy of Illumination) (Muh.ammad ibn Masʿūd ibn ʿAyyāsh
(Suhrawardī) 418 Ibn Bābawayh xxiv, 254
h.ilf al-fudūl (“League of the Virtuous”) 30 Ibn H.ajar al-ʿAsqalānī 215, 438 – 439
Himyar 4, 13, 15 Ibn H.azm 129
Hind bint Abī Umayya see Umm Salama Ibn Hindū 434
Hippocrates 434 – 437, 439 Ibn Hishām 39n26, 106, 162
Hizbut Tahrir 426 Ibn Ish.āq, Hunayn xxiii, 35, 434; on Adam 64; Sira
Hobbes, Thomas 424 xxxi, xxxii, 37n4, 38n7, 84, 106, 126; Stories of
Hodgson, Marshall 178 – 179, 186 – 188 the Prophets 93
Holy Land 49, 90; Moses and 91, 93, 120 Ibn Jānī, Abū l-H . ārith Asad 434
Holy Sanctuary 337, 340, 341 Ibn Jubayr, Saʿīd 263
Homeland (tv show) 397 Ibn Kaʿb, Muhammad 216
Horn of Africa 14 Ibn Kalada see al-H.ārith Ibn Kalada
Household of the Prophet see ahl al-bayt Ibn Kathīr, Ismāʿīl ibn ʿUmar 61, 115, 390; tafsīr
Hubal (deity) 25, 26, 29, 38n18; see also Quraysh 245 – 250
H . udaybiya, Treaty of 35, 340 – 341 ibn Kullāb, ʿAbdallāh 404, 405, 408, 409, 410n18
l-Hudayla, Abu see al-ʿAllāf, Abū l-Hudhayl Ibn Luqā, Qust․ā 434 – 436
Hūd (prophet) 36, 109, 159, 161, 226 Ibn Manz.ūr 240
Hūd al-Hawwārī see al-Hawwārī, Hūd ibn Ibn Masʿūd 378
Muh.akkam Ibn Muflih. 437
h.ujja (“argument” or “demonstration”) 311, 413 Ibn Muljam 227
al-h.ujja al-ʿaz. am (“Supreme Proof ”) 313 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya 137; on faith 115; on
h.ukm (judgment) 88n16, 109, 403, 422, 429 jurisprudence, justice, and power 428 – 431; on
hikmā (wisdom) 99 ideal Muslim subject 129; on patience 116 – 117;
“humors” (akhlāt․) 434 – 435, 437 on prophetic medicine 436 – 439
H.ums (tribe or organization) 30 Ibn Qudāma, Muwa aq al-Dīn 247
H.unayn ibn Ish.āq 433 – 434 Ibn Rabīʿa, Amr 25
al-Hurr al-ʿĀmilī 267n31 Ibn Rāhaway, Ish.āq 250n11
al-H . usaynī, Karīm (Mawlānā Shāh.) 303, 307, ibn Rushd, Ah.mad 349, 414, 417 – 418, 436
308, 316 ibn Saʾd, Muh.ammad 38
al-Huwayy, al-Qād. ī see al-Qād. ī al-Huwayy Ibn Sīnā, Abū ʿAlī al-H . usayn 70, 76, 283, 414 – 418,
hymns 97, 138, 140, 160; Christian 152; Christian 434 – 438
Arabic strophic 359; “Nativity Hymn” 100 Ibn T․ arkhān, ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn al-Kah.h.āl 436
479
Index
Ibn T ․ āwūs 267n32 al-Is. fahānī, al-Rāghib 280

Ibn Taymiyya 129, 245, 423, 428, 431 ishārāt (“allusions”) 239, 294, 298;
Ibn Turka 418 Ishmael (Ismāʿīl, prophet) 23 – 27; Abraham and 59,
Ibrahim, Celene 321, 324 80 – 81, 83 – 86, 168, 171, 275; prayer of 106;
Ibrahim, Zayki 136 Muhammad and 106; see also Kaʿba
iʿdā (“contagion”) 435 Ishmaelite 170
idolatry 28, 82, 422; Arabian 45; Meccan 29; power is. lāh. (“reform”) 347, 350
of 429; sin of 91; see also Golden Calf; shirk Is. lāh.ī, Amīn Ah.san 166
Idrīs (prophet) 87n2, 102, 119 IslamAwakened.com 387
ifrīts 147, 150 IslamiCity 386
ijtihād (scholarly “effort”) (insights) 109, Islamic orthodoxy, development of 245 – 250
309, 360 Islamic philosophy 265, 292, 395; Qur’an’s impact
Ikhwān al-S.afāʾ, the 313, 314, 318n51 on 412 – 420
ʿIkrima 278 al-Islam.org 385
Ilīs. ābāt (Elizabeth) (mother of John) 100 Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS) 426
Ilyās (Elijah, prophet) 155, 230; alā Ilyāsīn 155 Islamophobia 134n45, 334 – 338, 344, 395 – 399;
imām al-mufassirīn (“leader of exegetes”) 248 Citizen Khan 397; Homeland (tv show) 397;
Imamate 257, 309, 311; of Alī 263; doctrine of Messiah (tv show) 398; Submission (film)
262, 264 – 265, 277; Imāmī and Twelver Shi’i 399 – 400
doctrine, centrality of 264; Isma’ili Shi’i islamway.net 388
133n35, 303 – 304, 306, 307 Ismaili Shi’ism 195; exegesis 297 – 298; Imams
Imāmī Shi’ism 212, 256 – 260; creed of 254; Imamate 303 – 316; Qur’an, approaches to 303 – 316; see
264; Imams 254, 260; exegesis 267n18, 280; also Nizārī Ismaili; al-Nu’mān, al-Qādī
post-Ghayba exegesis 258 – 259; scholars of 329; al-ism al-jāmiʿ (“the all-comprehensive name”) 284
term, definition of 267n18; see also Twelver ʿis. ma (“protection”) 212, 279
Shi’ism isrāʾīliyāt xxv, 20n4, 94, 222n30, 230, 234n71
Imams: 263, 425; ʿAlid 303; centrality of 189n14; Itani, Talal 387
hadiths 256 – 257, 263; Ismaili 303 – 315; Izutsu, Toshihiko 58, 69
knowledge 260; as “middle community”
261 – 262; necessity of obeying 416; as al-Jabbār (“the Compeller,” divine name) 50
possessors of ta‘wīl 260, 304, 308; walayā 263; as Jacob (Yaʾqūb, prophet) 89 – 92, 117; Abraham and
“witnesses over humankind” 261 – 262; see also 80, 82, 83, 85 – 86; Isaac and 103; Joseph and
Ismaili Shi’ism; Nizārī Ismaili; Shi’i Imams 89, 90, 92, 116 – 117, 242; descendants of 102
immorality 25, 101 Jacobite 5
ʿImrān (father of Mary) 101; see also Sūrat Āl ʿImrān Jaʿfar ibn Mans. ūr al-Yaman 307, 310, 312, 313,
incantation 48, 54, 438 314
India 368; Ahmadiyya movement 368; Islamic Jaffa Gate 87
civilization and 273; Muslims 368; Qur’an Jaffer, Tariq 58, 60, 246
in 367; religions of 158; see also Khān, jāhiliyya (“ignorance”) 47, 122, 351, 357; Age of 183
Muh.ammad S. iddīq H.asan; al-Mawdūdī, Sayyid al-Jāhiz 428
Abul A’la; Walī Allāh al-Dihlāwī (Shāh) al-Jamīʿ (“the All-Comprehensive,” divine name) 284
Indian Ocean 14 Jandī 418
Indonesia 94, 343, 368, 371 Jārūd see Abū l-Jārūd
Infancy Gospel 19, 98, 101 Jārūdī Zaydism 267n21
Injīl see Gospel Javad, Madinah 396
injustice 30, 256, 257; gender 321, 324, 328; al-Jawbarī 434
juridical 429; justice and (binary) 184; see also al-Jawziyya, Ibn Qayyim see Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya
zulm al-Jazāʾirī, ‘Abd al-Qadir 293, 294
Instagram 395 – 397 Jeremiah (prophet) 373
intuition see h.ads Jerusalem: Arabs in 17; Dome of the Rock 128, 394;
Iran 3, 123, 380, 425; Qur’an content produced Jaffa Gate 87; praying toward (qibla) 34, 41n65,
in 385; reformist scholars 329; Shiʿi Safavid 127, 170, 217, 226, 261; sacrality in Islamic
265; see also Persia tradition 23; Second Temple 15; Solomon in
Iraq 5, 377, 380, 390; ISIS 426; Kufa 378 147; Temple of 123
Iraq War 343 Jesus of Nazareth (ʿĪsā, prophet) 6, 8, 17, 19,
Irenaeus of Lyon 18 90 – 103, 104n16, 128, 162; Adam compared to
Isaac (Ish.āq, prophet) 80, 83, 162 156, 192; Christianity and 18; Christians and
ʿĪsā see Jesus 125, 127; covenants with 64; crucifixion 19,
al-Is. fahānī, Abū Muslim 243n5 98, 99, 104n11; da‘was 312; as God in utero 18;
480
Index
Lamb of God 185; in Meccan suras 5; parables kāhin see kuhhān

of 161 – 162; Muhammad, foretelling of the Kahle, Paul E. 152
coming of 106; in Qur’an’s prophetology 6, 8, kalām (“dialectical theology”) xxv, 245, 247, 270,
96, 98 – 99; Sūrat Āl ʿImrān’s Panels 172, 173; 273, 282, 284, 404, 414; Ash‘arī theologians
see also Five Prophets; Mary; Christians and 54; Qur’an and 403 – 409; al-S. āniʿ (extra-
Christianity Qur’anic name), fondness for 56n26; scholars
“Jewish Christianity” 6, 11n33, 121 of 410; “theology” vs “philosophy” 414; see also
Jewish and Christian: communities 261; narratives in mutakallimūn
the Qur’an (isrāʾīliyāt) 28, 31, 37, 94, 230, 357; kalām (“speech”) 49; kalām Allāh (“God’s speech”)
Qur’anic Mary, Jesus, and John commenting 306, 310
on 96, 102; thought before Islam 14, 56n47; Kaltner, John 50, 137
Satan 148; terms 82; wine production among Kanembu language 366
15; see also Christianity and Christians; Jews and Karaites 22n22
Judaism Karbala, massacre of 331n7
Jews and Judaism 4, 13, 85, 97; “Abrahamic Karbala TV 388
religions” as 87; in Arabia 17, 28, 30; Arabs Karimi-Nia, Morteza 267n26
converted to 15, 132n23; conversion to al-Karīm, Muhammad al-ʿAbd 426
19; influence of 14; Islam and 357; Mecca’s Karrāmīs 237
connection to 23, 28; Qur’an and 371; al-Kāshānī, ʿAbd al-Razzāq 418
Rabbinic 17; spread of 7 Kāshānī, Fayd. 419
Jews of Yathrib see Yathrib Keeler, Annabel 291
Jibrīl (Gabriel, angel) xxxi, 24, 106, 206n21; dictating kerygma 46, 177, 179 – 187
the Qur’an to Muhammad 304 – 305, 384; as Khadīja (wife of Muhammad) 21n17, 35
the tenth intellect 415 al-Khafrī, Shams al-Dīn Muh.ammad ibn Ah.mad 419
jihad 338, 341 – 344, 429; militaristic 390; theory khalīl (“friend”) 80, 213
of 133n34; “gender jihad” (Wadud) 326 – 328; Khan, Ahmed (Sayyid) xxxvii
medical 438; in the Qur’an 424; Qutb’s Khan, Hafsa 397, 400
understanding of 351 – 352; jinn 29, 49, 63, 74, Khān, Muh.ammad S. iddīq H.asan 248, 250
106 – 107, 138, 140, 145 – 151, 159: in Arabic Kharajites (Khawārij) 226, 227, 232n39, 422
oratory 160; plague caused by 438; Solomon’s Khatib, Suhab 397
power over 381 Khaybar 4, 21, 32, 35; Battle of 218
Job (Ayyūb, prophet): as biblical prophet 89 – 95, 103; Khazraj (clan) 25, 27, 33
Qur’an’s discussion of 116 – 117 al-Khud. arī, Abū Saʿīd 279
John (Yah.ya, prophet) 96 – 103, 162; infancy 99 – 100 al-Kindī, Yaʿqūb ibn Ish.āq 414, 420
Jonah (Yūnus, prophet): as prophet 89 – 95, 103; and king see malik
the whale 185 King Fahd Complex for the Printing of the Holy
Josephus 87n9, 88n24 Qur’an 370 – 371
Joseph (Yosep, father-figure of Jesus) 100 al-Kirmānī, H.amīd al-Dīn 307, 309, 311, 314
Joseph (Yūsuf, prophet) 19, 50, 94, 100; Abraham and kitāb (“book,” “scripture”) 51, 181, 202, 306; as
80, 84, 86; beauty of 196; as prophet 89 – 95, “covenant” 126; as divine writing 124; Qur’an
103; dreams, interpretation of 193; Jacob and 7; Torah 203; see also umm al kitāb (Mother of
242; miraculous vision of 89; Muhammad and the Book)
185 – 186; sura of 116 – 117, 177 Klamroth, Marin 372
judgment see h.ukm Klar, Marianna 166
Julian of Halicarnassus 104n11 Knight, Nsenga 397
al-Junayd 269n60 Knox, John 423
Jurhum 24 – 26, 276; see also Ishmael kufr see kāfirūn
al-Jurjānī 247 kuhhān (sing. kāhin) (soothsayer) 146, 147
justice see ‘adl al-kuh.l (“alcohol”) as medicine 436
al-Juwaynī, Abū al-Maʿālī 407, 428 al-Kulaynī, Abū Jaʿfar Muh.ammad ibn Yaʿqūb xxiv,
254, 261, 265, 419
Kaʿb al-Ah.bār 222n30, 230
Kaʿba 15, 19 – 20, 23 – 30, 36; Abraham and Ishmael Labīd 228
83, 86, 124, 127, 168; Black Stone of 39n32; Lamptey, Jerusha Tanner 134n49
hajj rites of 127; natural science and 276 Lamrabet, Asma 360
kāfirūn (“disbelievers”) 1, 50, 86,122, 109, 118, al-Lāt see Allāt
139 – 140, 146, 149, 160 168, 175n21, 191, Late Antiquity 3 – 8
219, 419 law see dietary law; fiqh (“jurisprudence”); nāmūs
al-Kahhāl 437 (“sharia” or “Divine Law”); nomos (“law”)
481
Index
Lawson, Todd 166 Massignon, Louis 54

laylat al-qadr (“Night of Power”) 54, 106, 188, 373 Master of None (tv show) 398
League of the Virtuous see h.ilf al-fud. ūl (“League of mathal (“parable”) 161 – 162, 194; Arabic root of 196;
the Virtuous”) meaning or sense of term 192 – 193
Lecker, Michael 15 al-Māturīdī, Abū Mans. ūr 139
Libya 390 Māturīdī school 306, 381
Light of Lights (God) 418, 420; see also Āyat al-Nūr al-Māwardī, Abū l-H.asan 132n28, 139, 423, 427,
(“Light Verse”) 428
Light Verse see Āyat al-Nūr (“Light Verse”) Mawdudi, Sayyid Abul A’la 350, 386
Lisān al-ʿarab (Ibn Manz.ūr) 240 Maybūdī, Rashīd al-Dīn 228
literalism 383 Mazuz, Haggai 16
liturgy 7; Christian 100, 103, 124; Islamic 54; McGregor, Richard 395
vernacular 18 Mecca xxiii, 23 – 37, 53, 86, 352 – 353, 356;
Lot (Lūt, prophet) 103, 159; Sodom and Gomorrah Abrahamic covenant in 168; Abū Lahab 407;
161 – 162; wives of 268n43 God’s shrine in 83; hijra to Medina 126; hadith
Luke 18, 97 – 101; Gospel of 98; Paul and 373 tradition in 437; disbelievers in 215; Jurhum
Lüling, Günter 359 tribe 276; Mānat, worship of 20; “People of
Lumbard, Joseph E. B. 113n25, 194 the Sacred House” in 278; pilgrimage to 436;
Luqmān (sura) xxii, 412, 420 polytheists of 218, 220, 336, 339 – 341; praying
Luxenberg, Christoph 358 – 359, 373 toward (qibla) 170, 217, 226, 261; Muhammad
and xxiv, xxviii, xxxi – xxxii, 107 – 108, 184,
Mabrouk, Ali 360 335, 373; Quraysh tribe 15; as site of revelation
Madigan, Daniel A. 122, 170, 202, 206n21 36 – 37; society, religion, and politics 27 – 31; as
Madīnat al-Nābi (City of the Prophet) 34 – 36; see Umm al-Qurā (“Mother of the towns”) 24 – 27;
also Medina well of
maghfira (“forgiveness”) 53, 155 Zamzam 381
magic 151, 381, 439 Meccans: God’s punishment of 219; idolatrous 120;
magicians 6, 91, 157; see also al-majūs mercantile 50; pagan 45 – 47
majāz (“metaphor or figure”) 196 – 197, 228 Meccan suras 154, 157, 166, 201 – 202; German
Makdisi, George 247 translations of 372; see also Neuwirth, Angelika
Malaysia 366 Medina (Yathrib) xxiii, 4, 15, 23 – 37, 108 – 111;
Malaysian Department of Islamic Development Constitution of 126; Jewish leaders of 108;
Malaysia (JAKIM) 389 Jewish tribes in 15, 16 133n33, 216; Manāt,
al-Malījī, Abū l-Qās. im 308 worship of 20; Muhammad as leader of 335,
Mālik ibn Anas, xxiv, 229, 250n11 373; Muslim community 339 – 341; as site of
al-Malik (“the King,” divine name) 48 revelation 36 – 37
maliki yawm al-dīn (“King of Judgment Day”) 53 Medinan Qur’an 109, 110, 154, 160, 166, 201,
Mamluk Period 115, 129 215, 353
al-Ma’mūn (caliph) 407 Meftah, Abdel Bakhi 289n2, 291, 300n8
al-Maʾmūn 408 Melchert, Christopher 229
Manāt (deity) 20, 29, 38n20, 39n29 Merkabah mysticism 17
al-Manbijī 438 Messenger(s) of God 8, 49, 60, 62, 403; Adam
Mandaeans 121 64; belief in 342; betrayal of 65; disregarding
Manicheans 5 – 7, 121, 123 99; Divine 415; heeding the warnings of 36;
Manzoor, Parvez 141, 142 Ishmael 119; Jesus as 19, 46, 96, 103, 106, 128,
Marcion of Sinope 18 173; John 96, 103; Mary 96, 103; Moses 90, 92;
Maʿqil ibn Yasār 214 Muhammad 64, 80, 107, 110, 136, 138, 146,
marīds (fire giants) 146, 150 147, 287; obedience to 109; wisdom bestowed
Mårtensson, Ulrika 326 on 412; word of 306, 307; see also qawl al-rasūl
Martin, Richard 323 (“word of the Messenger”)
MarYah 55n17 messengers see rusul
Mary (Maryam, mother of Jesus) 5, 8, 18 – 19, 96 – 103, Messiah see Jesus the Messiah
186, 191 – 192; “Aaron’s sister” 102, 162, 190n27; Messiah (tv show) 398
devoutness of 156; Jesus as son of 19, 96, 125, metaphoric see majāz (“metaphor or figure”)
128 – 130, 140, 162; and Zechariah 40n52 miasma, theory of 438
Maryam (sura) see Sūrat Maryam Midian 24, 90, 159, 161; destruction of 160
mashhūd (“witness”) 143, 205, 240, 241 midrash 16, 92
al-masjid al-h.arām (“Sacrosanct Mosque”) 86 midrashic school see bayt ha-midrash (midrashic
Masjid al-Qiblatayn (Mosque of the Two Qiblas) 34 school)
482
Index
migration see hijra (“migration”) 219 – 220; teachings of 247; Umm Salama and
Milan, Edict of 18 320; war and 334, 339 – 342; wives 320; see
Minhaj-ul-Quran movement 388 also ʿĀʾisha bint Abī Bakr; ʿAlī (ʿAlī ibn Abī
Mingana, Alphonse 359 T.ālib); .sah.āba
miracles (karāmāt) 96, 98 – 99, 101; messengers and Muhammadan Station 286 – 287
416; of Moses 191; of Muhammad 218 – 219; Muh.arram, fast of 35
nature as 141 – 142; of the hero 182; Qur’an as al-Muʿizz li-Dīn Allāh (Imam-Caliph) 306, 307,
153, 212 – 213, 272 miraculous birth: of Jesus 309
83, 102 Mujāhid ibn Jabr 258
Mir, Mustansir 325 Mujahid, Abdul-Malik 249
Missionaries 304; Christian 17, 367 – 369, 371; al-Mulk, Niz.ām 427
Jewish 17; Paul the Apostle as 18 mulk (“dominion”) 198, 424
missionary summons see daʿwāʾ Mullā S.adrā see S.adrā, Mullā
mīthāq (“covenant”) 58 – 61, 105 Müller, David Heinrich 167
Modarressi, Hossein 266n6, 267n21, 268n33 Muʾminūn (“believers”) 34, 125, 126, 131n9, 168
Monophysites 15, 19, 104n11 mimesis 186 – 188
Moor, Alan 398 munāfiqīn (“hypocrites”) 215
Moore, Kathleen Dean 141 munajjam (“specific moments in Muhammad’s life”)
Moosa, Ebrahim 319, 322, 326 – 329 212, 220
Moriscos 365 al-Munajjid, Muhammad Saalih (Shaykh) 389
Moses (prophet) xxx, xxxii, 89 – 95, 102 – 103, munāsaba (“suitability”) 166, 173
105 – 107, 118 – 122, 191; Aaron and 102, 157; munāz.ara (“public disputation”) 129
Abraham and 204; authority of 64; five books al-Munāz.arāt (The Disputations) (al-Rāzī) 237,
of 17, 36; God and 51, 405; infant 50; Jews as 243n26
people of 125, 127; Khid. r and 193; Lord of 49; Muqātil ibn Sulaymān, 227, 229
Pharaoh and 51, 396; time of 32 al-Murjiʾa (“proponents of abstention”) 235 – 237
Mosque of the Two Qiblas see Masjid al-Qiblatayn mus. h.af (Qur’anic codex): in culture (visual art,
(Mosque of the Two Qiblas) music, and film) 397 – 399; formalization of 128,
Mother of the Book see umm al kitāb (Mother of the 377; order and arrangement of 189n12, 219;
Book) organization of 165, 179, 188; standard 254;
Motzki, Harald 231n10 unique features of xxii; “Urtext” v. “codex”
Mount Arafat 36 360; see also tanzīl
Mount Sinai 61, 64, 155, 161 mushrik 4, 81 – 82, 125 – 127; changing definitions of
Muʿawwidhatān (“the two [suras] of protection”) 132n31, 376n66
158 – 159, 228 Muslim ibn al-H.ajjāj xxiv
al-Muʾayyad, Hibat Allāh ibn Mūsā al-Shīrāzī 307, mutakallimūn (“dialectical theologians”) 407 – 408,
315 410; first generations 404; kalām practiced
al-Mubārakpūrī, S.afī al-Rah.mān 249 by 402; ta’wil, understanding of 310; wujūd
Mudejars 365 and 283
mufassir (“exegete”) 229, 272, 310; imām al-mufassirīn mutashābih (ambiguous verses) 191, 193 – 195, 260,
(“leader of exegetes”) 248; qualifications of 296 – 297, 311, 419
285 – 28; mufassira (“female exegete”) 324 mutawakkil (“trusting”) 90
Muhammad (Muh.ammad ibn ʿAbdallāh, prophet) al-Mutawakkil (caliph) 408
xxii, xxxiv – xxxv; bewitchment by Labīd 228; Muʿtazila 237, 264, 348, 404 – 405, 407 – 408; see also
Badr and Uhud, battles of 172, 218; birth al-Jabbār, ʿAbd
21n14, 36; cousin 303; daughter 314; death mysticism; 45, 54, 291, 419; Merkabah 17; see also
20; emergence as a prophet 270; family 303; Sufism
father 26; followers of 31, 34; genealogy of 162;
God’s sending of 168; grandfather 25 – 27; great al-Nābulsī, ʿAbd al-Ghanī 400
grandmother 33; historical and biographical al-Nadīr (tribe) 4, 15, 32, 109
accounts of xxvii – xxviii, xxxii; Ismaili views Naguib, Shuruq 324, 329
of 303 – 316; Jews and 216; jinn and 146, 147, al-Nahshalī, al- Aswad ibn Yaʿfur see Aʿshā Nashal
150; life of xxxi, 37, 211 – 212; marriage of nakedness 39n36, 63
36; Meccan period 29 – 30, 34, 36; Medinan names of God see divine names
period 5, 23, 34 – 36; as “perfect man” 285; nāmūs (“law”) 21n17, 352, 416
as “the Praiseworthy” xxiii; preaching of 188; Naqshbandi Order 390
in the Qur’an 105 – 111; Qur’an as biography Naqshbandi NurMuhammad website 390
of 334 – 337; Qur’an as told and demonstrated Nas. ārā (Qur’anic Christians) 5, 7, 121, 130n4 see also
by 180, 184 – 188; as rah.ma 52; revelation and Christianity and Christians
483
Index
Nashīd t.alaʿa al-badru ʿalaynā (“The Full Moon Rises 373; as the Garden of Eden 74, 119; gates of 74;
Above Us”) 397 as Heaven 74, 156; hell and 288; predestination
na s. īh.at al-mulūk (“advice to rulers”) genre 427 – 428 and 263; worldly wealth in 276
Nās. ir-i Khusraw 307, 311 – 313 Paret, Rudi 112n1, 372 – 373
naskh (“abrogation”) 228 – 229, 254, 310, 335, 358 Paul (apostle) 17 – 18, 21n17, 373; epistles 85
Nasr, Seyyed Hossein 419 People of the Book see ahl al-kitāb
nazh.m (“organization” of the Qur’an) 165 – 166 People of the House see ahl al-bayt
Neoplatonism 435; Ismaili 305; Universal Intellect 306 Perho, Irmeli 437
Nestorians 5, 15, 18, 104, 434; see also Christianity peripatetic philosophy see philosophy
and Christians periphrasis in the Qur’an 158, 226, 366
Neuwirth, Angelika 37, 135 – 137, 159, 160, 166, Persia 6, 15 – 17; Arab conquest of 127; persecuted
357, 372 – 373; on kitāb 123 – 124 minorities 303; Sassanian 96; Islam and 151, 273;
Newby, Gordon 32, 37n4 see also Iran, Maybūdī, Rashīd al-Dīn; al-Qudāt,
Nicaea, Council of 18, 97 ʿAyn; Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, Muh.ammad
Nietzsche, Friedrich 346 Persian Empire xxviii, 3, 4, 13, 18
Nigeria 343, 366 Persian Gulf 14
Night of Destiny see laylat al-qadr (“Night of Power”) Persian language (Farsi) 87, 365 – 367
Night of Power see laylat al-qadr (“Night of Power”) pesher (“interpretation”) 16, 21n15; see also tafsīr
nihilism 346 Peters, F.E. 24
Nile 50, 179 Pharaoh in the Qur’an 24, 94, 227; dominion of
Nimrod 88n15, 227 122; drowning of army of 160; Moses and
niqab (face veil) 399 89 – 93, 396
Nizārī Ismailis 303, 307 – 308, 316 philosophy, peripatetic 415 – 416, 418, 419, 420; see
Noah (Nūh., prophet) 28, 36, 64, 109, 119, 268n43; also falsafa; h.ikma; Islamic philosophy; kalām
age of 162; da‘wa of 312 – 313; descendants of physicians 433 – 439
24, 102; as first prophet 67n40; flood and Ark Pickthall, Marmaduke 385, 387
of 52, 159, 160, 162 – 163, 310; people of 191 Pink, Johanna 251n33, 326
Nöldeke, Theodor 77n11, 112n1, 152, 166, 357 plague 437 – 438, 439; of Egypt 52
North Africa 151, 226; Fāt.imid Caliphate 303; Plato 414
gendered readings of Qur’an in 360; Muslim Platonism 53; see also Neoplatonism
expansion into 380; tattooing 399 poetry: Anglo-Saxon 153; Arabic 152, 159, 307;
al-Nuʿmān, Abū H . anīfa al-Qādī see al-Qād. ī devotional 309; didactic 316; epic 185; Ismaili
al-Nuʿmān, Abū H . anīfa 317n31; jinn and 146; pagan 48; pre-Islamic
nūr (“light”) 111, 307, 418 19 – 20, 69, 196, 201, 357, 373; quantitative
al-Nūr (“the Light,” divine name) 111 154; Qur’an as 153, 372; see also sajʿ
Nūrī, Mullā ʿAlī 419 polytheism: Arabian 19 – 20, 37, 127, 357; Aws and
Nursî, Said 389 Khazraj 33; as idolaters 424; hayba and 427;
Nuwās, Yūsuf Dhū (king) 4, 18 – 19 indigenous 4, 14 – 15; Mecca 25, 31, 218, 220,
Nywia, Paul 282, 291 336, 339 – 341; pre-Islamic 149; “submission” of
132n23; Yemen 28
Ohlig, Karl-Heinz 359 Poonawala, Ismail 318n48
Omarah, Faried 397, 398 praiseworthy, the 115 – 120
omens see faʾl Pregill, Michael 225
orality 96 – 97, 159 – 160, 200, 203, 205 – 206 print culture: Islamic 383; and modern statehood
Ottoman Empire xxvi, 131, 247, 367, 426; Shaykh 367 – 368
al-Islam 369; Sultan 87 prophethood (nubuwwa) 66n13; line of succession
63 – 64; see also prophets
pact of protection see dhimma (“pact of protection”) prophetology 6; of the Qur’an 6, 8, 102 – 103
Padwick, Constance Evelyn 188 prophets 5, 83; ancient 45; apotheosis of 46; biblical
pagans and paganism xxix, 45 – 54; ahl al-kitāb and 89 – 95; covenants of 61 – 64; see also Abraham;
127; Arab Believers 125, 126; Arabs 69, 70, Hūd; Ishmael; Isaac; Jesus; John; Joseph; Lot;
108, 124, 152; Āzar (father of Abraham) 81; Moses; Noah, S. ālih; Shuʿayb
“gentile,” synonymous with 82; Hubal worship Prophet, the (Muhammad) 26 – 37; coming of 71,
26; in Mecca xxxi, 26, 29, 45 – 47; religious 77n15; praise for 111; vision of God 51; wives
discourse 157 – 159 of 114n35, 268n43, 277 – 279, 320, 322
Pakistan 343, 387; Minhaj-ul-Quran movement 388 Prophet’s Mosque 33
parable see mathal protection see dhimma (“pact of protection”);ʿis. ma
Paradise 51, 53, 74 – 75, 159, 161, 193, 237, 373; (“protection”); Muʿawwidhatān (“the two [suras]
enticement of 423; female companions in 159, of protection”)
484
Index
Psalms (al-zabūr) 7, 131n11, 160 – 161, 373 of 280; tafsīr 244 – 249; al-Tafsīr al-kabīr (Great
Purgatory 75 Commentary) 235 – 242
Reconquista 365
al-Qād.ī (“the Judge,” divine name) 237 – 238 religion see dīn
al-Qād.ī al-Huwayy 244n31 resurrection 72 – 73; see also yawm al-qiyāma 157
al-Qād.ī al-Nuʿmān, Abū H . anīfa 257, 306, 308 – 312 rhyme and rhythm in the Qur’an 153 – 157
al-Qadri, Muh.ammad Tahir 388, 390 Rid. ā, Muh.ammad Rashīd 235, 248, 275, 322, 248
qalb (“heart”) 198, 239 righteousness see s. alāh.
al-Qaradawi, Yusuf 389 Rippin, Andrew 213, 214, 224, 225, 323, 324, 358
qARia 396 al-Risāla (The Message) (film) 397
Qatāda 258 Rizvi, Sajjad 291
qawl (“divine speech”) 284 Robinson, Neal 42n79, 104n11, 175n20
qawl al-rasūl (“word of the Messenger”) 306 Roman Empire see Byzantine Empire
Qaynuqā (tribe) 4, 32, 35, 40n59 Rückert, Friedrich 372
al-Qays. arī 418 Rumi 269n60
al-Qazwīnī, Zakariyāʾ 150 rusul (“messengers”) 83, 306, 307; see also prophets
Qian, Ailin 78n44
qibla (“direction” of prayer) 225, 226; Jerusalem al-S. aʿānīʾ, ʿAbd al-Razzāq 229
127; from Jerusalem to Mecca 23, 35, 217, al-S. ābiʾūn (Sabians) 6
261; Mosque of the Two Qiblas 34; see also S. abrī, Mus. t.afā 369
Jerusalem; Mecca al-S. ābūnī, Muh.ammad 248 – 250
qirāʾa li-ttah.arrur (“emancipatory reading”) 360 Sabzawarī, Mullā Hādī 420
qirāʾāt (“recitation”) 200 – 206, 256, 377 al-S. ādiq, Ja‘far 227, 230, 256, 257, 261, 263 – 264,
al-Qummī, ‘Alī ibn Ibrahīm 227, 230, 257, 261, 297, 303, 314
263, 265 al-S. ādiqīn (“trustworthy ones”) 119 – 120
al-Qūnawī 418, 419 S. adrā, Mullā 414, 416, 418 – 420; Day of
Quran.com 387 Remembrance 74; on faith and knowledge 413;
Quran Explorer 389 see also Shīrāzī, Muh.ammad ibn Ibrāhīm ibn
“Qur’anist” school see ahl al-qurʾān Yah.yā Qawāmī
Qur’anology 54, 171 Saeed, Abdullah 353
quranwow.com 388 Safavid period 265, 267 413
Quraysh (tribe) xxiv, 29; armies of 218; “believers s. ah.āba (Companions of Muhammad) xxiii, xxiv,
of ” 34; in Mecca xxxii, 15, 24 – 30; Muhammad xxvi, xxvii, xxxviii, xxxi; authoritative exegesis
as member of xxxi; traders 52 of 255; contradictory opinions of 248; extended
Qurayz.a (tribe) 4, 15, 27, 32, 35 families of 86; hadith attributed to 229;
al-Qurt.ubī, Muh.ammad ibn Ah.mad xxvi, 62 – 63, midrashic school visited by 32; most loyal 120;
113n24, 214, 320, 390 questions of Muhammad asked by 111; sabab
Qusayy 25, 27, 38n12 about 211, 219; Salafi views of 350; Shi’i views
al-Qushayrī, ʿAbd al-Karīm Abū ’l-Qāsim 67, 228, of 257, 258; Sufi views of 296; Torah translated
282 into dialect for 16; Qur’an and 256, 335, 356,
Qut.b, Sayyid 130, 163, 166, 346 – 353, 389 378, 379, 380; wars witnessed by 216 – 218
sajʾ (“rhymed prose”) xxx, 36, 48, 153 – 155, 166; as
rabbis 16, 17, 32, 171 – 172 feature of prophetic speech 357; suras, opening
al-Rāghib al-Is. fahānī see al-Is. fahānī, al-Rāghib of 157; stylistic features of 372
rahba (“terror”) 423 Saladin see S. alāh. al-Dīn
rah.ma (“compassion,” “mercy”) 52, 53, 76 salaf (“forebears”) 246, 248
al-Rah.mān (“the Merciful,” divine name) 48, 52, Salafism 245, 249, 347, 390; Qutb 350
111, 180, 420n5; nafas al-rah.mān (breath of the .s alāh. (“righteousness”) 424
Merciful) 284 S. alāh. al-Dīn (Saladin) 418
Rahman al-Sudais, Abdul 388 Salama, Umm 279
Rahman, Fazlur 136, 139 – 140, 325, 360 s.alāt (“prayer”) 304, 312, 313, 315, 394
Ramadan, fast of 35, 106, 112, 227, 380 Salaymeh, Lena 133n37
Rashīd Rid.ā see Rid.ā, Muh.ammad Rashīd Sale, George 387
al-Rāzī, Abū Bakr 434 Saleh, Walid 247 – 248, 251n30, 292
al-Rāzī, Abū H . āt. im 313 S. ālih. (prophet) 109, 159
al-Rāzī, Fakhr al-Dīn Muh.ammad xxvi, 259; Ibn same-sex relationships 436
Sīnā, influence of 417; on the light verse Sanāʾī (poet) 75
416; Mafātīh. al-ghayb (Keys to the Unseen) sanctum see h.aram (“sanctum”)
301n24; T. abāt.abāʾī’s use of the commentary Sanders, Peter 397
485
Index
Sarah (Sāra, matriarch) 24, 83, 162 shirk (“polytheism” or “idolatry”) 28, 29, 47, 81,
Sardar, Ziauddin 389 133n31, 249, 390
Sassanian Empire 13, 18, 28; medical practices Shuʿayb (prophet) 87n3, 109, 159, 161
433 – 434; support of Jews 31 – 32 shukr (“gratitude”) 118
Sass, Rashaand 330n3 Siddiq, Khaled 397
Satan 59, 89, 117, 254; disobedience of 119; Siddique, Qari Noreen Muh.ammad 396
temptation by 63; see also devil; Iblīs al-s. iddīqūn (“the truthful”) 61
satans (shayatin) 29, 39n33 s. idq (“trustworthiness”) 119; see also al-S. ādiqīn
Saudi Arabia 245, 249, 251n33, 388; Darussalam (“trustworthy ones”)
249; king ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz 248; national al-Sijistānī, Ibn Abī Dāwūd 377 – 379
sovereignty 423; religious sovereignty 427; al-Sijistānī, Abū Yaʿqūb 307, 311, 313, 314
umma, idea of 426; see also King Fahd siʿlā or siʿlāt (lower jinn) 150
Complex for the Printing of the Holy Qur’an; Sinai see Mount Sinai
Wahhabism Sinai, Nicolai 132n25, 166
Saudi Arabian Ministry of Islamic Affairs 385 Sindhi language 366
Saul (king) 24 sīra literature xxiv, 84; asbāb found in 211, 215, 218;
Sayf al-Dīn, Mufad.d.al (Sayyidnā) 308 extra-Qur’anic 182; legal thinking in 214; on
Schmid, Nora K. 166 Mecca 24, 29; on Medina 33 – 35; tropes in 219
Schmidt, Carl 424 s. irāt. (“bridge” to Paradise) 74
Schopes, Hans Joachim 5 Sīrat Rasūl Allāh (The Epic of God’s Messenger, Ibn
Scott, Jill 397 Ish.āq) xxiii – xxiv, 84 – 85, 106, 126, 162
Secularism 130, 347, 350, 357, 360 – 361, 369, 431 Sleepers of Ephesus 5
Seljuq Empire 427 socialism 353, 423
Sells, Michael 372 Sodom and Gomorrah 160 – 162
servanthood see ʿubudiyya (servanthood) sodomy 436
Sezgin, Fuat 224 Solomon (Sulaymān, prophet) 15, 103, 147, 381
shahāda (“confession” of faith) 87 Soroush, Abdolkarim 360
Shahrazūrī 418 Spain see al-Andalus (Islamic Spain); Iberia; Aljamiado
Shākir, Ah.mad 248 – 250 Speight, Marston 229
Shākir, Muh.ammad 369 Speyer, Heinrich 7
Shakir, Mohammedali Habib 385 Spilled Chai (podcast) 400
shamans 54 Stewart, Devin 166
sharia 306 – 312, 416, 423 – 431 Stowasser, Barbara Freyer 83, 321 – 324, 329
Sharīʿatī, ‘Ali 346 Stroumsa, Guy G. 6
al-Shāt.i see Bint al-Shāt.i, ʿĀʾisha ʿAbd al-Rah.mān al-Subkī, Tāj al-Dīn 429 – 431
137 Submission (film) 399 – 400
al-Shāt.ibī, Ibrāhīm ibn Mūsā 364, 369 Sufism (tas. awwuf ) xxiv – xxvi; Companions of
shawka (“worldly power”) 423 the Heights” (as. h.āb al-aʿrāf ), views on 75;
Shaw, Wendy 395 covenant, importance of 68; dialectic of
Shaybān (son of Hāshim) 25 the cosmos 52; doctrine of oneness 54;
shayt.ān (“devils”) 146, 148 – 149, 151; see also Iblīs; exegesis 227, 297 – 298; al-H . allāj 240, 418;
jinn; Satan intercession, practice of 249; on patience and
Sheba (Queen of ) 15, 147 its attributes 116; Qur’an, interpretations of
Shem (son of Noah) 24 197; “Qur’anization of memory” 282; soul
Shi’i Imams 253 – 265; as authorities on hadith ethics of 115; speculative 418; on the spiritual
227; fifth Imam 230, 267n18, 267n21; first journey 174; tawakkul, concept of 435; ta’wil,
Imam 253; inerrant 415, 419; intratextual views on 195; al-Qud. āt 73; see also Ibn ʿArabī;
hermeneutics of 274, 276; worldly power and al-Ghazālī; Maybūdī; Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya;
425; sixth Imam 230, 267n18; ta’wil and 195; al-Qushayrī; al-Sulamī; tafsīr
traditions transmitted via 279; Twelfth Imam Suhrawardī, Abū H.afs ʿUma 293 – 294
254, 258, 268n35; see also Ismaili Shi’ism Suhrawardī, Shahāb al-Dīn 414, 418, 420
Shi’ism see Imāmī Shi’ism; Ismaili Shi’ism; Twelver Sukarno (president) 368, see also Indonesia
Shi’ism al-Sulamī, Abū ʿAbd al-Rah.mān 267n24, 301n24
shiqq (malformed jinn) 150 Sulayman II (Sultan) 87
al-Shīrāzī, al-Mu’ayyad 307, 313, 314, 315 sultan 87, 423, 426, 427
Shīrāzī, Muh.ammad ibn Ibrāhīm ibn Yah.yā Qawāmī Sunna 17, 36, 45, 109 – 110, 213, 246, 249, 286, 308,
419; see also S. adrā, Mullā 348; authentic 248; Qur’an embodied in 288;
Shīrāzī, Qut.b al-Dīn 418 Sufi interpretive method and 292
486
Index
Sunnism xxiv – xxvi, xxxi, 58, 129, 139, 212, Syriac 4, 18, 358 – 359; hanpē (gentile) 81; legacies of
226 – 230, 237, 253 – 264, 272 – 280, 308 – 310, 53; gyny (jinn) 145; Hippocratic texts translated
329 – 330, 349, 377, 405, 425; anti-Sunni into 434; martyrology 15; Melkite, influence on
polemic 226 – 227; caliphate, views of 425; 5; polemics translated into 371; Qur’an reading
covenant, exegetical understanding of 58, 139; via 358 – 359; Qur’anic “Urtext” 359
“esoteric” exegesis of 304, 308; exegetical Syriac Christianity see Christianity and Christians
authority of 253 – 265; “Five Pillars” 309; Syriac Infancy Gospel 98, 101; see also Gospel
hadith 377; ʿis. ma 212; kalām 305, 405; versus
Shi’i xxxiv, 226 – 227; T ․ abāt.abāʾī’s al-Mīzān al-T ․ abarī, Ali Rabbān 434
270, 272, 275, 277, 279, 280; tattoos as haram al-T ․ abarī, Muh.ammad ibn Jarīr xxiii, xxv, 63, 216,
399; ta‘wil 308, 310; see also Ashʿarī; hadith; 241, 280, 320; Comprehensive Explanations 195;
al-Baghawī, Abū Muh.ammad; al-Rāzī, Fakhr on divine oaths 137; History of the Prophets and
al-Dīn; al-Suyūt.ī, Jalāl al-Dīn; tafsīr; ta‘wil Kings xxxi, 151n6; on Iblīs 148; Jāmiʿ al-bayān
sura xxii, xxiv, xxx; see also Meccan suras; Medinan fī fafsīr al-qurʾān 223, 280, 326, 366; on the
suras sale of Joseph 94; tafsir in the wake of 223 – 227,
SurahLikeIt 386 230 – 231, 245, 247 – 248, 256 – 257, 263 – 264;
Sūrat Abī Lahab (also Sūrat al-Masad) 152 ․ abāt.abāʾī’s interest in 272; Taʾrīkh 106
T
Sūrat al-ʿĀdiyāt 138, 153 – 154 al-T ․ abāt.abāʾī, Muh.ammad H ․ usayn (ʿAllāma) 166,
Sūrat al-Ah.zāb 111 270 – 280, 420
Sūrat Āl ʿImrān 67n39, 138, 165, 167, 171–173, 254 tabdīl (“exchange”) 16
Sūrat al-Aʿlā 152, 202 al-T ․ abrisī (or al-T ․ abarsī) 264 – 266
Sūrat al-ʿAlaq (also Sūrat Iqrāʾ) 202 Tahir al-Qadri, Muh.ammad see al-Qadri,
Sūrat al-Anʿām 81, 109, 254 Muh.ammad Tahir
Sūrat al-An’fāl 254 al-T ․ āʿī (caliph) 426
Sūrat al-Aʿrāf 181, 254 tafsīr (“interpretation of scripture”) xxv – xxvi, xxxii
Sūrat al-ʿAsr 138 16 – 17, 21n15, 149 – 151, 166, 184, 195 – 198,
Sūrat al-Baqara 42n79, 138, 165, 167 – 170, 173, 200, 211 – 215, 223 – 231, 235 – 242, 245 – 250,
174, 254 235 – 265, 270 – 280, 304, 315, 319 – 330,
Sūrat al-D. uh.ā 106 347 – 348, 357 – 360, 364, 366, 389 – 390, 395,
Sūrat al-Falaq 152, 227, 396, 399 400; genre of 319, 329; hermeneutics of 326;
Sūrat al-Fātih.a 152, 165, 173 – 174, 181 – 182; exegesis later Muslim 149; post-Ghayba Shi’i 261; pre-
on 419; ritual prayer 365 Ghayba Shi’i 257 – 261, 265; Sufi 291 – 298;
Sūrat al-Fīl 156 Sunni 291 – 298, 309; Twelver 304; women and
Sūrat Hūd 159, 161, 242 319 – 330
Sūrat Ibrāhīm 80 tafsīr bi l-maʾthūr (“exegesis by transmission”) 166
Sūrat al-Ikhlās. (also Sūrat Tawh.īd) 119, 159, 160 – 161, tafsīr bi l-raʾy (“exegesis by opinion”) 262, 269n59,
379 297
Sūrat al-Isrā 205 al-Taftazānī, Saʿd al-Dīn 247, 298
Sūrat al-Jinn 146 tahrīf (letter substitution) 16
Sūrat al-Kahf 108 Talmud 17, 21, 32; Babylonian 104n16; see also
Sūrat al-Kawthar 152 Torah
Sūrat Luqmān see Luqmān Tanakh 16
Sūrat al-Māʾida 254 tanzīh (“incomparability” of God) 283, 288
Sūrat Maryam 162 tanzil.info 385
Sūrat al-Muzzammil 201 tarjama (“translation”) 364, 366 – 367
Sūrat al-Nās 148, 152 tartīl (“recitation”) 200 – 201, 203, 205, 206, 286
Sūrat al-Nisāʾ 254 tas. awwuf see Sufism
Sūrat al-Qamar 155 tashbīh (“immanence” of God) 196, 246, 283, 285, 288
Sūrat al-Qiyāma 203 Tatian 18, 160
Sūrat al-S.āffāt 84 tattoos 399 – 400
Sūrat al-Shuʿarāʾ 109, 204 tawakkul (“trust” in God) 50, 120, 435; mutawakkil
Sūrat T.āhā 157 (“trusting”) 90
al-Suyūt.ī, Jalāl al-Dīn 166, 215 – 216, 218; al-Durr taʾwīl (“exegesis” or “interpretation”) 191,
al-manthūr fī l-tafsīr bi l-maʾthūr 227, 280; 193 – 196, 198, 200, 255; allusive exegesis (Sufi)
al-Manhaj al-Sawī wa l-Manhal al-Rawī fī l-T.ibb and 294 – 296; commentary of Abd al-Razzāq
al-Nabawī 438; T.abaqāt al-mufassirūn 223; Kāshānī 282; esoteric exegesis 310 – 316; Imams’
Tanāsuq al-durar fī tanāsub al-suwar 166 as possessors of 260, 304, 308; in Islamic
Sword Verse see Āyat al-Sayf (“the Sword Verse”) philosophy 413; in later Muslim thought 223
487
Index
Terah. see Azar umma (“community”) xxxiii, 85, 122, 271; Abraham
al-Thaʿlabī, Abū Ish.āq 93, 245, 292 80; divine factor upon 422, 423; Donner’s
Thalib, Muhammad 368, 371 understanding of 125, 131n9; God’s covenant
Thamūd 159, 160, 161, 191 with 426; God’s displeasure with 430; human law
Thawbān 279 and 428; Muhammad xxiv, xxxi, 87; rulers of 424
al-Thawrī, Sufyān xxv, 225 ummahāt (“the essential”) 249
Theodosius (emperor) 18 umm al kitāb (“Mother of the Book”) 112n12, 194,
theosophy 418 – 419 195
Thomas (apostle) see Infancy Gospel of Thomas Umm al-Qurā, see Mecca
Thomashow, Mitchell 141 ummī (“gentile,” “unlettered”) 35, 85; prophet
Thompson, Craig 397 (Muhammad) 41n73
Throne Verse see Āyat al-Kursī (“the Throne Verse”) Umm Salama (Hind bint Abī Umayya ibn Mughīra)
tilāwa 201 – 206 320, 321
al-Tirmidhī, Muh.ammad ibn ʿIsā 331n9 Umm ʿUmāra 320
Toorawa, Shawkat 372 unbelievers see kāfirūn
Torah xxi, xxx, 7, 16 – 17, 32, 45, 106, 110, 121, understanding see fiqh (“jurisprudence”)
122, 123, 412; Abraham and 85; Arabian Jews Uriah the Hittite 161
and 17; Jesus and 98, 99; kitab 121 – 122, 203; of Urmawī, Qād. ī Sirāj al-Dīn Mah.mūd 419
Moses 17; Muhammad and 106; Oral Torah 32; “Urtext” 359 – 360
as prophetic revelation 304; scroll form of 380; us. ūl al-fiqh (“scholars of law” or “legal principles”)
“written” and “oral” 17; see also Ahl al-Tawrāt 196, 273
(“People of Torah”), Tanakh, Talmud al-Utaybi, Salman 396
torture 428 Uthmānī codex 257, 258
translation (of Qur’an) 364 – 374; see also tarjama ʿUthmān ībn ʿAffān (caliph) 254, 255, 356, 377, 425
trinitarianism 19, 22n30, 124, 404 ʿUthmānic recension 378
trust see tawakkul ʿUzayr 17, 46, 55n5; see also Azazel
truth, see bayyina, h.aqq, al-H . aqq al-ʿUzzā (deity) 20, 29, 38n20, 39n29
Tubbaʿ (king) 27 – 28
Tunisia 343; see also al-Ghannūshī, Rāshid Van Gogh, Theo 399 – 400
Turkey 368, 389, 396; Iznick 18 vernacular languages 7, 152, 369, 371; exegesis in
Turkic 365, 366 365, 366
Turkish language 87; tercüme 367 Versteegh, Kees 229
“Turkish Qur’an” 368 virtue ethics 53
al-T․ ūsī, Muhammad 226, 258 – 262, 264 – 266, 280 Virtues of the Qur’an see Fad. āʾil al-Qurʾān
T
․ ūsī, Nas. īr al-Dīn 417, 419 Vollers, Karl 152, 357
al-Tustarī, Sahl 227 – 228, 301n42
Twelfth Imam, disappearance of 258 waʿd (“promise”) 58
Twelver Shi’ism xxxi, 51, 195; formation and Wadud, Amina 319, 321, 323 – 328, 360
consolidation of 256, 258; free will and Wah.b ibn Munabbih 64, 230
predestination, views on 264; hadiths 265; al-Wahhāb (“the Grantor,” divine name) 158
Ismaili thinkers and 304 – 305; Qur’an Wahhabism 245, 248 – 249, 251n33
commentators (mufassirūn) 310; rational al-Wāh.idī, Abū al-H.asan ʿAlī ibn Ah.mad 215
analysis, importance of 262; tafsīr 304; and Waʿīdīs 235 – 237
Us. ūl al-kāfī of al-Kulaynī, views on 419; see al-Wakīl (“the Trustee,” divine name) 50
also T․ abāt.abāʾī, Allāma walāya (“devotion”) 263, 264, 309
typology 177, 185 – 186, 188 al-Walī (“the Friend,” divine name) 50,
al-Walī (“the Guardian,” divine name) 309
ʿubudiyya (“servanthood”) 63, 64 walī (legal guardian) 214
Uh.ud, Battle of 35, 172, 218 Walī Allāh al-Dihlāwī (Shāh) 366 – 367
ʿUmar al-Bayd. āwī, Nas. īr al-Dīn ʿAbd Allāh see Wansbrough, John 14, 39n27, 225, 358
al-Bayd. āwī, Nas. īr al-Dīn ʿAbd Allāh ibn Waraqa ibn Nawfal 21n17
ʿUmar Watt, W. Montgomery 30, 407
ʿUmar ibn al-Khat.t.āb (caliph) 128, 256 WhatsAppQuranGroup 389, 391
ʿUmar, Pact of 130, 133n35 wilderness 24
ʿUmar al-Zamakhsharī, Muh.ammad ibn see Wilson, Brett 370
al-Zamakhsharī, Muh.ammad ibn ʿUmar wine: abstention from 236; and fertility 180;
Umayyad Period xxii, 5, 132n23 358; ʿAbd al-Malik as medicine 438; produced by Jews and
(caliph) 127, 356, 379; patronage 256 Christians 15
488
Index
wives of the Prophet see ʿĀʾisha bint Abī Bakr; yom ha-din (“Day of Judgment”) 161; see also
Khadīja; Umm Salama; yawm al-dīn, yawm al-qiyāma
women: divorced 169; hajj 39n36, 342; hijab Yom Kippur 35
and niqab 399; Islamic societies, role of 94; Younus, Zainab Bint 396
mistreatment of 30; Qur’an, readings by Youssef, Ulfat 360
319 – 330; Qur’an, reciting of 389, 396; Qur’an, Yūsuf Dhū Nuwās (king) 18 – 19
views of 361, 371, 373, 399 – 400; snares of 90;
tafsīr and 326, 327, 329, 330 Zachariah (Zakariyyā, prophet) 99
al-Zafzāfī, Nās. ir 427
yahūdiyya see Jews and Judaism Zakariyāʾ al-Qazwīnī see al-Qazwīnī, Zakariyāʾ
Yah.ya (John, prophet) 96, 99 – 100 zakāt (“alms”) 16, 127, 133n37, 309, 370
Yah.yā ibn Sallām 232n38 al-Zamakhsharī, Muh.ammad ibn ‘Umar xxvi,
yā qawmi (“O my people”) 159 38, 193, 229, 241, 247, 272, 280; “S.āh.ib
al-Yaʿqūbī, Ah.mad ibn Abī Yaʿqūb 254 al-Kashshāf” 243n5
Yathrib see Medina Zamzam, well of 24, 25, 26, 88n30, 381
yawm al-dīn (“Day of Judgment”) 72, 158, 161; king Zayd ibn ʿAlī 225
of 53 Zayd ibn Thābit 21n16, 40n58
yawm al-h.isāb (“Day of Reckoning”) 158 Zaydism 257, 267n21; see also Jārūdi Zaydism
yawm al-qiyāma (“Day of Resurrection”) 60, 61, Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn (Imam) 314
71 – 75, 158, 276; eschatological upheaval al-Zayn, Muh.ammad Fāruq 166
184; Iblīs 148; Jonah 89; oaths warning of Zazna (Kashmir) 241
157; omens 158; predictions of 160; Qur’an Zoroastrianism 6, 9, 13, 14, 121, 127; dualism 404;
7:172 – 173 (primordial witnessing) 263; Sūrat eschatology 74; Manicheans and 123
al-Aʿraf 182 al-Zubayr, Abū Jaʿfar Ah.mad ibn Ibrāhīm 166
Yemen 3, 4, 27 – 28; Jews 16; Jurhum 24; legends al-Zubayr, ʿUrwa ibn 278
15; polytheism 28; see also Nuwās, Yūsuf Dhū Zulaykhā 94
(king); ‘Tubba (king) z. ulm (“oppression”) 339, 424
yodh (letter y in Syriac) 100 Zwettler, Michael 185, 190n27
489

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THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION

Maria M. Dakake is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at George Mason University in

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO THE STUDY OF RELIGION, 2ND

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO EARLY CHRISTIAN THOUGHT

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO THE CHRISTIAN CHURCH

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO RELIGION AND FILM

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO THEISM

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO MODERN CHRISTIAN THOUGHT

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO RELIGION AND SCIENCE

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO RELIGION AND POPULAR CULTURE

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO THE PRACTICE OF CHRISTIAN

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO CHRISTIANITY IN AFRICA

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO DEATH AND DYING

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO THE QUR’AN

Edited by George Archer, Maria M. Dakake,

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

1 Late Antiquity and the Religious Milieu of the Qur’an’s Origins 3

2 Arabia: Ripe for Revelation 13

3 Mecca and Medina: The Sacred Geography of Qur’anic Revelation 23

4 God the Speaker: The Many-Named One 45

5 Humanity in Covenant With God 58

7 Abraham and His Family 80

8 Biblical Prophets: Moses, Joseph, Jonah, and Job 89

9 John, Jesus, and Mary in the Qur’an 96

10 Muhammad in the Qur’an 105

11 The Praiseworthy 115

12 The People of Scripture (Ahl al-Kitāb)121

13 Qur’anic Creation: Anthropocentric Readings and

14 Jinn in the Qur’an 145

15 Style in the Qur’an 152

16 Structure and Organization of the Qur’an 165

17 Qur’anic Kerygma: Epic, Apocalypse, and Typological Figuration 177

18 Metaphor, Symbol, and Parable in the Qur’an 191

19 The Relationship Between the Oral and the Written 200

20 Asbāb al-Nuzūl: The (Good) Occasions of Revelation 211

21 The Early Commentators of the Qur’an 223

24 The Formative Development of Shiʿi Qur’anic Exegesis 253

25 Methodological Observations in al-ʿAllāma al-T

26 The Qur’an in the Thought of Ibn ʿArabī282

27 Sufi Tafsīr 291

28 Shiʿi Ismaili Approaches to the Qur’an: From Revelation to Exegesis 303

29 Women’s Contemporary Readings of the Qur’an 319

30 War and Peace in the Qur’an 334

31 Muh. ammad ʿAbduh and Sayyid Qut․b: The Qur’an as a Tool

32 Readings of the Qur’an From Outside the Tradition 356

34 The Qur’an and Material Culture 377

35 The Qur’an and the Internet 384

36 The Qur’an in Contemporary Mass and Popular Culture 394

37 The Qur’an and Kalām402

38 The Impact of the Qur’an on Islamic Philosophy 412

39 Political Theology and the Qur’an 422

40 The Qur’an and Medicine 433

Languages and Transliteration

Part I: A Brief History of an Eternal Book

Part II: The Many Meanings of “Qur’anic Studies”

Questions of History and Revisionism

A Personal Note From Maria M. Dakake

A Personal Note From George Archer

The World Before the Qur’an

Arabia as a Place of Refuge and Proselytizing

Commerce and Conflict

Mecca: The Mother of Towns (Umm al-Qurā)

Society, Religion, and Politics in Mecca on the Eve of Islam

1 Late Antiquity and the Religious Milieu of the Qur’an’s Origins 3

2 Arabia: Ripe for Revelation 13

3 Mecca and Medina: The Sacred Geography of Qur’anic Revelation 23

4 God the Speaker: The Many-Named One 45

5 Humanity in Covenant With God 58

7 Abraham and His Family 80

8 Biblical Prophets: Moses, Joseph, Jonah, and Job 89

9 John, Jesus, and Mary in the Qur’an 96

10 Muhammad in the Qur’an 105

11 The Praiseworthy 115

12 The People of Scripture (Ahl al-Kitāb)121

14 Jinn in the Qur’an 145

15 Style in the Qur’an 152

16 Structure and Organization of the Qur’an 165

17 Qur’anic Kerygma: Epic, Apocalypse, and Typological Figuration 177

18 Metaphor, Symbol, and Parable in the Qur’an 191

19 The Relationship Between the Oral and the Written 200

20 Asbāb al-Nuzūl: The (Good) Occasions of Revelation 211

21 The Early Commentators of the Qur’an 223

24 The Formative Development of Shiʿi Qur’anic Exegesis 253

26 The Qur’an in the Thought of Ibn ʿArabī282

27 Sufi Tafsīr 291

28 Shiʿi Ismaili Approaches to the Qur’an: From Revelation to Exegesis 303

29 Women’s Contemporary Readings of the Qur’an 319

30 War and Peace in the Qur’an 334

32 Readings of the Qur’an From Outside the Tradition 356

34 The Qur’an and Material Culture 377

35 The Qur’an and the Internet 384

36 The Qur’an in Contemporary Mass and Popular Culture 394

37 The Qur’an and Kalām402

38 The Impact of the Qur’an on Islamic Philosophy 412

39 Political Theology and the Qur’an 422

40 The Qur’an and Medicine 433