Imagine an alien landing on earth and stumbling into the middle of a childbirth. What would they see? A woman screaming in pain, another woman pulling something from her body, blood everywhere. To the untrained eye, it would look like horror. The alien’s instinct might be to push the midwife away, stop the chaos, rescue the mother from her torment. Only later would they realize: what they were witnessing was not death, but life. Not destruction but a most miraculous creation.

Many of our deepest crises look the same. To the one suffering, and even to those watching from the outside, depression can appear to be an ending. It feels like something has collapsed, and it is hard to imagine that anything good could ever grow from the ruins. But what if this darkness is not a conclusion at all? What if it is the prelude to a birth?

The Emptying Out

The famous spiritual poet Rumi once compared human life to a guest house. Every day, new visitors arrive — joy, sorrow, shame, loneliness. Some sweep in like honored guests; others come like thieves, violently clearing out the furniture. Yet Rūmī urges us to welcome them all. Even the painful visitors, he says, “may be clearing you out for some new delight.” He concludes by adding: 

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Here is the gift of depression: it humbles us, it brings us to our knees — and that is the perfect posture for prayer. It holds up a mirror to the hollow places inside and demands reflection. If we seize it, that pause becomes soul‑searching.

These sorrows are not random intruders; they are guides, messengers pointing beyond themselves, whispering: there must be more. The exposure hurts, but it is also preparation — the clearing that makes room for what is next.

You Are Not Alone

When you are depressed, it is easy to feel utterly alone — as if no one else could possibly understand. Some of us discover that there are darker places even below rock bottom, and we may be convinced nobody else has ever endured such an abyss of despair.

But history is full of companions who have walked this road before us.

Buddha was born into royalty, a prince surrounded by every comfort. Yet he wandered for years, restless and unsatisfied, before sitting under the Bodhi tree in despair. The Russian novelist Dostoevsky endured prison, poverty, and thoughts of suicide before writing works that would change world literature. Tolstoy, at the height of fame, confessed that he could no longer see the point of living at all — until he was reborn into a different way of seeing life.

Within the Islamic tradition too, some of the greatest masters passed through darkness before their renewal.

There has long been a well-known tension within the Muslim world — a tension that has at times created deep frictions that threatened to tear the ummah apart.

I am speaking of the two major traditions or “wings” of Islam: Sharia — traditional Islamic sciences — versus Tariqah — the Sufi, spiritual path. Over the centuries, there has been great respect between them, particularly in the middle ground, where many scholars have inhabited both worlds. Yet it is undeniable that there has also been misunderstanding and suspicion.

A well-known metaphor beautifully expresses the relationship between the two: Sharia is like the body of a human being, while Sufism is like its soul. Neither can survive without the other. Another metaphor is that Sharia represents the brain and Tariqah the heart; or that one represents the masculine side of faith and the other the feminine side. All of these images emphasize that the two traditions are not meant to compete but to complete one another.

While I was recently reflecting on this relationship, a very different image appeared to me in a spiritual vision — a short story that felt more vivid in its details, one that also happens to integrate all these other metaphors.

The Palace and Its Guardians

Imagine a powerful king with a family very dear to him — his children, his wife, his closest relatives. To protect and house them, he builds a magnificent palace. As all such palaces, this one too was designed so that the most precious ones were placed farthest from the outside world and its dangers, shielded by multiple layers of protection.

As we approach this palace, we encounter layers of guardians. This is the first key image: the guardians. The palace has high walls and imposing gates, and at every door and tower stand the guards. If you have ever seen the guards of a palace, even today in Europe, you know these are stern, serious people. A smiling, casually engaging guard is not a good one. Their intensive training — like that of soldiers or police — prepares them to be vigilant, alert, and suspicious, because they know what is at stake.

And they are not vigilant idly. Just as the police or military know that threats are constant, these guardians understand that all sorts of enemies are always plotting to get inside. To bring down a nation or an empire, enemies will aim at the king himself — or worse, the children who carry the future. So the guards live each day with the knowledge that danger is real, constant, and directed at the heart of the palace.

In this metaphor, these guardians are the Sharia scholars….

(A Story for young adults, those young at heart, and all Harry Potter fans.)

A gaggle of Hogwarts students, their robes askew and faces alight with curiosity, once gathered around me in the shadowy depths of the library. “Professor,” they whispered, their voices hushed with reverence, “Tell us of ‘the Secret One.’ Our teachers speak only of potions and charms, but not of the Secret One who first conjured real magic into being.”

I smiled, a twinkle in my eye. “Ah, but my dear students,” I replied, “each subject you study, every potion you brew, and every charm you cast, whispers of the Secret One in its own mystical tongue. Listen closely, and you shall hear the echoes of His Divine hand in every incantation.”

“Imagine, if you will,” I began, “a most extraordinary apothecary, its shelves brimming with shimmering glass bottles and bubbling cauldrons. Within each jar, a wondrous elixir, brewed with ingredients gathered from the farthest reaches of the enchanted world, each measure precise and potent. Surely, such a wondrous place would speak of a master alchemist, a potioneer of unparalleled skill. So much so that, even our legendary Headmaster Albus Dumbledore wishes he could be an apprentice at the feet of such a Lord of Magical Medicine.”

“And so it is with our Earth,” I continued, “a living apothecary, teeming with millions of species of magical creatures and fantastical plants, each a vessel brimming with life-giving remedies. This Earthly apothecary, far grander than a thousandDiagon Alleys, whispers of a Divine Healer, a Genius Scientist who breathed life into every beast and bloom.”

Albert Einstein famously said that his greatest wish was to know “what God thinks”. So, if we were to wonder like that great genius: If God sends a 600-page book of guidance… to all humanity… that He intends to last for eternity… what would be the very first word of that book?

“All Gratitude and Praise be to Allah, the Lord (Cherisher and Sustainer) of the entire Universe.” (Al Fatiha, Verse 1)

The very first word God says as He starts to “speak”, and by extension, the most important lesson He wants humans to understand — in this mind-boggling mystery in which we all found ourselves that we call life — is to be grateful.

Such is the importance of these words that every Muslim is instructed to recite this sentence (at least) 17 times a day!

So, that’s it. That’s all! It is simply the realization of the immensity and beauty and perfection of all the gifts that God blessed us with by bringing us to life. In this wonderland, we call the Earth. In a much grander wonderland, called the Universe. And He does remind us that “He is the Cherisher and Sustainer of the Universe.”

But, how about praise?

The Quran is the Divine Book of Islam, and Muslims believe that it is the Word of God, unaltered. And Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said it will remain “his greatest miracle until the end of time.”

Clearly, these are bold claims, and a non-Muslim has every right to be skeptical about their truth. I will discuss these claims and the evidence put forward in detail in future posts.

For now though, what matters is that regardless of whether you believe this or not, these statements reflect how Muslims view the Quran.So, if you want to know what Islam is — as understood by Muslims — you start with the Quran.

First: A unique feature of the Quran is its hierarchical structure: that all the (600-page!) Quran is summarized in its first Chapter (1/3-page long!), and that the first chapter is summarized in the first Sentence.

(You may notice that this is precisely the format of modern scientific articles: “Article summarized in Introduction summarized in Abstract”, which I find pretty remarkable for a book that goes back 1500 years.)

So, what does that first sentence say? Here it is:

Once, there was an artist named Michelangelo.

He was hailed as the greatest artist the world had seen.

His passion was to paint scenes onto walls and ceilings. Especially the ceilings of temples. His greatest piece was the mural he painted in fresco on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

One day, it was announced that Michelangelo had repainted the ceiling, decorating it with a new mural, which was going to be revealed with a ceremony. The rumor around the town was that the Master called it “The greatest artwork I’ll ever manage to create”.

When the news spread, crowds flocked in from near and far. Artists came from all over the world to catch a glimpse of this immortal beauty. They started to line up the night before, waiting to be the first ones to witness the mysterious artwork nobody had seen before.

When the time came for the reveal, all eyes were glued to the ceiling. As the great artist and his assistants slowly pulled the cover off the ceiling, the whole chapel fell into silence, followed by rousing sounds of awe.