The Prophetic in Constructive Muslim Theology: Creativity, Epistemic Virtues, and Vices¹

Theology, like every living discourse and tradition of knowledge that must contend with a changing and complex reality, demands revision, renewal, and recalibration. Why? In order to craft a narrative that speaks meaningfully to the challenges of our time–a narrative that expresses our commitments to the Divine through belief, action, and practice. The central theological question–the God-question–remains ever-present. It is not that this question has gone unanswered, but rather that each age must ask it anew. What matters now is how the God-question compel creative thinking, and how it confronts us with new conceptions of moral and intellectual responsibility. In this brief reflection, I will focus on the relationship between knowledge and action, with particular attention to the cultivation of epistemic virtues and the danger of epistemic vices. Knowledge is one of the greatest gifts bestowed upon humanity. In the Islamic tradition, the celebration of knowledge begins in pre-eternity, with the Qur'anic narrative of Adam's creation–a story in which Adam is taught “the names of all things,” a profound metaphor for knowledge itself. But knowledge is not static. Like life, it is dynamic, expansive, and at times overwhelming. The question today is not whether knowledge abounds, but whether we are capable of truly comprehending, embodying and communicating its complexity with clarity and depth. The obscure mystic ʿAbd al-Jabbār al-Niffarī (d.965) in one of his divine communings, writes: “He stayed me, and said to me: ‘The more the vision increases, the more the expression decreases.’” (awqafanī wa qāla lī: kullamā ittasaʿat al-ruʾya, ḍāqat al-ʿibāra).2 The wider the vision, the more compressed the expression. It is as though this insight were composed for the modern world–though with one exception. For while modernity had expanded our line of sight, our expression had become increasingly prolix. One is left to wonder whether, in our deluge of words, we are saying anything meaningful at all. Al-Niffarī's insight implies that true conciseness of expression comes only when knowledge is internalized – when it fills the soul with insight, discipline, and contentment. In such a state, words become fewer, and actions – clear and purposeful – multiply. James Baldwin, in his luminous way, echoes this vision. He reminds us that knowledge does not emerge fully formed but is always preceded by questioning. Real knowledge, like al-Niffarī's vision, points inward–toward the soul. “Real questions,” Baldwin writes, “can be absurdly phrased, and probably can be answered only by the questioner, and, at that, only in time.”3 The theologian, the social activist, the public intellectual–each must nurture a vision born of knowledge forged through genuine questioning. It is only then that knowledge becomes soul-making, only then that it yields moral clarity and transformative power. Once internalized, convictions give rise to action. Knowledge, when it takes root, becomes the impulse to move in the world–to intervene, to build, to mend. This is something learned not only by theologians, but by philosophers of education, sociologists of knowledge and political theorists. They all point to a vital truth: knowledge compells. It does things. It molds the flesh and moves the soul. It awakens in us the capacity for tenderness and brilliance, for creativity and ethical resolve. There is power in knowing–but only when that knowing leads to doing. Many verses of the Qur'an describe true believers as those “who attain to faith and who do righteous deeds.” Some grammarians and commentators note that the conjunction “and” is, in effect, superfluous–because in their view, to know God is already to act.4 Others, however, maintain that good deeds are distinct from faith itself that–they are external to the act of belief or the recognition of the truth.5 But the exegete Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (d.1210), draws our attention to something deeper: the Qur’an often expresses faith, in the past tense (āmanū).6 Grammatically, the use of the past tense suggests that faith has already been attained–that it presumes the existence of a prior substrate or essence. In this view, good deeds do not merely follow faith; they emerge from its inner source.7 Deeds are conjoined to their foundation—to that inward inspiration, orientation, and moral essence that faith makes possible. In this way, belief becomes praxis: the union of thought and action, the fusion of knowledge and embodied commitment. Knowing is power, acting is power, questioning is power. All significant human acts are entangled with power in its many forms, since knowing and acting lie at the heart of performance. Power, in short, is an ‘ability:’ the capacity to learn, to command, to persuade, to sense and to produce, among many other acts.8 To grasp the idea of love–and the ability to love someone–is an act of power. Working to fulfill tasks, from the most mundane to the most complex, is an expression of ability and, therefore, of power. From the delicate act of smelling a rose, inhaling its fragrance, and nurturing the senses to the fierce act of resisting violence, carnage and destruction–all of these are acts of power, as Michel Foucault and Talal Asad have so eloquently argued.9 Think of Muslim theology like every form of knowledge, as an elixir of power: it makes things happen, compels humans into motion, and urges them to act and perform in myriads of ways. Of course, humans sometimes pursue what is harmful–that too is a form of power–though they often strive to pursue the good. Knowledge and power are essential to the formation of the virtues. Yet any serious conversation about the virtues must also reckon with the vices–those blameworthy traits that actively militate against moral excellence. Scholars and intellectuals are expected to embody virtue and to be free from epistemic vices such as arrogance, short-sightedness and bias. For constructive Muslim theologians, awareness of these vices is central to their vocation–a concern that remains insufficiently addressed in much of the theological literature. The polymathic Muslim thinker Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī (d. 1111), in his singular meditations in the Weighscale of Action (Mīzān al-ʿAmal), argues that knowledge and action are not only inseparable but lie at the heart of the Islamic calling. Praxis, in this view, is not peripheral but the very centerpiece of any meaningful Muslim theology.10 The greatest challenge facing any knowledge project is the inescapable presence of ideological predispositions within the subject. What the knowledge-seeker must remain vigilant against are the epistemic vices that obstruct meaningful action. These vices–blameworthy traits–impede both the acquisition of knowledge and the capacity to act upon it. Al-Ghazālī identifies a primary vice, known as futūr in Arabic, encompassing meanings such as sloth, laxity, indifference, and what the Latin tradition names acedia–a torpor of the heart that stifles the pursuit of flourishing in this world and happiness in the next. To allow such indolence or spiritual lethargy to overtake one's inner life, al-Ghazālī asserts, is an act of sheer stupidity (ḥamāqa). Stupidity, in his view, is a blameworthy state–a vice not merely of the intellect but of the soul–for it deprives the self of its potential to know and to flourish.11 Al-Ghazālī understands sloth as affecting not only the body and spirit, but also as reinforcing an epistemic vice—stupidity–that stands in direct opposition to both intellectual and moral flourishing. Such a vice, corrosive to virtue and harmful to the soul, ultimately undermines the very coherence of selfhood. The work of theology is not limited to knowing and meditation—though these are certainly integral to process. At its core, theology is always a matter of action and soul-crafting. Human beings cannot flourish without acting; without moral engagement, the pursuit of happiness remains stunted. The great moral and spiritual impediment to such flourishing is what might be called moral sloth–a form of intellectual, ethical and spiritual indolence that results in a dangerous kind of blindness. One must seriously ask: what could possibly explain the fact that millions of people–and especially political leaders–have, time and again, witnessed the spectacle of genocide, from Nazi Germany to Bosnia, Rwanda, Gaza and Sudan, among other catastrophic campaigns of deliberate destruction of human life, and remain unmoved to act? Only the most perverse forms of epistemic vice could permit a state to claim the right to commit genocide under the guise of self-defense–as the state of Israel and its defenders assert. If this is not a manifestation of moral and spiritual blindness–the blindness of arrogant world leaders animated by neo-imperial ambitions–then what is? The genocidal logic of colonization, once framed as the price of progress, enlightenment, and, ironically, inflicted untold violence upon indigenous peoples across the globe. Fortunately, these once-revered axioms are now seriously being forefully interrogated by decolonial scholarship to lay bare the structures of power that produced falsehoods and marketed them as “truth.” These were not truths, but epistemic vices masquerading as virtues–in which arrogance and supremacist predispositions played a central and shameful role.12 Shall we inform you Of those whose deeds will bring them the most loss? They are those whose manner of living have strayed far While deluded into thinking they are acting righteously.13 Only character forged through sound virtue can reorient a soul adrift in self-deception. Yet paradoxically, it is often easier to work on confronting epistemic vices and rooting out negative traits, than to affirm the positive virtues themselves for even these can be subject to illusion. One can be deluded not only about one's failings, but also about one's moral successes. This is why virtue must be continually examined, monitored, and refined. Complacency is not a theological option. As theologians and ethicists, we are especially susceptible to the temptation of speaking passionately about virtues while neglecting the inner moral ailments that corrode all goodness–even consuming faith itself, like wildfire. Organic intellectuals are not immune from the vices of the soul. Those of us who take up the mantle of constructive theology and soul-crafting must begin with vigilant self-examination. We are in Nietzsche's haunting words “a rope across an abyss”–always at a “perilous crossing, a perilous transit, a perilous looking-back, a perilous shuddering and stopping.”14 One way of combating delusional thinking is to take seriously the counsel of the theologian, jurist, practitioner of self-purification and moralist, Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya (d.1292).15 It is important to note that in Islamic theology kufr the gravest of sins–is not simply an error in belief, but carries a strong valence of epistemic vice. Kufr is not ignorance in the ordinary sense; it is the willful, deliberate, and knowing rejection of the truth! For Ibn al-Qayyim, kufr is not merely a cognitive stance or a failure of doctrinal assent. Rather, it emerges from a prior moral and embodied condition–a disposition shaped by deeply rooted vices and destructive practices. In his analysis, the mind and body conspire in acts of self-corruption. This position, Ibn al-Qayyim writes, by what he termss the “pillars of unbelief or ingratitude (kufr)”–four primary vices that anchor the soul in moral blindness: arrogance (kibr), envy (ḥasad), anger (ghaḍab) and lust (shahwa). These are not incidental flaws, but bound foundational corruptions that prefigure the rejection of the truth and render the soul unreceptive to divine guidance. “When the pillar of arrogance is dismantled (inhadama) it becomes easy for the moral subject to submit to the truth (inqiyād). When the pillar of envy is removed, accepting sincere counsel–and offering it to others–becomes possible. When the pillar of anger is brought low, the soul finds it easier to act with justice and humility. And, when the pillar of lust is subdued, the path opens toward patience, chastity and worship. Yet, it is easier to imagine mountains vanishing from their foundations, than to see these four vices retreat in the one afflicted by them–especially when they have hardened into entrenched attitudes, immovable habits and deeply rooted dispositions.”16 They owe their existence not only to the efforts of the great minds and talents who have created them, but also to the anonymous toil of their contemporaries. There is no document of civilization which is not at the same time a document of barbarism. And just as such a document is not free of barbarism, barbarism taints also the manner in which it was transmitted from one owner to another.18 Once again, Baldwin was prescient in grasping how corrosive intellectual vices can be–and how often they are concealed beneath the fig-leaf of politics, power and culture. A profound moral philosophy is encapsulated in Baldwin's single, lyrical sentence, which echoes the Benjaminian paradox of the so-called “document of civilization” being at the same time, a document of barbarism. Baldwin put it more poetically: “People who treat other people as less than human must not be surprised when the bread they have cast on the waters come floating back to them poisoned.”19 For centuries colonized and oppressed people have thought to themselves, as Baldwin writes: “Only when we have passed this moment will we know what our history has made of us.”20 Baldwin understood the paradoxes of the human condition–how history and injustice shape not only the structures of society but also the texture of the soul and the formation of the self. Today, the Muslim constructive theologian is confronted with the urgent task of interrupting the theological-aesthetic-political field of possibility. What does this mean? It means that all inherited narratives–both from within the Islamic tradition as well as those from without–must be subjected to continuous inquiry, excavation, and critical discernment. Tradition, while indispensable to the recovery of soul and self, must not be sacralized into finality. In the ethos of a critical traditionalism, tradition has a vote, not a veto. 21 Baldwin knew we do not arrive at truth all at once. But we must begin by asking, by attempting, by seeking–even if the answers come slowly, even if they come only to those who have the courage to ask. The highest learning is to recognize the Being of all being–God–when revelation and reason, knowledge and action are interwoven and interlocked. Muslim theology, by its very nature, is addressed to the world; its claim is universal. This is why the term public theology–especially of a constructive or engaged kind–often arises, though it is in some ways redundant. Knowing and acting are integral to faith: there is no faith without knowledge, and there is no faith without action. There is no promise in Islam of a kingdom of God on earth, nor a messianic utopia awaiting the faithful in this world. What there is, however, is the reality of accountability in the hereafter. What this world demands of us is the recognition and pursuit of justice–here and now. Learning and action reveal the intricate webs of injustice in which humanity is entangled, and which must be unveiled. Without justice, faith is reduced to a handmaiden of power–manipulated by interests that may not always appear explicitly malign or benign, but are inevitably disrupted by human greed, partiality and systematic unfairness. The modern world has become an epicenter of injustice precisely because so many of its theories and rationalizations have functioned as an elaborate cover-up for historic injustices and ongoing wrongs across multiple registers. Our Lord, make us surrender ourselves to You, And from our descendants a community/nation (umma) which surrenders itself to You Show us our rituals of piety22 And forgive us. You are All-Forgiving Our Lord, send them a Messenger, from among them, Who shall recite to them Your verses, Teaching them the Book and the Wisdom, And who shall purify them. You are the Almighty, All-Wise.23 (Q. 2:128-129) He it was Who raised up a Messenger from among an unlettered people, to recite His verses to them, to purify them and to teach them the Book and the Wisdom, though before, they had been in manifest error—and others from among them who have not yet joined them. He is Almighty, All-Wise.24 (Q. 62:2-3) Constructive Muslim theology, properly understood, is an experiential community of compassion– a lived polity in which justice is cultivated, and intellectual vigilance is balanced by much needed spiritual discernment blended with wisdom since the “form of crisis changes” constantly.25 Such a theology is alert not only to the virtues it seeks to affirm, but also to the epistemic vices that threaten to undermine them. It is a tradition, but a living tradition: always unfinished, always evolving. Its future lies in shaping an epistemology that is both vigilant and inclusive–rigorous in self-critique, yet capacious enough to hold complexity. All forms of knowledge in their entirety are mutually reinforcing with some to The to the is so that one is not to knowledge of which one is For human beings are of what they are on the of the truth through inquiry, so that you may become a who an not in the of one who a like a The may appear to you the you are by a others like each you that will you to and Only when you for to follow only then will you the of there is no in of all and what you see At what use is to If these words more than you to inherited to compel you toward it has its leads you to the Who does not to Who does not to Without insight, you remain and We from such a