Grounded

Qaswa House

Grounded is a practical Islamic framework for living with clarity, resilience, and purpose in an age of distraction. Drawing on traditional Islamic scholarship, adapted for modern life, it offers a steady way of living faith — not by escaping the modern world, but by standing firmly within it. www.grounded.day

  1. Khutbah: Hajj, the Jamarāt, and the Sacrifice of Ibrāhīm ﷺ

    2 DAYS AGO

    Khutbah: Hajj, the Jamarāt, and the Sacrifice of Ibrāhīm ﷺ

    There’s a moment in Hajj most people only think about as a logistical headache — the stoning of the Jamarāt. Crowded, hot, exhausting. You queue up, you throw, you move on. But behind that act is one of the most instructive scenes in our religion. And it happens to a father and a son, thousands of years before any of us were born. ----- Ibrāhīm ﷺ waited decades for a child. He was an old man — the only worshipper of Allāh in his world. Just him, his wife, and his cousin Lūṭ. That was the entire ummah. He made duʿāʾ. Allāh gave him a son. And then, as soon as Ismāʿīl reached the age the Qurʾān describes as **بَلَغَ مَعَهُ السَّعْيَ** — old enough to walk with him, work with him, hike with him, that beautiful pre-teenage age where the father is still the hero — Allāh told Ibrāhīm in a dream to slaughter him. I want you to sit with that for a second. Not as a young man tested with his own life. As a father, tested with his only son. Allāh wasn’t asking him for everything. Allāh was asking him for the *one thing* most dear to him. This is the test that meets you in fatherhood. The test of whether Allāh comes before everything — including the people you love most. Both of them passed. Both submitted. The son said: > يَا أَبَتِ افْعَلْ مَا تُؤْمَرُ ۖ سَتَجِدُنِي إِن شَاءَ اللَّهُ مِنَ الصَّابِرِينَ > > *O my dear father, do as you have been commanded. You will find me, in shāʾ Allāh, among the patient ones.* ----- Now here is the part I want you to focus on. On the way to the slaughter, Iblīs came. And what he whispered wasn’t crude. It was clever. He listed every sacrifice Ibrāhīm had already made: *You were thrown into the fire. You were exiled. You migrated. You circumcised at an old age. Hasn’t Allāh asked enough of you? And now your only son?* Ibrāhīm ﷺ didn’t argue. He didn’t debate. He didn’t even just make duʿāʾ for protection. He bent down. He picked up seven pebbles. And he threw them. *Allāhu Akbar. Allāhu Akbar. Allāhu Akbar.* Then he moved. Iblīs came again, at a second spot. Seven more pebbles. *Allāhu Akbar.* He moved again. Iblīs came a third time. Seven pebbles. *Allāhu Akbar.* And Iblīs left, and didn’t come back. ----- Every Hajj, two to three million Muslims re-enact this. We throw stones at three pillars. We say *Allāhu Akbar.* We move on. But I think most of us don’t realise what we’re commemorating. We’re not just throwing rocks at a symbol of evil. We’re rehearsing a *method*. **Ibrāhīm didn’t only make duʿāʾ. He picked up stones.** This is something I think about a lot. We have a tendency, when something is hard, to make duʿāʾ and then sit down. As if duʿāʾ alone is the entire toolkit. As if Allāh wants nothing more from us than our words. But Allāh gave us hands. He gave us bodies. He gave us pebbles. He wants to see what skin we have in the game. Not just our tongues — our *physicality.* He wants to see us bend down, pick something up, and throw it. Make duʿāʾ. *And then act.* ----- The second thing Ibrāhīm did was even more underrated. **He moved.** He didn’t stay at the same spot and keep throwing. He moved to a new location. And then another. This is huge. Because the lesson is: your environment shapes you. You cannot defeat the whisper of Iblīs while standing in the same place that lets him whisper. We have a principle in Islam — *al-jārū qabla al-dār.* The neighbour before the house. Look at your neighbourhood before you look at the property. The Prophet ﷺ said a person is on the religion of their closest friend. The one you spend the most time with — that’s who you become. So when we ask Allāh to protect us from a sin, from a bad habit, from a toxic relationship, from a destructive workplace — and then we go right back into the same room, with the same people, in the same scroll, on the same screen — we are standing where Ibrāhīm refused to stand. Move. Move your body. Move your house. Move your friendship circle. Move your phone out of the bedroom. If you keep falling asleep when you open the muṣḥaf, don’t read in bed — find a chair, find a desk, have a cup of coffee. Don’t try to outlast Iblīs from his own territory. Pick up the pebbles, throw, and walk somewhere else. ----- Here’s what gives me hope. Ibrāhīm ﷺ moved *three times.* And then Iblīs left. He didn’t come back. That’s the promise embedded in this story. If you keep throwing and you keep moving, eventually the whisper gives up and goes looking for someone else. The struggle isn’t infinite. It just feels infinite when you stand still. And the ending of Ibrāhīm and Ismāʿīl’s story is the ending of every story where someone gives Allāh everything: nobody died. Allāh replaced the sacrifice with a great one. The son lived. The father was honoured. The act was immortalised in our worship until the end of time. When you put Allāh first — really first, not in a sentimental way but in a *here are my hands, here are my pebbles, here is the room I’m walking out of* kind of way — you don’t lose. Barakah flows through everything you touch. ----- So this Dhū al-Ḥijjah, even if you’re not at the Jamarāt this year, take the lesson home with you. What is your Iblīs whispering at you right now? What’s the pebble you need to pick up? And — this is the harder one — *what is the spot you need to move from?* Throw. Then move. Throw. Then move. He gives up before you do. ----- *With duʿāʾ for those making Hajj this year, and for those still building toward it.* This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.grounded.day/subscribe

    31 min
  2. Tafsir Thursday: An Overview of Early Revelation — Where Surah Al-Muddathir Lands

    6 DAYS AGO

    Tafsir Thursday: An Overview of Early Revelation — Where Surah Al-Muddathir Lands

    Assalamualaikum warahmatullahi wabarakatuh. This term, Term 2 of 2026, Grounded begins its study of Surah Al-Muddathir. Last term covered Surah Al-Muzzammil, and these two surahs reflect each other in meaning. Before opening the ayat itself, this first session steps back to map the landscape — where Al-Muddathir sits in the early revelation to the Prophet ﷺ, and what each surah was teaching him in sequence. Grounded is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. The Cave and the Cry for Guidance At around 35 years old, the Prophet ﷺ began withdrawing from his community into spiritual seclusion. He would travel about five kilometres from Makkah to the cave of Hira, following a pattern set long before him by Ibrahim عليه السلام and his family. The Makkah he was withdrawing from was a city in moral disrepair. He could see the disease, but could not yet see the cure. So he would isolate himself, reflect, and pray for a way out — not just for himself, but for his people. When he was 40 years old, the answer came. The First Revelation: Iqra — Read The first revelation was the opening five ayat of Surah Al-’Alaq, beginning with the command: اقْرَأْ — Read. Pause on what is happening here. The Prophet ﷺ was unlettered. He was sent to a community that was overwhelmingly illiterate — some scholars say you could count on the fingers of both hands the number of people in Makkah at that time who could read and write. And the very first word Allah revealed to this man, in this place, was a command to read. This was revolutionary in human history. Before this moment, reading was largely the reserved privilege of the scholarly and the clergy — priests and religious authorities who needed access to scripture. A normal person, even a king, often did not need to read; they had scribes for that. Reading was an elite, ceremonial activity. Iqra democratised reading. It pulled it out of the temple and the palace and placed it in the hands of every believer. Allah did not first command the Prophet ﷺ to pray, to fast, or to perform Hajj. The first command — to him, and by extension to the Muslim community — was to read. Muslims have to be readers. This is the first command. Grounded is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. The Second Revelation: Al-Qalam — The Pen After this first encounter, the Prophet ﷺ was terrified. He thought he was losing his mind, that he was seeing things, that he had been touched by jinn. He went home and Khadijah رضي الله عنها calmed him down. Then came Surah Al-Qalam: ن ۚ وَالْقَلَمِ وَمَا يَسْطُرُونَ Nun. By the pen and what they write. The nun is one of the disjointed letters whose meaning only Allah knows. But the rest of the ayah is clear: an oath by the pen and what it writes. The reference is to the pen of the Lawh al-Mahfudh — but the message to humanity is the elevation of writing. There is a difference of opinion among the scholars about which surah was the second revelation — Al-Qalam, Al-Muzzammil, or Al-Muddathir. The position taken here is that it is Al-Qalam, for two reasons. First, Surah Al-Qalam contains the ayah: مَا أَنتَ بِنِعْمَةِ رَبِّكَ بِمَجْنُونٍ You, by the favour of your Lord, are not mad. The Prophet ﷺ had just walked away from the cave terrified that he was going crazy. Before any further mission could be loaded onto him, Allah needed to settle his heart: you are not mad. This is real. This is the answer to what you have been asking for. Second, the message of the pen and what is written sits naturally next to Iqra. First read. Then write. Allah is establishing the foundations of a literate ummah before He establishes anything else. A Civilisation Built on the Pen This focus on reading and writing wasn’t just a private spiritual instruction to one man — it shaped a civilisation. A clear example is the Battle of Talas in 751 CE. When the Muslims defeated the Tang Chinese army, among the prisoners were craftsmen who knew the secret of papermaking. Until that point, paper was a closely guarded Chinese technology. Through those captives, papermaking entered the Muslim world — Samarkand, then Baghdad, then across North Africa and into Andalusia, and from there into the rest of Europe. The world before mass paper was a world of parchment and scroll — expensive, ceremonial, reserved for royal edicts and palace records. The world after was a world where ordinary people could own books. The intellectual explosion of the Islamic Golden Age — the libraries of Baghdad, the universities of Cordoba, the translation movements — was built on this foundation. The first command was Iqra. The second oath was by the pen. Acquiring and preserving knowledge isn’t just useful for humanity. It is a religious command. The Third Revelation: Al-Muzzammil — The One Wrapped Tightly After reading and writing comes Surah Al-Muzzammil: يَا أَيُّهَا الْمُزَّمِّلُ ۞ قُمِ اللَّيْلَ إِلَّا قَلِيلًا O you who is wrapped up. Stand the night, except for a little. Muzzammil describes someone wrapped tightly in their cloak — the kind of wrapping you reach for when you’re shivering, when you want to be held by your blanket. The Prophet ﷺ had come home shaken, and pulled his cloak tightly around himself. And in that state, the command came: stand the night. This is the command for spiritual work. Qiyamul layl. Take the knowledge that has been given to you — iqra, al-qalam — and turn it inward first. Transform yourself before you try to transform anything else. This is where revelation begins its real work on the believer: not in the marketplace, not in the public square, but at night, alone, standing before Allah. The Fourth Revelation: Al-Muddathir — The One Covered And then comes the surah Grounded begins this term: يَا أَيُّهَا الْمُدَّثِّرُ ۞ قُمْ فَأَنذِرْ O you who is covered. Stand up and warn. Muddathir is a softer wrapping than muzzammil. Muzzammil is the tight, terrified wrap of someone shivering. Muddathir is the more relaxed cover — like the blanket you pull over yourself on these cooler autumn nights in Perth, not clutched, just resting on you, comfortable. And the command this time is different. Qum fa-andhir — stand up and warn your people. This is community work. Notice the sequence Allah is teaching: 1. Iqra — read. 2. Al-Qalam — write. 3. Al-Muzzammil — work on yourself in the night. 4. Al-Muddathir — go out and work for your community in the day. Read and write. Acquire knowledge. Turn that knowledge into self-transformation. Then take that transformed self into the community and contribute. A good Muslim is not someone who simply sits at home reciting Quran, doing tasbih, doing dhikr, fasting, and isolating from the world. Those things are essential — non-negotiable, in fact. But the next question is always: how does this benefit the rest of creation? What is the contribution to the community? The Two Cannot Be Separated There is a tendency to split these two — to treat the spiritual person and the activist as different categories. Islam fuses them. The Prophet ﷺ taught this fusion in a single hadith, narrated by Abdullah ibn Salam — a Jewish rabbi in Madinah who heard the first lecture and immediately recognised the signs of the final messenger. The Prophet ﷺ said: يَا أَيُّهَا النَّاسُ، أَفْشُوا السَّلَامَ، وَأَطْعِمُوا الطَّعَامَ، وَصِلُوا الْأَرْحَامَ، وَصَلُّوا بِاللَّيْلِ وَالنَّاسُ نِيَامٌ، تَدْخُلُوا الْجَنَّةَ بِسَلَامٍ. O people, spread peace, feed the hungry, maintain family ties, and pray at night while people are sleeping — you will enter Paradise in peace. Look at the structure of that hadith. Three of the four instructions are outward — spread peace, feed people, connect family ties. These are daytime acts, community acts, the work of being among people. Only the last — pray at night while people sleep — is solitary spiritual work. The day is for community work. The night is for spiritual work. The night recharges the day. The day expresses what the night built. Spreading peace is tiring. Feeding people is tiring. Holding broken family relationships together is tiring. Where does the motivation come from? It comes from the night — from the extra Quran, the extra dhikr, the ayat of Jannah and Jahannam read in the silence when everyone else is asleep. That motivation then spills out into the next day’s work. The Maxim of the Scholars The scholars of this ummah captured this balance in a maxim worth memorising: Knowledge without practice is like a tree that bears no fruit. Practice without knowledge is craziness. A reader who never acts is a barren tree. An actor who never reads is a danger — to himself and to everyone around him. Surah Al-Muddathir lands precisely here. By the time this revelation comes, the Prophet ﷺ has been told to read, told to write, and told to stand the night and work on himself. Now, finally: stand up and warn your people. This is where Grounded picks up next week, opening the first ten ayat of Surah Al-Muddathir, إن شاء الله. This Week’s Take-Home Audit your own balance this week. Ask honestly: • Reading and writing — am I taking in knowledge, or has my intake quietly stopped? • Self-work — what am I doing in the night that no one else sees? • Community work — what am I doing in the day that benefits people beyond myself? If three of these are strong and one is empty, that’s the one to start with this week. See you Tuesday for Tajweed Tuesday, a

    17 min
  3. The Size of a Chickpea

    4 APR

    The Size of a Chickpea

    We praise Allah for allowing us to experience and complete another Ramadan. And now that we’ve emerged from it, there’s a question worth sitting with: what comes next? Imam Ibn Rajab al-Hanbali mentions that the pious predecessors would spend six months after Ramadan asking Allah to accept their deeds — and the remaining months begging Him to let them witness another one. That’s the rhythm. Gratitude, then longing. Never stagnation. But the Qur’an gives us something even more precise than that rhythm. It gives us a transition. In Surah al-Baqarah, the discussion of Ramadan begins at ayah 183 — *kutiba alaykum al-siyam* — and runs through to ayah 187. Then, immediately, in ayah 189, Allah says: **يَسْأَلُونَكَ عَنِ الْأَهِلَّةِ** *They ask you about the crescent moons.* The companions asked Rasulullah ﷺ about the significance of the moon’s phases — crescent to full, waning and returning. Allah answered that the moon exists so that humanity can track time. So we know when a month begins and when it ends. (I understand this topic is sensitive in Perth. We’ll leave that there.) But then, immediately, Allah connects this to Hajj. “Qul hiya mawaqitu li al-nas wa al-hajj.” The crescents are time-markers for people — and for Hajj. The transition is beautiful. One act of worship ends. The next one begins. No gap. No off-season. The life of a believer is simply moving from one ibadah to the next. The same Lord we worshipped in Ramadan is the same Lord who governs every moment outside of it. Ramadan ending doesn’t mean the haram becomes negotiable again, or the wajib becomes optional. We have a new aim now. Grounded is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. ----- Now, not everyone can perform Hajj. It’s a mathematical impossibility. Two billion Muslims, roughly two million pilgrimage spots per year — the number has been reduced since COVID. Do the maths. It would take something like 700 years before every Muslim alive today gets a turn. That’s why Hajj is the only pillar where Allah specifies man istata’a ilayhi sabila — for those who are able. Ability is a condition. But the mindset still applies. The transition from one ibadah to the next is for everyone. ----- There are so many dimensions to Hajj worth unpacking. But I want to focus on one moment — a snapshot — from the stoning at the Jamarat. The backstory is Sayyidina Ibrahim عليه السلام. He was commanded by Allah, through a dream, to sacrifice his only son at that time, Isma’il. And when he told his son — and Allah recorded this exchange in the Qur’an — Isma’il responded with full submission: *ifʿal mā tu’mar* — do as you have been commanded. You will find me among the patient. But Isma’il set conditions. He said: don’t do it in Makkah, because if I scream, my mother will hear and it will break her heart. And make sure the blade is sharp so it’s quick. (Side note to the sons in the room: if your father knocks on your door and says he saw a dream about slaughtering you — dial 000. These days, the worst our fathers do is say, “Son, wake up for Fajr.” And even that’s a struggle.) Father and son walked about five or six kilometres from Makkah to Mina. And at each of the three stations along the way, Iblis appeared. He whispered. He cast doubt. He said: *You’ve done enough. You built the Ka’bah. You migrated from Iraq to Jerusalem to Makkah. You’ve sacrificed so much already. Why this? Just say no.* At each station, Ibrahim took seven pebbles, threw them in the direction of Iblis — *Allahu Akbar* — and moved on. After the third station, Iblis left and never came back. Falamma aslama wa tallahu li al-jabin. When both of them submitted fully — the father resolute, the son’s forehead on the stone — Allah called out. The test was fulfilled. A great sacrifice was sent in Isma’il’s place. ----- Thousands of years later, during the Hajj of the Prophet ﷺ — Hajjat al-Wada’ — as he was riding his camel towards the Jamarat, he told Sayyidina Abdullah ibn Abbas: get me some pebbles. Ibn Abbas picked up pebbles about the size you could flick between your thumb and index finger. Our scholars later said: about the size of a chickpea. Rasulullah ﷺ took them and said: yes, get more of this size. And then he addressed the community. He said: **يَا أَيُّهَا النَّاسُ، إِيَّاكُمْ وَالْغُلُوَّ فِي الدِّينِ** *O people, beware of extremism in religion. For nations before you were destroyed because of extremism in religion.* Think about that. This is a moment about picking up a rock. A small, mundane, physical act. But Rasulullah ﷺ saw the teaching opportunity and seized it. Because it’s easy to go overboard here. You’re reliving what Ibrahim went through. You’re stoning Iblis. A chickpea-sized pebble? That’s not going to cut it. You want to find the nearest cricket club, practice your bowling, and make sure Iblis doesn’t come back next year. But no. The Prophet ﷺ said: this is the size. Not too big — you’re not hurling rocks. Not too small — you’re not flicking grains of rice. Just right. The balance. ----- So where do we draw the line on extremism? I was speaking to some of the high school students at Qaswa about the practices of our predecessors in Ramadan. Imam al-Shafi’i would complete two full readings of the Qur’an every day during Ramadan — one in the day, one at night. That’s sixty khatam in one month. The students said: that’s extreme, isn’t it? I said: well, how do you define extreme? Let’s pull out our phones. Check the screen time. How many hours on TikTok? How many on Instagram? People are clocking seven, eight, ten hours a day staring at a screen. Now imagine we could transport Imam al-Shafi’i into 2026. We tell him: Muslims today stare at a glowing rectangle for ten hours a day, getting no benefit, and it’s actually harming them. He would say: that’s extremely stupid, isn’t it? So who defines what’s extreme? Rasulullah ﷺ does. Because he is the most balanced of humanity. The mark of this Ummah, as Allah describes it in the Qur’an: ummatan wasata — a balanced nation. When three companions each decided to push further — one would pray all night and never sleep, one would fast every day and never break it, one would worship and never marry — the Prophet ﷺ said: I am the one with the most taqwa among you. Yet I pray and I sleep. I fast and I break my fast. I worship and I marry. This is my sunnah. Whoever turns away from my sunnah is not from me. Everything has a right. Your body has a right — good nutrition, good rest. Your family has a right. Allah has a right over you in worship. Giving every aspect its due — that’s balance. ----- Let me sketch a few dimensions of this balance. Balance in belief. Islam respects both revelation and reason. We believe because Allah told us to believe — in Him, in the angels, in the books, in the prophets, in the Last Day, in qadar. These are revelatory matters. But our tradition also respects the intellect. Look at how Ibrahim عليه السلام argued with his people in Surah al-An’am. He didn’t just say: stop worshipping your idols because Allah says so. He engaged their logic. Idols you carved with your own hands — you made them, and now you bow to them? They don’t speak, don’t benefit you, don’t harm you. Why? And then the stars. He observed the kawkab — a beautiful star — and said sarcastically: this is my lord? But when it set, he said: I don’t love things that disappear. God can’t be present at some times and absent at others. I need God every moment. Then the moon appeared, full and bright. He said: this is my lord? But when it set, he said: *if my Lord had not guided me, I would certainly be among those who are astray.* Notice the shift. In the first argument, Ibrahim used pure logic — God can’t appear and disappear. But in the second, he acknowledged that arriving at the worship of Allah requires revelation. Intellect can deny what is not God. But to know who God is, you need guidance. Imam al-Ghazali captured this beautifully. He said: revelation is like the sun, and reason is like eyesight. Without the sun, there’s nothing to see. But without eyesight, you can’t appreciate the light. Both together — that’s how you see. If you rely only on revelation, your faith works fine within a Muslim bubble. The moment it’s challenged from outside, it crumbles. If you rely only on reason, you can conclude that God must exist — but you’ll never arrive at which God, or how to worship Him. Both, hand in hand. Ummatan wasata. Balance in practice. There are people so focused on the physicality of worship — how to raise the hands, where to place them, how to stand — that they forget the deeper purpose. Prayer isn’t calisthenics. When Allah says aqim al-salah li dhikri — establish prayer to remember Me — He’s pointing to something beyond movement. Every act of worship in Islam is meant to produce beautiful character. The Prophet ﷺ said: I was only sent to perfect noble character. If the more religious we become, the harsher our behaviour gets — something is broken. The balance is off. Allah tells us that prayer prevents shamelessness and evil. Yet we see people who pray, and in the same breath they double-park on someone without a care. The same tongue that recites Qur’an goes on to slander. The same hands that move in salah take what doesn’t belong to them. How? Because the spiritual dimension was missing. If you truly stood before Allah in prayer — before the Creator of the heavens and the earth and everything in between — there has to be an after-effect. If you get called to the CEO’s office and told off, you’ll behave well for at least a few

    28 min

About

Grounded is a practical Islamic framework for living with clarity, resilience, and purpose in an age of distraction. Drawing on traditional Islamic scholarship, adapted for modern life, it offers a steady way of living faith — not by escaping the modern world, but by standing firmly within it. www.grounded.day

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