When Will We Become Relevant?

A young Muslim man sits slumped in the back row of the masjid during Jumu'ah, thumb scrolling through TikTok. The Imam's voice echoes through the hall, but the words might as well be in another dimension.

He thinks:

"The khutbah felt like it was addressed to angels, not people who work construction, drive Uber, or are drowning in rent."

He's not being disrespectful. He's just exhausted. And lost. And honestly? He stopped listening months ago.

The Imam talks about taqwa, ihsan, and the dangers of ghaflah. Such beautiful concepts to the Imam and people like him. Profound truths.

But to the TikTok doom scroller? They’re words they’ve either heard but never understood, or heard for the 1000th time, maybe learnt a little about what they mean, but never internalised, let alone implemented them.

Islam is perfect. But our communication of it is not.

The message hasn't changed in 1,400 years. The language? It's trapped in a time capsule from, at best, the 1990s while the world has moved on at lightspeed.

Here's the brutal truth: The Prophets spoke to their people. We speak to ourselves. And the gap is swallowing a generation.

The average person doesn't hear peace, hope, clarity, or mercy. He hears complexity, distance, formality, and abstraction. Already burdened by life, trying to navigate finances, education or relationships, and now another thing to apparently worry about - Islam.

Don’t miscontrue this, Islam’s message is perfect and beautiful. Transforming civilisations, bringing them from darkness into light. But the delivery of the message is alien.

This is not just a communication issue. It's a spiritual emergency.

The Divine Blueprint: God Sent Messengers Who Spoke Like Their People

Allah says it explicitly in the Qur'an:

"No messenger was sent except speaking in the language of his people." [Qur’an 14:4]

Not just linguistically. Culturally. Emotionally. Socially.

The Prophets, who were the flagbearers of Allah’s guidance, didn't speak at people. They spoke into their reality—with metaphors from their jobs, their streets, their hearts.

They didn't deliver academic lectures. They delivered life, clarity, truth—in words people could taste.

So here's the question that should haunt us: If scholars inherit the prophetic mission, why doesn't the communication style match?

Why do we use words that require footnotes when the Prophet ﷺ used words that pierced hearts?

Where the Disconnect Began

Islamic knowledge became structured for specialists, not the public. And naturally, specialists speak in specialist language.

This happened gradually. Scholars preserved, categorized, and transmitted knowledge through rigorous academic systems. They created brilliant frameworks: usul al-fiqh, maqasid, classifications of hadith.

These systems are incredible. They're necessary. But they were built for scholars training other scholars.

The problem? That specialist language leaked into public discourse. The masjid became an extension of the seminary.

Many scholars don't realize the average Muslim reads at an 8th-9th grade level, thinks in images and stories, and processes meaning emotionally before intellectually.

Sacred language slowly drifted into academic altitude. Meanwhile, the ummah remained on the ground, looking up, confused.

Here's what that looks like in real life: A khutbah about "justice" becomes a discussion about legal classifications, the five objectives of Shariah, and maqāsid theology...

While the listener is just trying to understand why his boss treats him unfairly, why his rent keeps going up, why the system feels rigged against him.

He needs an answer he can hold. Instead, he gets a framework he can't access.

Another example: A young sister struggling with hijab hears a lecture about the conditions of proper covering—how many fingers must be covered, the scholarly differences on the face and hands.

What she needed to hear? "Your body is sacred. In a world that monetizes your appearance, hijab is your declaration of independence. You're not a product. You're a soul with dignity."

The gap isn't intentional. But it's deadly.

The Truth Every Human Being Feels in Their Bones

Every human being is born wanting the same things: truth, clarity, peace, mercy, justice, love, meaning, purpose.

This is fitrah. Hardwired. Deep as bone marrow.

A baby doesn't need to be taught to seek comfort. A child doesn't need lessons in fairness—they scream "that's not fair!" instinctively. A teenager doesn't need to be convinced that life should have meaning—they ache for it.

Islam is the blueprint for every longing of the human heart. Every single one.

But people often don't see Islam as the answer—because the way we explain Islam doesn't feel like an answer.

Humans want peace. We give them terminologies.

Humans want meaning. We give them categories.

Humans want hope. We give them abstractions.

Humans want God. We give them grammar.

Think about the convert who says: "I found Islam and it felt like coming home." That's fitrah recognising itself.

Or the young man addicted to pornography who finally understands that Islam's guidance on lowering the gaze isn't about restriction—it's about freedom. Freedom from the screen. Freedom from the shame spiral. Freedom to actually feel again.

Or the woman drowning in anxiety who hears a scholar explain that Allah is Al-Wali, the Protecting Friend, and she finally exhales for the first time in months.

It's not the scholar's lack of sincerity. It's the gap between fitrah-language and academic-language.

And that gap? It's costing us souls.

When the Devil Speaks Better "Human" Than We Do

This is where things get uncomfortable. But stay with me.

Secular philosophies use clear, modern language. Stoicism talks about "controlling what you can control." Minimalism promises "freedom from stuff." Self-help gurus sell "your best life now."

Ideologues use emotion and simplicity. Influencers speak in stories, hooks, and psychological triggers.

TikTokers communicate in the rhythm and imagery the human mind craves—60 seconds, one clear point, emotional punch, instant resonance.

They are fluent in dopamine, story, visuals, relatable metaphors, modern vocabulary, and conversational tone.

Meanwhile, many sermons still sound like they were written for a medieval courtroom.

Here's a real example: A young Muslim stumbles across a video titled "How to stop caring what people think." It's from a secular motivational speaker. Eight million views.

The speaker talks about social anxiety, people-pleasing, the exhaustion of performance, and the cage of others' expectations. He uses examples from work, relationships, and social media.

The Muslim watches it. Feels seen. Applies the advice.

Now imagine: What if an Imam gave a khutbah on tawakkul (reliance on Allah) and framed it the same way?

"You're exhausted because you're trying to please everyone except the One who created you. Social media has turned you into a performer. You're curating a highlight reel while your real life falls apart. Tawakkul means you stop performing for the crowd and start living for an audience of One."

Same Islamic concept. Completely different delivery. One feels distant. The other feels like a lifeline.

Evil has no problem speaking "people." Truth struggles because its ambassadors often speak "institution."

Here's the devastating reality: It's not that people reject Islam. It's that they've never felt Islam in a language they recognise.

Human Language = Better Connection with the Divine

Religious speech becomes formal, distant, overly technical, emotionally flat and unnecessarily complicated.

But people are not complicated. They're wounded, overwhelmed, scared, lonely, hopeful.

When knowledge doesn't speak to wounds, people won't see its healing.

Think about "lowering the gaze." A classical approach might say: "It is prohibited to look at a non-mahram with desire. The scholars have differed on whether a single glance is permissible or if even the first glance must be averted."

Accurate? Yes. Helpful to the 17-year-old battling porn addiction? Not really.

Now imagine this:

"Your brain is being hijacked. Every click, every scroll, every video—dopamine floods your system and then crashes. You're left numb, ashamed, disconnected from reality. Lowering the gaze isn't about being 'pure' in some abstract religious sense. It's about reclaiming your humanity. It's about being able to look at a sunset and actually feel something again. It's about restoring your ability to connect with real people, real beauty, real life. Purity doesn't restrict you—it rescues you."

One is a rule. The other is a rescue.

Same truth. Completely different impact.

Or take the concept of sabr (patience). A typical lecture might discuss its linguistic meaning, its types (patience in obeying, patience in avoiding sin, patience with decree), and its rewards.

But the single mother working two jobs and barely holding it together doesn't need types. She needs this:

"You feel like syou're drowning and no one sees it. You're up at 5 AM and still working at midnight. You're stretched so thin you barely recognize yourself. Sabr doesn't mean 'just endure it.' It means Allah is holding you while you hold everything else. Every breath you take under that weight? Counted. Every tear you swallow so your kids don't see you break? Witnessed. Patience isn't passive—it's the most active trust you can offer. And it doesn't go unnoticed."

That's when Islam stops being theory and becomes oxygen.

Islam Is the Easiest Religion to Understand—When It's Explained Like Life, Not Literature

Islam is mercy. Simplicity. Clarity. Compassion. Justice. Balance. Beauty. Truth.

The Prophet ﷺ said, "This religion is easy." He also said, "I have been sent to perfect good character." Not complicated theology. Character. Behavior. Heart. This is what the companions lived and breathed as they established the sovereign Muslim state of Madinah.

But the delivery often hides its simplicity behind formality, its mercy behind complexity, its power behind tone, its beauty behind vocabulary.

Every convert will tell you the same thing: "When I finally understood what Islam actually was, I couldn't believe how simple and beautiful it felt."

Before conversion, they might have heard: "Islam requires submission, five daily prayers at prescribed times, fasting in Ramadan, zakah calculation at 2.5% of nisab, and adherence to halal dietary restrictions."

After conversion, they realised: "Islam means peace with God. Prayer is your direct line to Him. Fasting teaches you empathy. Charity purifies your wealth. And eating consciously keeps you mindful."

Same religion. One felt like a contract. The other felt like coming home.

Look at how the Prophet ﷺ taught. A man came to him and said, "Advise me." The Prophet ﷺ said, "Do not get angry."

The man repeated, "Advise me." The Prophet ﷺ said again, "Do not get angry."

Three times. One principle. No tangents. No complex conditions. Just: control your anger and you'll control your life.

Or when a Bedouin came asking about Islam, the Prophet ﷺ told him: five prayers, Ramadan, zakah, and Hajj if you're able.

The man said, "By Him who sent you, I won't add or decrease anything."

The Prophet ﷺ smiled and said, "He will succeed if he's truthful."

That's it. No 40-point checklist. No intimidation. Just clarity and straight to the point.

The religion isn't the barrier. The translation is.

Real Examples of the Gap

Example 1: Mental Health

Traditional approach: "Sadness is a test from Allah. The believer is patient. Complaining is a sign of weak faith. Remember the prophets—they suffered more than you."

The struggling Muslim hears: "Your pain doesn't matter. You're weak. Suck it up."

What they needed: "Depression is real. Anxiety is real. And seeking help isn't a betrayal of faith—it's part of faith. The Prophet ﷺ sought refuge from anxiety and grief in his own supplications. Taking medication isn't weakness—you wouldn't refuse insulin for diabetes. Allah created both the illness and the cure. Healing your mind honors the soul He placed inside you."

Example 2: Modesty

Traditional approach: "Hijab is mandatory. The awrah must be covered. There are consequences for those who disobey."

The young woman hears: "You're being watched, judged, and threatened."

What she needed: "In a world that profits from your insecurity, modesty is your rebellion. Fashion companies need you to feel inadequate so you keep buying. Social media needs you to feel exposed so you keep posting. Hijab is your refusal to participate in that system. You're not hiding—you're protecting something sacred. Your worth isn't tied to how much of yourself you reveal."

Example 3: Prayer

Traditional approach: "Missing prayer is a major sin. The first thing you'll be asked about on Judgment Day is salah. Guard it strictly."

The struggling Muslim hears: "You're already failing."

What they needed: "You've tried to quit a hundred times and you keep falling back. That's not failure—that's proof you still care. Allah doesn't need your prayers—you need them. Five times a day, you get to reset. Five times a day, you get to exhale. Five times a day, you get to remember you're not alone. Start with one. Just one prayer. Build from there. Progress, not perfection."

See the difference? The content doesn't change. The door opens.

The Solution: Return to Prophetic Communication

To explain Islam the way it deserves, we must return to stories, imagery, modern examples, and metaphors from daily life.

We need emotional intelligence, prophetic brevity, clarity, relevance, and humanity.

The Prophet ﷺ was a master communicator. He knew his audience. He adjusted his approach. He used repetition for emphasis. He drew in the sand to illustrate. He asked rhetorical questions to provoke thought.

When teaching about brotherhood, he didn't lecture—he interlaced his fingers and said, "The believers are like a structure, each part supporting the other."

When warning about envy, he said, "Beware of envy, for it devours good deeds like fire devours wood."

When explaining accountability, he said, "Every one of you is a shepherd, and everyone is responsible for what he is shepherd of."

Simple. Visual. Memorable. Profound.

Islam restored to the people's language becomes irresistible—because Islam already aligns with the deepest wants of every human soul.

When scholars speak the language of fitrah, in the rhythm of reality, with the clarity of revelation, and the mercy of the Prophet...

Islam becomes felt, not just heard.

And when Islam is felt, people return to it instinctively. Like water finding its level. Like a heart finding home.

This doesn't mean compromising the religion. It means presenting it the way it was always meant to be presented—as a mercy, not a mystery.

It means choosing "God is closer to you than your jugular vein" over "the ontological implications of divine proximity in classical theology."

It means choosing "your prayers are conversations with the One who loves you most" over "the technical rulings regarding the invalidation of wudu."

Both are true. One opens the door. The other assumes you're already inside.

What This Looks Like in Practice

In the khutbah: Instead of a 30-minute lecture on the evils of riba with technical definitions, try this:

"The bank doesn't want you to own a home—they want you trapped in payments for 30 years. Interest isn't just haram for religious reasons—it's designed to keep you enslaved. Islam bans riba because it bans exploitation. Debt culture is the modern-day shackles. And Allah freed you from it 1,400 years ago."

In the Islamic school: Instead of "Memorize these 99 Names of Allah," try this:

"When you're scared, call on Al-Hafiz, the Protector. When you're lost, call on Al-Hadi, the Guide. When you're heartbroken, call on Al-Jabbar, the One who mends. These aren't just names—they're your lifeline."

In the counselling session: Instead of "Your marriage problems stem from not following the Sunnah," try this:

"You've both been trying to win the argument instead of protecting the relationship. The Prophet ﷺ never went to bed angry at Aisha. He chose connection over being right. That's the Sunnah—not a checklist, but a heart posture."

This is how you bring Islam to life.

When the Heart Hears Its Own Language

Return to the man in the back of the masjid. Same khutbah. Same imam. Same community.

Except this time, the imam doesn't start with scholarly jargon. He starts with a story.

"There's a brother here who feels invisible. You work hard, nobody notices. You try to pray, but your mind wanders. You feel guilty, but you also feel... nothing. Like you're going through motions."

The man in the back stops scrolling.

"That numbness? That's not distance from Allah. That's exhaustion. That's your soul begging for rest. And Allah sees it. Every time you drag yourself out of bed for Fajr even though you barely slept—He sees it. Every time you put your forehead on the ground even when your heart feels dry—He sees it."

The man lifts his head.

"You think Allah is disappointed? No. He's the one holding you together when you can't hold yourself. He's not waiting for you to be perfect. He's waiting for you to come back, again and again, broken and tired, because that's when you're most real."

The man's eyes water.

Because he didn't just hear Islam. He felt Islam.

And that's all he ever wanted.

Islam isn't hard. The way we explain it is.

But when we return to the prophetic model—when we speak the language of the human heart—Islam stops being an obligation people avoid and becomes the answer they've been searching for all along.

Because it always was.