The Cost of Cheap Religion

There is something I genuinely hope our brothers and sisters reflect on when it comes to seeking sacred knowledge. Sometimes we become too calculative with religion. Heavy to spend, heavy to support, heavy to invest. We compare prices and hesitate over classes, teachers, or programmes meant to bring us closer to Allah, yet the same person may spend hundreds without much thought on shoes, luxury bags, gadgets, cafés, subscriptions, holidays, or things that may not even matter a few years from now.

This is not written to shame anyone. But sometimes we need to pause and ask ourselves honestly, what does sacred knowledge truly mean to us? Where does Allah truly stand within our priorities?

Seeking sacred knowledge was never treated by our scholars as merely gaining information. It was something honoured. Behind every sincere teacher are years of sacrifice most people never see, sleepless nights, memorisation, travelling, loneliness, discipline, revision, and years spent sitting before teachers carrying this religion with adab and amanah. Even Imām Ash Shāfiʿī رحمه الله mentioned that among the things needed to truly seek knowledge are provisions and means. The scholars understood that this path requires giving from yourself, not merely taking.

I have had brothers message me regarding completely free gatherings saying, “Brother, I would love to come, but I do not have transport money to make it there.” This is not written to shame anyone. But sometimes we need to pause and reflect honestly with ourselves, because these are grown men. Husbands. Fathers. At the same time, many would spend freely and comfortably on entertainment, holidays and endless conveniences without much thought, yet become extremely calculative when it comes to sacred knowledge and gatherings that may bring them closer to Allah.

Sometimes the way a person gives reflects the state of their heart. When someone gives sincerely towards something beneficial, it is not merely about the amount. It reflects appreciation, adab, loyalty, and the ability to recognise value beyond personal convenience. A person who values goodness honours effort, and a person who values sacred knowledge honours the people who carry it.

At the same time, sacred knowledge is not meant to become a business of greed. Sincerity matters. Islam has always had scholars who taught freely, awqāf that supported students, and people who sacrificed to make knowledge accessible to others. But accessibility and cheapening are not the same thing.

This part genuinely worries me today. Many people now want religion in the form most convenient to the ego. Fast, easy, independent, without commitment, without discipline, without even sitting before a teacher. “Learn Islamic knowledge for 28 cents a day.” We pay more just to use a public toilet. Yet now even sacred knowledge is being marketed cheaper than that. “Learn at your own pace.” “No need to attend physically.” ???

What disturbs me is not merely the existence of such advertisements, but how deeply many people are attracted to them. The problem is no longer just how religion is being marketed, but what people now desire religion to become. Comfortable. Effortless. Unchallenging. Without correction, companionship, discipline, or sacrifice.

Sacred knowledge was never only about information entering the mind. It was also about light entering the heart. This religion was preserved through companionship, gatherings, adab, correction, humility, and sitting before people whose lives reflected what they carried. There is a reason the scholars of the past travelled for months and years just to sit before teachers, not merely to hear words, but to absorb sincerity, discipline, manners, and the very state of the people carrying the knowledge. Sacred knowledge was never treated as mere information to collect. It was something lived and carried with presence.

There is a famous incident involving Imām Mālik ibn Anas رحمه الله and a caliph. The caliph wanted Imām Mālik to come to the palace to teach his sons. But Imām Mālik refused and said that knowledge is visited, it does not visit. So eventually the caliph came to the gathering himself together with his sons. During the lesson, Imām Mālik simply gestured for the caliph to sit wherever there was space among the students. No royal treatment. No special seat. But after the lesson ended, Imām Mālik honoured the caliph respectfully and offered him a proper seat. The caliph was puzzled and asked why he was not treated with the same honour earlier. Imām Mālik replied that while the gathering of knowledge was taking place, the caliph sat as a student and Imām Mālik sat as the teacher. But once the lesson ended, the caliph returned to his position as ruler, and Imām Mālik returned to his place among his people. SubḥānAllāh. That was how deeply they honoured sacred knowledge.

I still remember during COVID, when everything was forced online through Zoom. I disliked it deeply, not because I reject technology or fail to appreciate its benefits. We had no choice at that time, and technology can absolutely be a blessing when used properly. But I also realised how convenience can sometimes come at the expense of presence, companionship, adab, and human connection, all of which are deeply important in seeking sacred knowledge.

Ironically, the more technology advanced to make people “connected,” the more people seemed to avoid actually facing one another. Cameras off. Mics muted. Presence absent. People attended sacred classes like ghosts. Whenever everyone started switching off their cameras one by one, I used to feel like I was sitting in a graveyard, just black screens surrounding me everywhere, dark boxes with names written on them. No faces. No expressions. No life. There is a huge difference between truly sitting in a gathering and merely logging into one.

Then one day, while we were conducting a class on ṣolāh, one brother accidentally forgot to switch off his camera. There he was, lying down casually in a sleeveless shirt, one arm stretched above his head exposing his armpit, cigarette in one hand, a drink beside him, relaxing as though he was watching a football match instead of attending a class about standing before Allah in prayer. I did not know whether to laugh or cry.

But that moment stayed with me because it symbolised something much deeper. When sacred knowledge loses its environment of adab, presence, companionship, and reverence, people slowly stop feeling the weight of what they are learning. Religion becomes content to consume. Teachers become background noise. Gatherings become livestreams. And adab quietly disappears without people even realising it.

And when these things slowly disappear, people become more vulnerable to harshness without even realising it. Religion slowly becomes self consumed content instead of lived companionship. Correction disappears. Humility disappears. Adab disappears. Then slowly, everything becomes bidʿah. Shirk. Kāfir. Deviant. Doesn’t this already sound familiar to many of us?

A lot of these mindsets are planted from there. People may gain information, but not mercy, wisdom, humility, or emotional balance. Instead, they become deeply attached to ideologies, personalities, and online movements while believing they are defending the religion.

That is why people need to be careful who they take religion from. Not everyone with followers is sincere. Not everyone viral is reliable. Not everyone quoting Qurʾān is safe to learn from. Even a famous Qurʾān reciter was recently exposed. As the Prophet ﷺ warned us about people whose Qurʾān “does not go beyond their throats.” The words are recited, but the heart remains untouched.

Today social media can manufacture influence. Likes can be bought. Views can be pushed. Fame is no longer proof of sincerity, depth, or truth. Some of the deepest people I have ever met were also among the quietest. Real scholars. Real people of knowledge. People with wisdom, humility, and sincerity. Many of them did not need to constantly display themselves or chase visibility online. The people who genuinely benefited from them naturally spoke about them for them, because real value naturally becomes valued.

And I am not saying every public teacher is insincere. We live in different times today and people use different means to benefit others. But seekers of knowledge also need to relearn how to recognise depth beyond visibility. Not everything deep is loud. Not everything sincere is viral. Not everything valuable constantly puts itself in front of people.

Sacred knowledge is not a transaction. It is transformation. So seek knowledge with sincerity, generosity, adab, commitment, and from the right people. Be careful who you take your religion from. Not every path that appears easy leads to light.

And I want to end with something my mother taught me since I was young, something that stayed with me until today. She always used to tell me, “Always give more than what you get.” Not merely in wealth or material things, but in effort, sincerity, appreciation, loyalty, support, service, and the way we honour people. I feel this is one of the forgotten adabs of seeking knowledge today. People want more and more while giving less and less.

I think one of the people who truly embodied this was my auntie, Khalah Khadijah, or what many lovingly knew as Khalah Jah. When I returned from Tarim, she once asked me to bring back Grade 1 honey from Yemen for her. So when I passed the honey to her, she asked me how much it was. I told her the price. She looked at me and said, “Nonsense,” and then paid me almost double.

That moment stayed with me until today. Because to her, it was never just about the honey. She was valuing the effort, the travelling, the carrying, and the thought behind it. She understood something many people today have forgotten, that when you truly value something, you do not always look for the cheapest way to take from people.

May Allah make us people who truly honour sacred knowledge, value the people who carry it, and never become cheap with the matters that bring us closer to Him.

Note:
The poster used for this article is intentionally satirical. The concern behind it, however, is real.