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.
-----
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 days. Now multiply that. You stood before the Lord of all worlds. You spoke to Him. Surely the effect lingers.
And just as it starts to fade — Dhuhr arrives. Then before it fades again — Asr. Then Maghrib. Then Isha. Then sleep, then Fajr. The cycle continues. This is why prayer stops you from evil. You keep checking in with Allah. You keep reporting back.
But strip away the spiritual dimension, focus only on the mechanics, and it loses its purpose.
On the other hand, there are people who say: my heart is good, I don’t need to pray. As long as I’m kind, the rituals are for other people. But then — who are you actually worshipping? If you abandon what Allah prescribed and follow only your own moral compass, you’re worshipping your own nafs.
-----
This is the lesson of the chickpea.
One nation before us fell into extremism through legalism — everything became so complicated that they abandoned practice altogether. Another fell through spiritualism — everything was about love, no boundaries, no halal or haram, just accept and you’re saved. The religion dissolved. Nothing was left.
Islam sits in the middle. As Imam al-Ghazali said: khayru al-umur awsatuha — the best of affairs is the middle path.
The Prophet ﷺ reminded us, standing at the Jamarat, pebbles in hand: don’t fall into extremism. The size of a chickpea. Not too much. Not too little. Just right.
May Allah protect us from extremism in religion. May He grant us the strength to live by the Sunnah — balanced in every dimension, following our Prophet ﷺ externally and internally.
