“{And your Lord will give so much to you that you will be pleased}”: The Allah they didn’t tell us about

This article is part of the special column “Here, We Open the Qur’an Together, and Love Shines Through”, originally written in Arabic, on Raseef22.

On lonely nights filled with thoughts of failure and defeat, during the early struggles of my difficult journey in journalism, I often wondered: Where is God in all of this? Why won’t He intervene to support me? Is He busy protecting the owners of luxury cars from road accidents? Or keeping the residents of lavish palaces from drowning in their swimming pools? Or maybe He was preoccupied ensuring the safety of spacemen on the moon, while we, down here, make do with its faint glow on nights when the electricity goes out?

On lonely nights filled with thoughts of failure and defeat, during the early struggles of my difficult journey in journalism, I often wondered: Where is God in all of this? Why won’t He intervene to support me? I was consumed by angry thoughts about justice and on why I was struggling.

I was consumed by an angry, rebellious mood—thoughts about justice and its relation to divinity, and thoughts about why I was struggling. More than once, I reached a misguided conclusion filled with sarcasm, mockery, and misplaced defiance: Poverty is created, and wealth is created. Success is created, and failure is created. There must be a balance between these creations. Just as He created Iblis, He created the angels. And since I am one of the poor, why shouldn’t I be one of His devils? Why shouldn't I be the very curse He uses one day against His privileged ones?

So many thoughts crossed my mind, all stemming from my constant stumbling and sense of alienation, the feeling that this was not my time or the right place for me, and that I needed to reshape myself to achieve the opposite.

Then I would scold myself: "Seek forgiveness from your Lord and abandon these atheistic thoughts." I would fast, pray, and supplicate, but to no avail. I would say: "Perhaps the reason lies in my sins, in my deviation." But then, why does He not respond to my parents, who walk the straight path?

I found myself reflecting on the character of Gebelawi in Children of the Alley by Naguib Mahfouz—the distant, silent figure who witnesses and hears the injustice in the neighborhood but does nothing, merely observing from his grand mansion behind a veil, while the neighborhood remains ruled by the powerful, those with weapons, those with wealth. As for those who seek justice, their cries are futile.

That was before He spoke to me, before I truly listened, before I came to know Him in my own way—not theirs.

The way they had portrayed Him to me was as a medieval emperor, seated on His throne, angry at some and pleased with others, granting here and withholding there, punishing one and rewarding another—all according to a sadistic formula that takes pleasure in tormenting and humiliating, only to offer comfort if the suffering is endured long enough, but only at His chosen time.

This inaccurate image only provoked my rebellion against Him. And though I was convinced at the time that I had a right to rebel, something inside me whispered that I was too weak for such defiance. It was as if I was waiting for an unknown certainty, something that would inevitably come and reassure me.

It was as if I was waiting for an unknown certainty, something that would inevitably come and reassure me. Then, one dark night, as I lay wrapped in the embrace of darkness, staring at a ceiling I knew was there but could not see, it happened.

Then, one dark night, as I lay wrapped in the embrace of darkness, staring at a ceiling I knew was there but could not see, I found myself contemplating the night. Words about the night echoed in my mind—poetry, proverbs, sayings, and words of wisdom. Amid this flood of thoughts, I heard Him speak to me, softly and compassionately:

“{By the morning sunlight, and ˹by˺ the night when it falls still, your Lord has not forsaken you, nor has He detested you. And the next life is certainly far better for you than this one. And ˹surely˺ your Lord will give so much to you that you will be well-pleased}.”

والضّحَى واللّيلِ إذا سَجَى، مَا وَدَّعكَ ربُّكَ وما قَلَى، وللآخِرة خيرٌ لكَ من الأولى، ولسَوْفَ يُعطِيكَ ربُّك فترضى

I jolted awake from my slumber, sat up, and heard Him again, gently whispering the same words:

“{By the morning sunlight, and ˹by˺ the night when it falls still, your Lord has not forsaken you, nor has He detested you. And the next life is certainly far better for you than this one. And ˹surely˺ your Lord will give so much to you that you will be well-pleased}.”

What was this? It was Allah speaking—a tender, compassionate God, a merciful God who had not cast me aside, who promised to give and give until I am satisfied. Just like my mother, who would not stop feeding me until I was full.

That was when I found the path of love. I began to understand what the Sufis meant—especially those I knew but never truly comprehended, or rather, never truly felt. I realized that my relationship with Him could be one of love, not one of punishment or sadistic domination. I realized that when I asked, I should not ask as though I were pleading before a ruling sultan, but as though I were speaking to a beloved—one who is near. I understood then why, when I had sought Him as a ruling sultan, He would turn away and not respond. It was because in doing so, I was betraying the very essence of what existed between us. I was betraying the love, the covenant that bound us together.

I began to reflect on His words to me, and even after all these years, I still do: Why did He swear that by the morning light and the stillness of night before reassuring me that He had neither forsaken nor abandoned me, before promising that what is to come is better than what has passed, and that my new life, after knowing Him, would be the true life? And why, in the end, did He affirm that He would give and give until I was content and satisfied?

I came to understand that it was an oath, yet within it lay wisdom, enlightenment, and an unveiling of meaning—a secret. He had brought together light and darkness, He combined the two opposites. And it is this union of opposites is the key to the continuation of life. For, as Ibn Arabi explains in his interpretation of Surah Ad-Duhaa, opposites are the very foundation of human existence.

The meeting of man and woman is the secret to life's continuity. And in their separation, longing ignites, desire intensifies, the ache of absence deepens, and the sense of loss, incompleteness, and the desire for fulfillment intensifies. But when they reunite, passion surges, embraces are filled with warmth, kisses with sweetness, and the sense of satisfaction is profound. And from all this, new life is born.

God embedded wisdom, justification, a lesson, and philosophy within the oath that He began with His words to me. Then, He explained His reasoning through the verses that followed. He told me that He had neither forsaken nor abandoned me, but rather, He had chosen for me the greater joy—the triumph of success after failure, the satisfaction of abundance after deprivation, the highest degrees of pleasure and the deepest levels of feeling.

And I found affirmation of this in Ibn Arabi’s interpretation, where he describes the wisdom behind the seeming distance or perceived abandonment between God and His Prophet: So that his longing would grow, his inner self would be refined, his ego would melt in the fire of yearning—until at last, his path would be opened, the veil lifted entirely, and he was granted the absolute truth—so that his experience would be deeper, and his vision more complete.

Surah Ad-Duha reassured me. I received it then in the measure I could grasp, and I understood it as a promise—of success, of fulfillment, that He would give me until I am satisfied, that my healing and enlightenment would be more complete and my success and fulfillment stronger and more certain. It would not be a stroke of luck, nor something fleeting. Its impact would be profound, real, and everlasting.

I came to understand two profoundly important things.

The first was that God is not limited by time or space, and that everything in the universe is a manifestation of Him, a reflection of His divine presence. I finally grasped the meaning of Ibn al-Farid’s words in his Ta’iyya poem about the Divine Essence:

“Unveiling herself revealed existence to my eye,

so in everything seen I perceived her with my sight.”

I lingered on the phrase "in everything seen I perceive her," and I realized that God is present in all things around us. This was when I arrived at the meaning and essence of Sufism.

I came to understand that everything in the universe is a manifestation of God, a reflection of His divine presence, and I realized that He is present in all things around us. Since He is present in everything that exists, then all love is in Him. I began to approach things—work, success, life itself—through this logic and understanding. So I loved my work, I loved life, and I loved achievement and success.

Since He is present in everything that exists, then all love is in Him, all passion is for Him, and all longing is from and for Him. I began to approach things—work, success, life itself—through this logic and understanding. So I loved my work, I loved life, and I loved achievement and success.

The second thing I came to know was the concept of union as the ultimate state of love. I read what Abdel Rahman Badawi wrote in his book Shatahat al-Sufiyyah [Sufis Ecstasies] about how the Sufi ascends through the stages of love—beginning with longing and ecstasy, to burning passion, and finally to dissolution (melting) and union with the beloved—until one becomes one with him. At that point, one may even speak on his behalf, as if they are him, as if they are the master, as if they possess all things.

I recalled the hadith qudsi recorded by Al-Bukhari, where God says:

"When I love him [My servant], I am his hearing with which he hears,
his sight with which he sees,
his hand with which he strikes,
and his foot with which he walks..."

And I thought to myself this hadith reminds me of the concept of the state of union.

And since God is in everything, and since all love is from Him, for Him, and within Him—as I understood from Ibn al-Farid—then the law of union (as I grasped from Badawi’s book and Al-Bukhari’s hadith) applies to every manifestation of Him, and to every existing thing. And so to this point, I arrived. Here, I was delighted. And here, I was at peace.

I began to approach writing—the craft I have dedicated my life to—with this same understanding. I courted it, flirted with it, and embraced it with all the love I possessed. When it drifts away from me, my longing for it deepens. When it abandons me, I chase after it. I detach myself from everything else, and become devoted to it until it is satisfied with me—so we melt into each other, until I become the writing, and the writing becomes me.

And in the heat of our passion, writing whispers back to me: "I will give you until you are content." And so, it bears ideas for me, perspectives, meanings. It bears success and fulfillment for me, and it bears me a new existence—an existence full of joy.

I now live in my time. I live in the right place for me. I am now capable—even dominant. I love, and He gives me love in return. And He will keep giving until I am content and satisfied. Did He not find me alone and bring me comfort? Did He not find me lost and grant me guidance? Did He not find me an orphan and a lone stranger and give me refuge and belonging? So as for the orphan of love, I shall not oppress. And as for the seeker of love, I shall not turn them away. And as for the blessing of love—yes, I shall speak of it.

*The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Raseef22