Hello, my name is Reza Sanjida, and this is part two of The Philosophy of God. If you haven't listened to part one yet, I strongly recommend starting there, because this episode builds directly on that foundation. For those of you who've already listened to the first episode, welcome back. I'm excited to continue the journey we began together. If you've been following along, you know that today's episode is dedicated to two important people In my life, my son, who sparked my interest in philosophy, and my 13-year-old granddaughter, whose curiosity about Ramadan led me to reflect deeply on its true meaning. Last time, we explored the idea of God of East and Western tradition from different religious and philosophical perspectives, but this time we're diving into Islam, the religion of Middle East. Now, before we continue... I want to acknowledge something important. I grew up in a Muslim country and I am a Muslim. It's natural that my background and experiences may influence how I approach these topics. But my intention here is not to be biased or to elevate one belief system over another. Instead, my goal is to explore these philosophies and religions with an open mind, acknowledging their unique perspectives and shared quests for understanding the divine. Whether it's the interconnectedness found in Eastern traditions, the structured monotheism of Western faiths, or the blend of both found in various philosophies, each offers valuable insights. My aim is to seek understanding, not to judge or promote. As we move forward into discussing Islam, I hope to approach it with the same objectivity and curiosity that I have brought to all the traditions we've explored so far. So let's set the scene. Islam is considered the latest of the major religions. It emerged in the seventh century CE, which is not that long ago if you really think about it. And unlike other faiths where the founders' lives are kind of shrouded in mystery or ancient history, we know a lot about Prophet Muhammad, his life, his mission, even his governance. All right, so let's start with the basics. Where did all of this begin? The Arabian Peninsula, which was historically known as Hejaz, specifically Mecca and Medina. Now, what's interesting is the region's social climate at the time. It was heavily tribal with constant conflicts over resources and honor. Idol worship was widespread and moral standards were, let's just say, inconsistent. The blatant injustice and unfair treatment of the poor compared to the extravagantly wealthy. Mecca was a major hub for travelers and merchants from across the region, creating a rich mix of cultures and cross connections between different parts of the world at that time. Yet, despite this diversity, the people of Mecca held strongly to their local identities and customs. And the thing is, this region was dealing with all kinds of social issues, slavery, tribal warfare, injustice. It was a rough place. And it's into this environment that Islam was born. Another important point to understand is this. Even though Mecca was a major center for trade and culture, it wasn't a center for recorded knowledge. It was a bustling city where caravans came and went, where goods from the Far East, Africa, and the Mediterranean passed through. But when it came to education, scholarship, or preserving ideas in written form, there was almost nothing. Knowledge in Mecca wasn't written down in books. It was passed along through oral traditions, poetry, storytelling, and memorized tribal histories. People celebrated eloquent speech and poetic expression, but there was no formal system for collecting, preserving, or building on that knowledge. Literacy was rare, and even among the elite, reading and writing were not widespread skills. Now compare that to places like Persia, where real institutions of learning, early forms of universities, already existed. Scholars in Persia were studying philosophy, medicine, astronomy, and law. They were writing, translating, and archiving knowledge. Travelers from Hejaz regularly passed through Persian cities and even went as far as India, where thriving civilizations had established schools of thought, science, and spiritual texts. So you'd think that with all that exposure, some of that intellectual culture would have taken root in Mecca. But it didn't. Despite being surrounded by literate and sophisticated societies, Hejaz remained a place with no books, no written history, no libraries, nothing was formally documented. Even Muhammad himself, before his mission, was a merchant. He traveled through many of these advanced regions, trading goods from the Far East and beyond. He interacted with different cultures, languages, and belief systems. Yet, when he returned to Mecca, he came back to a society that was still deeply rooted in oral tradition, with no formal education or written intellectual record. And here's something remarkable. Muhammad himself was illiterate. He could not read or write. So the very fact that the Quran came through him, flawlessly structured, deeply profound and preserved word for word, is nothing short of extraordinary. It wasn't just a new spiritual message. It was the first structured, written, and preserved book to emerge from a culture that had never produced one before. I should mention that, just like during the time of Jesus, when people were expecting a prophet and longing for change, there were many who claimed to be the next prophet from God. In fact, even before Jesus of Nazareth revealed himself, others were already making such claims. A similar situation existed before and during the time of Muhammad. Now here's something you might not hear often. Muhammad wasn't the only one during that era claiming to be a prophet. There were others. For instance, Musaylimah, also known as Musaylimah the Liar, claimed prophethood during Muhammad's lifetime. He was from the central Arabian region of Najd and managed to gather a substantial following. He even tried to position himself as a co-prophet. After the death of Muhammad, he led a rebellion which ended with his defeat in the Ridda Wars. Then there was Tulayah ibn Kuwaylid, another man who made a similar claim. He also opposed the early Muslim state, but later accepted Islam and went on to fight alongside Muslims in subsequent campaigns. Even more fascinating is the story of Saja bint al-Harith, a woman from a Christian Arab tribe who also claimed to be a prophetess. She briefly allied with Musaylimah, although their partnership didn't last long. But here's the thing. None of them had a message that lasted. Their claims were short-lived, often driven by political ambition or tribal influence. Muhammad, on the other hand, brought a message that transformed not only his immediate community, but eventually an entire region and beyond. His life was marked by integrity, consistency, and a deep sense of purpose. He was known as al-Amin, the trustworthy, long before he ever claimed prophethood. The Quran, revealed over 23 years, addressed everything from personal faith to societal structure, ethics, law, and spirituality. That level of depth, clarity, and enduring impact, truly unmatched. Now here's where everything really comes together. Muhammad wasn't just a prophet. He was a leader in the fullest sense. He didn't just preach, he governed. He resolved disputes, made laws, and brought warring tribes into a unified society. He started with a small group of followers in Mecca, faced years of fierce opposition, and eventually migrated to Medina. But Medina wasn't just a safe haven. It became the birthplace of a new kind of community. There, Muhammad established a functioning state grounded in shared values and mutual rights. One of the earliest political charters in history, the Constitution of Medina, came out of this. It brought together various tribes, including Jews and pagans, under a single civic agreement. And later, when he returned to Mecca, he did so not with vengeance, but with forgiveness. That moment of reconciliation marked the unification of most of the Arabian Peninsula under Islam. But the transformation wasn't just political, it was also spiritual and intellectual. The Quran played a central role in this transformation. It's not just a book of prayers or theology, it's a guide for life. It addresses everything from personal ethics to legal principles to social justice. And here's what's truly extraordinary. The Quran was revealed over a period of 23 years, often in response to real-life events. Yet it remains preserved word for word, unchanged since Muhammad's time. That level of preservation is almost unheard of when you look at other major religions. Think about this. With earlier prophets like Moses or Jesus, we have very limited historical records, mostly written decades or centuries after their lifetimes. We don't have any writings from Jesus himself, but with Muhammad we have detailed documentation. His sayings, decisions, and the way he led. We even know how he interacted with friends and enemies alike. And that's the difference. Muhammad wasn't just delivering a message. He was building a living model of that message. He embodied the Quran, led a community, and laid down a framework that guided not only faith, but law, society, and governance. It was a complete blueprint for how to live as individuals and as a people, that combination of spiritual depth, practical governance, and preserved historical record. That's what sets Islam apart. Now that we've looked at the origins of Islam and the uniqueness of its message, let's talk about what came after, the impact it had on the world. Shortly after the early Islamic community was established, we enter what historians call the Islamic Golden Age, roughly from the 8th to the 13th century CE. This was a period of extraordinary growth in science, philosophy, literature, architecture, and governance. Cities like Baghdad, Cordoba, Cairo, and Damascus became global centers of learning. Scholars didn't just preserve knowledge from ancient Greece, Persia, and India. They translated it, challenged it, and expanded it. Muslims led the way in fields like mathematics, astronomy, medicine, chemistry, law, sociology, and philosophy. Institutions like the House of Wisdom, Beit Hikma in Baghdad, were among the first models of modern universities. Scholars such as Khwarizmi laid the foundations of algebra. Ibn Sina advanced medicine, while Razi revolutionized early chemistry. And thinkers like Farabi and Averroes, Ibn Rushd, shaped global philosophical discourse. This intellectual revival wasn't just about academic achievement. It was part of a broader Islamic worldview that encouraged seeking knowledge, reflection, and understanding the universe as a sign of God. And that legacy still echoes today. Many of the advancements in the Renaissance and modern science can trace their roots back to the Islamic world. It was a time when faith and reason walked hand in hand, and the message of Islam translated not only into spiritual renewal, but also into a global contribution to human progress. Now I want to shift to something more specific, Ramadan and the practice of fasting. You see, my granddaughter asked me a simple yet profound question. Why do we fast for 30 days during Ramadan? And what is the true purpose behind it? These questions are at the heart of today's discussion. Because Ramadan, like so many religious practices, is layered with meaning. It's not just about abstaining from food and drink. It's about discipline, reflection, compassion, and ultimately a deeper connection with God. So let's explore. Let's break down what Ramadan truly means, not only from a religious standpoint, but also from a philosophical and spiritual perspective. Fasting during Ramadan is one of the five pillars of Islam, an essential practice meant to draw believers closer to God. But it's more than just a physical act. It's a form of spiritual training, a way to cultivate patience, gratitude, humility, and empathy. There's even a verse in the Quran that highlights something important. Fasting is not a new concept. It was practiced by earlier religious communities too. But the purpose is consistent across traditions, to achieve righteousness, purify the soul, and become more conscious of God's presence. When my granddaughter asked why we fast, for 30 days, it made me reflect on how this period of abstinence is meant to detach us from worldly distractions and refocus our attention on what truly matters. It's about disconnecting from the physical to reconnect with the spiritual. And it's about recognizing our own weaknesses, shortcomings, and dependency on something greater than ourselves, God. What's fascinating is that the idea of fasting or intentional deprivation exists across many religions and philosophies. In Buddhism, monks, fast to cultivate mindfulness and discipline. In Christianity and Judaism, fasting is used as a form of penance and purification. So why is fasting so universal? Maybe it's because there's something deeply human about sacrificing comfort to gain understanding, something about stepping beyond the body's immediate desires that helps us see more clearly into the nature of our soul. In Islam, Ramadan is a time to test our willpower, to build compassion for the less fortunate, and to cleanse the heart from arrogance and selfishness. But above all, it's a way to draw nearer to God. Ramadan is often described as a journey of purification, a time when Muslims strive to cleanse their hearts from traits like anger, greed, envy, and pride. By denying the body, we nurture the soul. It's also a reminder of our mortality and dependence on God. Every moment of hunger or thirst is a prompt to remember who we are and why we're here. It's a humbling experience that fosters gratitude for even the smallest blessings. But there's another beautiful layer. Fasting isn't just about denying ourselves. It's also about giving of ourselves. During Ramadan, charity is emphasized more than ever. The act of zakat, charitable giving, and even small acts of kindness are meant to bring us closer to compassion and empathy. So, when my granddaughter asked me about the goal of Ramadan, I realized the answer is both simple and deeply profound. It's about seeking God's pleasure and mercy. It's about becoming a better person, more patient, more compassionate, more aware of the blessings we often take for granted. All right, let's take a deep dive into this idea. My own view of God is a singular and separate entity from all dualities. I'll connect it with my opposition to Pascal, my belief in divine love, and how Nietzsche's philosophy contrasts sharply with my own. As I continue this journey, it's important for me to clarify something fundamental to my own understanding of God. I believe God is a singular, transcendent entity, completely separate from all dualities. Unlike many philosophies and religious traditions that see divinity as intertwined with nature or embedded within everything, my belief is that God exists above and beyond all creation. He is not simply the sum of the universe, nor is he limited by the cycles of nature or the interplay of opposites like good and evil. light and darkness, life and death. He exists beyond all that. He is absolute, eternal, and unchanging. In my view, this world, with all its beauty and suffering, joy and pain, is a creation, a test. It is not an extension of God, but rather a stage upon which we as conscious beings navigate our own journey toward or away from him. And this journey is defined by choice. Some philosophers, like Blaise Pascal, have approached belief in God from a pragmatic perspective. Pascal's wager essentially argues that even if we cannot be certain God exists, it is rational to believe in him because the potential rewards eternal happiness far outweigh the potential losses, finite pleasures. But to me, this argument is fundamentally flawed. It reduces belief to a kind of transaction, a bet placed out of fear of loss or desire for gain. It views faith as a calculated risk rather than a genuine relationship, and that is not what faith is about. I reject Pascal's approach because to me, belief in God is not about hedging my bets or securing a reward. It is not about fearing hell or even striving for heaven. It is about something far deeper, love. I believe in God, not because it benefits me or because I'm afraid of punishment. I believe in God because I have experienced something transcendent, something beyond the physical, something rooted in love. And that love is not transactional. It is not dependent on worldly success, comfort, or the avoidance of pain. Love itself, I believe, is divine. It is the thread that connects the soul to its creator. And in that love, there is purpose, meaning, and direction. This life, with all its complexity and hardship, is a test, a proving ground where our choices reveal whether we will choose God or the distractions of this world. It's a journey of the heart, of drawing closer to something pure and eternal, even when everything around us seems fleeting and uncertain. Now let's contrast this with the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche, a brilliant mind, but one whose conclusions stand in direct opposition to my own. Nietzsche famously declared, God is dead, God remains dead, and we have killed him. What he meant by this was not a literal death of God, but rather the rejection of traditional religious and moral structures by modern society. To Nietzsche, the absence of God created a moral vacuum. A world where humanity had to find meaning on its own, without reliance on divine authority. In a way, Nietzsche saw the madness of the world as evidence that God, or at least humanity's belief in him, was no longer alive. The moral decay, the violence, the selfishness, all signs that humanity had abandoned any higher purpose or guiding principle. But here's where I fundamentally disagree with Nietzsche. To me, the chaos and suffering of the world do not prove that God is dead. Rather, they are proof that humanity has turned away from him. God remains untouched by the madness of the world. His existence is not contingent upon whether people believe in him or obey his commandments. If there is madness, it is because we have chosen it. And this, again, ties back to the idea of life as a test, a test of whether we will choose God or life itself, whether we will seek truth and love or settle for comfort and illusion. You see, where Nietzsche saw the world's madness as evidence of God's absence, I see it as a call to return to God, and the path back is paved with love, the kind of love that is selfless, pure, and not dependent on material gain or fear of punishment. It is through love that we transcend the superficial and connect with something greater. It is through love that we find meaning even in the darkest moments. This, I believe, is the greatest difference between a true believer and an opportunist. The opportunist, like Pascal's wagerer, seeks to gain something from belief. The true believer seeks God for his own sake because love compels them. And that is the test of life itself, to see whether we choose God or the distractions of this world, to see whether we are guided by love or by fear, by truth or by illusion. The madness Nietzsche saw is real, but it is not evidence of God's death. It is evidence of our own failure to see him, to choose him, to love him. This life is a journey, a test, and a calling. a calling to return to God, to embrace love, and to recognize that our purpose is not to simply survive or thrive in this world, but to connect with the eternal reality beyond it. This was part two of The Philosophy of God. We've explored the historical roots of Islam, the unique role of Muhammad, the message of the Quran, the legacy of the Islamic Golden Age, the deep spiritual significance of Ramadan and some of the philosophical questions that define our relationship with the divine. These are big themes, history, belief, discipline, love and purpose. And I hope they spark something meaningful in your heart and mind. Thank you for listening. Please like and share. We'll continue to build on these ideas and explore where this journey of thought takes us next. We'll see what the philosophy of life reveals along the way. Until then, take care, stay curious and never stop seeking. Peace be with you.