The Bigger Picture: Understanding Loss, Sacrifice, and Purpose in Dhul Hijjah

Time and time again, sitting with hundreds of patients in my role as a hospital chaplain, I’m learning that the most powerful spiritual discoveries come at different times and in different ways for every one of us. And yet, many of the lessons learned through crisis and hardship mirror the deeper wisdoms already embedded within the sacred rituals of Hajj – which in turn relates to finding purpose in Dhul Hijjah.

After particularly meaningful patient encounters, I try to spend some time reflecting on the themes of the patient’s crisis, and connecting those themes to ones that surface in our tradition. In Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE), or field-work training for chaplaincy students, this practice is called theological reflection.

One middle-aged patient I visited had traveled to a major metropolis for cosmetic surgery. It was the first time they had ever left their family, who had encouraged the patient to go and “do something for yourself.” Unexpectedly, the procedure resulted in a worsening infection that necessitated a lengthy hospitalization. What was supposed to be a two or three week trip for the procedure stretched out for over a month with no promises of a flight home anytime soon.

With me, the patient cried, grieving many losses: mobility, autonomy, family and community roles, home, sleep and rest, and a body free from constant pain. The patient missed their children viscerally, grateful for FaceTime but tortured by the look in the children’s eyes when the children admitted how much they miss the patient.

What I thought throughout the visit:

Why did you sacrifice so much for cosmetic surgery? Did you really need this? What are you teaching your children? Don’t you see God calling you back to Him through this?

What I said:

Nothing.

Meaning-Making and The Role of the Chaplain

In times of crisis, meaning-making surfaces in various ways. Some of us revive and internalize what we already know theoretically from our religious tradition, and others of us have to create meaning anew. In the end, it’s always God’s timing and God’s way on the path. The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ knew this, serving as a gentle guide who could be patient with people’s individualized journeys to Allah while consistently choosing to see a person’s potential rather than the unrefined version presently manifesting. Allah shares with us the Prophet’s ﷺ role as a witnesser, a bringer of hope, and as one who also gives caution.

“O Prophet, indeed We have sent you as a witness and a bringer of good tidings and a warner.” [Surat Al-‘Aĥzāb 33;45]

Notably, Allah commands the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ to first witness (listen deeply) before offering words of hope or advice. Truly, in my experience in chaplaincy, the second and third steps fall flat without fulfilling the first. As a chaplain, I spend a lot of time and effort exerting control over my initial (and often nafsi) instinct to “fix” the care seeker. Rather, chaplains aim to create a space wherein a care seeker feels seen, heard, and understood, and can only then begin the heavy but necessary work of muraqaba (self-observation) and muhasabah (self-assessment).

To counter my assumptions and judgments of the patient, I listened longer to understand how the patient had reached the decision to pursue cosmetic surgery. The patient’s larger story was still unfolding, and I was there for a brief moment as an unnamed, side character (“the hospital chaplain”) in this single chapter. The patient spoke about their relatively smooth and privileged life and their gradual interest in cosmetic surgery as they approached their fifties. Most of the patient’s social circle had already done work on their bodies with easy results.

The patient eventually said, “I know God is trying to teach me a lesson in gratitude and humility. I’m still unsure why all of this had to happen in such an extreme way, but I know there’s a lesson here.” Slowly, the patient began the delicate and powerful process of meaning-making. The patient symbolically ran between two mountains in the retelling of their story, seeking answers and assistance. Lady Hajar ran to the top of the Safa and Marwa mountains for a better view of the valley beneath to gain a better vantage point in finding help. The mountains offered Hajar a bird’s eye view of the land such that she could see the “bigger picture” and decide her next move. Upon finding nothing and nobody, Hajar ran between the mountains for a total of seven times in the scorching desert heat until she heard a voice directing her to witness the angel Jibreel digging in the ground (or in another narration, Ismaeel kicking the ground with his heels), from which the fountain of Zamzam began to flow. This illustrates beautifully the verse in the Qur’an that states,

“God will find a way out for those who are mindful of Him, and will provide for them from an unexpected source; God will be enough for those who put their trust in Him” [Surat Aţ-Ţalāq: 65;3]

Hajar ran between Safa and Marwa looking for just enough water to nourish herself and her infant, and she could not have predicted that a spring of blessed water would surface and quench the thirst of generations of souls. We may often find ourselves feeling unmotivated to continue striving when we don’t see immediate results from our work or immediate responses to our dua’a. Sometimes, we may feel stuck, like we’re doing the same thing over and over again with little to no results. However, we learn from Hajar’s story that Allah remains in control of the outcome, and it’s up to us to do the traveling, traversing, seeking, and working. We’re never really “stuck” in the same place; things are moving and evolving, but it may be that we don’t see the manifestations until later. Hajar’s striving – exemplified in the act of running between Safa and Marwa – is now an integral part of a Muslim’s pilgrimage experience; this seemingly mundane act was elevated to something sacred, into worship. So too, a patient’s exertion in seeking answers from God and reflecting on the crisis to glean wisdom, reflects a form of worship through fikr, or contemplation.

Suffering as a Potential Source of Growth

Notably, until both the patient and Hajar found themselves in a posture of desperation and need, which fueled their seeking and striving, the respective symbolic and literal wellspring of their efforts could not manifest. In other words, it is in the station of hardship that our spiritual potential blossoms. In Hajj, pilgrims suddenly find themselves in harsh conditions meant to create ideal circumstances for deep reflection of one’s life. In the hospital, the isolation and uncertainty of a patient ushers them out of ghafla (auto-pilot) and into an introspective state conducive to spiritual growth and maturation. In difficulty, stripped of our usual comforts and privileges, we re-prioritize. The patient spoke of their renewed gratitude for everything, from prior freedom to move around a space without assistance, to the current expressions of compassion by nurses and doctors. The patient reflected on how they wanted to live life a bit more intentionally upon healing. In this posture of reflection, the patient recalled the words of their religious teacher who had said once, “You’re either in a storm, or coming out of a storm, or just about to enter a storm.” And the patient incorporated that lesson in new, personal ways.

I could have perhaps delivered a pithy lecture at bedside with all of these points. I could have peppered the patient’s story with the loud judgments running through my mind to make them “see” their shortcomings as I perceived them. However, the most impactful means of learning often come not from text but from lived experience. Is it no wonder, then, that Hajj engages all pilgrims on a holistic level in mind, body, and soul/spirit. Many pilgrims return from Hajj recounting the grueling conditions and not necessarily a soothing spiritual encounter. The here and now of the work – grounded in the cyclical movements of salah, grounded in the hunger pangs of our stomachs while fasting, grounded in the ambulation of tawaf – offer conduits to Allah . We call it “work” because it requires exertion, discomfort, and pain; all qualities at which our nafs (lower self) recoils. The lessons concluded by the care seeker always reflect a deeper and more nuanced understanding than anything I could offer from my second-hand perspective.

In the Absence of Clear Answers

The patient also shared that they had been praying more frequently since the botched surgery but still “heard” no answer from God. “I know God is listening,” the patient said thoughtfully, “but He hasn’t told me why this is happening.”  How many of us have raised our eyes heavenward and asked, “Why is this happening?” only to be met with seeming silence? Lady Hajar found herself in a situation when she asked questions and literally received no answer. Prophet Ibrahim , Hajar , and baby Ismaeel had reached Mecca in the pre-Kabaa era – a deserted city with no inhabitants or water sources. Without explanation, Prophet Ibrahim began to walk away from his wife and infant son, offering them only a bag of dates and a satchel of water. Hajar followed Ibrahim , repeatedly asking him where he was going, but Ibrahim remained quiet.

In the absence of a clear answer, Hajar reflected on what she already knew theologically and asked Ibrahim if his abrupt departure was a command from Allah , to which Ibrahim confirmed, “yes.” Her beautiful answer was, “Then He will not neglect us.” In crisis, Hajar returned to her knowledge and good opinion of Allah . While she could not understand the wisdom of the crisis at that moment, she nonetheless trusted in God’s plan without the oft-sought reassurance of a clear reason. The Messenger of Allah ﷺ said, “Allah the Exalted says: ‘I am as my servant expects me to be.” Clearly, Hajar held a most lofty opinion and expectation of her Lord, and, of course, Allah met that expectation, and then some.

Purposeful Sacrifice

Hajar demonstrated a graceful manifestation of this month’s theme of sacrifice. From the first moment she understood that Allah decreed that she be left alone in the desert with her baby, her immediate response was one of istislam, or surrender, and yaqeen, or firm belief in Allah’s presence and assistance. How many times in our life have we felt abandoned, alone, lonely, or out of resources and cut off from our support system? The Qur’an tells us that Allah is near, that His help is near, that He is our sole Protector and Provider. What does our sacrifice for Allah look like this month? What or whom has consumed our thoughts and distracted us such that we need to strive harder to let go of for His sake?

Sacrifice necessarily entails loss. To sacrifice means that we willingly waive something for another. In Islam, God asks Muslims to sacrifice for His Sake only. Psychologically, this cushions our loss by giving it a higher purpose – we lose something, but we gain something better, whether it be the pleasure of God, inner peace through detachment, reward in the Hereafter, or all of the above. That which we love and treasure most, we sacrifice for. As Muslims, our striving to Allah may be rooted in love for Allah , making all the pain and disruptions worthwhile.

For the patient, sacrifice came in the form of leaving family and home for a journey toward cosmetic surgery. When the loss heavily outweighed the gain, bewilderment and grief crashed upon the patient. What was lost never met the threshold of purpose. Pilgrims leave behind their families and familiar comforts for Hajj with a focused goal of striving to Allah and without truly knowing the outcome of the journey. Some pilgrims, especially those with lesser resources, embark on the pilgrimage with no assurance that they will even survive. However, what could be lost for these pilgrims – lives, health, and so on – as well as the endurance of intense hardship remains within the realm of purposeful loss through the paradigm of religious meaning.

As I reflect on the legacy of Prophet Ibrahim and his family, I sense a theme not only of sacrifice and unwavering trust in Allah , but also a commitment to a lifetime of struggle and work without any reassurance of a specific outcome. When Prophet Ibrahim was commanded by Allah to sacrifice his son, Ismaeel , Prophet Ibrahim could not predict that Allah would exchange his son for a sheep – and yet, Prophet Ibrahim submitted anyway. When he and Ismaeel built the Kaaba, they could not have imagined that millions of Muslims would be visiting that site on a regular basis in worship of the One True God – and yet, they submitted anyway. Prophet Ibrahim is known as an Ummah unto himself as the first pure monotheist:

“Indeed, Abraham was a [comprehensive] leader, devoutly obedient to Allah , inclining toward truth, and he was not of those who associate others with Allah.”

“[He was] grateful for His favors. Allah chose him and guided him to a straight path.”

“And We gave him good in this world, and indeed, in the Hereafter he will be among the righteous.”

“Then We revealed to you, [O Muhammad], to follow the religion of Abraham, inclining toward truth; and he was not of those who associate with Allah.” [Surat An-Naĥl; 16:120-123]

I never truly understood the significance of this title as one that reflects Ibrahim’s incredibly high station. Ibrahim sacrificed everything he had purely for the sake of His Lord and earned the title of “Friend of God” given his deep connection to Allah .

For me as a chaplain, I often find Allah’s Divine Presence in hospital rooms with patients doing the difficult work of seeking, striving, and sacrificing. Allah says in a Hadith Qudsi, “Did you not realize that if you had visited (the sick) you would have found Me with him?”

We need not transcend or travel to know and connect to Allah . While we may feel sadness when thinking about a missed opportunity to visit Mecca this year, know that on the day of Mount Arafat, we may find that symbolic mountain place in our bedroom or living room as we perfume our surroundings with our prayers and tears. Even the Ka’abah exists solely to point us back toward the Lord of the Ka’abah. In a famous story from the Islamic mystical tradition, Rabia al-Adawiyya was heading for pilgrimage toward Mecca. In the middle of the desert, she saw that the house of God, the Ka’abah itself, had come to welcome her. She said: “I need the Lord of the House. What am I to do with the Ka’abah?”

In the Qur’an, God describes Himself as “Nurun ‘ala nur,” or Light upon Light. When I reflect on this beautiful way of capturing God’s essence, I’m struck by how the brilliance of light, when shined into a crevice, reaches all surfaces from the shallow to the deepest and darkest of voids. For those seeking God, remember that He is not only a Constant Presence as you move about your day –“He is with you wherever you are” [Surat Al-Ĥadīd:57;4) – His light bathes and caresses the deepest parts of you, physically and metaphysically. Don’t turn outward to find Him; seek Him in your being and in the deep, dark places of your soul. He is here.

May the Most Merciful accept from us our striving and seeking in these blessed days and beyond; may He grant us the awareness of seeing the sacred in the mundane; and may He grant us the strength and fortitude we need to sacrifice that which distances us from Him. May our sacrifices result in elevation in station and in nearness to God. Ameen.

Related reading:

– Yaser Birjas | In the Footsteps of the Prophet Ibrahim

Yaser Birjas | In the Footsteps of the Prophet Ibrahim عليه السلام

– A Mother’s Ibaadah: Lessons From The Story Of Hajar

A Mother’s Ibaadah: Lessons From The Story Of Hajar