The following is a summary of a lecture Shaykh Amin Kholwadia delivered at a conference in Amman, Jordan in October 2017, The Impact of Maturidi Kalam on Bioethics. The writers have added section headers, a few additional points and corrections from Shaykh Amin, and explanatory comments are noted.
Shaykh Mohammed Amin Kholwadia is a Muslim scholar, mentor, and the founder of Darul Qasim, an institute of traditional Islamic higher learning headquartered in the Glendale Heights suburb of Chicago. Shaykh Amin is an active advocate of the classical Sunni tradition of Islamic scholarship and a passionate promoter of traditional Islamic sciences and methodologies of teaching and learning. He is regarded internationally as an expert theologian and an authority in the fields of Islamic philosophy and theosophy.
The Oral Tradition and the Written Tradition
Allah ﷻ, through the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, granted the ummah access to knowledge by way of waḥy (revelation). Alongside knowledge from waḥy, we have access to the ‘aql (intellect), as well as the five senses. In the Maturidi tradition of kalām (one of the schools of dialectical theology), we often summarize this through the well-known maxim: asbāb al-‘ilm thalātha (the means of acquiring knowledge are three), as articulated in the traditional texts.
In theological discussion, we draw on all three. We use empirical observation and evaluation, the intellect, and waḥy (or knowledge rooted in waḥy) to discern the murād (intent) of Allah ﷻ, namely, God’s intent as it relates to our lives and the issues we face.
In the earliest period of Islam, the Prophet ﷺ was the decisive authority. For the ṣaḥābah (Companions), he was the center of religious life and the reference point in all matters. If it was waḥy, they followed. For them, the distinction between recited waḥy (the Qur’an) and non-recited waḥy (the Sunnah) did not alter the matter, because the Prophet ﷺ embodied waḥy in their lived reality. They listened and they obeyed.
From that reality emerged what may be described as the oral tradition, a mode of learning and teaching that did not depend on books. This ummah has been described as an ummah of the ummiyyūn, rooted in an ummī (unlettered) tradition. The Prophet ﷺ is al-Nabī al-ummī, and the people who followed him were ummiyyūn. This describes a historical condition but also a pedagogical method: learning that does not require pen and paper. Islam was taught and transmitted in that way, and it spread through that model.
Later, after the tābi‘ūn (the generation after the Prophet ﷺ and the Companions), the need arose to document what was known from the Sunnah and what had been formed as al-mafhūm al-islāmī (the Islamic understanding). This is where the tradition of writing and compilation expanded: Imam Mālik, and shortly thereafter Imam al-Shāfi‘ī, then Imam Aḥmad, Imam al-Bukhārī, and others, undertook the documentation of waḥy ghayr matlū (unrecited revelation, namely the Sunnah). As this material was preserved and organized, the written tradition became increasingly crystallized. Within the Ḥanafī school, Imam Muḥammad ibn al-Ḥasan documented the fiqh of Imam Abū Ḥanīfah, establishing a foundational written corpus for the madhhab. Likewise, Imam Saḥnūn documented the fiqh of Imam Mālik in al-Mudawwanah, which became central to the Mālikī madhhab. The muḥaddithūn (ḥadīth scholars) likewise wrote and compiled. Over time, the oral and written traditions became intertwined in Muslim learning across the world.
Today, we rely on both. In practice, much of Islam is transmitted through the oral tradition. If a person teaches someone how to make wuḍū’ (ablution), that teaching is rarely mediated by a manual. A parent demonstrates it: “This is how you make wuḍū’.” That is the oral tradition in action. When someone enters Islam, the basics are typically taught orally as well. One does not begin by placing volumes of al-Bukhārī, Muslim, and al-Tirmidhī before a new Muslim and instructing them to derive wuḍū’ and ṣalāh directly from those texts. The oral tradition remains alive in our communities, even as academic learning tends to lean heavily on the written tradition.
In contemporary contexts, where learning is often shaped by academia, colleges, universities, and formal schooling, reliance on the written tradition is expected, and there is no inherent problem in that. At the same time, as a Muslim community we bring all three tools to the table: the five senses, the ‘aql, and waḥy. We then apply criteria and methodologies. Islamic knowledge is treated as living and dynamic, something not only to be preserved but to be implanted in the lives and minds of people in a cultivated way. Through preserving knowledge in books, we teach reading and writing. Yet, in Islam, the purpose of reading and writing is ultimately to understand the oral tradition. The aim is not to understand the written tradition for its own sake, but to access and preserve the living transmission, a relationship that can appear paradoxical.
This informs our educational approach. At Darul Qasim in Chicago, our curriculum includes al-Bukhārī, Muslim, al-Tirmidhī, tafsīr, and other disciplines. The ultimate goal, however, is to re-establish the principle that our dīn is grounded in an oral tradition, because we are the ummah of al-Nabī al-ummī and the heirs of the ummiyyūn.
When this framework is applied to ‘ilm al-kalām, it becomes clear how the discipline developed. Kalām emerged after the second century as a science and formal discipline, for a variety of reasons. The chronology matters, although it is not necessary to pursue it here. The key point is that kalām was developed to defend an ‘aqīdah (creed) that already existed in the oral tradition. Its purpose was not to introduce new ‘aqīdah. Rather, ‘ilm al-kalām seeks to demonstrate, through disciplined argumentation, that learning through texts and formal methods ultimately serves the preservation of the transmitted understanding of the ṣaḥābah and tābi‘ūn. To safeguard that tradition, scholars established a discipline that could prevent people from falling into bida‘ (heretical innovations), particularly innovations of an intellectual and academic nature. It was in response to such developments that scholars, beginning with Abū al-Ḥasan al-Ash‘arī and others, articulated defenses of the orthodox ‘aqīdah of the Prophet ﷺ, the ṣaḥābah, and the tābi‘ūn.
In this vein, we see the emergence of Abū Manṣūr al-Māturīdī. The Maturidi position in kalām is, in essence, rooted in Imam Abū Ḥanīfah. Abū Ḥanīfah represents the oral tradition, while Imam al-Māturīdī represents the maturation of that legacy within the written tradition. Many of the statements and ideas presented by Imam al-Māturīdī primarily originate from Abū Ḥanīfah himself. This is why Abū al-Mu‘īn al-Nasafī states in Tabsirat al-Adillah: “the custom of the people was to take from knowledge of Abū Ḥanīfah and his views.” The Maturidi tradition therefore functions, in many respects, as a representation of Abū Ḥanīfah’s positions across numerous issues. In this way, the relationship between the oral and written traditions is reconciled. Abū Ḥanīfah, being from the era of the tābi‘ūn, relied on the oral tradition in learning and teaching. The extension of that legacy is seen through the teachings and formulations of Imam al-Māturīdī.
Bioethics and Theology
In Chicago, a group of scientists and medical doctors meets regularly to discuss bioethics. In one discussion, I posed a question: what is your theory of cure? What is your theory of medicine? The response was silence, meaning: the question itself had not been framed in those terms. This raises a related question. Do we need a Muslim theory of medicine, or a theory of shifā’ (cure)? I presented six verses from the Qur’an that speak about shifā’, explained them, and asked the group to develop a Muslim theory based on their understanding of the role of medicine in the contemporary world.
When we say “Muslim scientist,” the emphasis often falls on “Muslim.” Science and medicine, in themselves, are universal. Their rules do not apply differently to Muslims and non-Muslims. If a non-Muslim has a fever, the treatment is the same as for a Muslim. Yet understanding the Muslim position on critical matters remains necessary for someone to practice as a Muslim practitioner.
At Darul Qasim, we proposed that for a person to become “Muslim-ized” in their approach to any academic field or profession, the starting point must be epistemology. Without understanding one’s epistemology, one does not bring Islamic value to the discussion.
Second, one must understand, on the basis of that epistemology, the place and value of theology. What does theology say, and how does it relate to one’s profession on a daily basis? For example, when encountering a patient on life support, how does theology translate into the question of whether life support may be withdrawn? Can one terminate this person’s life?
This theological question relates to Allah’s ﷻ names, al-Muḥyī (The Giver of Life) and al-Mumīt (The Bringer of Death). If one remains purely abstract and cannot articulate kalām in a way that connects to uṣūl al-fiqh (legal theory) and fiqh (jurisprudence), one may simply state that only Allah ﷻ gives life and only Allah ﷻ brings death, without reaching the practical level demanded by a hospital scenario. Through ‘ilm al-kalām, however, we have methodologies and a conceptual structure through which we can engage uṣūl and fiqh responsibly and provide guidance to physicians and families regarding whether life support may be withdrawn.
This leads to the core issue: what is the nature of theology in the ethical discussion concerning who gives life and who gives death?
Two ideas clarify the discussion. The first is takhliq (the act of creation). The second is the question of whether the mind can perceive moral truths, namely, whether it can discern good and evil.
Consider the case of a patient on life support, where the family and physician seek a response from the muftī on whether to withdraw support. With takhliq and takwīn (the act of generation), once one affirms Allah’s ﷻ attribute of takwīn as azalī (pre-eternal), reality is distinguished between Khāliq (the Creator) and makhlūq (the creation).
This allows human interaction to remain ḥādith (created), while divine action remains eternal, and the two can be related without confusion. When we say Allah ﷻ is al-Muḥyī and al-Mumīt, we are not committing shirk by either maintaining or removing life support. Imam al-Māturīdī establishes the principle that takwīn is ghayr mukawwan (uncreated), meaning the creativity of Allah ﷻ is not identical to the created object. This provides a safe academic and theological threshold on which to base such decisions without entering the grey area that might be described as shirk.
When we apply the theory of taḥsīn and taqbīḥ (whether the rational mind can arrive at moral truths of goodness and evil), the relationship between uṣūl al-fiqh, fiqh, and the clinical scenario becomes even clearer. Is the mind capable of evaluating the goodness or evil of the act in question? This approach provides a firm methodology and a foundation upon which a Muslim ethical framework can be constructed for practitioners.
From here, one can develop a theory that is distinctly Muslim. When a Muslim physician or scientist engages their work with clarity of intention, motivation, and sincerity, their contribution to the beneficence of the world becomes more coherent and purpose-driven. There are many doctors in the United States, yet relatively few ask: how do I serve patients in an Islamic way? If this discussion is elevated to an intellectual and academic level, it becomes conceivable that more physicians will be inclined to learn and engage the Islamic legacy.
This brings us to another theory Imam al-Māturīdī develops, grounded in the role of the ‘aql in taḥsīn and taqbīḥ, namely, the role of amr bil ma‘rūf wa nahy ‘anil munkar (commanding the good and forbidding the evil). In his Ta’wīlāt Ahl al-Sunnah, his tafsīr, he discusses the verse:
“You are the best nation produced [as an example] for mankind. You enjoin what is right and forbid what is wrong and believe in Allah.”1
In his tafsīr of this āyah, Imam al-Māturīdī assigns the ‘aql a role in identifying what is ma‘rūf (good) and what is munkar (evil).
This is clearly important in a Muslim society, but it is also important in a non-Muslim society. If Muslims are ukhrijat lil-nās (sent forth as an example for mankind), then they are also situated within an-nās (mankind). Their role includes identifying ma‘rūf and munkar for people. Imam al-Māturīdī holds that this can be done through the ‘aql, that the mind can discern what is good and what is bad. In non-Muslim societies, this creates a basis for engagement with non-Muslims in mainstream discussions, allowing bridges to be built through fruitful discourse in legislation, policymaking, academia, and writing. Muslims are part of the ummah, and also part of an-nās. This is a forward path for Muslim engagement, not only in bioethics but across ethical questions more broadly.
In life, there will be issues of illness, cure, and medicine. If these are not funneled through a philosophy that is coherent and consistent with the Islamic ethos and Islamic theory, then participation is reduced to earning a livelihood. It will lack an agenda that appeals to the intellectual and academic mind. This is where many forms of progression are lost. Without a philosophy or theory through which to practice medicine, law, business, or education, work becomes merely a job. We want to promote the idea of kalam, so that we can engage the ummah in something that is Islamic and pertains to their lives immediately.
Photo by Rumman Amin on Unsplash
This lecture was generously transcribed by Heraa Hashmi and Wassim Hassan.
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- Āl ‘Imrān 3:110, Saheeh International [↩]
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