The worship of letting go

Every day, you are being offered a deal. And that’s even if you aren’t in a boardroom or a trading floor. You face them in conversations, private messages, career choices, da’wah stances, in moments of pressure for silence when you should speak.

Products are only one aspect that the world buys and sells. It buys positions, stances, principles. The most dangerous sales are the ones that don’t feel like selling. So what would you accept to keep your īmān intact? What is the price of remaining unpurchased, of erasing a name of disgrace and earning a name of honour with Allah?

Well, there happens to be a man who answered that question with everything he owned.

The deals you don’t notice

Suhayb al-Rūmī set out as a migrant to the Messenger of Allah ﷺ, fleeing with his religion toward Madinah, as dozens of other Companions did.

But a group from Quraysh chased him down, determined to drag him back. When there was no escaping them, he dismounted, spilled the arrows from his quiver onto the sand, held his bow, and said:

يا معشرَ قريشٍ، لقد علمتُم أنّي من أَرماكم، وأيمُ اللهِ لا تصلون إليَّ حتّى أرميَ بما في كنانتِي، ثمّ أضربُ بسيفي ما بقيَ في يدي منه شيء، ثمّ بعدها افعلوا ما شئتم

O people of Quraysh, you already know I’m among your best archers. By Allah, you will not reach me until I shoot every arrow in my quiver; then I will strike with my sword for as long as I have strength in my hand. Then, after that, do whatever you wish.”

They bargained with him:

أتيْتَنا صُعْلوكًا حقيرًا ، فكثُرَ مالُكَ عندنا ، وبلغْتَ الذي بلغْتَ ، ثُمَّ تريدُ أنْ تخرجَ بمالِكَ ونفسِكَ ، واللهِ لا يكونُ ذلِكَ

You came to us a destitute nobody. Your wealth grew among us until you reached what you reached, then you want to leave with yourself and your money? By Allah, that will not be.”

So Suhayb offered them a deal:

أرأيتم إن أعطيتُكم مالي أتُخلون سبيلي؟

What if I give you my wealth, will you then let me go?”

They approved.

He led them to where his wealth was hidden. They took every trace of him, and he continued on with nothing, yet liberated and unpurchased. When he finally arrived, the Prophet ﷺ received him with words even before Suhayb had uttered a single detail of the incident.

The Prophet ﷺ said,

ربحَ البيعُ أبا يحيى، ربحَ البيعُ أبا يحيى

“Profitable is the trade, O Abu Yahya! Profitable is the trade, O Abu Yahya!” [1]

In astonishment, Suhayb remarked:

يا رسول الله ما سبقني إليك أحد، وما أخبرك إلا جبريل عليه السلام

O Messenger of Allah, no one preceded me to you, and none informed you except Jibrīl.” [2]

Speaking about Suhayb and his likes, Allah revealed:

وَمِنَ النَّاسِ مَن يَشْرِي نَفْسَهُ ابْتِغَاءَ مَرْضَاتِ اللَّهِ

And among people is the one who sells himself, seeking the pleasure of Allah.” [3]

Redefining a profitable trade

Stepping into this deal, Suhayb’s counter-deal and staggering outcome, what does his stance mean for the 21^st century Muslim? Islam did not merely correct beliefs and actions, but adjusted how they understood reality, reforming concepts and measures.

One such concept is that of profit and loss. Before revelation, profit was simply buy low, sell high. Accumulate more than you had. Convert opportunity into surplus. If someone bought gold or silver when markets were low and sold at the peak, we would call that intelligent timing, or we would say he read the cycle well. If a property investor flipped distressed assets into multiplied equity, the world would nod approvingly: successful trade.

Likewise, if someone were to lose his life savings in a single moment, the world would quickly conclude that he’s lost everything. Years of work, gone. They would look at Suhayb and say he had liquidated his assets at a total loss, that he walked away with zero retained capital, no portfolio, no safety net, no visible return.

But the Prophet ﷺ overturned that verdict for Suhayb who arrived destitute, declaring:

Profitable is the trade, O Abu Yahya.” [1]

The Prophet ﷺ was teaching us to calculate with a different metric; true profit is not converting one currency into a stronger currency. It is transforming gold into Allah’s forgiveness, money into a project for your Hereafter, wealth from a story that closes at death into a story that begins on the Day of Resurrection.

Instead of asking, “How do I multiply this?” the believer begins to ask, “How do I immortalise this?”

The Companions of the Prophet ﷺ internalised this ethic and lived by it. A man once entered upon Abu Dharr and began looking around his house.

He asked,

O Abu Dharr, where is your furniture?”

Abu Dharr replied,

إنّ لنا بيتًا نوجّه إليه صالحَ متاعِنا

We have another house to which we send our best belongings.”

The man said,

إنّه لا بدّ لك من متاعٍ، ما دمتَ ها هنا

But you still need furniture so long as you are here.”

Abu Dharr answered,

إنّ صاحبَ المنزل لا يدعُنا فيه

The Owner of this house will not let us remain in it.” [4]

What is wealth worth if it owns you, if you become its servant instead of its master? What is it worth if its price tag is your dignity, your entire time, family, and even faith? What is it worth if you live with the fatigue of the poor, but meet Allah with the accountability of the rich?

What is money if Allah sees no trace of it on you, no mercy it released, no burden it lifted, no home it steadied, no friend it carried, no broken heart it soothed, no parent it consoled, no injustice it resisted, no project for your Hereafter it built? What is it worth if the sick find no medicine because of it, the widow no bread because of it, and the indebted no relief because of it?

For every person who converts his wealth into a currency that lasts, like Suhayb did, we say to them as the Prophet ﷺ said to Suhayb:

Profitable is the trade, O Abu Yahya.” [1]

The worship of letting go

There is a form of worship that is not about what you do, but what you refuse to do, what you release for Allah. Suhayb’s trade was profitable because he walked away from what could have chained him, and revelation descended to certify that his letting go was noticed and registered as a win.

The Prophet ﷺ taught this principle repeatedly.

He (ﷺ) said,

مَنْ تَرَكَ الْخَمْرَ وَهُوَ يَقْدِرُ عَلَيْهِ لَأَسْقِيَنَّهُ مِنْهُ مِنْ حَظِيرَةِ الْقُدُسِ

Whoever leaves wine while capable of drinking it, I will give him to drink from it in the purified enclosure of Jannah.” [5]

And he (ﷺ) said,

أنا زعيم ببيت في ربض الجنة لمن ترك المراء وإن كان محقا، وببيت في وسط الجنة لمن ترك الكذب وإن كان مازحا

I guarantee a house in the outskirts of Paradise for the one who leaves argumentation, even if he is right; and a house in the middle of Paradise for the one who leaves lying, even in play.” [6]

And he (ﷺ) also said,

مَنْ تَرَكَ اللِّبَاسِ تَوَاضُعًا لِلَّهِ، وَهُوَ يَقْدِرُ عَلَيْهِ: دَعَاهُ اللَّهُ يَوْمَ الْقِيَامَةِ عَلَى رُءُوسِ الْخَلاَئِقِ، حَتَّى يُخَيِّرَهُ مِنْ أَىِّ حُلَلِ الإِيمَانِ شَاءَ يَلْبَسُهَا

Whoever leaves silk out of humility for Allah while able to wear it, Allah will call him before all creation on the Day of Resurrection and allow him to choose whichever garments of faith he wishes to wear.” [7]

Notice the pattern? There is repetition of the word “leaves”. Restraint for Allah is worship. This is something to think about when struggling to leave comfort for prayer in the mosque. The bed is warm, the night is long, and the body keeps asking for “five more minutes”.

Some of us drift into Jumu’ah late for years on end, because we aren’t willing to leave work a few minutes earlier. Some of us find it hard to leave certain ways of presenting ourselves in public — forms of beautification, products and cosmetics that were meant for more private spaces, because of a stubborn inability to leave attention behind.

Others find it hard to leave online corners that roughen the heart in the late hours, where the soul keeps returning even when it knows it should leave. Then there is the smartphone, a constant tug that makes it difficult to leave long enough to rediscover presence with family, to leave distractions and sit with a book, to leave the noise long enough to build a skill, to leave the shallow scroll and think deeply, to leave the reflex of “just one glance” and stand on the prayer mat with a gathered heart.

Most of the time, it isn’t that we can’t. It’s that we haven’t learned how to leave.

A great way of re-learning this is to recall a rule set by the Prophet ﷺ:

إنك لن تدع شيئاً لله عز وجل إلا بدلك الله به ما هو خير لك منه

You will never leave something for the sake of Allah, except that Allah replaces it with something better for you.” [8]

That “something better” will be in the life of this world, as mentioned by Qatāda, but it may not look like the thing you walked away from! It may be far superior and enduring, arriving as clarity after you’d once lived in confusion, as light in the heart where there used to be darkness. [9]

Or it may be a shield from a calamity that was already moving toward you. It may be an awakening of īmān after a long sleep, a renewed warmth in your relationship with Allah you never thought you’d taste, a sweetness in sujūd that makes you wonder how you ever lived without it.

It may feel small because no one applauds restraint. No one gathers to celebrate the temptation you resisted, the tab you closed, the word you held back, the ego you buried, the desire you walked away from. But in the unseen economy of the Hereafter, these are anything but small withdrawals. They are trades that do not crash, profits that never expire.

So every sin you could have reached, yet stepped back from when you remembered that Allah sees, tell your heart in that moment: profitable is the trade. Every revenge you had the power to deliver, yet swallowed for Allah’s sake, tell your heart: profitable is the trade. Every brave stance our Ummah needed, the one you hesitated over but still chose to step into, remind yourself: profitable is the trade.

Broadening our understanding of migration

Sometimes, migration is literal, from one land to another.

But other times homelands narrow on their own people, making one feel the Earth itself — mountains and all — pressing on the chest, like you’re breathing through the eye of a needle.

For that reason, migration has always been part of the human story, as was the case with Suhayb, dozens of Companions, Prophet Ibrāhīm (ʿalayhi al-Salām), and as was the case with the Prophet ﷺ who stood at the edge of Makkah, saying:

واللَّهِ إنَّكِ لخيرُ أرضِ اللَّهِ، وأحبُّ أرضِ اللَّهِ إلى اللَّهِ، ولولا أنِّي أُخرِجتُ منكِ ما خرجتُ

By Allah, you are the best land of Allah, and the most beloved land to Allah. Had I not been driven out of you, I would never have left.” [10]

Allah says,

وَمَنْ يُهَاجِرْ فِي سَبِيلِ اللَّهِ يَجِدْ فِي الْأَرْضِ مُرَاغَمًا كَثِيرًا وَسَعَةً

And whoever emigrates for the cause of Allah will find many safe havens and bountiful resources throughout the Earth.” [11]

In Islam’s view however, not every hijrah is stamped in a passport. Sometimes it is a private migration, leaving a company that normalises compromise for friendships that pull you upward, or away from a habit that is corroding the heart, away from a relationship that is pulling you from Allah, away from a screen you keep reopening, away from a version of yourself you’re no longer willing to be.

Indeed, as the Prophet ﷺ said:

وَالْمُهَاجِرُ مَن هَجَرَ مَا نَهَى اللَّهُ عَنْهُ

The migrant is the one who abandons what Allah has forbidden.” [12]

Whether your hijrah is forced, pushed from one city to another or one land to another, or the daily hijrah of the believer, moving from sin to obedience and from cowardice to courage, you already know the result of this trade:

Profitable is the trade, O Abu Yahya.” [1]

Life of a believer is mawāqif (life-defining stances)

Life isn’t only a sequence of days and memories. It is made of moments where you either stand upright for Allah, or bend in a way that disfigures you forever.

Some compromises may seem small, but even the slightest of fractures can break you in a flash. You may spend years trying to recover the dignity you lost in a single moment, and even then, you may never retrieve it.

The highest honours in the Hereafter are often not built from thousands of dramatic gestures, but from one clean stance at the exact moment your soul wanted to fold. When the Children of Israel recoiled at the prospect of entering the Holy Land to fight — when panic and excuses became the majority response — Allah preserved the words of just two men who refused to collapse with the crowd:

قَالَ رَجُلَانِ مِنَ الَّذِينَ يَخَافُونَ أَنْعَمَ اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِمَا ادْخُلُوا عَلَيْهِمُ الْبَابَ فَإِذَا دَخَلْتُمُوهُ فَإِنَّكُمْ غَالِبُونَ وَعَلَى اللَّهِ فَتَوَكَّلُوا إِنْ كُنْتُمْ مُؤْمِنِينَ

Two men from those who feared Allah — whom Allah had blessed — said, ‘Enter upon them through the gate. Once you enter it, you will surely prevail. And put your trust in Allah, if you are truly believers.’” [13]

Though no fighting took place, their words were preserved because they took a stance.

In the famous hadīth of the seven who will be shaded on the Day when there is no shade but Allah’s, some of their honour was secured because of a single decisive moment: a person is offered a powerful temptation — status, beauty, secrecy — and he answers with one sentence: I fear Allah. Another has every excuse to display his charity, but in a moment, he hides it and protects his sincerity. Yet another is alone, no audience or performance, and he remembers Allah until tears fall. Mawāqif. A single decision that holds a whole future together.

When stances are tested publicly

If you want a living example of mawāqif in our time, look at Palestine through the months and years of genocide.

When the dust settles and Allah restores relief, victory, and liberation, people will not remember the clever excuses. They will remember who stood when the systems were stacked against them. They will remember those whose stances were only ever silence, those who tiptoed around the truth to protect assets and brands, those who chose self-preservation and called it wisdom, and those who spent their energy policing the efforts of ordinary people, standing on the sidelines, sitting comfortably in podcasts, diagnosing flaws, condemning imperfect attempts, while never assisting in lifting tyranny.

The people the Ummah needs

Hardships uncover the hidden layers of character and expose the true realities of souls, as one of the wise said:

ثلاثة لا يُُعرَفون إلا في ثلاثة مواطن : لا يُعرف الحليم إلا عند الغضب ، ولا الشجاع إلا في الحرب ، ولا الأخ إلا عند الحاجة

Three are only truly known in three situations: the forbearing person is only known at the moment of anger, the brave person is only known in war, and a true brother is only known at the moment of need.” [14]

An early Arab captured this beautifully in a couplet of poetry, saying:

سَيَذكُرُني قَومي إِذا جَدَّ جِدُّهُم ** وَفي اللَيلَةِ الظَلماءِ يُفتَقَدُ البَدرُ

My people will remember me when their crisis becomes real, because when the night is darkest, it is the moon that is longed for.” [15]

In other words: when the night thickens, you find out who actually shines.

There will be seasons where crises hit, confusion spreads, routes feel cut off, and people begin to drift out of panic and pressure to survive. Standards start collapsing, truth becomes blurred, and hearts become negotiable. In those moments, there will always be some who will stand steady and steady others, who hold the line, and who will keep the compass pointing to Allah when the crowd is spinning.

The Ummah today is desperate for men and women raised for the great moments of life, for the hour when truth is costly. Men and women of refined character and disciplined souls, who guard unity the way a mother guards her child, and who despise division the way they despise a cruel enemy at the gate. They understand that anger for the sake of Allah is not a licence for cruelty, not permission for injustice, and never a justification to violate the honour of a Muslim in the name of “setting things right”.

They are people of high aspiration and long horizons. Patient when hardship sinks its claws, distant from temptation when others crumble, organised when chaos descends. Their minds are balanced, their hearts are tender, their opinions are wise, their presence is calming, their faces are reassuring, and their mistakes are few.

When Allah is mentioned, they visibly tremble. When His verses are recited, their īmān soars. And when corrected, they smile in genuine gratitude. Their eyes are quick to shed a tear, and their hearts carry a grief for their Ummah, an ache that keeps them awake, and a softness that keeps them human.

They endure a short day for the sake of a long tomorrow. They are not crushed by what they miss of this world, and not intoxicated by what they gain from it. They breathe with the patience of people who know the road is long, and they speak with the wisdom that long roads teach.

You won’t truly recognise them when the air is calm and people agree. You recognise them when the air burns, when people clash, when pressure rises, when voices sharpen, when it becomes easy to be unfair and tempting to be harsh. In such moments, they remain just, restrained, Prophetic. They are the front lines of our Ummah’s causes, because they are its elites, its conscience, its mind, its caring parent, its protective shade, and its watchful eye. They defend it when it’s attacked, they heal it when it is injured, they veil it when it is exposed.

Every age has needed such people. But today, the need is urgent. They are the people of Allah, the people of the Qur’ān, and the people of life-defining stances.

Source: Islam21c

Notes

[1] al-Sīrah al-Nabawiyyah

[2] al-Hākim

[3] al-Qur’ān, 2:207

[4] Shu’ab al-Īmān

[5] al-Bazzar

[6] Sunan Abu Dāwūd, 4,800; https://sunnah.com/abudawud:4800

[7] Tirmidhi, 2,481; https://sunnah.com/riyadussalihin:801

[8] Ahmad

[9] Tafsīr al-Tabarī

[10] Tirmidhi, 3,925; https://sunnah.com/tirmidhi:3925