In the early days of Maryland’s Muslim gatherings, Friday sermons (khutbahs) were almost always delivered in Arabic or Urdu. For immigrant parents, it felt natural, it connected them to home. But for their children, born or raised in Maryland, those sermons might as well have been whispers in another world.
By the early 1980s, a young African American convert named Hamza stood up in a crowded basement masjid in Baltimore and did something bold. He delivered the khutbah in English.
At first, some elders frowned. “This is not how we do it,” one muttered. Yet as Hamza spoke, quoting the Qur’an, retelling the Prophet’s ﷺ example, and urging the youth to stay proud of their faith, the room grew quiet. For the first time, the younger generation sat up straight, listening attentively and understanding.
Hamza spoke about the challenges of being Muslim in America. He didn’t just speak of theology; he spoke of lived reality.
After the prayer, several parents approached him. One admitted, “I never thought of it this way, but my son understood everything you said today.” Another said quietly, “Maybe this is how Islam will live here.”
From that day on, khutbahs in Maryland began to change. Many mosques adopted a bilingual model: opening in Arabic for tradition, but shifting into English to reach hearts. It was not without resistance, some argued it broke with custom. But gradually, it became the norm.
That first khutbah in English was more than a change of language. It was a shift of perspective: a recognition that the future of Islam in Maryland depended not only on honoring heritage, but also on ensuring the next generation could understand, embrace, and live their faith in their own tongue.
The echo of Hamza’s voice in that basement reminds us that faith is not frozen in language. Its essence transcends words. And sometimes, the bravest act is simply to speak so that your children can hear you.