The Divine Reality by By Hamza Andreas Tzortzis

What is the point of writing a book about God, Islam and atheism? Philosophers, thinkers and academics from various religious backgrounds have already written books on similar topics, so why reinvent the wheel? To explain this, let me elaborate a little on the journey that I have taken so far in my life.

I was born in London to Greek parents. Both of them came to the UK in the seventies for different reasons. My father mainly wanted to escape life in Athens. My mother did not have much of a choice; she was a refugee driven out by the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in 1974. My parents suffered many hardships, but with love, patience and determination they have become now two of the happiest, most loving, compassionate and tolerant people I know. I am eternally grateful to have them in my life. Despite all their setbacks, what concerned my father the most was solving his version of what people call an existential crisis. He was in search of answers to life’s key questions. His journey led him to acquire an array of books. At home, I had access to a wide range of literature, from The Power of Positive Thinking to The Science of the Mind. My father was always immersed in his books and constantly shared his ideas with us. I am the middle of his three children, and none of us at the time had mature enough minds to comprehensively grasp what he was saying. Being brought up in this background, I picked up my father’s existential anguish, and I began to ask questions about the basis of my own existence. I still remember how, at around the age of eleven, I would go into the bath and sit in the tub for a while, crying. I felt so lonely. What occurred to me was that I was the only one conscious of my existence (see Chapter 7). Only I knew what it was like to be me, whether I was alone in the bath or playing with friends in the park. This created a sense of doubt about the existence of other people’s conscious lives. Were they really conscious? Did they exist in a real sense? What were they feeling? What were their conscious experiences when I was not there to witness them? Later in life, I learnt that this was a form of solipsism, which is the view that you can only be certain that your mind exists. Nevertheless, it was a profoundly lonely experience, which I believe was the emotional driving force to find answers to very important questions in my life. This experience instilled within me that the concept of truth is very important. In my search for truth, I used to engage with my friends and ask them questions about their beliefs. I was so fortunate to have connections with people from myriad ethnicities and cultures. This was one of the blessings of being brought up in the London borough of Hackney. I felt that without knowing the truth, life seemed unreal and illusory. Many psychologists have acknowledged that human beings want to be right and seek to learn from social norms when they are unsure about things. From this perspective, the search for truth is very important as it offers the possibility of shaping who we are or the person we want to be.

I felt that not searching for the truth was tantamount to lying to myself, or accepting a lie. Therefore, the search for truth was a means of trying to be sincere with my own existence, as I would be seeking to establish the truth of this life and my place within it. For me, holding on to the sceptical view of the truth, which argues that there is no truth, was self-defeating. This is because the concept that there is no truth is actually a claim itself, so how could I claim that scepticism is true but everything else is not? This is the inconsistency of the sceptical view; a sceptic would claim the truth of scepticism, but would deny all other truths. Consequently, no matter what position I held, I still had to accept a truth.

When I first learnt about Islam, two aspects fascinated me. The first was the certainty that emanated from my Muslim friends. The second was their social and spiritual practices; both eventually led me to accept Islam. This is not the space to go into detail about my conversion. However, there was a point when I became intellectually convinced in the rational foundations of Islam, yet it still was not enough for me to embrace the religion. So I started adopting two practices. First, I started to learn some chapters of the Qur’an in Arabic, and pray several of the five daily prayers that Muslims carry out as part of their spiritual practice. When I used to prostrate, which is a part of the Islamic prayer, I would talk to God, asking for His guidance. I did this after receiving a spiritual insight of my brother’s friend, Amir Islahi. He was studying medicine at university, but he would visit my college campus and give us advice. Since I had Muslim friends, I would listen to him; echoing the words of the Prophet Muhammad صلى الله عليه وسلم, Amir once said that you are closest to God during prostration, so speak to Him. I found this profound because the face reflects who we are. Many times it represents our ego and vanity, yet Muslims humble themselves and acknowledge that they are nothing compared to God. In that submission they truly find themselves; servants of the One that created them. In prostration, the physical station of humility and egolessness, Muslims speak to God. So I started talking to Him too, and begged for guidance. Dr. Amir Islahi is now my friend, but I do not think he knows the impact of those few words he conveyed to me over 15 years ago. Second, I began to have more conversations with a school friend of mine, Moynul Ahmed. He would come to my house and speak to me about Islam, and I would ask him questions. However, early on in the process I was intellectually convinced, but my heart was dead. Nothing I knew about the truth of Islam had been internalised. In this struggle to combine what I knew with what I felt, I met Moynul outside my house and sat in his car on 4 October 2002. To be honest, I do not really remember what he told me, but I remember how I felt. He expressed a profound and poetic description of the certainty of death. I cannot recall the exact words; to do so would be like catching a black cat in the dark. However, it hit me hard and somehow opened a door that seemed to have been locked, allowing my certainty in the truth of Islam to affect my heart.

Human beings do not enjoy thinking about death. It creates the realisation within us that all of the attachments we have built in this world will cease to be. Significantly, it awakens us to the brutal fact that we will no longer exist on this planet. We have to face the reality of an inevitable personal apocalypse. There have been many philosophical theories about death. For example, some thinkers hold the view that death is like a permanent sleep. Others have explained that death is to be considered part of life, something which every person must come to terms with in order to live well; part of what is involved in accepting our finitude. Some thinkers have claimed that death is a transition from this life to an afterlife, which includes the eternal life of bliss via Divine mercy, or pain because of our insistence on rejecting the mercy and guidance of God.

Whatever our views on death are, we can all agree it is a subject that we do not think about enough. This may sound morbid, but there is a profound benefit in reflecting on death—it brings about the realisation that life is short. Pondering our finite nature helps diminish our egos and our selfish desires no longer seem that important. Our ephemeral attachments to the material world are put into perspective and our lives are questioned—all of which offer great benefit. As the 11th century theologian Al-Ghazali said, “…in the recollection of death there is reward and merit.”2 Contemplating death provokes thought and gives us a window of opportunity to reflect on the nature of our existence.

Reflecting on death, answered questions on how I should view life. It taught me to measure how much importance I should attach to material things. In viewing my life through the lens of death, I entered an emotional and intellectual space where I could assess my situation on this planet. How did I come to be? What should I be doing here? Where am I going? Death was the driving force behind these critical questions, because the moment I recognised that this life is short, that one day I will breathe my last, it put everything into perspective.

To understand what I went through, I want you to reflect on death; imagine you are here one minute and the next you are no more. You have probably experienced loved ones that have passed away; how did you feel? Did you feel loneliness, emptiness and lack of attachment to the things you used to take so seriously? Now, if you were to taste death this instant, as every human being eventually will, what would that mean to you? What would you do differently with your life if you were given the chance to go back? What thoughts and ideas would you take more seriously? What would your outlook be if you could relive your life having experienced the tragic reality of death?

The sad thing about death is that we cannot go back. This realisation weighed heavily on my mind. Deeply reflecting on death led me to the conclusion that life is short, and that I wanted to transform it for the better without delay. The very next morning I took a taxi to London Central Mosque and embraced Islam. The date was October 5, 2002.

My need to know the truth transformed into a desire to tell others about the truth. In my naivety, I would latch onto anything that I felt supported Islam and its rational foundations. I would study the works of various Christian philosophers because nothing of that sort was accessible to Muslims in the English language—most profound Islamic intellectual writings are in Arabic. This inevitably made my learning process hard. Adopting the arguments espoused by Christian philosophers was not the best way to imbibe Islamic theism. Although the two faiths have a lot in common, there are huge and subtle differences. Throughout my years as a Muslim, I have learnt things the hard way. I have made many mistakes and errors, and much of this book consists of the lessons that I have learnt. Many of my mistakes are available for all to see on the Internet. This process of trial and error has had its benefits as well as its negative consequences. The negatives are that all of my blunders, slip-ups and oversights are available for all to see. However, by reading this book, you can learn from my mistakes and you do not have to learn things the hard way. Trial and error have refined, developed and strengthened the arguments I have adopted. This journey has also made me appreciate that tolerance and compassion are among our highest virtues. These experiences also challenged my views on my own faith, and helped open the door to find out that Islam has a compassionate tradition. Through the Prophet Muhammad’s صلى الله عليه وسلم teachings, I understood compassion beautifies everything.

I have tested my ideas and arguments with some of the brightest atheist minds in the world. I have debated prominent atheist academics and thinkers from a wide range of intellectual backgrounds. Some of my interlocutors have been Professor Simon Blackburn, Dr. Brendan Larvor, Dr. Stephen Law, Professor Richard Norman, Dr. Nigel Warburton, Professor Peter Simons, Professor Lawrence Krauss, Professor Graham Thompson, Dr. Peter Cave and Dan Barker. I have even had a brief street discussion with Professor Richard Dawkins, but unfortunately we were interrupted and Dawkins made a quick exit. The topics we have debated range from “Can we live better lives without religion?”, “Can consciousness be best explained by God’s existence?” to “Islam or Atheism: Which Makes More Sense?”3 These debates have facilitated improvements to my arguments. It has been a huge blessing, and those who are familiar with my work have seen that I have evolved from mirroring the arguments of analytical philosophers to developing positions rooted in the Islamic tradition. This does not mean I have ‘thrown away the baby with the bathwater’. As you will see in this book, I have kept all the sound, universal and robust arguments, while giving them an Islamic flavour, as well as refining them to ensure that they are theologically and rationally coherent.

Completing my Master’s degree in philosophy at the University of London has proven to be very beneficial. My ability to critically challenge and support philosophical views has improved. I am currently continuing postgraduate studies in this field, and it is my intention to use what I have learnt to articulate an intelligent and compassionate case for traditional Islam to a wide range of audiences. These academic experiences have shaped and influenced the logical flow and content of the arguments presented in this book. They have also strengthened my view that Islamic theology, thought and philosophy—grounded in the Qur’an and the prophetic teachings—are intuitive, coherent and robust.

No other book available in the English language articulates an intelligent and nuanced case for Islamic theism, while addressing the incoherence of atheism. This is not to praise this book; rather, it highlights the lack of writing on this topic. During the lectures that I have delivered at university campuses all around the world, I have interacted with thousands of Muslim and non-Muslim students and academics. These interactions, in addition to the rise of atheism, have made it quite clear that people have an intellectual thirst concerning the Islamic view of God, the role of revelation and the personality of the Prophet Muhammad صلى الله عليه وسلم. This book aims to quench that thirst, thereby providing an English reader with a coherent set of arguments for God’s existence, oneness and why He is worthy of our worship, including a compelling case for the Qur’an and the prophethood of Muhammad صلى الله عليه وسلم. It also responds to and addresses a wide range of academic and popular arguments and objections that favour the denial of the Divine.

This book contains a combination of universal and Islamic arguments for God’s existence, the Qur’an and the prophethood of Muhammad صلى الله عليه وسلم. Many of these arguments have been tried and tested with academics and thinkers over the years. Each chapter has relevant Islamic references to show the Islamic basis for each argument, which ensures that they are not only philosophically sound but Islamically coherent. Approximately fifty percent of the references in this book come from the Islamic tradition; this includes references from the Qur’an, the Prophetic Traditions4

(known as hadith; ahadith, pl) and the Islamic scholarly tradition. This book does not just focus on Islamic theism and a response to atheism; it addresses a key argument for the Divine authorship of the Qur’an and explains how, by looking at the life experiences, teachings and impact of the Prophet Muhammad صلى الله عليه وسلم, we can only conclude that he was the final messenger of God. Significantly, it elaborates in detail on why God is worthy of our worship, which is the reason for our existence.

Irrespective of whether you consider yourself a Muslim, atheist or sceptic, I invite you to read this book with an open heart and mind. I truly believe that if you respond to this invitation, one of the conclusions you will reach is that atheism is an intellectual mirage and that the Islamic conception of God is coherent and true. Once you read this book you will see that the phrase ‘intellectual mirage’ is an apt description for atheism. A mirage is an optical illusion that we experience due to atmospheric conditions. Likewise, the conditions that facilitate the denial of the Divine are based on false assumptions about the world, incoherent arguments, pseudointellectual postulations that veil emotional issues and on occasion, egocentricity. Atheism is not based on a commitment to reason; in many ways, it is its adversary (see Chapter 3).