Don't Marie Kondo Your Religion

During a recent conversation with a teacher, I apologized for being late. "Sorry, I was about to miss prayer."

He's Christian, supportive of my faith, genuinely curious. "What would happen if you didn't pray on time? Would it be a big deal for God?"

I explained that I pray for me, not for Allah. That Allah is perfect and I'm the one who needs those five daily appointments with the divine. He smiled, said he liked that answer. Then came the kicker:

"It's important we all examine our religious practices. Keep the meaningful ones, let go of the ones that no longer serve us."

Astaghfirullah, my brain whispered automatically. God forgive us.

Modern psychology has it’s own version: let go of what no longer serves you. Astaghfirullah for when we want to let go of Allah. Standing there, I felt this overwhelming relief that I don't have to Marie Kondo my spiritual life anymore. Does this prayer spark joy? Doesn't matter. Does waking up before dawn feel meaningful today? Irrelevant. The Creator of the universe already sorted that out for me, thank you very much.

I know the exhaustion of the spiritual buffet because I lived it. Catholic school that felt like beautiful mythology. Yoga classes trying to balance my doshas. Prayer without God (whatever that means). Diets to cure migraines because maybe enlightenment comes through the right combination of turmeric and meditation apps.

My uncle's husband did the full tour: married a woman, had two kids, left for seminary, almost became a monk, couldn't reconcile his sexuality with celibacy, became a United Church pastor, married my uncle, now practices Buddhism. I watch him still searching, still trying on spiritual hats, and my heart aches with recognition.

Some days I feel disconnected, anxious, moving too fast to feel God's presence. But the prayers are still there, like buoys in rough water. Thank you, God, for telling me what the bare minimum is and making it so accessible. Thank you for not leaving it up to my feelings or my fluctuating sense of meaning.

The most transformative practice that felt so insignificant at first? When I started wearing hijab, suddenly every Muslim I passed exchanged salams with me. Peace be upon you. And upon you, peace. Peace, peace, everywhere peace. Now I whisper it to myself before hard conversations. Try staying irrationally angry at someone you've just wished peace upon. Our tiny egos hate it, but our souls know better.

I didn't explain all this to my teacher. Didn't tell him that what he sees as freedom (picking and choosing what serves you) I once experienced as spiritual vertigo. The endless choosing, the constant questioning: Is this the right path? Should I try something else? Maybe the Buddhists have it figured out? Maybe the answer is in this new book, this new practice, this new teacher?

Instead, I just felt grateful. Grateful that when Allah perfected this religion, the manual came included. Grateful that submission sometimes means not having to decide if something is meaningful enough to keep doing. Grateful that "let go and let God" can mean "hold on to what God already gave you, especially when you don't feel like it."

Because here's what I've learned: the practices that don't always spark joy in the moment, like getting up for fajr in the long days of summer, fasting when you're about to get your period, giving charity when money's tight… these are the ones that transform you when you're not looking. Like water wearing away stone, so gentle you don't notice until one day you're different.