In Western nations, public perceptions of Islam have often been shaped almost exclusively by narratives of fundamentalism and oppression. Restrictions on freedom of expression, the suppression of women, and authoritarian regimes are frequently woven into popular perceptions of Islam, grounded in particular interpretations of the Qur’an. Those realities cannot be denied. There are indeed regimes in the world today that justify oppression through Islamic frameworks. Yet standing alongside these is another witness. 

In the 13th century, the Islamic poet and mystic Rumi, deeply Muslim and steeped in the Qur’an, wrote of the boundless presence of God, grounded in Love. For Rumi, God is not confined by borders, doctrines, or identities. God is encountered in longing, in surrender, and in a Love that ultimately dissolves the self: 

“Husam is the sun I mean.
He can’t be understood with the mind, or said,
but we’ll stumble and stagger trying to.
Just because you can’t drink all that falls
doesn’t mean you give up taking sips of rainwater.
If the nut of the mystery can’t be held,
at least let me touch the shell.

Husam, refresh my words, your words.
My words are only a husk to your knowing,
an earth atmosphere to your enormous spaces.”
(The Essential Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks) 

Husam refers to the scribe who recorded the verses of the Masnavi as Rumi spoke them aloud. 

In the verses of this poem, Rumi acknowledges the inability of humanity to comprehend the fullness of God, and here we encounter the paradox of faith: religions claim to be the bearers of revealed truth, while at the same time acknowledging that finite human experience can never fully contain the infinite nature of God - a tension Islam also names. 

The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) is said to be the Seal of the Prophets, often described as the final prophet in a long line of revelation. This claim can sound like closure, certainty, or domination. Yet Islamic theology holds this belief alongside the conviction that God remains ultimately unknowable. It’s why Muslims reject the divinity of Christ, which for many Christians is an essential tenet of faith and why in Islam, 99 Names of God may be known, but never the 100th. God can never be named in full. The infinite nature of God always exceeds what can be spoken of.

In that sense, any claim to possess the final or complete truth of God stands in tension, not only with Islam but also with Judaism and Christianity. It’s why we find in the Hebrew scriptures the prophet Isaiah saying that God’s ways are not our ways, and God’s thoughts are not our thoughts (Isaiah 55:8–9). Later on, the Apostle Paul speaks of mystery, and of seeing only through a glass darkly (1 Corinthians 13:12). Even John, said to have spent significant time with Jesus, professes that in the end, no one has ever seen God (1 John 4:12). 

None of this is to discredit any belief system. Instead, it is to acknowledge that across these traditions runs a shared belief: there is an unbridgeable gap between Creator and creature. We are not God, and we cannot fully comprehend God, and it is in this shared space of unknowing that something beautiful is possible. 

If none of us possesses the whole truth of God, then curiosity gets to replace fear, and openness can overcome defensiveness. We are also invited to wonder where God may have been encountered in lives and traditions other than our own - not to collapse differences, but to be enlarged by them. 

One of the great tragedies of religion is how rarely we ask one simple, generous question: I wonder what God has been doing in your life? That is where Rumi’s poetry leads us to, and I would argue that is where the Jewish prophets, Jesus, and the Qur’an all lead us as well - across boundaries and partisan lines, and into unexpected encounters where lives are deepened, not by certainty, but through simple acts of love, joy, and peace.