NIGHT falls upon Ibrahim and he sees a star. “This is my Lord,” he says. But when it sets, he declares that he does not love things that disappear. The moon rises, larger and more luminous, but it too passes. Then the sun appears in overwhelming splendour. “This is greater,” he says — until the sun also sets. Ibrahim finally turns beyond all created brilliance towards the One who brought the heavens and the earth into being (6:76-79).
This is a powerful parable of the quest for God. Ibrahim does not begin with a formula. He looks, wonders, tests and moves beyond each inadequate answer. The star, moon and sun carry real beauty and power. Yet none can be Rabb — the sustaining Lord — because each is contingent, governed and destined to disappear. The seeker must pass through the visible sign to the invisible Source, from the splendour of creation to its Creator.
If read only as ancient religious history, the passage records the rejection by Ibrahim of celestial worship. Read as guidance, it describes an inward journey that must be undertaken repeatedly. What brilliant but temporary thing have I mistaken for the centre of my life? Wealth, status, tribe, ideology, technology and even inherited religious authority can become stars and suns of the self when they demand allegiance belonging to God alone.
The scholar Laleh Bakhtiar invites the reader to discover “the Abraham of one’s being”. The phrase turns admiration into responsibility. Ibrahim represents the faculty within us that can question inherited falsehood, withstand social pressure and turn towards what is enduring. But if there is an Ibrahim within us, there is also an idol-maker: that part of the self which prefers the approval of the crowd and fashions absolutes out of its desires.
The Quran repeats moments of moral consequence.
The Quran tells us that its stories carry guidance for those who understand: “In their stories there is truly a lesson for people of reason. …” (12:111). Yet familiarity can blunt their force. We hear of Adam, Nuh, Ibrahim, Musa, Yusuf and Yunus so often that they may become figures in a sacred history — revered, but removed from the disorder of our lives.
The Quran does not offer prophetic biography in the modern sense, nor does it address our curiosity about dates and places. It selects and repeats moments of moral consequence. Its purpose is not merely to tell us what once happened but to reveal what continues to happen within human beings and societies. To confine these narratives to the past is to reduce them to the very charge the Quran reports: “asatirul awwalin”, “tales of the ancients”.
The prophets disclose different aspects of moral life. Adam shows the human tendency to become conscious of shame and seek words of repentance. Nuh embodies perseverance when truth appears to produce no immediate result. Musa approaches pharaoh despite confessing fear; courage in the Quran is not the absence of fear but obedience despite it. Yusuf refuses both seduction and revenge. When power passes into his hands, he does not reproduce the cruelty once inflicted upon him. Yunus, by contrast, walks away in anger and discovers that commitment to a righteous cause does not place a person beyond correction.
Prophethood carries divine authority, but the Quran permits us to see moments of vulnerability and anguish. Nuh grieves for his son. Yaqub’s eyes whiten with sorrow. Musa strikes a man and immediately recognises the gravity of his act. Muhammad (PBUH) is consoled and strengthened. Their exemplary character becomes accessible because revelation shows moral greatness being exercised under pressure.
To call the prophets role models, therefore, is correct but insufficient. A role model may remain outside us, an object of admiration. The Quranic prophet is also a mirror, a warner and a summoner. Each narrative asks: where is pharaoh operating now — in the state, the institution, the family, or the commanding self? What prison has preserved our integrity? Whom must we forgive when we possess the power to retaliate? From what necessary task are we trying to flee?
This mode of reading prevents religion from becoming sentimental. Love for the prophets cannot be confined to praise, recitation or commemoration. To honour Ibrahim while protecting our idols, to celebrate Musa while accommodating tyranny, or to admire Yusuf while nursing revenge is to keep the story at a safe distance from its demand.
The Quran gives us recurring patterns rather than relics of a vanished world. Its prophetic narratives travel across time because arrogance, fear, envy, patience, repentance and courage travel with humans. The decisive question is not whether these stories are true only of the past. It is whether, through them, we are prepared to recognise the truth about ourselves.
The writer is lecturer, Aga Khan University Faculty of Arts and Science.
Published in Dawn, September 25th, 2026
