Gilded Domes, Gutless Faith: How American Mosques Have Abandoned Their Moral Purpose
- As South Asian Muslims in America, we inherit a legacy of migration, sacrifice, and resilience. But with this inheritance comes the responsibility to build institutions that do more than mark our presence; they must manifest our principles.
From the sprawling suburbs of North Central Texas to the sun-drenched neighborhoods of Southern California, a transformation is taking place across America’s Muslim communities. Even in my hometown of Orlando, new mosques stand as gleaming examples, their imposing structures and ornate domes—gumbats—rising from the Florida landscape like beacons. Nationwide, these architectural testaments mark the growing presence and prosperity of South Asian Muslim immigrants.
These domes have deep roots in classical Islamic architecture, drawing from Byzantine, Persian, and Central Asian influences. Historically, they represented the celestial canopy, the heavens themselves, covering the sacred space below. In Turkey, the majestic Blue Mosque (Sultan Ahmed Mosque) stands as a testament to this tradition, its cascading domes and six minarets not merely displays of Ottoman power, but spaces where Sultan Ahmed I established endowments for the poor and hungry. The Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque with its 82 domes of varying sizes that harmoniously blend Moroccan and Mughal Islamic architectural styles, highlighted by the largest dome at the center of the main prayer hall, measuring approximately 32.6 meters in diameter and 84 meters in height, and distinguished by its white marble cladding, onion-shaped crown, and gold-glass mosaic crescent finial, is an architectural masterpiece. It also serves a vital social welfare function by fostering intercultural dialogue, offering educational programs, and hosting communal iftars during Ramadan that welcome the poor and the broader community in the spirit of Islamic compassion and charity. These structures served as spiritual symbols and centers of social responsibility, visual reminders of divine presence and cosmic order. They were meant to elevate the eye, and also the heart and imagination, lifting communities toward God and toward collective responsibility for one another.
Yet today, a troubling disconnect has emerged beneath these ornamental canopies. We are witnessing an unprecedented boom in mosque construction without a parallel rise in moral courage. At a time when Palestinian civilians face devastation in Gaza, when war, poverty, and ecological collapse intensify globally, too many of our mosques retreat into performative gestures: 25-second prayers of solidarity cue weeping imams, temporary keffiyeh displays, or carefully crafted social media statements that garner likes but challenge nothing. Symbolic expressions divorced from substantive action are not courage. True courage means confronting and dismantling the very structures that perpetuate oppression beyond decorating our profiles with the right symbols or offering fleeting moments of solidarity that cost us nothing.
This pattern of moral abdication is not without historical precedent. Consider Firangi Mahal, the once-illustrious Islamic seminary of Lucknow, whose name ironically translates to “Foreign Palace.” As British colonial power tightened its grip on India, many Firangi Mahal scholars, once intellectual guardians of Muslim identity, gradually traded moral leadership for self-preservation. While maintaining magnificent madrasas and producing volumes of religious scholarship, certain influential ulema accepted colonial stipends and honorary titles, remaining conspicuously silent during periods of widespread suffering. Their scholarly robes and elaborate turbans conveyed authority while their carefully calibrated fatwas avoided challenging imperial exploitation. The institution that pioneered the Dars-i-Nizami curriculum, which shaped generations of Muslim thinkers, simultaneously modeled how religious authority could be compromised in exchange for institutional security.
The mosque, in its original form, was never intended to be politically neutral. When the Prophet Muhammad established the first mosque in Medina, he created a multifaceted institution: simultaneously a house of worship, a court of justice, a center for political engagement, and a refuge for the vulnerable.
The parallels to our present condition are striking. Just as some Firangi Mahal scholars issued religious rulings that conveniently aligned with colonial interests while discouraging political resistance, today’s mosque leadership often embraces selective religiosity, passionate about ritual precision yet hesitant to confront systems of oppression. When facing crucial moral tests during the aftermath of the 1857 uprising, certain scholars prioritized rebuilding their libraries over seeking justice for communities facing brutal retribution. Similarly, our institutions today excel at constructing impressive buildings while failing to build equally impressive moral positions against contemporary injustices. They master the art of navigating donor relationships while becoming increasingly unskilled at navigating the prophetic responsibility to speak truth to power.
Most troubling is how Firangi Mahal’s historical accommodation created a blueprint for institutional complicity that persists across generations and continents. The trade-off between access and authenticity, between recognition and resistance, continues to haunt our religious establishments. What began in colonial India as strategic survival has evolved into a comfortable compromise in suburban America. The symbolic capital of religious authority, once a counterbalance to unjust power, has been gradually depleted through transactions of silence, each moment of looking away slowly transforming sacred spaces into ornate monuments to moral vacancy. This historical trajectory reveals how easily religious institutions can be co-opted when they prioritize institutional preservation over prophetic witness.
But the mosque, in its original form, was never intended to be politically neutral. When the Prophet Muhammad established the first mosque in Medina, he created a multifaceted institution: simultaneously a house of worship, a court of justice, a center for political engagement, and a refuge for the vulnerable. It was a space where faith and social responsibility were inseparable, where spiritual devotion could never be divorced from the pressing struggles of the day.
I’ve experienced this dissonance firsthand. Years ago, while serving on the City and County of Denver’s Human Rights Commission, I attended an open house at a mosque in Aurora, Colorado. For the first time, I entered through the men’s section and was struck by the stark contrast in space, access, and openness compared to the women’s area. The difference wasn’t merely architectural, it reflected an unspoken hierarchy of value and belonging. During the event, the imam began his remarks by admonishing women who work outside the home, declaring that Islam’s beauty lies in relieving women of employment’s burden. He spoke with traditional authority yet showed complete disregard for his congregation’s economic realities. Many women present worked full-time, not from ambition but necessity. Some supported extended families across continents. Others were single mothers, caregivers, or recent immigrants struggling to establish themselves in a new country.
Standing there, I thought: How can I advocate for human rights in public spaces when I am diminished in my own sacred spaces? This experience left an indelible mark. I resigned from the commission shortly after because I realized I needed to first confront the contradictions within the very institutions claiming to represent my faith.
This issue extends far beyond gender inequity. It speaks to our mosques’ broader reluctance to fully embrace their prophetic responsibility. Silence in the face of genocide, systemic injustice, and state violence is complicity. When mosque leaders choose comfort over courage, they surrender the moral authority these sacred spaces were established to embody. I understand the fears: losing nonprofit status, alienating wealthy donors, igniting internal divisions. But justice in Islam is foundational. The Qur’an repeatedly commands believers to stand firmly for justice, even when doing so challenges themselves, their families, or those in positions of power. This means moving beyond sanctioned expressions of outrage, those brief, contained moments of solidarity that threaten no one and change nothing. It means examining our community’s investments, our political alliances, and our institutional partnerships. It means asking uncomfortable questions about where mosque funding comes from and what silence has been purchased with it. It means organizing, educating, and building alternative power structures aside from posting hashtags or wearing symbols of solidarity when the cameras are on.
The American Muslim community doesn’t need more elaborate architecture or opulent interiors. Consider how Turkey’s Şakirin Mosque broke ground not just architecturally with its contemporary design by female designer Zeynep Fadıllıoğlu, but functionally, becoming a center for refugee assistance programs during the Syrian crisis. Or how Qatar’s Education City Mosque balances breathtaking design with dedicated spaces for dialogue and social justice programs addressing migrant worker rights. We need mosques that function as sanctuaries for the oppressed rather than showcases for wealth and status. We need leadership unafraid to name injustice explicitly. We need sermons that directly address our time’s moral crises, from militarized foreign policy to mass incarceration, from housing insecurity to environmental degradation.
As South Asian Muslims in America, we inherit a legacy of migration, sacrifice, and resilience. But with this inheritance comes the responsibility to build institutions that do more than mark our presence; they must manifest our principles. The mosque must transcend being merely a house of prayer to become a house of purpose.
Let the gumbat be more than decorative symbolism. Let it represent a space where the call to prayer resonates alongside the call to action. Let it stand not only for heavenly aspirations but for our earthly commitment to justice.
Our children will inherit these sacred spaces. May they find within them not only beauty but moral courage, not only ritual but relevance to the pressing challenges of their time.
Because faith without justice is empty. And domes without voices are merely decoration.
Nadia B. Ahmad is an Associate Professor of Law at Barry University School of Law and a Ph.D. Student at the Yale School of the Environment. She is also a Fellow at the Center for Security, Race, and Rights at Rutgers University and affiliated faculty at Harvard Law School’s Institute for Global Law & Policy.