Prophet Zakariyaزكريا

Come with me. Today, we're going on a journey... far, far away... and long, long ago.

Picture a very old man. His back is bent. His hands shake a little when he lifts them. His hair has gone completely white, every single strand of it.

He is standing all alone in a quiet corner of a great stone house of worship. The lamps are low. Everyone else has gone home. And he thinks nobody in the whole world can hear him.

So he whispers. Not out loud. Not even in a normal voice. A whisper so small and so soft that it barely makes any sound at all... the kind of whisper you make when you are asking for something you have wanted for a very, very long time.

And the moment that tiny whisper leaves his lips... it is heard.

Not by the walls. Not by the lamps. Not by anyone walking past outside.

It is heard by Allah.

Who was this old man? And what did he whisper? Let me tell you. This is the story of Prophet Zakariya... alayhi salaam.

Long, long ago... in a blessed land... there lived a man named Zakariya.

Zakariya was a prophet of Allah. He was gentle, and wise, and everybody in his town knew him. He spent his days in the sanctuary, the beautiful stone place where people came to pray, teaching them, and guiding them, and reminding them to worship Allah alone.

Zakariya had lived a long, long life. He had seen many, many years come and go. And in all those years... Allah had given him so much.

But there was one thing Zakariya did not have.

He had no children.

Not one. He and his wife had grown old together... and their house had always been quiet. No little feet running down the hallway. No small voice calling out for him at night. No child to sit beside him and learn... and one day, when he was gone, to carry on teaching the people about Allah.

And Zakariya was old now. So old. His bones had grown weak, and his head had caught fire with white hair, that is how Allah describes it in the Qur'an. His wife was old too. In the whole world, there was no ordinary way left for them to have a child.

So Zakariya did what he had always done. He kept worshipping. He kept teaching. He kept hoping quietly, in his heart... the way you might hope for something and never say it out loud, in case saying it out loud makes it hurt.

Now, in that same sanctuary, there was a young girl that Zakariya took care of. Her name was Maryam.

Maryam had her own small room in the sanctuary, a quiet place, just for her, where she worshipped Allah. And Zakariya used to look after her. He would check on her, and make sure she had everything she needed.

One day... he stepped into her room... and he stopped.

There, beside her, was fruit.

Fresh fruit. Beautiful fruit. Sweet, ripe, perfect fruit.

And Zakariya stood there and blinked, because... it was the wrong time of year. It was the sort of fruit that only grows in summer, sitting there in the middle of winter. Or the sort that only grows in winter, sitting there in the middle of summer. It was fruit that simply should not have been there. Not in that season. Not in that room.

"Maryam," he said gently, "where is this from?"

And Maryam looked up at him and answered, very simply:

"It is from Allah."

"Indeed, Allah provides for whoever He wills... without any measure."

Zakariya stood very still.

Because something had just woken up inside his old heart.

If Allah could bring summer fruit into a winter room... if Allah could give without counting, without limits, without waiting for the season to be right...

...then maybe. Maybe Allah could give an old man a child.

And right there, right then, Zakariya called upon his Lord.

The Qur'an tells us exactly how he called. It says he called his Lord *a secret call*. A hidden one. A whisper meant for nobody's ears but Allah's.

And this is what he said.

"My Lord... my bones have grown weak... and my head is aflame with white hair..."

"...and never, my Lord, have I been unhappy in my prayer to You."

Listen to that part again. *Never have I been unhappy in my prayer to You.* He was saying: every single time I have ever asked You for anything, You have answered me. You have never once turned me away. I know You. I have been asking You my whole life.

And then he asked.

"So grant me from Yourself an heir... who will inherit from me, and inherit from the family of Yaqub... and make him, my Lord, pleasing to You."

He did not ask for a child so the house would be less quiet. He asked for a child who would carry the message. Who would teach the people after him. Who would be *pleasing to Allah*.

That was the whisper. That was all of it. One old man, in an empty room, asking for the one thing that seemed completely impossible.

And Allah answered him.

Straight away. Right there in the sanctuary, while he was still standing in the place where he prayed.

The words came:

"O Zakariya! Indeed, We give you good news of a boy... whose name will be Yahya."

A boy. A son.

And then Allah said something so beautiful about that name, *Yahya*, He said: "We have not given this name to anyone before him."

A brand-new name. A name nobody in all of history had ever carried. That is how special this child was going to be.

And Zakariya, old, astonished, standing there with his heart pounding, asked the question anyone would ask.

"My Lord... how can I have a boy... when my wife has always been unable to have children... and I have reached extreme old age?"

He was not doubting Allah. Not for a moment. He was overwhelmed. He was asking: *how*? How will You do this wonderful thing?

And the answer came back, and it is one of the most amazing sentences in the whole Qur'an:

"Your Lord says: it is easy for Me."

Easy.

Think about that. The thing Zakariya thought was impossible, the thing no doctor, no medicine, no amount of waiting could ever fix, Allah called it *easy*.

"And I created you before," Allah said, "when you were nothing at all."

Because the One who made you out of nothing... does not find anything hard.

Zakariya's heart was so full it felt like it might overflow.

"My Lord," he said, "give me a sign."

Not because he doubted. But because when something wonderful is coming, sometimes your heart wants to hold onto it. Something to know it by. Something to say: *it is really happening.*

And Allah gave him a sign, the gentlest, strangest sign.

"Your sign is that you will not speak to the people for three nights... even though you are perfectly well."

Three days and three nights. His voice would work. His throat would be fine. Nothing at all would be wrong with him. But when he tried to talk to people... no words would come.

And that is exactly what happened.

The next morning, Zakariya walked out of his private prayer room and into the sanctuary, where all the people were waiting.

He opened his mouth to tell them the wonderful news... and nothing came out.

So instead, he made signs to them, with his hands.

He gestured to them. *Glorify Allah. Praise Him. In the morning... and in the evening.*

And can you imagine it? A whole crowd of people, watching their teacher glowing with a happiness he could not explain, using only his hands to tell them: *say Subhanallah. Say Alhamdulillah. Morning and evening. Something beautiful has happened.*

For three days he could not say a single word to anyone.

But here is the loveliest part. He could not speak to *people*.

He could still remember Allah.

And after those three days... in Allah's own perfect time... the boy was born.

Yahya. The very first person ever to carry that name. The answer to a whisper in an empty room.

But that... is a story for another night.

That is the story of Prophet Zakariya, alayhi salaam. An old, old man with white hair and weak bones, who saw fruit out of season and let it wake up hope in his heart. Who whispered a secret prayer that nobody else could hear. And who learned that the thing he thought was impossible... was easy for Allah all along.

And now... slowly... we leave the quiet sanctuary behind... the low lamps, the cool stone, the old man smiling and signing with his hands... and we travel back home. To right here. Right now.

But carry Prophet Zakariya with you, wherever you go. Because he teaches us something we all need. That Allah hears the quiet ones. The prayers you whisper. The prayers you are almost too shy to say out loud. The ones you have been making for so long you have nearly given up on them. He hears every single one.

And He is never, ever too late.

So let us end with Prophet Zakariya's own dua. It means... my Lord, do not leave me alone... and You are the best of inheritors. Say it with me... slowly... like a secret between you and Allah...

*Rabbi lā tadharnī fardan... wa anta khayrul-wārithīn.*

Come with me. Today, we're going on a journey... far, far away... and long, long ago.

We're going to a great house of worship, made of pale stone... on a cool, quiet morning... when the air still has a bite in it.

And here we are. Feel it? Rub your hands together. It is cold this morning. It is the wrong time of year for anything sweet to be growing. Outside, the branches are bare. The gardens are asleep. Everybody is waiting for the seasons to turn.

So keep one little word safe in your pocket... *impossible*. We are going to watch that word fall apart.

Now look. Coming slowly along the corridor is an old, old man, wrapped up warm. His back is bent. His hair is completely white. This is Prophet Zakariya, alayhi salaam.

He is a prophet, and he is a teacher, and every morning he does the same kind thing. He goes to check on a young girl who lives and worships in a small room in this building. Her name is Maryam.

He wants to make sure she has what she needs. Water. Food. Everything she should have.

So he reaches the little door... and he pushes it gently open...

...and he stops.

Because there, sitting beside her, is fruit.

Fresh fruit. Ripe fruit. Piled up, glowing, perfect.

The kind of fruit that only comes in the warm months... sitting there in the middle of the cold ones.

Zakariya stands in the doorway and blinks. Because this fruit should not exist. Not today. Not in this month. There is nowhere in the whole town it could have come from.

"Maryam," he says softly, "where is this from?"

And Maryam looks up. And she answers him in the simplest way anybody has ever answered anything.

"It is from Allah."

"Indeed, Allah provides for whoever He wills... without any measure."

*Without any measure.* Without counting. Without weighing it out. Without checking first whether it is the right season.

And something happens inside that old man's chest.

Because Zakariya has been carrying a quiet sadness for a very long time. He and his wife have never had a child. They are old now. Too old, everybody would say. That door, he thought, was closed.

But he is standing in a cold room in the wrong month... looking at summer fruit.

And he thinks: *if Allah can do this... then maybe nothing is closed at all.*

He does not say it out loud. He just holds it, carefully, like something warm.

Here is what this moment whispers to us. Sometimes Allah does not answer your dua straight away, He shows you something small first, just so your heart remembers that He *can*. A kindness out of nowhere. Something arriving at the wrong time of year. A little sign, put right in front of you, that says: keep hoping.

I wonder if something like that has already happened to you... and you did not notice it was a message.

And now... softly... we step back from the little doorway... down the pale stone corridor... out into the cold bright morning... and home. To right here. Right now.

And we can carry Maryam's answer with us, the words that opened an old man's hope again. They mean... indeed, Allah provides for whoever He wills, without measure. Say them slowly...

*Inna-llāha yarzuqu man yashāʾu bi-ghayri ḥisāb.*

Come with me. Today, we're going on a journey... far, far away... and long, long ago.

We're going into a great stone sanctuary, late in the evening... after everyone has gone home.

And here we are. Listen. Can you hear how quiet it is? The lamps have burned low. The big doors are shut. There is nobody here at all... except one old man, right at the far end, standing in the place where he prays.

Feel the cool stone under your feet. Smell the last of the lamp oil. This is the sort of quiet you can hear your own heartbeat in.

That old man is Prophet Zakariya, alayhi salaam. And in a moment, he is going to say something. But he is going to say it so softly that if you were standing right beside him... you would barely catch it.

Why so quiet?

Because what he is about to ask for is the most private thing in his whole heart. The thing he has wanted for years and years and never really talked about. The kind of wish you keep folded up in a pocket where nobody can see it.

Zakariya has no children.

He is very old now. His wife is old too. And there is no ordinary way left in all the world for them to have a child. Everybody knows it. Nobody says it to his face.

So he lifts his old hands... and he whispers.

The Qur'an tells us exactly how he did it. It says he called upon his Lord... *a secret call*. A hidden one. Not for the walls. Not for the people. Just for Allah.

And this is what he whispered.

"My Lord... my bones have grown weak..."

"...and my head is aflame with white hair..."

"...and never, my Lord, have I been unhappy in my prayer to You."

Did you catch that last part? He was telling Allah something lovely. He was saying: *every single time I have ever asked You for anything... You have answered me. Not once have I walked away from a prayer disappointed. I know You.*

And then, softly, he asked.

He asked for a child. Not so the house would be less quiet. He asked for someone who would carry the message after he was gone... and who would be *pleasing to Allah*.

That was it. That was the whole prayer. One old voice, in an empty building, in the dark.

And do you know what happened?

Allah heard every word.

Because a whisper does not have to travel far to reach Allah. It does not have to get past the walls. It does not have to be loud enough for anybody else to catch. Allah is nearer to you than that.

Here is what this moment whispers to us. You do not have to shout at Allah. You do not need special words, or a special place, or anybody watching. The dua you make under your breath in the dark, when you feel too shy to say it out loud, that one is heard perfectly.

I wonder what you would whisper... if you knew for certain that Allah was listening as closely as He really is.

And now... softly... we tiptoe back down the long dark hall... past the low lamps... out under the first stars... and home. To right here. Right now.

And we can carry Prophet Zakariya's own whisper with us. It means... my Lord, do not leave me alone, and You are the best of inheritors. Say it slowly... like a secret between you and Allah...

*Rabbi lā tadharnī fardan... wa anta khayrul-wārithīn.*

Come with me. Today, we're going on a journey... far, far away... and long, long ago.

We're going back into that great stone sanctuary... to the exact moment just after an old man finished whispering his prayer.

And here we are. He is still standing there. His hands are still lifted. His eyes are still closed. The words have only just left his lips, and the quiet has not even settled back down yet.

This is Prophet Zakariya, alayhi salaam. And he has just asked Allah for the one thing that everybody in the world would have told him was impossible.

He has asked for a child.

He is very old. His wife is very old. His bones are weak and his hair is white. There is no ordinary way left for this to happen.

So keep one little word safe in your pocket... *impossible*. Hold it tight. We are about to watch what Allah does with it.

Because the answer does not take days. It does not take weeks. It comes right there, while he is still standing in the place where he prayed.

The words arrive:

"O Zakariya! Indeed, We give you good news of a boy..."

A boy.

"...whose name will be Yahya."

And then Allah says something so wonderful about that name. Listen.

"We have not given this name to anyone before him."

A brand-new name. Nobody in all of history had ever been called it. Not one single person, in all the years since Adam, alayhi salaam. Allah made a name... just for this child.

And Zakariya, old, astonished, heart hammering, asks the question you or I would ask.

"My Lord... how? How can I have a boy... when my wife has never been able to have children... and I have reached extreme old age?"

He is not doubting. Not for a second. He is amazed. He is asking: *how will You do this beautiful thing?*

And the answer comes back. And it is one of the most astonishing sentences in the entire Qur'an.

"Your Lord says... it is easy for Me."

Easy.

Say it again in your head. *Easy.*

The thing Zakariya had almost stopped hoping for. The thing no medicine could fix and no waiting could solve. The thing that had made his heart ache quietly for years and years.

Allah called it easy.

And then Allah added something that explains everything:

"And I created you before... when you were nothing at all."

Think about that. Before you were born, you were nothing, not a hand, not a heartbeat, not a name. And Allah made you anyway. He has already done the hardest thing there is.

So the One who made you out of nothing... does not find *anything* difficult.

Here is what this moment whispers to us. The thing you think is impossible is only impossible for *you*. It is not a big thing for Allah. Not even slightly. Your problem, that feels like a mountain, Allah lifts it the way you would pick up a feather.

I wonder what mountain you are carrying right now... that Allah would call easy.

And now... softly... we step back from that old man with his lifted hands and his shining face... out through the great doors... and home. To right here. Right now.

And we can carry Allah's own words with us. They mean... it is easy for Me. Say them slowly... and let them be bigger than whatever is worrying you...

*Huwa ʿalayya hayyin.*

Come with me. Today, we're going on a journey... far, far away... and long, long ago.

We're going to the front steps of a great stone sanctuary... in the golden light of early morning... just as the town is waking up.

And here we are. Listen, you can hear people arriving. Sandals on stone. Quiet voices. Somebody's small child laughing. They come here every morning to pray, and to hear their teacher speak.

And this morning, their teacher has the most enormous news of his life.

His name is Prophet Zakariya, alayhi salaam. And last night, alone in the dark, he whispered a prayer he had been holding for years. He asked Allah for a child, even though he was old and grey and everybody thought that door had closed.

And Allah said yes.

A son. A boy called Yahya, a name nobody in all of history had ever carried.

Zakariya was so full of joy he could hardly hold it. And he asked Allah for one more thing: a sign. Something to know it by. Something that would say *this is really, truly happening*.

So Allah gave him one. And it is the gentlest, strangest sign in the whole Qur'an.

Allah told him: *your sign is that you will not speak to the people for three nights... even though you are perfectly well.*

Nothing wrong with his voice. Nothing wrong with his throat. Nothing hurting anywhere. Just, no words, when he tried to talk to people.

And now watch what happens.

The doors open. Zakariya walks out to the waiting crowd, absolutely glowing, ready to tell them everything...

...and he opens his mouth...

...and nothing comes out.

Not a squeak. Not a word.

So imagine the crowd. All these people looking up at their teacher, and their teacher is beaming like sunrise, and no sound is coming out at all.

And then Zakariya lifts his hands.

And he *shows* them.

He makes signs with his hands. He gestures. He points up, and he points to his heart. And what he is telling them is this:

*Glorify Allah. Praise Him. In the morning... and in the evening.*

He could not say it. So he signed it. Because when something wonderful happens, the very first thing you want to do is thank the One who did it, and Zakariya was not going to let a small thing like having no voice stop him.

For three whole days, that is how it was. No conversations. No lessons. No explaining. Just an old man with shining eyes, moving his hands, telling a whole town to remember Allah.

And here is the loveliest part of all.

He could not speak to *people*.

But he could still remember Allah.

That never stopped. Not for a moment.

Here is what this moment whispers to us. There is always a way to thank Allah. Even when you have no words. Even when you are too shy, or too tired, or too full up inside to explain how you feel. Allah understands your hands, and your heart, and your quiet.

I wonder what you would want to say to Allah tonight... if you had no words for it at all.

And now... softly... we step back down the sunlit steps... away from the crowd and the beaming old man... and home. To right here. Right now.

And we can carry the very thing Zakariya signed to his people. It means... glory be to Allah, and all praise is for Allah. Say it slowly... morning and evening, just as he told them...

*Subḥāna-llāh... wa-l-ḥamdu li-llāh.*