June

He Who Has Nothing But Money Is the Poorest of All — A Reflection in the Light of Hajj

In the vast theater of modern existence — a world stage where human worth is too often measured in ledgers and stock portfolios — one may easily fall into the illusion that money is the apex of possession. Yet, beneath its glitter lies a truth obscured: money, however potent in the realm of transaction, is but a passing specter of genuine wealth — a pale echo of something infinitely more enduring.

When a person possesses only money — devoid of wisdom to guide it, love to sanctify it, and peace to restrain it — what he owns is not prosperity, but a gilded form of spiritual deprivation. He becomes a custodian of shadows, a keeper of cold abundance.

He may carry the keys to many houses, yet remain locked out of his own heart. He may purchase the gaze of the crowd, but never the gaze of genuine affection. He may command hands, but never win souls. For richness, in its most essential form, is not found in what we accumulate, but in what we become present to — presence to meaning, to sacredness, to the quiet pulse of being.

Among those who have tasted the nectar of the unseen — mystics, sages, poets, and seers — the concept of wealth is neither numerical nor tangible. It is not coined, but kindled; not counted, but contemplated. True wealth, they tell us, is the lightness of the soul unburdened by craving, the radiance of a heart not fragmented by desire. It is a stillness that sings, a silence that speaks.

This truth finds its most profound embodiment in the sacred pilgrimage of Hajj — not merely a journey across land, but a passage through the soul. In this holy rite, humanity is leveled. Every pilgrim, whether king or laborer, dons the same white garment — ihram — a cloth that strips away distinction, declaring: Here I am, O Lord, owning nothing, seeking only You.

In Hajj, the illusion of wealth is shattered. No privilege of fortune exempts one from the sun of Arafat or the dust of Muzdalifah. No banknote can buy nearness at the Kaaba, nor purchase absolution on the plains of prayer. Hajj reveals that the currencies of the world hold no value before the One who created value itself.

The materially wealthy often appear to float above the world, yet tremble at every market tremor, sleepless in their vigilance, anxious in their preservation. They are exiles from stillness, strangers to the divine hush of contentment. To the awakened eye, they are not rich — they are possessed by what they possess.

But in Hajj, we witness the inversion of such delusions. The one who walks barefoot in humility, weeping at the threshold of the Kaaba, who spends the night under the stars in Muzdalifah with no roof but the sky — he is the one who has found the essence of wealth. For he has met himself, and in meeting himself, has glimpsed his Lord.

True wealth is not stored in vaults, but in virtues: in the quiet majesty of gratitude amid loss, in the nobility of giving with no thought of return, in the rare courage to dwell in uncertainty without fear. It is to sit within the silence and feel no void. To love not as a transaction, but as a surrender. To give, not from surplus, but from essence.

To have nothing but money is to live in the midst of abundance, and yet suffer the famine of meaning. It is to construct marble palaces only to sleep on the cold floor of spiritual isolation. It is to traverse continents while never arriving at the innermost self.

At the heart of Hajj lies the Day of Arafat — a stand before the Infinite. There, pilgrims raise no flag but the white banner of their longing. There is no applause, no audience — only the soul and its Creator. The rich and poor alike are stripped of all adornments save for sincerity. There, you understand: he who has only money has come with empty hands. But he who brings repentance, love, and tears — he departs crowned in light.

As Abu al-Hasan al-Shadhili once said: “People are asleep, and when they die, they awaken.” But Hajj, in its mercy, awakens the living. It disturbs the slumber of luxury and reminds the soul that it was not made for glitter, but for glory.

Rich is the one who, though outwardly deprived, walks in inward abundance — who drinks from the wellspring of being itself. Rich is the one whose sufficiency arises not from acquisition, but from a sacred intimacy with existence. Poor is the one who has everything, except himself — who has not glimpsed his soul, nor bent his ear to the murmur of the Eternal.

So ask, in earnest: If all your money were to vanish with the dawn, what would remain of you?
If the answer echoes hollow — if it is silence not filled with peace but with panic — then know: you are poor, regardless of your holdings.

For in the final reckoning, gold will tarnish, monuments will fall, and names will dissolve into dust. But the wealth of the soul — the perfume of compassion, the music of humility, the light of awakened consciousness — these will remain. These are what eternity recognizes.

Let the world chase riches as mirage.
Let the wise seek richness as essence.
And remember: he who has nothing but money is the poorest of all.

The  Shadhiliya Darqawiya Rusiya Al-Hassaniya Path

The Kingdom of Morocco

2004-2025