An extended interview with Prof. Dr. Halis Albayrak of the Department of Tafsir at Ankara University Faculty of Divinity. The conversation ranges across the problem of meaningful engagement with the Qur'an, Kalām and Fiqh as historical-human activities, the relationship between Qur'an and politics, historicism and universalism, the Qur'anic narratives, and personal reflections on a life of learning and the responsibilities of theology students.
First of all, thank you, Professor, for accepting our interview request and contributing to our journal. Your efforts and contributions to the Department of Tafsir are of great value to us. We follow your guiding work closely — through your books, articles, lectures at our faculty, conferences, and media appearances. With this interview, we hope both to benefit from your insights and to pose some questions to you. We had the opportunity to attend your presentation titled “Communication with the Qur’an” at a conference organized by our faculty, which we found highly insightful.
We observe in your publications that you shed light on current issues and propose solutions. In particular, under the theme “Communication with the Qur’an”, you address the challenges of our time in engaging with its meaning.
In this context, what kind of alternatives do you propose to overcome the problem of failing to establish a meaningful engagement with the Qur’an?
This is not only a problem faced by contemporary Muslim intellectuals but also one of the fundamental challenges confronting all Muslims. Within the conditions of our age, we face serious challenges in establishing a sound connection with our sources — especially the Qur’an. We are often unsure where to begin when trying to engage with it. We turn to the text but encounter various barriers. For example, in the 1990s, discussions about historicism emerged in Türkiye within this context. However, these discussions were often conducted on mistaken premises. In essence, historicism is a philosophical stance unrelated to religion, revelation, or prophethood. Therefore, directly importing this concept into Islamic thought can be misleading.
Historicism, particularly rooted in German philosophical traditions, did not emerge from theological debates. Those who adopt a historicist perspective take a position on historical phenomena but do not necessarily believe in or relate to any sacred text. Thus, historicism belongs to an entirely different world.
Contemporary Muslim intellectuals do not seem eager to discuss “the Word” (i.e., Kalām in Arabic) within philosophical or scientific frameworks. Behind this reluctance likely lies a theological concern. Any philosophical or scientific debate on Kalām necessarily involves addressing the notion of “Kalāmullah” (Speech of God), which in turn requires a reconsideration of the prevailing definition of the Qur’an. A critical approach to the dominant theological understanding of Kalām and Kalāmullāh thus becomes inevitable. At the heart of the difficulty of engaging with the Qur’an lies a philosophical and scientific silence regarding its nature and function. This silence has hindered the development of new theological perspectives on Kalām and Kalāmullāh. In my opinion, a harmonious and constructive engagement with the Qur’an is only possible by reopening historical definitions of its nature and function to debate.
When we attach the word Kalām to Lafzatullah (The Divine Word), it is often perceived as a timeless, transcendental, absolute expression untouched by human influence. However, even if its origin is divine, it descends in human language, expressed through syntax and idiom; it wears a human “garment.” If we ignore this point, we begin engagement from the wrong starting point.
There are certainly historical answers to questions like “What is the Qur’an? What is its function?” But we must ask these questions anew from our own standpoint, from within our own time, drawing on the accumulated experience and knowledge of humanity.
During the Prophet’s lifetime, the relationship with the Qur’an was intersubjective — there was direct communication between Allah, the Messenger, and the audience. Revelation came in this direct interaction. However, after the Prophet’s death and the end of revelation, this relationship turned into a subject-object dynamic. The Qur’an was no longer a speaking subject but became an object spoken about. This transformation led to significant changes in methods of interpretation. The emergence of sects, schools of thought, and interpretive divergences followed this rupture, as direct engagement with “the Word” was no longer possible. Scholars then resorted to interpretation (taʾwīl), which had not been necessary during the Prophet’s (peace be upon him) lifetime, since revelation was ongoing, and its implementation was manifest. Whenever opposition to the Prophet (pbuh) occurred, a new verse would be revealed to clarify the matter.
For example, surah 4/al-Nisā, 59 was revealed directly in this context, addressing a military disagreement among the companions. The verse commands obedience to ūlu’l-amr — the commander of the military unit. Therefore, when Muslims faced a dispute, its resolution depended either on divine intervention through revelation or on the Prophet (pbuh) as the head of state, settling the matter. After the Prophet’s death, resolving disputes through revelation or his personal intervention became impossible. Muslim scholars later emphasized referring disputes to the Qur’an in place of God and to the Sunnah in place of the Prophet (pbuh). But neither the Qur’an nor the Sunnah, by nature, can resolve disputes. Subjects or institutions resolve disputes. Objects, as such, cannot perform functional roles in resolving conflicts. What I mean is that the authority given to God and His Messenger in surah 4/al-Nisā, 59 was transferred to the Qur’an and Sunnah without a rational or philosophical basis. This interpretive approach has endured until the modern era. However, in the modern period, it has become evident that this function attributed to the Qur’an cannot be fulfilled.
So how do we resolve disputes today? Do we refer to the Qur’an? No. We have modern legal systems, mediation, and courts — these issues are resolved through other means today. The Qur’an is no longer the point of reference for resolving personal disputes.
The most effective material for understanding the Qur’an’s relation to lived reality is found in Tafsīr and Sīrah (biographical) literature. In this regard, we need these sources to perceive the Qur’an not merely as a text but as a discourse shaped within its own revelation history. Particularly within the methods of Kalām (Islamic Theology) and to some extent, Fiqh (Islamic Jurisprudence), there has been limited capacity to grasp this intersubjective structure of the Qur’an. This is because Kalām and Fiqh have long been the principal fields of knowledge in our tradition, in which the discursive nature of the Qur’an has been overlooked while its textual aspect has been overemphasized. Our present difficulties in engaging with the Qur’an likely stem from this dominant habit within Muslim thought of reading it merely as a text.
In light of your statements, “Kalām and Fiqh are not divine activities” and “The Qur’an is a body of speech that is ready for proper communication” — how do you see the relationship between individual freedom, religious responsibility, and drawing guidance from the Qur’an?
You’re referring to a word I used in one of my previous talks — naṣīb. My intention was to emphasize that all Muslims receive a share from the Qur’ān according to their own reading. Such individual readings are undoubtedly subjective and are not based on scientific or philosophical knowledge.
My description of the Qur’an as a “body of speech” was intended to highlight that it is not merely a text but a discourse. To be a discourse means that the Qur’an comes into being through reciprocal engagement with reality.
Regarding your quotation from one of my earlier talks — “Kalām and Fiqh are not divine activities” — I can say a few words about what I meant. It is quite straightforward. Muslim scholars and thinkers have regarded the Qur’an as a primary source and sought to extract certain principles and values from it. When the Qur’an was being revealed, it was in direct communication with reality; there was an opportunity for its verses to engage with concrete circumstances. However, after the end of revelation, the relationship between Kalām (theology)/the Qur’an and reality necessarily took on an indirect nature. For this reason, scholars resorted to taʾwīl (interpretation) as their primary tool. They maintained an indirect relationship with the Qur’an within their own historical contexts.
In this indirect relationship, Kalām-oriented interpretations focused on God’s relationship with humanity and the universe, and on matters of belief. Fiqh efforts focused on how a Muslim should live. These were activities carried out by scholars; thus, they had a human, subjective, and historical character. Later scholars should have continued this work from within their own world and context. However, as you know, this is not how the process unfolded. There was no profound paradigmatic shift in response to the kalāmī and fiqhī interpretations of the founding scholars. Returning to the sentence you quoted, I intended to stress the need for kalāmī and fiqhī activities to be continuously re-engaged in relation to actual phenomena. Perhaps we can also evaluate the freedom of the Muslim individual within this framework.
You spoke about the erosion of religious values in the context of power and authority. In this regard, what dangers do you see in the subject-object relationship formed around the Qur’an when associated with politics?
Yes, in addressing this issue, we first need to make a conceptual distinction. Each domain — whether politics, religion, or law — has its own ontological space, nature, and mode of operation. Politics and religion are distinct realms, which indicates that they belong to different modes of existence. To conflate politics with religion is to blur these two fields conceptually and to intertwine them in a way that contradicts their inherent nature. Each has its own internal dynamics, rules, and principles. Politics is about governance, the establishment of authority, and the exercise of power. It is a human endeavor.
In the modern period, political authority no longer concerns itself with a person’s inner relationship with God, but with the governance of society and the state. Religion, on the other hand, aims to shape and refine the inner world of the individual.
However, the Qur’an is a text that both prioritizes internal transformation and engages with political situations within its historical context. When we examine the Meccan verses, we see an open struggle against polytheism and a strong emphasis on moral principles. In the Medinan period, the language of the Qur’an changed because the Prophet was no longer merely a Nabi (Prophet), but also a head of state. Therefore, the Qur’an also includes political, law, and conflict expressions. What is important here is that such verses should not be read purely as religious commandments but should be understood within their historical and political contexts.
For example, the verses in Surah al-Tawbah regarding polytheists are directly related to a state of warfare and the breach of treaties. The verses clearly state exceptions: they explicitly instruct that those polytheists who adhere to peace agreements should not be harmed (9/Tawbah, 4). This demonstrates that the issue is treated within a political rather than purely religious framework.
Thus, to read the Qur’an solely as a book of ethics or as a compilation of religious commands would be misleading. The Qur’an also records the historical and political struggle the Prophet experienced with his people. When this aspect is ignored, one begins to interpret the Qur’an from the wrong angle. If we want to establish a healthy relationship with the Qur’an in the contemporary world, we must first correctly identify what it is. Otherwise, religious values can be easily damaged within political power relations and drift away from their very essence.
Even in the Prophet’s time, there was a political structure — perhaps not in the modern sense, but a basic form of statehood with core functions existed. The Prophet, at times, engaged in political struggle to preserve this structure. And undoubtedly, there were politically motivated practices during the period of the Four Caliphs as well. For instance, Abu Bakr’s decision to declare war on the tribes that refused to pay zakāt (alms) was a political act rather than a religious one. At the time, zakāt functioned as a tax form, and refusing to pay it meant direct rebellion against political authority.
What must be observed here is this: societal matters fall under the domain of politics, whereas individual responsibilities pertain to religion. The Qur’an states: “Each of you will come to Us alone” (6/al-An’ām, 94). That is, religion focuses on the inner purification and unique piety of the individual. As our beloved teacher, the late Hasan Onat, used to say: There are no group reservations for Paradise. The aim of religion is the sincere and internal purification of the individual through personal effort.
Of course, Muslims can engage in politics, but in doing so, they must recognize that it is not a religious act but a human and social one. Unfortunately, this distinction has not yet been firmly established in the Islamic world. At the root of this problem lies a deep lack of understanding regarding the nature of the Qur’an. Without establishing a proper engagement with the Qur’an, it is impossible to develop a sound theory of politics.
Although you touched upon this topic in your previous answers, we would like to ask it directly for clarity: in your view, which approach do you find more accurate in interpreting the Qur’an — Historicism or Universalism?
This is an important question, but first, allow me to clarify: posing the question as “Historicism or Universalism?” is not quite accurate. These two concepts are not mutually exclusive; they belong to different categories. The opposite of “historical” is not “universal,” but rather trans-historical. And trans-historical refers to a domain beyond human experience — something that belongs solely to the divine realm. As human beings, we can only experience what is historical. The Qur’an, too, exists within history.
The Qur’anic revelation emerged within the historical context in which the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) lived. Before that, this discourse did not exist. Therefore, we must acknowledge the Qur’an as a historical phenomenon; in fact, we can only understand it within this historical reality.
The universality of the Qur’an, on the other hand, must be considered on a different level. Universal values are abstract principles we mentally construct and regard as valid beyond specific societies. However, even these principles are not applied in the same way in every time and place. For example, the punishment of “cutting off the hand of a thief” cannot be claimed as universal, since today it is no longer applicable in almost any society.
Universality is often an ideal. For a believer to consider their religious system as universal is a desire, a moral aspiration — just as a Jesuit priest may claim universality for his own faith. In this regard, it is not the Qur’an’s literal wording but the specific values and principles it contains that may attain universality in the believer’s mind. However, this is not something that can be scientifically or philosophically proven.
As for historicism, the term is also often misused in Türkiye and more broadly in the Islamic world. If a Muslim believes in the oneness of God, the Prophet, and the Qur’an, they cannot, in the classical sense, be a “historical reductionist.” That would mean limiting the text strictly to the period it emerged. However, a Muslim can adopt a historical critical perspective — someone who evaluates the text within its historical context and examines how historical circumstances were reflected in the revelation.
In fact, classical Muslim scholars also employed historical-critical methods. Abu Bakr’s declaration of war against tribes that refused to pay zakāt, ‘Umar’s decision not to distribute conquered lands as war booty, or the jurists who developed the theory of naskh (abrogation) — all of them interpreted the Qur’an’s rulings in the light of historical conditions, adapting their applications to new realities. This is a historical approach, but not one that denies the core tenets of faith.
If we are to form a sound relationship with the Qur’an today, we must understand it within its historical context. It is not enough to bring its words into the present; we must also understand the conditions under which those words were revealed. Otherwise, the relationship we think we are forming with the Qur’an remains superficial. The Qur’anic revelation emerged in engagement with real-life circumstances. If even God revealed the Qur’an within a historical context, then we cannot bring it into today’s world simply through its wording, without giving serious thought to contemporary realities.
In this light, the debate between universality and historicism will not lead us anywhere unless it is grounded in precise and well-formed conceptual foundations. If we wish to discover the Qur’an’s universal values and bring them into the modern world, we must first think with accurate concepts and sound methodology. And this is not merely an individual task — it is a responsibility that falls upon a committed and intellectually capable group.
We’d also like to ask a more personal question: what was the most significant turning point that deeply affected or transformed your intellectual perspective?
Yes, I’ve spoken about this in some talks before, but I’d be happy to share it again here — it might serve as an example for younger students as well. It was the year 1987. I was a research assistant at the Faculty of Theology in Ankara and close to completing my doctorate. One day, we were sitting together in Professor Mehmet Hatipoğlu’s office with a group of assistants. I asked a question — one that also included an evaluative comment. The professor merely turned to look at me, said nothing, and continued speaking. To an observer, this could appear as something that would hurt one’s pride, but in that moment, I felt something different. I perceived that look as a silent message: “Halis, read a bit more, approach things from a broader perspective. Then we’ll talk.” That was the moment I realized I was still at the beginning of the path of learning. That became a turning point for me — because I had assumed I was knowledgeable, coming as I did from both the madrasah and theology traditions. But I understood then that I still had much to learn.
From that day on, I turned toward the human sciences — philosophy, sociology, psychology, hermeneutics. We formed discussion circles with colleagues like Professor Hasan Onat and Professor Mualla Selçuk. It was during that time that I first began reading about hermeneutics through Kamuran Birand’s book Understanding as a Method in the Spiritual Sciences.
In my view, the greatest turning point for a person is realizing their own ignorance without making it a matter of ego — and turning that realization into an opportunity for growth. Not knowing is not shameful. But not knowing that one doesn’t know — and refusing to acknowledge it — is what classical scholars called “compound ignorance” (jahl al-murakkap). That, I believe, is the real danger. Because compound ignorance deprives a person of the need to learn. Indeed, the first step to growth is admitting one’s shortcomings.
Our next question, Professor: if you hadn’t become a theologian, what other profession might you have chosen to pursue?
This may be a classic question, but my answer is quite clear: I’m truly glad I became a theologian. There are many reasons for this, the most important being that theology is a discipline that enables one to reflect upon and question human beings and their inner world. In this respect, theology is directly related to our very existence. Moreover, since religion is a truth that concerns humanity, it is deeply connected to a person’s journey of self-understanding and transformation.
Another reason I chose this field is that I didn’t confine myself to a single discipline. Through my engagement with philosophy, sociology, and anthropology, I have found the opportunity to develop myself in a more holistic manner. For both Prophethood and the Qur’an are, ultimately, about human beings. Therefore, I believe that attaining this truth requires engaging with all fields of knowledge and experience that relate to the human condition.
Among the stories (qisas al-Qur’an) in the Qur’an, which one has influenced you the most? What are the key elements that make this story particularly meaningful for you?
The stories in the Qur’an are narratives that the first audience was already familiar with. These were stories embedded in their collective memory — events they had experienced within their historical context or at least had knowledge of. In other words, they are not products of imagination or literary fiction; they directly addressed the world of the original recipients. In this sense, Qur’anic narratives should not be confused with abstract, fictional texts such as The Lord of the Rings or Dune. Qur’anic narratives are rooted in history and aim to convey direct messages to a specific audience in a particular time and place.
The main purpose of the Qur’an’s use of such narratives is to instruct. Each story is guided by a clear pedagogical intention, and some stories convey more than one lesson. For instance, the story of Joseph (Yusuf) clearly illustrates how destructive jealousy (hasad) can be. At the same time, it tells how a person supported by God can remain protected amid adversity. The story does not explicitly say “do this” or “avoid that,” but many propositions are subtly implied throughout the flow of the narrative. In the Qur’an, propositions are embedded within the story itself — an indirect yet powerful didactic technique.
However, one point must be made clear: the Qur’an is a book addressed to adults; it does not directly speak to children. Therefore, simply narrating these stories to children may not always yield positive pedagogical results. These narratives should be restructured in ways consistent with sound educational principles. Otherwise, they may give rise to questions that conflict with contemporary value systems. Of course, material suitable for children can be derived from these stories — but that requires pedagogical transformation carried out by experts. When presented not as literal truths but as “narratives” or tales, such stories can be more meaningfully internalized by a child’s mind.
As for me, I find all the stories valuable. It’s hard to say, “This particular story affected me the most.” Because each of them carries important lessons within its own context. But I would like to emphasize this: the ones who benefited most from these stories were the first interlocutors. In their world, these stories played a constructive, guiding, and transformative role. Because they could internalize the Qur’an’s call to monotheism (tawḥīd), they needed to build a mental foundation through these stories. So, the stories functioned as supporting elements that helped to establish tawḥīd.
It is no coincidence that most of the stories appear in the Meccan surahs. The Meccan period was a time when a social and political order had not yet been established, but when the world of faith and ideas was being shaped. That’s why the stories aimed to create an awareness of tawḥīd in the people’s minds. In the Medinan period, however, the story of Moses (Mūsā) becomes more prominent. This is because the Muslims were now in direct contact with the Jewish community, and the stories were adapted to address this new audience. The Moses–Children of Israel narratives in Sūrah al-Baqara are examples of this. Many of them, though, are repetitions of the Moses stories found in Sūrah Ṭā-Hā and others.
When we look at these stories today, we can see how deeply these stories impacted and transformed the people of that time. But if we want to be similarly influenced, we need new storytellers who can play the same role in today’s world. The narrative form of the modern age is the novel and the short story. Storytelling today continues through literature. Therefore, novelists and short story writers are the storytellers of this era. And personally, I place great importance on storytelling.
Speaking for myself, I’m someone who can’t go without reading novels. At every stage of life, I’ve felt the need to connect with literary narratives, because these stories transform us — they open the doors to other worlds. The stories in the Qur’an, in a sense, are also literary narratives. Of course, they are historical — but they also contain a strong narrative structure.
Therefore, we need to rethink the stories in a way that fits with today’s language, pedagogy, and narrative form. The first audience learned from these stories; we too can draw similar lessons through methods appropriate to our own time. But this can only happen if we approach these stories not dogmatically, but with intellectual depth — while staying true to the spirit of the narrative.
Is there a moment in history that has deeply moved you — one that made you think, “I wish I had been there”? What makes you want to witness that moment?
To be honest, when I think about this question, a scene from a film comes to mind. There’s a moment in the movie Ben-Hur — they didn’t show the face of Jesus (ʿIsa) directly, but the character was looking at him. And in that gaze, there was such a deep sense of emotion that, as a viewer, you can’t help but feel: “I wish I had been there too… I wish I had looked upon that face.” That scene left a strong impression on me. So, if I had the chance to witness a moment in history, I think I would want to see the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh). Perhaps Jesus (pbuh) as well… But especially, I would want to see the faces of Jesus and Muhammad — to understand what I would see in them. Would I have looked at them like Abu Jahl did, or with the eyes of a believer? We can’t know. However, looking as a believer today, I think the meaning and quality of that gaze would likely be quite different.
I’m someone who really values being present in the moment. I don’t even like taking photographs, because I feel they break the emotion of what I’m experiencing right then. For me, witnessing a moment isn’t about recording it — it’s about “truly living” it. Maybe that’s also why I don’t long for the grand moments of the past themselves, but for the “spirit” of those moments. Because existence is only possible in the present moment. There is no before or after; the moment itself is everything.
If you could travel back in time, in whose circle of learning would you wish to be a student?
Now, you might think I’m saying this because of my own school of thought, but honestly, I would probably say Abu Hanifa. It would be hard for me to name anyone else. His way of thinking, his intellectual insight, and his independent stance have always impressed me. I would have loved to sit in his circle and breathe in the atmosphere he created.
How would you define a lifetime — an ‘umr — from your own perspective?
This is a truly difficult question. I don’t want to make any grand statements; I know my limits. Speaking about a concept like “life” is not something one can easily claim to do. But I can say this: for me, life is tied to a longing for a dervish-like way of living — to live the moment fully, to witness the present you’re in truly… Probably it’s not very easy to live such a life in this age — but it’s not entirely impossible either.
What I understand by being a dervish is, above all, living a life where one’s conscience and inner voice are not silenced. Life, even if it doesn’t appear glamorous from the outside, is meaningful when it’s lived with sincerity and wisdom. To live without suppressing that inner voice, to remain aware of it at every moment — that, for me, would be a meaningful life.
What would be your advice to students in the Faculty of Divinity — especially those in the English Theology Program?
My first piece of advice to divinity students, no matter what path they intend to follow — is this: don’t live life in a one-dimensional way. Whether or not they plan to pursue an academic career, I urge them to use their time well throughout their studies. Don’t live a life focused solely on courses; also engage with art, literature, and social life. These enrich you both intellectually and personally.
Speaking specifically about the English Theology program: since the language of instruction is English, the transmission of knowledge takes place in a second language. Naturally, this creates challenges for both students and lecturers. Information doesn’t flow as effortlessly as it does in one’s native language. As a result, students might struggle to deeply engage with the academic literature. While their English improves, their Arabic can remain underdeveloped. Yet Arabic is still the fundamental key to accessing the classical Islamic sciences — it should never be neglected.
Another issue is this: our faculty has many valuable scholars, yet they don’t usually teach in the English Theology Program. Students should find ways to engage with these professors — through their books, articles, and intellectual contributions. Many students hesitate, thinking, “How would the professor respond to me?” But this hesitation must be overcome. Seeking direct benefit from these scholars is one of the most valuable investments a student can make during their university years.
More generally, I would say this: a theologian wears two hats — one of science, and one of thought. The scientific hat trains you within specific rules, leading to expertise. That domain has its own principles — there’s no room for arbitrariness. But the thought that deepens you as a human being; it nourishes both the soul and the mind. And that depth comes from exposure to literature, philosophy, poetry, and music.
Literature humanizes us. It is very meaningful that the Turkish word for literature, “edebiyat,” derives from “edep” (ethics or refined manners). So let me repeat something I often say: “Theology without philosophy is like life without water.” Theology students must engage with philosophy, literature, and the arts. They must prepare themselves not only for texts, but for life itself.
We extend our heartfelt thanks to our esteemed professor for sincerely sharing his knowledge and experiences with us. Through this interview, we have accompanied not only an academic journey, but also an intellectual and human one. We believe it will serve as an essential guide, especially for divinity students, and we wish our professor a life full of health, peace, and fruitful endeavors.