“I believe femininity is at least as close to divinity as masculinity. The masculine bias in this matter is one of the worst forms of anthropomorphism.” So wrote the process philosopher Charles Hartshorne. Decades later, Christian writer Sarah Bessey would make a related claim in a different register: “Patriarchy is not God’s dream for humanity.”
While these statements emerged from Christian and philosophical contexts, they raise a question that Muslims should not dismiss too quickly: What happens when we confuse God with our own social arrangements? More specifically, what happens when patriarchal culture becomes so deeply embedded in religious interpretation that divine reality itself begins to appear male?
The irony is striking. Islam’s central theological principle, tawhid, insists that God is utterly unlike creation. “There is nothing whatever like unto Him” (Q. 42:11). Yet Muslims frequently imagine and speak of God through overwhelmingly masculine imagery. Even when acknowledging that God’s essence transcends gender, religious discourse often unconsciously associates divine authority, power, judgment, and leadership with masculinity.
Hartshorne’s observation remains devastatingly relevant. If God is neither male nor female, then privileging masculine imagery as somehow closer to divine reality is not theological sophistication. It is anthropomorphism. It is projecting human social structures onto the divine.
Islamic theology, at its best, has always recognized this danger. The Qur’an relentlessly critiques idolatry not merely as the worship of statues but as the tendency to fashion God according to human desires and assumptions. Idolatry begins not only when we worship false gods but when we create God in our own image.
This is why the divine names matter.
Among Allah’s ninety-nine names are al-Rahman and al-Rahim, typically translated as “The Most Compassionate” and “The Most Merciful.” What is often forgotten is that both are linguistically linked to the Arabic word rahm, meaning womb. Classical Muslim scholars frequently noted this connection. The most frequently invoked attributes of God in the Qur’an are rooted in imagery associated with nurturing, care, protection, and life-giving relationality.
The significance of this cannot be overstated.
The Qur’an could have foregrounded sovereignty alone. It could have emphasized divine domination and power above all else. Yet the first words Muslims encounter before almost every chapter are “In the Name of God, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful.” Divine mercy precedes divine judgment. Compassion grounds authority. Relationship comes before command.
These are not exclusively feminine qualities, of course. But neither are they traditionally masculine. They point beyond rigid gender binaries toward a richer understanding of the divine.
Indeed, Muslim mystics often grasped this more clearly than legalists and theologians. The great Persian tradition of madhhab-i ‘ishq, the “school of love,” found in figures such as Farid al-Din Attar and Hafez, understood that God is encountered not primarily through domination or hierarchy but through intimacy, beauty, longing, and love. The lover-beloved relationship became a powerful metaphor for humanity’s relationship with the Divine.
Love dissolves hierarchy.
One cannot meaningfully speak of being over, above, or superior to another while simultaneously speaking the language of genuine love. Love draws persons into communion rather than domination. It creates reciprocity without erasing difference.
This insight carries profound implications for Muslim discussions about gender.
Too often contemporary debates about women in Islam become trapped between two unsatisfactory choices. On one side stand defenders of traditional patriarchy who assume that male leadership reflects some eternal divine order. On the other stand secular critics who conclude that religion itself is inherently patriarchal and therefore irredeemable.
Both positions miss something important.
The deeper question is not whether particular historical Muslim societies were patriarchal. Most were. The real question is whether patriarchy is intrinsic to Islam’s vision of God and humanity.
The Qur’an’s theological trajectory suggests otherwise.
Human beings, male and female, are described as originating from a single soul (nafs wahida). Moral worth is measured not by gender but by taqwa, God-consciousness. The believing men and believing women are repeatedly mentioned together as equal participants in the spiritual project. The creation narrative lacks the notion that woman is somehow a derivative or secondary being whose existence serves male purposes.
When these principles are taken seriously, patriarchy begins to look less like a theological necessity and more like a historical accommodation.
This is where Hartshorne’s critique becomes particularly useful. If God is the supreme exemplar of relationality, love, responsiveness, and care rather than unilateral domination, then our religious communities should mirror those attributes. Authority becomes service rather than control. Leadership becomes empowerment rather than hierarchy. Strength becomes the capacity to nurture flourishing rather than to command obedience.
Such a vision resonates deeply with the Qur’anic conception of divine mercy encompassing all things.
For Muslims today, the challenge is not simply to include more women in religious institutions, important though that is. The challenge is theological. It is to recover aspects of the Islamic tradition that have been obscured by centuries of patriarchal assumptions and to reimagine God not as a cosmic patriarch but as the source of boundless mercy, beauty, creativity, and love.
Patriarchy, after all, narrows both women and men. It restricts human potential by confining people within rigid expectations of what masculinity and femininity should be. The God of the Qur’an is far greater than such limitations.
To affirm that God transcends gender is not merely a doctrinal statement. It is a spiritual and ethical commitment. It means refusing to sanctify social hierarchies simply because they are old. It means measuring our communities against divine compassion rather than inherited power structures.
And perhaps it means taking seriously the possibility that Hartshorne and Bessey, each in their own way, were pointing toward a truth that the Islamic tradition has always contained but has not always fully embraced: that the closer we draw to God, the less convincing patriarchy becomes. For a God whose mercy is womb-like, whose love exceeds every category, and whose reality transcends every human projection can never be reduced to the image of a celestial patriarch. The God of tawhid is infinitely more beautiful, more relational, and more liberating than that.
Adis Duderija is an Associate Professor in Islam and Society and Griffith University and a book series editor of a new book series on Islam and Process-Relational Thought (Routledge).
Courtesy: New Age Islam