The traditional interpretation presents the story as one of divine mercy. God initially prescribes fifty daily prayers for humanity, but after repeated requests by Muhammad, prompted by Moses, the number is reduced to five while preserving the reward of fifty. Mainstream theology celebrates this as compassion toward human weakness.
But there is another way to read the story entirely.
What if the tragedy of the narrative lies precisely in the reduction itself?
There is a simple but demanding starting point: we do not actually know what demons are in any mechanistic sense. Scripture affirms their reality, but it does not provide a technical “microscope” for their nature. Attempts to build detailed theories from encounters tend to circle back on themselves, reinforcing what the interpreter already believes. If that is so, then progress begins not by multiplying explanations, but by clearing them—refusing to treat demonic encounters as a source of new, objective knowledge about demons themselves.
There is one God. He is perfect, self-sufficient, and in need of nothing. Yet, in His freedom, He chose relationship. He chose to elevate the one who is perfectly faithful, perfectly humble, the one who seeks no glory for himself—the Word, the Logos. In that relationship of love, there is no rivalry, no competition, no concern for rank. There is only mutual glorification: the Father delights in the Son, and the Son directs all glory back to the Father.
This is the reality that cannot be fully contained in human categories. In the heavens, it is whole. On Earth, it appears divided.
Being created for worship does not mean an eternal chore. It means that human beings were created for a reality of such perfect happiness that praise becomes its natural language.
I confess Jesus Christ as the Son of God and Lord.
I do not hide this. I do not soften it. I do not reinterpret it to make it socially acceptable. It is the center of my faith, and I proclaim it openly.
At the same time, I do not experience contradiction when standing in a Muslim house of prayer where strict monotheism is affirmed and where it is said that “God has no son.”
To many, this sounds impossible. It sounds like compromise, duplicity, or confusion. It is none of these.
Jesus once warned us very clearly: “When you pray, do not heap up empty phrases as the pagans do, for they think they will be heard because of their many words.” And yet, in another place, he tells us to pray persistently — to knock, to ask, to seek, and not to give up.
At first glance, Jesus seems to contradict himself on prayer. On the one hand, he warns his followers not to imitate pagans who believe they will be heard because of their many words. On the other hand, he repeatedly urges persistence in prayer. The result of this apparent tension has been disastrous: Christians have adopted the very practice Jesus rejected, justifying it by appealing to his call for persistence. Prayer has become a numbers game—more words, more repetitions, more intensity—while its substance has quietly disappeared.
There was a Master of worlds. And like many masters, he struggled with anger. Who does not?
One day he said to himself, “I cannot find peace within my own dominion. I will go to the Creator of all things—to my God—and ask for help.” So he went, prostrated himself, and prayed, “Father, I cannot find peace.”
God, the Most Merciful, looked upon him with love and gave him a gift: a herd of cows. The Master brought the cows into his world, milked them daily, and was filled with joy— for the milk they produced was mercy itself.
We confess that we often imagine faith as standing on solid ground, but you meet us where the ground itself moves.
You know the winds that push us sideways, the waves that unsettle our footing, the moments when nothing stays still long enough to be trusted.
We are not afraid of depth as much as we are afraid of losing balance, of being knocked over, of not being able to remain upright when forces press against us from every side.
Teach us to see what truly threatens us, and not to mistake instability for abandonment.