Competition in [worldly] increase diverts you

“Striving for more distracts you”

The surah begins with two powerful words that capture the essence of humanity’s eternal struggle: ‎أَلۡهَىٰكُمُ‎ and ‎ٱلتَّكَاثُرُ‎. The translation “the want of more and more has distracted you” only scratches the surface of their profound implications.

The word ‎لَهَا‎ describes a specific kind of distraction where you become preoccupied with something less important at the expense of something far more significant.

Imagine waiting at an airport with your flight leaving in 45 minutes. You start checking text messages or browsing social media, completely losing track of time. Before you realize it, the gate has closed and your flight has departed.

That moment of distraction cost you something valuable. This is the essence of laha—when your mind wanders from what truly matters and you lose an irreplaceable opportunity.

In classical Arabic, ‎لَهۡو‎ refers to entertainment and pastimes. It describes those activities that, while not necessarily harmful in themselves, consume our attention at the cost of our greater purpose.

The linguistic root connects to the image of someone tossing away a piece of food caught between their teeth—something that has no value to them. Similarly, laha means to toss aside or put on the back burner something that actually holds great worth.

The second word, ‎ٱلتَّكَاثُرُ‎, is even richer in meaning. Built on the root ‎كَثۡرَة‎, meaning “plenty” or “abundance,” the tafa‘ul form reveals four distinct implications that paint a complete picture of human behavior.

First, at-takathur means competing to want more.

This competition arises not from genuine need but from comparison. You were completely content until you saw someone else having more, and suddenly you’re at unrest. Why do they have what I don’t have? This competitive spirit drives you to pursue what they possess, not because you need it, but because they have it.

Second, it encompasses showing off what you’ve acquired.

It’s not enough that you obtained more—you need them to see it. You want them to feel the same inferiority you felt when they had more than you.

In some cultures, this manifests dramatically at weddings where families meticulously track what others served, how elaborate their decorations were, what gifts they gave, all with the singular purpose of outdoing them when their turn comes. Entire meetings are held to strategize this “battle” of one-upmanship.

This competition doesn’t begin in adulthood. Even as children, we experience it. A classmate gets a new pencil case that looks like a robot, and suddenly your plain one seems inadequate. Someone has an eraser that smells like strawberries, and you’re determined to get one that smells like watermelon. The petty nature of these competitions doesn’t diminish their power over our minds.

When kids come to school in America without uniforms, the competition intensifies around brands and labels. “Where did you get those shoes? Walmart?” becomes a cutting remark. The need to have that brand, or better, consumes young minds.

This extends beyond material goods to modern measures of worth: how many followers do you have? How many likes did your post get? The arena changes, but the competition remains.

Third, at-takathur describes wanting more even when no one else is around to compete with.

Some people accumulate wealth obsessively without caring about appearances or comparisons. I’ve met individuals making millions annually who still wear the same worn shirt from a decade ago, who look homeless despite being CEOs with hundreds of employees.

For them, it’s not about competing or showing off—it’s simply that what they have is never enough. They need to be doing more, earning more, acquiring more. This internal drive consumes them completely.

Fourth, at-takathur operates within shared cultural or social standards.

We form circles—whether family, friends, or community—that become societies within society. These circles establish their own standards, likes, dislikes, what’s acceptable and what’s not.

In New York, you find Bangladeshi communities concentrated in specific blocks where the khutbah is delivered in Bangla, and they function as their own world. London has similar ethnic neighborhoods. People form these bubbles and live within them.

Within these circles, everyone thinks alike. When a daughter reaches twenty, the entire extended family starts pressuring her about marriage because “that’s when we got married in our family.” After marriage, they hound her about having a baby.

Every life decision gets measured against the collective standard. If you’re not buying a house by a certain age, you’re failing. “Your cousin bought one. You’re still renting? You’re making someone else rich. Just take out a mortgage, everyone does it.” The pressure becomes relentless.

This is perhaps the most insidious form of at-takathur because it comes from loved ones.

They genuinely believe they’re helping you, pushing you to meet standards that will make you acceptable in their eyes. Walking away from these artificial standards requires tremendous courage.

When you start taking your religion seriously, you’ll face resistance from the very places you’d least expect it—sometimes violent, aggressive resistance. Most people simply give in, accepting “that’s just how we do things.”

Now consider what Allah left unsaid. He says this want for more has distracted you—but distracted you from what? He doesn’t specify.

Prayer? Charity? Caring for those in need? Learning your religion? Seeking truth? Meeting your potential? Actually using the gifts Allah gave you to help others and do good in the world?

The omission is deliberate and merciful. The answer differs for each person.

While we all share the general purpose of worship, the specific talents, opportunities, and responsibilities Allah gave me are not the same as those He gave you. Perhaps He blessed you with wealth, or an analytical mind, or management skills, or artistic ability. Your talents are not my talents. What Allah gave you, you should have put to productive use.

The greatest of all these blessings is time.

Some of us have the gift of speech, others of writing, others of making money or wise investments. But time is the one gift we all share equally.

And what does entertainment do? It burns time. Hours fly by between episodes of a series. Video games consume entire nights. The sun rises and sets, empires could rise and fall, and you’re still absorbed in whatever distraction has captured you.

Consider that our worship itself teaches time management. The five pillars of Islam include one conceptual element—the Shahadah—and four practical acts: prayer, fasting, Hajj, and zakah.

Look closely at these practical acts: they’re all specifically scheduled activities teaching us to manage time. Prayer occurs at particular times daily, fasting at particular times, Hajj at a particular time in your life, zakah at a particular time each year.

Allah placed two grand objects in the sky for us: the sun and the moon. Our prayers function according to where the sun is—it’s our clock. Our other worship like Hajj and fasting follow the moon—it’s our calendar.

The sun is our clock, the moon is our calendar. To this day, humanity manages time using these same two elements: a clock and a calendar. The entire religion is designed around time management.

The Quran highlights money and children as two primary sources of distraction:

A teenager might say, “I don’t care about money or kids, I just want to have fun.” But when you reach mature age, what occupies your mind? How much is in the bank.

When you have children, your thoughts race constantly: How will I provide for them? Where will they go to school? How will I pay tuition? Can we afford this vacation? We need a bigger house. Then there’s the morning commute to school, pickup, basketball practice, soccer, programming class—activity after activity consumes your days and nights.

You might think, “I’m not materialistic, I’m just raising my children well.” But Allah is saying that too can become a consuming distraction.

I’ve met Muslim parents so obsessed with their child’s Quran memorization that it becomes a trophy to display. “Can my son recite before your lecture? He’s really good.” No. “Just a quick recitation?” No, I want to listen to him now, but not as a performance for others to earn their praise. That six-year-old picking his nose doesn’t care about being your trophy, and I won’t participate in that.

This doesn’t mean we should never be entertained or relax. The Prophet (peace be upon him) gave us a balanced principle:

Things should be done in measure, in proper proportion. Don’t do too much of anything. Having Angry Birds on your phone won’t send you to Jahannam.

But if you obsess over getting perfect scores on every level, if every free second finds your fingers itching to play, if you’re playing during Jumu‘ah and only put it away when the Imam says “Aqimis-Salah”—that’s too much.

Perhaps it’s your Facebook notifications, your Instagram, your constant checking even when nothing’s there. “Nothing yet. Still nothing. Let me check again. Still nothing.” This constant distraction becomes a serious problem.

Technology has made ‎لَهۡو‎ (distraction) a far bigger challenge in our age than ever before in history. Our parents’ generation—their distraction was hiding a storybook from teachers, waiting months for the next issue to come out. Reading was considered bad behavior. Those days are gone.

We must recognize these modern distractions not as small problems, but as potentially devastating ones.