By Heba Abayaa
You know the scene. A crowd parts. People lean in, some even reaching to kiss a hand.
He’s in white, often with a turban. A Habib.
In Indonesia, that title isn’t just a name. It means he’s a direct descendant of Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him).
For millions, that lineage carries a spiritual weight, a kind of blessing or “barakah” you can almost feel. He’s not a god. Let’s be super clear on that, but he’s deeply respected. A living link to Islamic history.
They lead prayers, run big pesantren, and give advice. When a Habib speaks, people
listen. It’s a beautiful tradition of honoring knowledge and bloodline.
But lately… something feels off. Have you noticed it too?
Walk with me through the digital mosque. Scroll Instagram or TikTok. You’ll find
Celebrity Habibs. Superstar preachers with millions of followers. Fancy production, perfect angles. Their sermons are packed with wisdom, but also with… a vibe. A brand.
This is where the old tradition crashes into the new world. And the crash is messy.
Here’s what’s making people side-eye and whisper:
1. The Blessing Price Tag.
It’s one thing to give a voluntary donation (sadaqah) to a teacher. It’s another to
see a set price for “blessed” water, a special prayer for a business deal, or an exclusive
“mentorship” program that costs millions. It starts to feel less like faith and more like a spiritual transaction. Are we buying “barakah” now?
2. The Political Endorsement.
Ever see a Habib standing next to a politician, giving a thumbs-up? That’s raw
power. Their words can sway votes. So, of course, political parties want them on stage.
But when a religious sermon starts to sound like a campaign ad, it leaves a sour taste. Is this about heaven, or about power?
3. The Luxury Lifestyle.
The Prophet lived simply. So it’s confusing to see some Habibs flashing luxury
cars, mega-mansions, and wedding parties fit for sultans. Supporters say it’s God’s blessing. Critics just see hypocrisy. It’s the disconnect that stings.
Before we get cynical, let’s pause.
The loudest critics of all this aren’t outsiders. They’re often other traditional scholars and devout Muslims. They’re the ones quoting the hadith about humility, warning against showing off (riya). And let’s be fair: for every “celebrity” Habib, there are probably ten others living quietly, teaching students, and would be embarrassed by the
kiss-on-the-hand fuss.
That’s the real picture: a spectrum.
On one end, the humble scholar who hides his lineage. In the middle, the public teacher who’s just part of the community.
On the other end, the media-savvy influencer.
So what are we, the regular people, supposed to do with this?
I think it comes down to this: We can respect the title, but we must judge the
character.
Reverence shouldn’t mean switching off our brains. True faith isn’t about blindly
following a brand. It’s okay to ask questions. It’s okay to expect the people who teach humility to live it.
The beauty of Indonesian Islam is its heart. But that heart needs to be protected from the noise of politics, the glare of the spotlight, and the corrosion of cash.
Let’s keep our respect genuine, but let’s keep our eyes open. The best way to honor a real teacher is to seek the truth, not just the show. What do you think? Have you seen this shift?