The sandals were already missing. The kids were already screaming. Somewhere between “Taqabbal Allah minna wa minkum” and a lukewarm sip of Vimto, the khutbah began. And just like that, it was over.
But rewind 1,400 years, and the Eid khutbah wasn’t a rushed afterthought. It was the anchor of Eid. The part where everything came together. Where the spiritual met the social. Where the prayer didn’t end, but spilled out into speech.
A Sunnah Spoken in the Afterglow
The Prophet Muhammad (ص), fresh from Eid salah, would stand before the people, no microphone, no minbar, no platform other than earth itself, and speak. The khutbah wasn’t before the prayer like on Fridays. It came after. A gesture of ease, not obligation. Still, the people stayed.
He would remind them of what the month had meant. If it was Eid al-Fitr, it was about fasting, forgiveness, and Zakat al-Fitr. If it was Eid al-Adha, it was about Hajj, sacrifice, and the Abrahamic story that echoed across generations. He spoke not to impress, but to press something onto the soul.
“The Prophet used to go by foot to the prayer on the Day of Eid and return by a different path.” (Sahih al-Bukhari)
This wasn’t a TED Talk. It was a reminder.
The Minbar Becomes a Microphone for Power
As the Islamic world grew from Madinah to Damascus, Cairo to Cordoba, the Eid khutbah became a canvas not just for spirituality, but for sovereignty.
During the Umayyad and Abbasid periods, it became protocol to open the khutbah with praise for the Caliph. Scholars and historians like al-Tabari documented how khutbahs were used to declare war victories, make political allegiances public, or silence dissent. The minbar was pulpit and podium. If your name was mentioned in the khutbah, you had made it. If it was removed, you knew what was coming.
Some rulers even made attendance mandatory. Missing the khutbah could mark you as suspect.
But the content didn’t lose all meaning. Within the politics, imams still folded in reminders of gratitude, taqwa, and the ethics of community. The khutbah remained a bridge between the ruler and the ruled, but also between the Divine and the distracted.
What the Khutbah Was Meant to Do
At its best, the Eid khutbah has always done five things:
It praised Allah and invoked peace on the Prophet.
It reminded us that our joy must be laced with taqwa.
It called the community to unity and compassion.
It spoke directly to the spiritual season we had just come through.
It sent us home with something to carry.
Imam Nawawi, in his commentary on Sahih Muslim, called it “a completion of the Eid worship.” A full stop at the end of a blessed sentence.
Today: A Sermon Slipping Through the Cracks
In many mosques today, the Eid khutbah gets lost. Sometimes literally, people leave right after salah. Sometimes metaphorically, speakers stick to the same template: a few hadith, a poem about forgiveness, and a quick du’a for the ummah. And then: biscuits.
In Muslim-majority countries, the khutbah is sometimes politicised. In diaspora, it’s often rushed. Multiple prayer shifts. Limited venue time. Children restless. It’s hard to hold the mic when the community is halfway out the door.
But maybe the problem isn’t time. Maybe it’s attention. Or intention.
What We’re Supposed to Take Home
The Eid khutbah isn’t decoration. It’s a departure point. A reminder that the fast wasn’t just hunger. That the takbirat weren’t just background noise. That Eid is not an escape from the sacred, but a soft landing into everyday worship.
It tells us:
Keep giving.
Keep praying.
Keep forgiving.
Don’t let joy become heedlessness.
The Prophet stood after prayer not because he had to, but because he knew we would forget.
So next Eid, when the shoes go missing and the kids are hungry and your WhatsApp is popping with “Eid Mubarak” selfies, stay for the khutbah. Listen to what it’s trying to hold onto.
Because sometimes, the shortest sermons are the ones that echo the longest.
