CAIRO, Egypt -- Muslims today are bombarded with religious advice from many quarters: Osama bin Laden's railings on the Internet, dial-a-fatwa hot lines, suave preachers on the air waves, even T-shirts on Cairo streets declaring, "Jihad is the only language they understand."
Abd Al Moati Bauomy dismisses the idea that any of these could be serious rivals to Al-Azhar, the university where he teaches Islamic philosophy.
"These new voices don't really worry Al-Azhar because Al-Azhar is the ultimate Islamic institution," Bauomy said in a sonorous tone he likely uses to good effect as a weekend preacher in his neighborhood mosque.
Bauomy's life is an example of the broad, deep impact Al-Azhar has on Egyptians. His father, who ran a Quranic school in a village in Egypt's Nile Delta, intended from his son's birth that he would be an Azhari. Under his father's tutelage, Bauomy started memorizing the Quran at age 4.
At 11, Bauomy entered one of the primary and secondary schools Al-Azhar runs in villages and towns across Egypt. That prepared him to enroll at its university, which has a larger student body than any government-run secular university.
Bauomy, 64, earned an Al-Azhar doctorate in religious sciences in 1972 and has taught there most of his professional life. He also sits on its 26-member Islamic Research Academy, popularly known as the "fatwa committee" and headed by Al-Azhar's grand sheik, Mohammed Sayed Tantawi.
Egyptians turn to the fatwa committee for guidance on everything from whether TV game shows amount to sinful gambling (no) to whether bin Laden's campaign against America is a legitimate jihad (again, no).
Egyptian government censors seek Azharis' advice on which books and movies to ban. In May, Justice Minister Farouk Seif el-Nasr granted Al-Azhar police-like power to search for and seize books and other materials banned for religious reasons.
Azharis said their new powers would be used to crack down on extremist comment and not, as with the religious police in conservative Saudi Arabia, to force people to observe strict Islamic social rules.
Azharis preach at mosques across Egypt, and foreign Azharis return home to preach in places such as Malaysia, Afghanistan and Nigeria.
The mosque at the heart of Al-Azhar is as much a political platform as a place of worship, drawing Egyptians who can count on a post-Friday prayer demonstration when events in Israel or Iraq fan emotions.
Most of the time, though, Al-Azhar is simply a serene place to pray in a loud and crowded city. It draws Cairo residents from all classes. Muslims take off their shoes to preserve the sanctity of mosques; the footwear shed at the gates of Al-Azhar ranges from scuffed plastic sandals to the latest cross-trainers.
One Friday in early summer, young boys played tag across Al-Azhar's white marble courtyard. Away from the courtyard's glare under the midday sun, men read the Quran or newspapers in the gloom of the main hall. Women, their veils billowing as ceiling fans stirred the air, were separated from the men by a row of plain wooden screens.
Prayers began, then a sermon on the duty of all Muslims to contribute to their community. The rich can give alms, but the poor also can give, the preacher said, relating the Quran's tale of a poor man winning God's blessing by clearing a path of stones that might have bruised his neighbors' feet.
"God is great!" the preacher summed up.
"Amen," the congregation replied. The murmur, multiplied by several thousands, was at once powerful and peaceful.
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