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The Quest Series
Edited by G. R. S. Mead
THE MYSTICS OF ISLAM
THE QUEST SERIES
Edited by G. R. S. MEAD,
EDITOR OF ‘THE QUEST.’
_Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net each._
FIRST LIST OF VOLUMES.
PSYCHICAL RESEARCH AND SURVIVAL. By James H. Hyslop, Ph.D., LL.D.,
Secretary of the Psychical Research Society of America.
THE QUEST OF THE HOLY GRAIL. By Jessie L. Weston, Author of ‘The
Legend of Sir Perceval.’
JEWISH MYSTICISM. By J. Abelson, M.A., D.Lit., Principal of Aria
College, Portsmouth.
BUDDHIST PSYCHOLOGY. By C. A. F. Rhys Davids, M.A., F.B.A., Lecturer
on Indian Philosophy, Manchester University.
THE MYSTICS OF ISLAM. By Reynold A. Nicholson, M.A., Litt.D., LL.D.,
Lecturer on Persian, Cambridge University.
London: G. BELL & SONS LTD.
THE
MYSTICS OF ISLAM
BY
REYNOLD A. NICHOLSON
M.A., Litt.D., Hon. LL.D. (Aberdeen)
LECTURER ON PERSIAN IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE
FORMERLY FELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE
[Illustration]
LONDON
G. BELL AND SONS LTD.
1914
EDITOR’S NOTE
If Judaism, Christianity and Islam have no little in common in spite
of their deep dogmatic differences, the spiritual content of that
common element can best be appreciated in Jewish, Christian and
Islamic mysticism, which bears equal testimony to that ever-deepening
experience of the soul when the spiritual worshipper, whether he be
follower of Moses or Jesus or Mohammed, turns whole-heartedly to God.
As the Quest Series has already supplied for the first time those
interested in such matters with a simple general introduction to Jewish
mysticism, so it now provides an easy approach to the study of Islamic
mysticism on which in English there exists no separate introduction.
But not only have we in the following pages all that the general reader
requires to be told at first about Sūfism; we have also a large amount
of material that will be new even to professional Orientalists. Dr.
Nicholson sets before us the results of twenty years’ unremitting
labour, and that, too, with remarkable simplicity and clarity for
such a subject; at the same time he lets the mystics mostly speak for
themselves and mainly in his own fine versions from the original Arabic
and Persian.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Introduction 1
CHAP.
I. The Path 28
II. Illumination and Ecstasy 50
III. The Gnosis 68
IV. Divine Love 102
V. Saints and Miracles 120
VI. The Unitive State 148
Bibliography 169
Index 173
THE MYSTICS OF ISLAM
INTRODUCTION
The title of this book sufficiently explains why it is included in a
Series ‘exemplifying the adventures and labours of individual seekers
or groups of seekers in quest of reality.’ Sūfism, the religious
philosophy of Islam, is described in the oldest extant definition
as ‘the apprehension of divine realities,’ and Mohammedan mystics
are fond of calling themselves _Ahl al-Haqq_, ‘the followers of the
Real.’[1] In attempting to set forth their central doctrines from
this point of view, I shall draw to some extent on materials which
I have collected during the last twenty years for a general history
of Islamic mysticism--a subject so vast and many-sided that several
large volumes would be required to do it anything like justice. Here
I can only sketch in broad outline certain principles, methods, and
characteristic features of the inner life as it has been lived by
Moslems of every class and condition from the eighth century of our
era to the present day. Difficult are the paths which they threaded,
dark and bewildering the pathless heights beyond; but even if we
may not hope to accompany the travellers to their journey’s end,
any information that we have gathered concerning their religious
environment and spiritual history will help us to understand the
strange experiences of which they write.
[1] _Al-Haqq_ is the term generally used by Sūfīs when they refer to
God.
In the first place, therefore, I propose to offer a few remarks on the
origin and historical development of Sūfism, its relation to Islam,
and its general character. Not only are these matters interesting
to the student of comparative religion; some knowledge of them is
indispensable to any serious student of Sūfism itself. It may be said,
truly enough, that all mystical experiences ultimately meet in a single
point; but that point assumes widely different aspects according to the
mystic’s religion, race, and temperament, while the converging lines
of approach admit of almost infinite variety. Though all the great
types of mysticism have something in common, each is marked by peculiar
characteristics resulting from the circumstances in which it arose and
flourished. Just as the Christian type cannot be understood without
reference to Christianity, so the Mohammedan type must be viewed in
connexion with the outward and inward development of Islam.
The word ‘mystic,’ which has passed from Greek religion into European
literature, is represented in Arabic, Persian, and Turkish, the three
chief languages of Islam, by ‘Sūfī.’ The terms, however, are not
precisely synonymous, for ‘Sūfī’ has a specific religious connotation,
and is restricted by usage to those mystics who profess the Mohammedan
faith. And the Arabic word, although in course of time it appropriated
the high significance of the Greek--lips sealed by holy mysteries,
eyes closed in visionary rapture--bore a humbler meaning when it
first gained currency (about 800 A.D.). Until recently its derivation
was in dispute. Most Sūfīs, flying in the face of etymology, have
derived it from an Arabic root which conveys the notion of ‘purity’;
this would make ‘Sūfī’ mean ‘one who is pure in heart’ or ‘one of the
elect.’ Some European scholars identified it with σοφός in the sense
of ‘theosophist.’ But Nöldeke, in an article written twenty years ago,
showed conclusively that the name was derived from _sūf_ (wool), and
was originally applied to those Moslem ascetics who, in imitation of
Christian hermits, clad themselves in coarse woollen garb as a sign of
penitence and renunciation of worldly vanities.
The earliest Sūfīs were, in fact, ascetics and quietists rather
than mystics. An overwhelming consciousness of sin, combined with a
dread--which it is hard for us to realise--of Judgment Day and the
torments of Hell-fire, so vividly painted in the Koran, drove them to
seek salvation in flight from the world. On the other hand, the Koran
warned them that salvation depended entirely on the inscrutable will of
Allah, who guides aright the good and leads astray the wicked. Their
fate was inscribed on the eternal tables of His providence, nothing
could alter it. Only this was sure, that if they were destined to be
saved by fasting and praying and pious works--then they would be saved.
Such a belief ends naturally in quietism, complete and unquestioning
submission to the divine will, an attitude characteristic of Sūfism in
its oldest form. The mainspring of Moslem religious life during the
eighth century was fear--fear of God, fear of Hell, fear of death, fear
of sin--but the opposite motive had already begun to make its influence
felt, and produced in the saintly woman Rābiʿa at least one conspicuous
example of truly mystical self-abandonment.
So far, there was no great difference between the Sūfī and the orthodox
Mohammedan zealot, except that the Sūfīs attached extraordinary
importance to certain Koranic doctrines, and developed them at the
expense of others which many Moslems might consider equally essential.
It must also be allowed that the ascetic movement was inspired
by Christian ideals, and contrasted sharply with the active and
pleasure-loving spirit of Islam. In a famous sentence the Prophet
denounced monkish austerities and bade his people devote themselves
to the holy war against unbelievers; and he gave, as is well known,
the most convincing testimony in favour of marriage. Although his
condemnation of celibacy did not remain without effect, the conquest
of Persia, Syria, and Egypt by his successors brought the Moslems into
contact with ideas which profoundly modified their outlook on life and
religion. European readers of the Koran cannot fail to be struck by its
author’s vacillation and inconsistency in dealing with the greatest
problems. He himself was not aware of these contradictions, nor were
they a stumbling-block to his devout followers, whose simple faith
accepted the Koran as the Word of God. But the rift was there, and soon
produced far-reaching results.
Hence arose the Murjites, who set faith above works and emphasised
the divine love and goodness; the Qadarites who affirmed, and the
Jabarites who denied, that men are responsible for their actions;
the Muʿtazilites, who built a theology on the basis of reason,
rejecting the qualities of Allah as incompatible with His unity,
and predestinarianism as contrary to His justice; and finally the
Ashʿarites, the scholastic theologians of Islam, who formulated the
rigid metaphysical and doctrinal system that underlies the creed of
orthodox Mohammedans at the present time. All these speculations,
influenced as they were by Greek theology and philosophy, reacted
powerfully upon Sūfism. Early in the third century of the Hegira--the
ninth after Christ--we find manifest signs of the new leaven stirring
within it. Not that Sūfīs ceased to mortify the flesh and take pride
in their poverty, but they now began to regard asceticism as only the
first stage of a long journey, the preliminary training for a larger
spiritual life than the mere ascetic is able to conceive. The nature
of the change may be illustrated by quoting a few sentences which have
come down to us from the mystics of this period.
“Love is not to be learned from men: it is one of God’s gifts
and comes of His grace.”
“None refrains from the lusts of this world save him in whose
heart there is a light that keeps him always busied with the next
world.”
“When the gnostic’s spiritual eye is opened, his bodily eye is
shut: he sees nothing but God.”
“If gnosis were to take visible shape all who looked thereon
would die at the sight of its beauty and loveliness and goodness
and grace, and every brightness would become dark beside the
splendour thereof.”[2]
“Gnosis is nearer to silence than to speech.”
“When the heart weeps because it has lost, the spirit laughs
because it has found.”
“Nothing sees God and dies, even as nothing sees God and lives,
because His life is everlasting: whoever sees it is thereby made
everlasting.”
“O God, I never listen to the cry of animals or to the
quivering of trees or to the murmuring of water or to the warbling
of birds or to the rustling wind or to the crashing thunder without
feeling them to be an evidence of Thy unity and a proof that there
is nothing like unto Thee.”
“O my God, I invoke Thee in public as lords are invoked, but in
private as loved ones are invoked. Publicly I say, ‘O my God!’ but
privately I say, ‘O my Beloved!’”
[2] Compare Plato, _Phædrus_ (Jowett’s translation): “For sight is the
keenest of our bodily senses; though not by that is wisdom seen; her
loveliness would have been transporting if there had been a visible
image of her.”
These ideas--Light, Knowledge, and Love--form, as it were, the keynotes
of the new Sūfism, and in the following chapters I shall endeavour to
show how they were developed. Ultimately they rest upon a pantheistic
faith which deposed the One transcendent God of Islam and worshipped
in His stead One Real Being who dwells and works everywhere, and whose
throne is not less, but more, in the human heart than in the heaven
of heavens. Before going further, it will be convenient to answer
a question which the reader may have asked himself--Whence did the
Moslems of the ninth century derive this doctrine?
Modern research has proved that the origin of Sūfism cannot be
traced back to a single definite cause, and has thereby discredited
the sweeping generalisations which represent it, for instance, as a
reaction of the Aryan mind against a conquering Semitic religion, and
as the product, essentially, of Indian or Persian thought. Statements
of this kind, even when they are partially true, ignore the principle
that in order to establish an historical connexion between A and B,
it is not enough to bring forward evidence of their likeness to one
another, without showing at the same time (1) that the actual relation
of B to A was such as to render the assumed filiation possible, and
(2) that the possible hypothesis fits in with all the ascertained
and relevant facts. Now, the theories which I have mentioned do not
satisfy these conditions. If Sūfism was nothing but a revolt of the
Aryan spirit, how are we to explain the undoubted fact that some of
the leading pioneers of Mohammedan mysticism were natives of Syria and
Egypt, and Arabs by race? Similarly, the advocates of a Buddhistic
or Vedāntic origin forget that the main current of Indian influence
upon Islamic civilisation belongs to a later epoch, whereas Moslem
theology, philosophy, and science put forth their first luxuriant
shoots on a soil that was saturated with Hellenistic culture. The truth
is that Sūfism is a complex thing, and therefore no simple answer can
be given to the question how it originated. We shall have gone far,
however, towards answering that question when we have distinguished the
various movements and forces which moulded Sūfism, and determined what
direction it should take in the early stages of its growth.
Let us first consider the most important external, _i.e._ non-Islamic,
influences.
I. CHRISTIANITY
It is obvious that the ascetic and quietistic tendencies to which
I have referred were in harmony with Christian theory and drew
nourishment therefrom. Many Gospel texts and apocryphal sayings of
Jesus are cited in the oldest Sūfī biographies, and the Christian
anchorite (_rāhib_) often appears in the _rôle_ of a teacher giving
instruction and advice to wandering Moslem ascetics. We have seen
that the woollen dress, from which the name ‘Sūfī’ is derived, is
of Christian origin: vows of silence, litanies (_dhikr_), and other
ascetic practices may be traced to the same source. As regards the
doctrine of divine love, the following extracts speak for themselves:
“Jesus passed by three men. Their bodies were lean and their
faces pale. He asked them, saying, ‘What hath brought you to this
plight?’ They answered, ‘Fear of the Fire.’ Jesus said, ‘Ye fear
a thing created, and it behoves God that He should save those who
fear.’ Then he left them and passed by three others, whose faces
were paler and their bodies leaner, and asked them, saying, ‘What
hath brought you to this plight?’ They answered, ‘Longing for
Paradise.’ He said, ‘Ye desire a thing created, and it behoves God
that He should give you that which ye hope for.’ Then he went on
and passed by three others of exceeding paleness and leanness, so
that their faces were as mirrors of light, and he said, ‘What hath
brought you to this?’ They answered, ‘Our love of God.’ Jesus said,
‘Ye are the nearest to Him, ye are the nearest to Him.’”
The Syrian mystic, Ahmad ibn al-Hawārī, once asked a Christian hermit:
“‘What is the strongest command that ye find in your
Scriptures?’ The hermit replied: ‘We find none stronger than this:
“Love thy Creator with all thy power and might.”’”
Another hermit was asked by some Moslem ascetics:
“‘When is a man most persevering in devotion?’ ‘When love takes
possession of his heart,’ was the reply; ‘for then he hath no joy
or pleasure but in continual devotion.’”
The influence of Christianity through its hermits, monks, and heretical
sects (_e.g._ the Messalians or Euchitæ) was twofold: ascetic and
mystical. Oriental Christian mysticism, however, contained a Pagan
element: it had long ago absorbed the ideas and adopted the language of
Plotinus and the Neoplatonic school.
II. NEOPLATONISM
Aristotle, not Plato, is the dominant figure in Moslem philosophy,
and few Mohammedans are familiar with the name of Plotinus, who was
more commonly called ‘the Greek Master’ (_al-Sheykh al-Yaunānī_). But
since the Arabs gained their first knowledge of Aristotle from his
Neoplatonist commentators, the system with which they became imbued
was that of Porphyry and Proclus. Thus the so-called _Theology of
Aristotle_, of which an Arabic version appeared in the ninth century,
is actually a manual of Neoplatonism.
Another work of this school deserves particular notice: I mean the
writings falsely attributed to Dionysius the Areopagite, the convert of
St. Paul. The pseudo-Dionysius--he may have been a Syrian monk--names
as his teacher a certain Hierotheus, whom Frothingham has identified
with Stephen Bar Sudaili, a prominent Syrian gnostic and a contemporary
of Jacob of Sarūj (451-521 A.D.). Dionysius quotes some fragments
of erotic hymns by this Stephen, and a complete work, the _Book of
Hierotheus on the Hidden Mysteries of the Divinity_, has come down
to us in a unique manuscript which is now in the British Museum. The
Dionysian writings, turned into Latin by John Scotus Erigena, founded
medieval Christian mysticism in Western Europe. Their influence in
the East was hardly less vital. They were translated from Greek into
Syriac almost immediately on their appearance, and their doctrine was
vigorously propagated by commentaries in the same tongue. “About 850
A.D. Dionysius was known from the Tigris to the Atlantic.”
Besides literary tradition, there were other channels by which the
doctrines of emanation, illumination, gnosis, and ecstasy were
transmitted, but enough has been said to convince the reader that
Greek mystical ideas were in the air and easily accessible to the
Moslem inhabitants of Western Asia and Egypt, where the Sūfī theosophy
first took shape. One of those who bore the chief part in its
development, Dhu ’l-Nūn the Egyptian, is described as a philosopher
and alchemist--in other words, a student of Hellenistic science. When
it is added that much of his speculation agrees with what we find, for
example, in the writings of Dionysius, we are drawn irresistibly to the
conclusion (which, as I have pointed out, is highly probable on general
grounds) that Neoplatonism poured into Islam a large tincture of the
same mystical element in which Christianity was already steeped.
III. GNOSTICISM[3]
[3] Cf. Goldziher, “Neuplatonische und gnostische Elemente im Hadīt,”
in _Zeitschrift für Assyriologie_, xxii. 317 ff.
Though little direct evidence is available, the conspicuous place
occupied by the theory of gnosis in early Sūfī speculation suggests
contact with Christian Gnosticism, and it is worth noting that the
parents of Maʿrūf al-Karkhī, whose definition of Sūfism, as ‘the
apprehension of divine realities’ was quoted on the first page of this
Introduction, are said to have been Sābians, _i.e._ Mandæans, dwelling
in the Babylonian fenland between Basra and Wāsit. Other Moslem saints
had learned ‘the mystery of the Great Name.’ It was communicated to
Ibrāhīm ibn Adham by a man whom he met while travelling in the desert,
and as soon as he pronounced it he saw the prophet Khadir (Elias). The
ancient Sūfīs borrowed from the Manichæans the term _siddīq_, which
they apply to their own spiritual adepts, and a later school, returning
to the dualism of Mānī, held the view that the diversity of phenomena
arises from the admixture of light and darkness.
“The ideal of human action is freedom from the taint of
darkness; and the freedom of light from darkness means the
self-consciousness of light as light.”[4]
[4] Shaikh Muhammad Iqbal, _The Development of Metaphysics in Persia_
(1908), p. 150.
The following version of the doctrine of the seventy thousand veils as
explained by a modern Rifāʿī dervish shows clear traces of Gnosticism
and is so interesting that I cannot refrain from quoting it here:
“Seventy Thousand Veils separate Allah, the One Reality, from
the world of matter and of sense. And every soul passes before
his birth through these seventy thousand. The inner half of these
are veils of light: the outer half, veils of darkness. For every
one of the veils of light passed through, in this journey towards
birth, the soul puts _off_ a divine quality: and for every one of
the dark veils, it puts _on_ an earthly quality. Thus the child is
born _weeping_, for the soul knows its separation from Allah, the
One Reality. And when the child cries in its sleep, it is because
the soul remembers something of what it has lost. Otherwise,
the passage through the veils has brought with it forgetfulness
(_nisyān_): and for this reason man is called _insān_. He is
now, as it were, in prison in his body, separated by these thick
curtains from Allah.
“But the whole purpose of Sūfism, the Way of the dervish,
is to give him an escape from this prison, an apocalypse of the
Seventy Thousand Veils, a recovery of the original unity with The
One, _while still in this body_. The body is not to be put off; it
is to be refined and made spiritual--a help and not a hindrance
to the spirit. It is like a metal that has to be refined by fire
and transmuted. And the sheikh tells the aspirant that he has the
secret of this transmutation. ‘We shall throw you into the fire of
Spiritual Passion,’ he says, ‘and you will emerge refined.’”[5]
[5] _“The Way” of a Mohammedan Mystic_, by W. H. T. Gairdner (Leipzig,
1912), pp. 9 f.
IV. BUDDHISM
Before the Mohammedan conquest of India in the eleventh century, the
teaching of Buddha exerted considerable influence in Eastern Persia
and Transoxania. We hear of flourishing Buddhist monasteries in Balkh,
the metropolis of ancient Bactria, a city famous for the number of
Sūfīs who resided in it. Professor Goldziher has called attention
to the significant circumstance that the Sūfī ascetic, Ibrāhīm ibn
Adham, appears in Moslem legend as a prince of Balkh who abandoned
his throne and became a wandering dervish--the story of Buddha over
again. The Sūfīs learned the use of rosaries from Buddhist monks, and,
without entering into details, it may be safely asserted that the
method of Sūfism, so far as it is one of ethical self-culture, ascetic
meditation, and intellectual abstraction, owes a good deal to Buddhism.
But the features which the two systems have in common only accentuate
the fundamental difference between them. In spirit they are poles
apart. The Buddhist moralises himself, the Sūfī becomes moral only
through knowing and loving God.
The Sūfī conception of the passing-away (_fanā_) of individual self
in Universal Being is certainly, I think, of Indian origin. Its first
great exponent was the Persian mystic, Bāyazīd of Bistām, who may have
received it from his teacher, Abū ʿAlī of Sind (Scinde). Here are some
of his sayings:
“Creatures are subject to changing ‘states,’ but the gnostic
has no ‘state,’ because his vestiges are effaced and his essence
annihilated by the essence of another, and his traces are lost in
another’s traces.”
“Thirty years the high God was my mirror, now I am my own
mirror,” _i.e._ according to the explanation given by his
biographer, “that which I was I am no more, for ‘I’ and ‘God’ is a
denial of the unity of God. Since I am no more, the high God is
His own mirror.”
“I went from God to God, until they cried from me in me, ‘O
Thou I!’”
This, it will be observed, is not Buddhism, but the pantheism of the
Vedānta. We cannot identify _fanā_ with Nirvāṇa unconditionally. Both
terms imply the passing-away of individuality, but while Nirvāṇa
is purely negative, _fanā_ is accompanied by _baqā_, everlasting
life in God. The rapture of the Sūfī who has lost himself in
ecstatic contemplation of the divine beauty is entirely opposed to
the passionless intellectual serenity of the Arahat. I emphasise
this contrast because, in my opinion, the influence of Buddhism on
Mohammedan thought has been exaggerated. Much is attributed to Buddhism
that is Indian rather than specifically Buddhistic: the _fanā_ theory
of the Sūfīs is a case in point. Ordinary Moslems held the followers of
Buddha in abhorrence, regarding them as idolaters, and were not likely
to seek personal intercourse with them. On the other hand, for nearly
a thousand years before the Mohammedan conquest, Buddhism had been
powerful in Bactria and Eastern Persia generally: it must, therefore,
have affected the development of Sūfism in these regions.
While _fanā_ in its pantheistic form is radically different from
Nirvāṇa, the terms coincide so closely in other ways that we cannot
regard them as being altogether unconnected. _Fanā_ has an ethical
aspect: it involves the extinction of all passions and desires.
The passing-away of evil qualities and of the evil actions which
they produce is said to be brought about by the continuance of the
corresponding good qualities and actions. Compare this with the
definition of Nirvāṇa given by Professor Rhys Davids:
“The extinction of that sinful, grasping condition of mind
and heart, which would otherwise, according to the great mystery
of Karma, be the cause of renewed individual existence. That
extinction is to be brought about by, and runs parallel with, the
growth of the opposite condition of mind and heart; and it is
complete when that opposite condition is reached.”
Apart from the doctrine of Karma, which is alien to Sūfism, these
definitions of _fanā_ (viewed as a moral state) and Nirvāṇa agree
almost word for word. It would be out of place to pursue the comparison
further, but I think we may conclude that the Sūfī theory of _fanā_
was influenced to some extent by Buddhism as well as by Perso-Indian
pantheism.
The receptivity of Islam to foreign ideas has been recognised by
every unbiassed inquirer, and the history of Sūfism is only a single
instance of the general rule. But this fact should not lead us to
seek in such ideas an explanation of the whole question which I am
now discussing, or to identify Sūfism itself with the extraneous
ingredients which it absorbed and assimilated in the course of its
development. Even if Islam had been miraculously shut off from contact
with foreign religions and philosophies, some form of mysticism would
have arisen within it, for the seeds were already there. Of course, we
cannot isolate the internal forces working in this direction, since
they were subject to the law of spiritual gravitation. The powerful
currents of thought discharged through the Mohammedan world by the
great non-Islamic systems above mentioned gave a stimulus to various
tendencies within Islam which affected Sūfism either positively or
negatively. As we have seen, its oldest type is an ascetic revolt
against luxury and worldliness; later on, the prevailing rationalism
and scepticism provoked counter-movements towards intuitive knowledge
and emotional faith, and also an orthodox reaction which in its turn
drove many earnest Moslems into the ranks of the mystics.
How, it may be asked, could a religion founded on the simple and
austere monotheism of Mohammed tolerate these new doctrines, much
less make terms with them? It would seem impossible to reconcile the
transcendent personality of Allah with an immanent Reality which is the
very life and soul of the universe. Yet Islam has accepted Sūfism. The
Sūfīs, instead of being excommunicated, are securely established in the
Mohammedan church, and the _Legend of the Moslem Saints_ records the
wildest excesses of Oriental pantheism.
Let us return for a moment to the Koran, that infallible touchstone
by which every Mohammedan theory and practice must be proved. Are any
germs of mysticism to be found there? The Koran, as I have said, starts
with the notion of Allah, the One, Eternal, and Almighty God, far above
human feelings and aspirations--the Lord of His slaves, not the Father
of His children; a judge meting out stern justice to sinners, and
extending His mercy only to those who avert His wrath by repentance,
humility, and unceasing works of devotion; a God of fear rather than
of love. This is one side, and certainly the most prominent side, of
Mohammed’s teaching; but while he set an impassable gulf between the
world and Allah, his deeper instinct craved a direct revelation from
God to the soul. There are no contradictions in the logic of feeling.
Mohammed, who had in him something of the mystic, felt God both as far
and near, both as transcendent and immanent. In the latter aspect,
Allah is the light of the heavens and the earth, a Being who works in
the world and in the soul of man.
“If My servants ask thee about Me, lo, I am near” (Kor. =2=.
182); “We (God) are nearer to him than his own neck-vein” (=50.=
15); “And in the earth are signs to those of real faith, and in
yourselves. What! do ye not see?” (=51.= 20-21).
It was a long time ere they saw. The Moslem consciousness, haunted by
terrible visions of the wrath to come, slowly and painfully awoke to
the significance of those liberating ideas.
The verses which I have quoted do not stand alone, and however
unfavourable to mysticism the Koran as a whole may be, I cannot assent
to the view that it supplies no basis for a mystical interpretation
of Islam. This was worked out in detail by the Sūfīs, who dealt with
the Koran in very much the same way as Philo treated the Pentateuch.
But they would not have succeeded so thoroughly in bringing over the
mass of religious Moslems to their side, unless the champions of
orthodoxy had set about constructing a system of scholastic philosophy
that reduced the divine nature to a purely formal, changeless, and
absolute unity, a bare will devoid of all affections and emotions, a
tremendous and incalculable power with which no human creature could
have any communion or personal intercourse whatsoever. That is the God
of Mohammedan theology. That was the alternative to Sūfism. Therefore,
“all thinking, religious Moslems are mystics,” as Professor D. B.
Macdonald, one of our best authorities on the subject, has remarked.
And he adds: “All, too, are pantheists, but some do not know it.”
The relation of individual Sūfīs to Islam varies from more or less
entire conformity to a merely nominal profession of belief in Allah
and His Prophet. While the Koran and the Traditions are generally
acknowledged to be the unalterable standard of religious truth, this
acknowledgment does not include the recognition of any external
authority which shall decide what is orthodox and what is heretical.
Creeds and catechisms count for nothing in the Sūfī’s estimation. Why
should he concern himself with these when he possesses a doctrine
derived immediately from God? As he reads the Koran with studious
meditation and rapt attention, lo, the hidden meanings--infinite,
inexhaustible--of the Holy Word flash upon his inward eye. This is
what the Sūfīs call _istinbāt_, a sort of intuitive deduction; the
mysterious inflow of divinely revealed knowledge into hearts made pure
by repentance and filled with the thought of God, and the outflow of
that knowledge upon the interpreting tongue. Naturally, the doctrines
elicited by means of _istinbāt_ do not agree very well either with
Mohammedan theology or with each other, but the discord is easily
explained. Theologians, who interpret the letter, cannot be expected to
reach the same conclusions as mystics, who interpret the spirit; and if
both classes differ amongst themselves, that is a merciful dispensation
of divine wisdom, since theological controversy serves to extinguish
religious error, while the variety of mystical truth corresponds to the
manifold degrees and modes of mystical experience.
In the chapter on the gnosis I shall enter more fully into the attitude
of the Sūfīs towards positive religion. It is only a rough-and-ready
account of the matter to say that many of them have been good Moslems,
many scarcely Moslems at all, and a third party, perhaps the largest,
Moslems after a fashion. During the early Middle Ages Islam was a
growing organism, and gradually became transformed under the influence
of diverse movements, of which Sūfism itself was one. Mohammedan
orthodoxy in its present shape owes much to Ghazālī, and Ghazālī was
a Sūfī. Through his work and example the Sūfistic interpretation of
Islam has in no small measure been harmonised with the rival claims of
reason and tradition, but just because of this he is less valuable than
mystics of a purer type to the student who wishes to know what Sūfism
essentially is.
Although the numerous definitions of Sūfism which occur in Arabic and
Persian books on the subject are historically interesting, their chief
importance lies in showing that Sūfism is undefinable. Jalāluddīn Rūmī
in his _Masnavī_ tells a story about an elephant which some Hindoos
were exhibiting in a dark room. Many people gathered to see it, but,
as the place was too dark to permit them to see the elephant, they
all felt it with their hands, to gain an idea of what it was like.
One felt its trunk, and said that the animal resembled a water-pipe;
another felt its ear, and said it must be a large fan; another its leg,
and thought it must be a pillar; another felt its back, and declared
that the beast must be like an immense throne. So it is with those who
define Sūfism: they can only attempt to express what they themselves
have felt, and there is no conceivable formula that will comprise every
shade of personal and intimate religious feeling. Since, however, these
definitions illustrate with convenient brevity certain aspects and
characteristics of Sūfism, a few specimens may be given.
“Sūfism is this: that actions should be passing over the Sūfī
(_i.e._ being done upon him) which are known to God only, and that
he should always be with God in a way that is known to God only.”
“Sūfism is wholly self-discipline.”
“Sūfism is, to possess nothing and to be possessed by nothing.”
“Sūfism is not a system composed of rules or sciences but a
moral disposition; _i.e._ if it were a rule, it could be made one’s
own by strenuous exertion, and if it were a science, it could be
acquired by instruction; but on the contrary it is a disposition,
according to the saying, ‘Form yourselves on the moral nature of
God’; and the moral nature of God cannot be attained either by
means of rules or by means of sciences.”
“Sūfism is freedom and generosity and absence of
self-constraint.”
“It is this: that God should make thee die to thyself and
should make thee live in Him.”
“To behold the imperfection of the phenomenal world, nay, to
close the eye to everything imperfect in contemplation of Him who
is remote from all imperfection--that is Sūfism.”
“Sūfism is control of the faculties and observance of the
breaths.”
“It is Sūfism to put away what thou hast in thy head, to give
what thou hast in thy hand, and not to recoil from whatsoever
befalls thee.”
The reader will perceive that Sūfism is a word uniting many divergent
meanings, and that in sketching its main features one is obliged
to make a sort of composite portrait, which does not represent any
particular type exclusively. The Sūfīs are not a sect, they have no
dogmatic system, the _tarīqas_ or paths by which they seek God “are
in number as the souls of men” and vary infinitely, though a family
likeness may be traced in them all. Descriptions of such a Protean
phenomenon must differ widely from one another, and the impression
produced in each case will depend on the choice of materials and the
prominence given to this or that aspect of the many-sided whole. Now,
the essence of Sūfism is best displayed in its extreme type, which
is pantheistic and speculative rather than ascetic or devotional.
This type, therefore, I have purposely placed in the foreground. The
advantage of limiting the field is obvious enough, but entails some
loss of proportion. In order to form a fair judgment of Mohammedan
mysticism, the following chapters should be supplemented by a companion
picture drawn especially from those moderate types which, for want of
space, I have unduly neglected.
CHAPTER I
THE PATH
Mystics of every race and creed have described the progress of the
spiritual life as a journey or a pilgrimage. Other symbols have been
used for the same purpose, but this one appears to be almost universal
in its range. The Sūfī who sets out to seek God calls himself a
‘traveller’ (_sālik_); he advances by slow ‘stages’ (_maqāmāt_) along
a ‘path’ (_tarīqat_) to the goal of union with Reality (_fanā fi
’l-Haqq_). Should he venture to make a map of this interior ascent,
it will not correspond exactly with any of those made by previous
explorers. Such maps or scales of perfection were elaborated by
Sūfī teachers at an early period, and the unlucky Moslem habit of
systematising has produced an enormous aftercrop. The ‘path’ expounded
by the author of the _Kitāb al-Lumaʿ_, perhaps the oldest comprehensive
treatise on Sūfism that we now possess, consists of the following seven
‘stages,’ each of which (except the first member of the series) is the
result of the ‘stages’ immediately preceding it--(1) Repentance, (2)
abstinence, (3) renunciation, (4) poverty, (5) patience, (6) trust
in God, (7) satisfaction. The ‘stages’ constitute the _ascetic and
ethical_ discipline of the Sūfī, and must be carefully distinguished
from the so-called ‘states’ (_ahwāl_, plural of _hāl_), which form
a similar _psychological_ chain. The writer whom I have just quoted
enumerates ten ‘states’--Meditation, nearness to God, love, fear, hope,
longing, intimacy, tranquillity, contemplation, and certainty. While
the ‘stages’ can be acquired and mastered by one’s own efforts, the
‘states’ are spiritual feelings and dispositions over which a man has
no control:
“They descend from God into his heart, without his being able
to repel them when they come or to retain them when they go.”
The Sūfī’s ‘path’ is not finished until he has traversed all the
‘stages,’ making himself perfect in every one of them before advancing
to the next, and has also experienced whatever ‘states’ it pleases
God to bestow upon him. Then, and only then, is he permanently raised
to the higher planes of consciousness which Sūfīs call ‘the Gnosis’
(_maʿrifat_) and ‘the Truth’ (_haqīqat_), where the ‘seeker’ (_tālib_)
becomes the ‘knower’ or ‘gnostic’ (_ʿārif_), and realises that
knowledge, knower, and known are One.
Having sketched, as briefly as possible, the external framework of the
method by which the Sūfī approaches his goal, I shall now try to give
some account of its inner workings. The present chapter deals with the
first portion of the threefold journey--the Path, the Gnosis, and the
Truth--by which the quest of Reality is often symbolised.
[Sidenote: Repentance.]
The first place in every list of ‘stages’ is occupied by repentance
(_tawbat_). This is the Moslem term for ‘conversion,’ and marks the
beginning of a new life. In the biographies of eminent Sūfīs the
dreams, visions, auditions, and other experiences which caused them
to enter on the Path are usually related. Trivial as they may seem,
these records have a psychological basis, and, if authentic, would be
worth studying in detail. Repentance is described as the awakening of
the soul from the slumber of heedlessness, so that the sinner becomes
aware of his evil ways and feels contrition for past disobedience. He
is not truly penitent, however, unless (1) he at once abandons the sin
or sins of which he is conscious, and (2) firmly resolves that he will
never return to these sins in the future. It he should fail to keep
his vow, he must again turn to God, whose mercy is infinite. A certain
well-known Sūfī repented seventy times and fell back into sin seventy
times before he made a lasting repentance. The convert must also, as
far as lies in his power, satisfy all those whom he has injured. Many
examples of such restitution might be culled from the _Legend of the
Moslem Saints_.
According to the high mystical theory, repentance is purely an act of
divine grace, coming from God to man, not from man to God. Some one
said to Rābiʿa:
“I have committed many sins; if I turn in penitence towards
God, will He turn in mercy towards me?” “Nay,” she replied, “but if
He shall turn towards thee, thou wilt turn towards Him.”
The question whether sins ought to be remembered after repentance or
forgotten illustrates a fundamental point in Sūfī ethics: I mean the
difference between what is taught to novices and disciples and what
is held as an esoteric doctrine by adepts. Any Mohammedan director
of souls would tell his pupils that to think humbly and remorsefully
of one’s sins is a sovereign remedy against spiritual pride, but he
himself might very well believe that real repentance consists in
forgetting everything except God.
“The penitent,” says Hujwīrī, “is a lover of God, and the lover
of God is in contemplation of God: in contemplation it is wrong to
remember sin, for recollection of sin is a veil between God and
the contemplative.”
Sin appertains to self-existence, which itself is the greatest of all
sins. To forget sin is to forget self.
This is only one application of a principle which, as I have said,
runs through the whole ethical system of Sūfism and will be more fully
explained in a subsequent chapter. Its dangers are evident, but we must
in fairness allow that the same theory of conduct may not be equally
suitable to those who have made themselves perfect in moral discipline
and to those who are still striving after perfection.
Over the gate of repentance it is written:
“All _self_ abandon ye who enter here!”
[Sidenote: The Sheykh.]
The convert now begins what is called by Christian mystics the
Purgative Way. If he follows the general rule, he will take a director
(Sheykh, Pīr, Murshid), _i.e._ a holy man of ripe experience and
profound knowledge, whose least word is absolute law to his disciples.
A ‘seeker’ who attempts to traverse the ‘Path’ without assistance
receives little sympathy. Of such a one it is said that ‘his guide is
Satan,’ and he is likened to a tree that for want of the gardener’s
care brings forth ‘none or bitter fruit.’ Speaking of the Sūfī Sheykhs,
Hujwīrī says:
“When a novice joins them, with the purpose of renouncing the
world, they subject him to spiritual discipline for the space of
three years. If he fulfil the requirements of this discipline, well
and good; otherwise, they declare that he cannot be admitted to the
‘Path.’ The first year is devoted to service of the people, the
second year to service of God, and the third year to watching over
his own heart. He can serve the people, only when he places himself
in the rank of servants and all others in the rank of masters,
_i.e._ he must regard all, without exception, as being better than
himself, and must deem it his duty to serve all alike. And he can
serve God, only when he cuts off all his selfish interests relating
either to the present or to the future life, and worships God for
God’s sake alone, inasmuch as whoever worships God for any thing’s
sake worships himself, not God. And he can watch over his heart,
only when his thoughts are collected and every care is dismissed,
so that in communion with God he guards his heart from the assaults
of heedlessness. When these qualifications are possessed by the
novice, he may wear the _muraqqaʿat_ (the patched frock worn by
dervishes) as a true mystic, not merely as an imitator of others.”
Shiblī was a pupil of the famous theosophist Junayd of Baghdād. On his
conversion, he came to Junayd, saying:
“They tell me that you possess the pearl of divine knowledge:
either give it me or sell it.” Junayd answered: “I cannot sell it,
for you have not the price thereof; and if I give it you, you will
have gained it cheaply. You do not know its value. Cast yourself
headlong, like me, into this ocean, in order that you may win the
pearl by waiting patiently.”
Shiblī asked what he must do.
“Go,” said Junayd, “and sell sulphur.”
At the end of a year he said to Shiblī:
“This trading makes you well known. Become a dervish and occupy
yourself solely with begging.”
During a whole year Shiblī wandered through the streets of Baghdād,
begging of the passers-by, but no one heeded him. Then he returned to
Junayd, who exclaimed:
“See now! You are nothing in people’s eyes. Never set your
mind on them or take any account of them at all. For some time”
(he continued) “you were a chamberlain and acted as governor of a
province. Go to that country and ask pardon of all those whom you
have wronged.”
Shiblī obeyed and spent four years in going from door to door, until
he had obtained an acquittance from every person except one, whom he
failed to trace. On his return, Junayd said to him:
“You still have some regard to reputation. Go and be a beggar
for one year more.”
Every day Shiblī used to bring the alms that were given him to Junayd,
who bestowed them on the poor and kept Shiblī without food until the
next morning. When a year had passed in this way, Junayd accepted him
as one of his disciples on condition that he should perform the duties
of a servant to the others. After a year’s service, Junayd asked him:
“What think you of yourself now?” Shiblī replied: “I deem
myself the meanest of God’s creatures.” “Now,” said the master,
“your faith is firm.”
I need not dwell on the details of this training--the fasts and vigils,
the vows of silence, the long days and nights of solitary meditation,
all the weapons and tactics, in short, of that battle against one’s
self which the Prophet declared to be more painful and meritorious
than the Holy War. On the other hand, my readers will expect me to
describe in a general way the characteristic theories and practices
for which the ‘Path’ is a convenient designation. These may be treated
under the following heads: Poverty, Mortification, Trust in God,
and Recollection. Whereas poverty is negative in nature, involving
detachment from all that is worldly and unreal, the three remaining
terms denote the positive counterpart of that process, namely, the
ethical discipline by which the soul is brought into harmonious
relations with Reality.
[Sidenote: Poverty.]
The fatalistic spirit which brooded darkly over the childhood of
Islam--the feeling that all human actions are determined by an unseen
Power, and in themselves are worthless and vain--caused renunciation to
become the watchword of early Moslem asceticism. Every true believer
is bound to abstain from unlawful pleasures, but the ascetic acquires
merit by abstaining from those which are lawful. At first, renunciation
was understood almost exclusively in a material sense. To have as few
worldly goods as possible seemed the surest means of gaining salvation.
Dāwud al-Tāʾī owned nothing except a mat of rushes, a brick which he
used as a pillow, and a leathern vessel which served him for drinking
and washing. A certain man dreamed that he saw Mālik ibn Dīnār and
Mohammed ibn Wāsiʿ being led into Paradise, and that Mālik was
admitted before his companion. He cried out in astonishment, for he
thought Mohammed ibn Wāsiʿ had a superior claim to the honour. “Yes,”
came the answer, “but Mohammed ibn Wāsiʿ possessed two shirts, and
Mālik only one. That is the reason why Mālik is preferred.”
The Sūfī ideal of poverty goes far beyond this. True poverty is not
merely lack of wealth, but lack of desire for wealth: the empty heart
as well as the empty hand. The ‘poor man’ (_faqīr_) and the ‘mendicant’
(_dervīsh_) are names by which the Mohammedan mystic is proud to be
known, because they imply that he is stripped of every thought or wish
that would divert his mind from God. “To be severed entirely from both
the present life and the future life, and to want nothing besides the
Lord of the present life and the future life--that is to be truly
poor.” Such a _faqīr_ is denuded of individual existence, so that he
does not attribute to himself any action, feeling, or quality. He may
even be rich, in the common meaning of the word, though spiritually he
is the poorest of the poor; for, sometimes, God endows His saints with
an outward show of wealth and worldliness in order to hide them from
the profane.
No one familiar with the mystical writers will need to be informed that
their terminology is ambiguous, and that the same word frequently
covers a group, if not a multitude, of significations diverging more
or less widely according to the aspect from which it is viewed. Hence
the confusion that is apparent in Sūfī text-books. When ‘poverty,’ for
example, is explained by one interpreter as a transcendental theory
and by another as a practical rule of religious life, the meanings
cannot coincide. Regarded from the latter standpoint, poverty is only
the beginning of Sūfism. _Faqīrs_, Jāmī says, renounce all worldly
things for the sake of pleasing God. They are urged to this sacrifice
by one of three motives: (_a_) Hope of an easy reckoning on the Day of
Judgment, or fear of being punished; (_b_) desire of Paradise; (_c_)
longing for spiritual peace and inward composure. Thus, inasmuch as
they are not disinterested but seek to benefit themselves, they rank
below the Sūfī, who has no will of his own and depends absolutely on
the will of God. It is the absence of ‘self’ that distinguishes the
Sūfī from the _faqīr_.
Here are some maxims for dervishes:
“Do not beg unless you are starving. The Caliph Omar flogged a
man who begged after having satisfied his hunger. When compelled to
beg, do not accept more than you need.”
“Be good-natured and uncomplaining and thank God for your
poverty.”
“Do not flatter the rich for giving, nor blame them for
withholding.”
“Dread the loss of poverty more than the rich man dreads the
loss of wealth.”
“Take what is voluntarily offered: it is the daily bread which
God sends to you: do not refuse God’s gift.”
“Let no thought of the morrow enter your mind, else you will
incur everlasting perdition.”
“Do not make God a springe to catch alms.”
[Sidenote: The _nafs_.]
The Sūfī teachers gradually built up a system of asceticism and moral
culture which is founded on the fact that there is in man an element of
evil--the lower or appetitive soul. This evil self, the seat of passion
and lust, is called _nafs_; it may be considered broadly equivalent
to ‘the flesh,’ and with its allies, the world and the devil, it
constitutes the great obstacle to the attainment of union with God.
The Prophet said: “Thy worst enemy is thy _nafs_, which is between thy
two sides.” I do not intend to discuss the various opinions as to its
nature, but the proof of its materiality is too curious to be omitted.
Mohammed ibn ʿUlyān, an eminent Sūfī, relates that one day something
like a young fox came forth from his throat, and God caused him to know
that it was his _nafs_. He trod on it, but it grew bigger at every
kick that he gave it. He said:
“Other things are destroyed by pain and blows: why dost thou
increase?” “Because I was created perverse,” it replied; “what is
pain to other things is pleasure to me, and their pleasure is my
pain.”
The _nafs_ of Hallāj was seen running behind him in the shape of a dog;
and other cases are recorded in which it appeared as a snake or a mouse.
[Sidenote: Mortification.]
Mortification of the _nafs_ is the chief work of devotion, and leads,
directly or indirectly, to the contemplative life. All the Sheykhs are
agreed that no disciple who neglects this duty will ever learn the
rudiments of Sūfism. The principle of mortification is that the _nafs_
should be weaned from those things to which it is accustomed, that it
should be encouraged to resist its passions, that its pride should be
broken, and that it should be brought through suffering and tribulation
to recognise the vileness of its original nature and the impurity of
its actions. Concerning the outward methods of mortification, such as
fasting, silence, and solitude, a great deal might be written, but we
must now pass on to the higher ethical discipline which completes the
Path.
Self-mortification, as advanced Sūfīs understand it, is a moral
transmutation of the inner man. When they say, “Die before ye die,”
they do not mean to assert that the lower self can be essentially
destroyed, but that it can and should be purged of its attributes,
which are wholly evil. These attributes--ignorance, pride, envy,
uncharitableness, etc.--are extinguished, and replaced by the opposite
qualities, when the will is surrendered to God and when the mind is
concentrated on Him. Therefore ‘dying to self’ is really ‘living in
God.’ The mystical aspects of the doctrine thus stated will occupy
a considerable part of the following chapters; here we are mainly
interested in its ethical import.
The Sūfī who has eradicated self-will is said, in technical language,
to have reached the ‘stages’ of ‘acquiescence’ or ‘satisfaction’
(_ridā_) and ‘trust in God’ (_tawakkul_).
A dervish fell into the Tigris. Seeing that he could not swim,
a man on the bank cried out, “Shall I tell some one to bring you
ashore?” “No,” said the dervish. “Then do you wish to be drowned?”
“No.” “What, then, do you wish?” The dervish replied, “God’s will
be done! What have I to do with wishing?”
[Sidenote: Trust in God.]
‘Trust in God,’ in its extreme form, involves the renunciation of
every personal initiative and volition; total passivity like that
of a corpse in the hands of the washer who prepares it for burial;
perfect indifference towards anything that is even remotely connected
with one’s self. A special class of the ancient Sūfīs took their name
from this ‘trust,’ which they applied, so far as they were able, to
matters of everyday life. For instance, they would not seek food, work
for hire, practise any trade, or allow medicine to be given them when
they were ill. Quietly they committed themselves to God’s care, never
doubting that He, to whom belong the treasures of earth and heaven,
would provide for their wants, and that their allotted portion would
come to them as surely as it comes to the birds, which neither sow nor
reap, and to the fish in the sea, and to the child in the womb.
These principles depend ultimately on the Sūfistic theory of the divine
unity, as is shown by Shaqīq of Balkh in the following passage:
“There are three things which a man is bound to practise.
Whosoever neglects any one of them must needs neglect them all, and
whosoever cleaves to any one of them must needs cleave to them all.
Strive, therefore, to understand, and consider heedfully.
“The _first_ is this, that with your mind and your tongue and
your actions you declare God to be One; and that, having declared
Him to be One, and having declared that none benefits you or
harms you except Him, you devote all your actions to Him alone.
If you act a single jot of your actions for the sake of another,
your thought and speech are corrupt, since your motive in acting
for another’s sake must be hope or fear; and when you act from
hope or fear of other than God, who is the lord and sustainer of
all things, you have taken to yourself another god to honour and
venerate.
“_Secondly_, that while you speak and act in the sincere belief
that there is no God except Him, you should trust Him more than the
world or money or uncle or father or mother or any one on the face
of the earth.
“_Thirdly_, when you have established these two things, namely,
sincere belief in the unity of God and trust in Him, it behoves you
to be satisfied with Him and not to be angry on account of anything
that vexes you. Beware of anger! Let your heart be with Him always,
let it not be withdrawn from Him for a single moment.”
The ‘trusting’ Sūfī has no thought beyond the present hour. On one
occasion Shaqīq asked those who sat listening to his discourse:
“If God causes you to die to-day, think ye that He will demand
from you the prayers of to-morrow?” They answered: “No; how should
He demand from us the prayers of a day on which we are not alive?”
Shaqīq said: “Even as He will not demand from you the prayers of
to-morrow, so do ye not seek from Him the provender of to-morrow.
It may be that ye will not live so long.”
In view of the practical consequences of attempting to live ‘on
trust,’ it is not surprising to read the advice given to those who
would perfectly fulfil the doctrine: “Let them dig a grave and bury
themselves.” Later Sūfīs hold that active exertion for the purpose of
obtaining the means of subsistence is quite compatible with ‘trust,’
according to the saying of the Prophet, “Trust in God and tie the
camel’s leg.” They define _tawakkul_ as an habitual state of mind,
which is impaired only by self-pleasing thoughts; _e.g._ it was
accounted a breach of ‘trust’ to think Paradise a more desirable place
than Hell.
What type of character is such a theory likely to produce? At the
worst, a useless drone and hypocrite preying upon his fellow-creatures;
at the best, a harmless dervish who remains unmoved in the midst of
sorrow, meets praise and blame with equal indifference, and accepts
insults, blows, torture, and death as mere incidents in the eternal
drama of destiny. This cold morality, however, is not the highest of
which Sūfism is capable. The highest morality springs from nothing but
love, when self-surrender becomes self-devotion. Of that I shall have
something to say in due time.
[Sidenote: Recollection.]
Among the positive elements in the Sūfī discipline there is one
that Moslem mystics unanimously regard as the keystone of practical
religion. I refer to the _dhikr_, an exercise well known to Western
readers from the careful description given by Edward Lane in his
_Modern Egyptians_, and by Professor D. B. Macdonald in his recently
published _Aspects of Islam_. The term _dhikr_--‘recollection’
seems to me the most appropriate equivalent in English--signifies
‘mentioning,’ ‘remembering,’ or simply ‘thinking of’; in the Koran
the Faithful are commanded to “remember God often,” a plain act of
worship without any mystical savour. But the Sūfīs made a practice of
repeating the name of God or some religious formula, _e.g._ “Glory
to Allah” (_subhān Allah_), “There is no god but Allah” (_lā ilāha
illa ’llah_), accompanying the mechanical intonation with an intense
concentration of every faculty upon the single word or phrase; and they
attach greater value to this irregular litany, which enables them to
enjoy uninterrupted communion with God, than to the five services of
prayer performed, at fixed hours of the day and night, by all Moslems.
Recollection may be either spoken or silent, but it is best, according
to the usual opinion, that tongue and mind should co-operate. Sahl ibn
ʿAbdallah bade one of his disciples endeavour to say “Allah! Allah!”
the whole day without intermission. When he had acquired the habit
of doing so, Sahl instructed him to repeat the same words during the
night, until they came forth from his lips even while he was asleep.
“Now,” said he, “be silent and occupy yourself with recollecting them.”
At last the disciple’s whole being was absorbed by the thought of
Allah. One day a log fell on his head, and the words “Allah, Allah”
were seen written in the blood that trickled from the wound.
Ghazālī describes the method and effects of _dhikr_ in a passage which
Macdonald has summarised as follows:
“Let him reduce his heart to a state in which the existence of
anything and its non-existence are the same to him. Then let him
sit alone in some corner, limiting his religious duties to what
is absolutely necessary, and not occupying himself either with
reciting the Koran or considering its meaning or with books of
religious traditions or with anything of the sort. And let him see
to it that nothing save God most High enters his mind. Then, as he
sits in solitude, let him not cease saying continuously with his
tongue, ‘_Allah, Allah_,’ keeping his thought on it. At last he
will reach a state when the motion of his tongue will cease, and it
will seem as though the word flowed from it. Let him persevere in
this until all trace of motion is removed from his tongue, and he
finds his heart persevering in the thought. Let him still persevere
until the form of the word, its letters and shape, is removed from
his heart, and there remains the idea alone, as though clinging to
his heart, inseparable from it. So far, all is dependent on his
will and choice; but to bring the mercy of God does not stand in
his will or choice. He has now laid himself bare to the breathings
of that mercy, and nothing remains but to await what God will open
to him, as God has done after this manner to prophets and saints.
If he follows the above course, he may be sure that the light of
the Real will shine out in his heart. At first unstable, like a
flash of lightning, it turns and returns; though sometimes it hangs
back. And if it returns, sometimes it abides and sometimes it is
momentary. And if it abides, sometimes its abiding is long, and
sometimes short.”
Another Sūfī puts the gist of the matter in a sentence, thus:
“The first stage of _dhikr_ is to forget self, and the last
stage is the effacement of the worshipper in the act of worship,
without consciousness of worship, and such absorption in the object
of worship as precludes return to the subject thereof.”
Recollection can be aided in various ways. When Shiblī was a novice,
he went daily into a cellar, taking with him a bundle of sticks. If
his attention flagged, he would beat himself until the sticks broke,
and sometimes the whole bundle would be finished before evening; then
he would dash his hands and feet against the wall. The Indian practice
of inhaling and exhaling the breath was known to the Sūfīs of the
ninth century and was much used afterwards. Among the Dervish Orders
music, singing, and dancing are favourite means of inducing the state
of trance called ‘passing-away’ (_fanā_), which, as appears from the
definition quoted above, is the climax and _raison d’être_ of the
method.
[Sidenote: Meditation.]
In ‘meditation’ (_murāqabat_) we recognise a form of self-concentration
similar to the Buddhistic _dhyāna_ and _samādhi_. This is what the
Prophet meant when he said, “Worship God as though thou sawest Him,
for if thou seest Him not, yet He sees thee.” Any one who feels sure
that God is always watching over him will devote himself to meditating
on God, and no evil thoughts or diabolic suggestions will find their
way into his heart. Nūrī used to meditate so intently that not a hair
on his body stirred. He declared that he had learned this habit from a
cat which was observing a mouse-hole, and that she was far more quiet
than he. Abū Saʿīd ibn Abi ’l-Khayr kept his eyes fixed on his navel.
It is said that the Devil is smitten with epilepsy when he approaches
a man thus occupied, just as happens to other men when the Devil takes
possession of them.
This chapter will have served its purpose if it has brought before
my readers a clear view of the main lines on which the preparatory
training of the Sūfī is conducted. We must now imagine him to have
been invested by his Sheykh with the patched frock (_muraqqaʿat_ or
_khirqat_), which is an outward sign that he has successfully emerged
from the discipline of the ‘Path,’ and is now advancing with uncertain
steps towards the Light, as when toil-worn travellers, having gained
the summit of a deep gorge, suddenly catch glimpses of the sun and
cover their eyes.