The Mystics of Islam E-Book

Reynold A. Nicholson

• Herausgeber: Logos Books
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Mystics of Islam is one of the earliest works to treat upon the subject of magic and practices within the Sufi context. From whirling dervishes to the concept of fana and far more, this spiritual work delves deep into the Islamic mystic tradition, examining the meaning of mystical knowledge and illumination and the path to ultimate union with God.

Reynold Alleyne Nicholson was an eminent English orientalist, scholar of both Islamic literature and Islamic mysticism, and widely regarded as one of the greatest Rumi scholars and translators in the English language.

Leseprobe

The Mystics of Islam

Reynold A. Nicholson

Published by Logos, 2024.

Copyright

The Mystics of Islam by Reynold A. Nicholson. First published in 1914. New edition published 2024 by Logos Books. All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

1 - THE PATH

2 - ILLUMINATION AND ECSTASY

3 - THE GNOSIS

4 - DIVINE LOVE

5 - SAINTS AND MIRACLES

6 - THE UNITIVE STATE

Further Reading: Practical Mysticism

1 - THE PATH

Mystics of every race and creed have described the progress of 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 ‘traveler’ (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 systematizing 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, tranquility, 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 realizes that knowledge, knower, and known are One.

Having sketched, as briefly as possible, the external framework of the method by which 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 symbolized.

Six Sufi masters, c. 1760

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. Someone 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 for perfection.

Over the gate of repentance, it is written:

“All self-abandon ye who enter here!”

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 fulfils 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 sulfur.”

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 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.

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 honor. “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.