In recent decades Rumi has been at the center of a tug-of war between those who would dissociate him from Islam and those who respond to this by stressing his proficiency in the Islamic religious sciences. The latter reaction, which is common among academicians, is understandable when one bears in mind early Orientalist assumptions that Rumi, and Sufis in general, were foreign to Islam, because they regarded the religion as a spiritually deficient Semitic legalism.12 However, a close reading of Rumi’s writings is unlikely to find that response any more convincing, which can explain why opinions have remained so polarized. It also highlights what is most problematic about such arguments, on either side of the debate, namely their common assumption that deference to the religious system of Muslim juridico-theological scholars should be the criterion for determining what is Islamic.

Out beyond ideas

of wrongdoing and rightdoing,

there is a field.

I’ll meet you there.1

This translation by Coleman Barks of the first verse of a quatrain by Rumi is now one of the favorite lines to quote in the English language, especially at weddings. When it is read in the context of the whole quatrain, it is clear that a wedding may be an appropriate occasion for it to be used, although it refers to a specific kind of wedding: that between God and the mystic in the “field beyond wrongdoing and rightdoing” (or more literally “Islam and unbelief”).2  While the above translation leaves the nature of the union ambiguous, other translations by Barks expand on this theme, such as the very popular example below:

This we have now

is not imagination.

This is not grief or joy.

Not a judging state, or an elation, or sadness.

Those come and go.

This is the Presence that doesn’t.3

Whatever objections one might have about the word-for-word accuracy of these contemporary translations by Barks, which were never intended to be literal, anyone familiar with the thirteenth-century Sufi Rumi’s oeuvre will know that the message they convey is representative of it. The celebration of God’s presence and its effects in everyday life are at the root of the appeal of Rumi’s poetry, and these examples indicate that the translations that are enjoyed by millions of readers in North America and beyond may not be as far removed from the original on a fundamental level as some would fear.4 What has disappeared in the effort to make these translations as transferable as possible, is any sense of how Rumi’s world-view related to Islam, or any religion for that matter. This study aims to shed light on this issue that has become so contested.

In the technical terminology of the Sufis, the proximity to God that Rumi’s poetry is preoccupied with is known as “walaya.”5 This is usually translated into English as either “Sainthood” or “Friendship with God,” while the “wali” (pl. awliyaʾ), who has acquired such sanctity by experiencing God’s presence continually, is “the Saint” or “Friend of God.” The latter is preferable, not least because it avoids the assumption of too many similarities with the Christian concept of Sainthood. For instance, as the above-quoted poetry indicates, Rumi’s understanding of this concept is one that is far more immediately accessible and universal than Christian Sainthood.6

As Gerald T. Elmore has explained, the Arabic root “w-l-y” for these Qur’anic terms denotes closeness, while the way that cognate terms with this root are used in the Qur’an indicates that this closeness entails a high degree of reciprocity: for instance, God is the Friend to His servants and can use His ultimate power to protect and provide for them, while Friends of God serve as His “allies” by carrying out on earth what He wishes.7 In Sufi understandings of Friendship with God, this relationship involves communication arriving from God to His Friends, who thereby receive direct instructions about how to act as part of their mystical knowledge, as well as the ability to carry out the miraculous. It is therefore comparable with common Islamic notions of Prophethood. Friendship with God has of course been articulated in various ways in different historical contexts. Since this study will highlight many such developments, it is preferable at this point to limit to this much any definition.8

It should not be too difficult to see how Friendship with God can be regarded as a central and defining aspect of the world-view of a mystic like Rumi. After all, when his poetry is not directly preoccupied with transcending superficial matters in order to reach proximity with God, or the subtleties of the intimate relationship already possessed with his Divine Friend, it tends to focus on the communication he receives through that relationship. This communication enables him to perceive the world around him as being enchanted also with the effect of God’s Presence. The fact that his own biography identifies the most important turning-point in his life as his encounter in Konya with a Friend of God called Shams-i Tabrizi further underlines this point. However, it should be remembered that Rumi is in good company, because the oldest surviving Sufi writings, which date from some four centuries before his lifetime, indicate that Friendship with God had held such importance for many generations of Muslim mystics already. One could go as far as to say that Friendship with God is the basis of mysticism in an Islamic context, even though the term derived from the attire of early mystics, “taṣawwuf” (“Sufism;” lit. “wearing wool”), is the expression that has come to be used to identify it. Sufi theorizers themselves have made this point since a millennium ago.9 A major reason why it is often overlooked is that the Arabic term “walaya” can also have additional sectarian connotations.10

The themes that are familiar to all readers of Rumi’s lyrical poems and quatrains, whether in the original Persian or in popular translations, assume equal prominence in his didactic writings. This makes Friendship with God an obvious choice for any inquiry into Rumi’s mystical teachings. The man whose life was reportedly transformed by a question posed about the relative status of the Prophet Muhammad and the Friend of God Abu Yazid al-Basṭami (d. ca. 261/875) unsurprisingly taught about this relationship.11 Moreoever, as the author of the work known as “the Qur’an in Persian,”12 he himself shows a special interest in comparing the divine communication received by Friends of God with that of Prophets. Similarly, reports that he courted controversy with juristic scholars for his devotion to the wine-drinking Shams-i Tabrizi13 are consistent with his own teachings on the relevance of the Shariah for the actions of the Friends of God and those aspiring to that rank. Finally, as well as composing many memorable miracle-stories, he also taught about the significance of this particular kind of manifestation of the sanctity of the Friends of God.

Rumi’s didactic writings are his magnum opus, The Masnavi, and also the collection of transcripts of his teaching sessions, which is known as the Fihi ma fih. As discussed in detail in Chapter One, these two works are remarkably consistent and even overlap in content. Although The Masnavi is many times longer than the Fihi ma fih, its poetic form imposes more constraints than the informal prose of the latter work, which is why, for the purposes of this study, corroboration is consistently provided from the Fihi ma fih for teachings cited from The Masnavi. The central importance of Friendship with God in both, and indeed all of Rumi’s works, has facilitated this task considerably. Although many teachings about this topic are also attributed to Rumi in his later biographical tradition, in view of the tendency for such traditions to project later viewpoints back to their subjects, the method used in this study is to focus on the teachings in his own words.14 Biographical stories are nonetheless used here for illustration purposes.

Rumi’s Masnavi and Fihi ma fih represent his “practical” instruction rather than “theoretical” accounts of Sufism.15 Rumi’s teachings on any particular topic are typically scattered among the transcripts of his teachings sessions and the component books of his voluminous Masnavi. In consequence, there has been a tendency to resort to interpreting them on the basis of an external frame of reference, especially the influential 10th and 11th-century “theoretical” manuals of Sufism.16 These works have proven to be among the most widely-read prose works on Sufism ever written. This is largely because they are accessible introductions, which, at the same time, stress Sufism’s compatibility with the juridico-theological Islamic system that was consolidating its dominance at the time they were written. As that religious system’s dominance remained an important consideration through the centuries, these works continued to serve an important purpose. In recognition of their popularity and influence, they were also among the first Sufi writings to be edited and translated by modern academicians. This has arguably made their influence on the academic understanding of Sufism disproportionate, and so it has not been inconsequential that three of the four major theoretical manuals of this period were either edited or translated by scholars who also edited, translated and commented on Rumi’s Masnavi and Fihi ma fih, works of entirely different genres.17 This study aims to interpret Rumi’s distinctive teachings on Friendship with God on their own terms, and then to consider the broader significance and implications of the notion of Friendship with God in general for a more nuanced understanding of mysticism among Muslims.

The first task is made possible by the consistency and mutual-reinforcement evident between his Masnavi and Fihi ma fih, which both present extensive teachings by Rumi about this topic. In order to appreciate fully the significance of his teachings it is necessary to contextualize them, especially since the question of the relationship of Rumi, and Sufism in general, to the wider Islamic tradition has been the subject of debate. To this end, the theoretical Sufi manuals are also considered in detail, because they grapple specifically with this relationship, while Rumi had little interest in doing so, having opted not to compose any theoretical works. Since they were written during the tenth and eleventh centuries C.E., the critical time when the juridicotheological Islamic system was consolidating its dominance, the development of their theories about Friendship with God sheds light on the degree to which this doctrine was harmonized with the Islamic religious system that was then taking shape. Significantly, they debate a range of viewpoints among their contemporary Sufis about Friendship with God, including both those acceptable and those not acceptable to them, and the issues and controversies that they raised. Viewpoints either side of those expressed by Rumi are in this way considered by these predecessors, even if their own preferred positions are distinct, and this is what makes it possible to use their writings in order to gain insight into the relationship between mystical and scholastic Islam more broadly. Even though their preferred theoretical resolutions do not coincide with those of Rumi, and other Sufis living centuries later, these manuals remained popular because of the continued appreciation of their irenic efforts to present Sufism as compatible with scholastic Islam. An important fact to keep in mind is that works of this genre served this irenic purpose due to the circumstances when they were originally written, and are useful for the present study specifically for insight into that process; they have to be treated historically themselves, and not normatively.

The existence of older monograph mystical treatises on Friendship with God from the ninth century C.E., which are also examined in this study, is significant because they enable the tracing of the development of theories about Friendship with God from more than a century before the first of the irenic manuals. These older treatises also had irenic aims, meaning that in combination with the manuals they can offer invaluable insights into both a wide range of theories about Friendship with God and their relationship to the emerging Islamic religious system over two centuries, and also the dynamic nature of both the theoretical mystical writings and the emerging religious system itself. It should also be mentioned that the ongoing, dynamic debate about issues related to Friendship with God at that critical time also indicates the kind of “practical” teachings that were current then among Sufis, since these Sufi authors were responding to them as well as external pressure from juridico-theological scholars.the eleventh-century consolidation of juridico-theological Islam’s authority

***

In recent decades Rumi has been at the center of a tug-of war between those who would dissociate him from Islam and those who respond to this by stressing his proficiency in the Islamic religious sciences. The latter reaction, which is common among academicians, is understandable when one bears in mind early Orientalist assumptions that Rumi, and Sufis in general, were foreign to Islam, because they regarded the religion as a spiritually deficient Semitic legalism.12 However, a close reading of Rumi’s writings is unlikely to find that response any more convincing, which can explain why opinions have remained so polarized. It also highlights what is most problematic about such arguments, on either side of the debate, namely their common assumption that deference to the religious system of Muslim juridico-theological scholars should be the criterion for determining what is Islamic. While this is not an unreasonable position to take, since this is what is usually meant when referring to “Islam,” it needs to be acknowledged that the religious system of Islam was consolidated over centuries and with substantial debate and disagreement. That is to say, there have been Muslim communities since before those centuries who have not regarded the systematized religion to be the supremely authoritative representation of their faith.13 The mystical writings on Friendship with God examined here show that the rising influence of scholastic Islam in fact constituted an outside interruption, threatening the survival of their ongoing mystical endeavor, rather than an internal development enhancing it. Moreover, the extent to which irenic authors from among the Sufis did find ways to present their mysticism as being theoretically compatible with scholastic Islam still falls short of any evidence to assume that Sufism is based on it, let alone that to be “genuine Sufis” they must be wholly constrained by its formulated limits. At the same time, however, the particular understanding of mysticism shared by Rumi and most other Sufis, with its emphasis on divine verbal communication that can produce inspired books, and also direct the control of the mystic’s actions, could hardly be more distinctive of the mysticism found in the Qur’an and Muhammad’s life-story.

Since the main problem with this debate lies in the narrowness of the definition of Islam, restricting it to the scholastic edifice developed centuries after its sacred history, one wonders whether Rumi’s famous parable about the four men who fought over grapes might point towards a resolution.14 That is to say, the use of a more inclusive definition of Islam which embraces all movements that took inspiration from the Qur’an and Muhammad’s example, each according to their own interpretations, might satisfy both sides of the debate without resorting to ahistorical and essentialist arguments. On the one hand it would not gloss over Rumi’s low estimation of juridico-theological Islam from a mystical perspective, while on the other it would not strip Rumi of his own religious background. At the same time, this could contribute to fulfilling the urgent need for a more nuanced understanding of Muslims in general, beyond individuals programmed above all else to follows the laws and dogmas formulated by religious scholars.15 After all, Rumi’s popularity has itself been unrivalled across a huge swathe of the Muslim heartlands for several centuries, rather than belonging to a secretive minority.

. . . It is worth remembering that the first expressions of deference to scholastic Islam, in the Sufi manuals, represent a sudden change in approach from that of the oldest mystical writings, and that even works of this irenic genre only came to defer to juristic formulations through a gradual process: it ranged from an insistence on the minimum amount of compliance necessary to the adoption of the most conservative approach in any areas of ambiguity. The background of the author was a major factor, with Kalabadhi, who had the least Sufi credentials, being the most conservative. Although the manuals of Qushayri and Hujwiri, which have proven to be the most popular over the centuries, may appear at first, through their stated aims, to be similarly conservative, in contrast they include enough ambiguity to facilitate the preservation of divergent viewpoints.

The contrasting silence of Qushayri and Hujwiri concerning divine communication may at first seem more difficult to interpret. However, once it is remembered that their predecessors struggled with this particular quality of the Friends of God more than any other while arguing for the superiority of Prophets, their silence can be interpreted as simply a way of avoiding comment. When facing the prospect of the challenge to affirm their direct divine communication at the same time as expressing deference to the textually-based religious system of juridicotheological scholars, this might have then been the best option.

For instance, the theories of Ḥakim Tirmidhi, the most prolific mystic author of his generation, are ignored, marginalized, or drawn upon only selectively during the tenth and eleventh centuries, when irenic efforts at legitimizing the Sufi tradition were top priority. However, after this period he becomes the subject of a revival of interest, most famously in the writings of Ibn ʿArabi.8 Tirmidhi had dared to critique the juridico-theological scholars’ own understanding of the Shariah and was accused of claiming to be a Prophet, which seems to have been considered serious enough to make recourse to his idiosyncratic efforts at actually expressing deference to Prophets no longer an option for his immediate successors.

*** The main aim of this study has been to examine Rumi’s teachings about Friendship with God, which represents the major preoccupations of his writings, and to clarify their relationship with the theoretical prose manuals that have frequently been treated as normative, as well as the wider Islamic religious system. A close examination of those manuals in comparison with both those theoretical works that preceded them as well as Rumi’s didactic writings, has provided insight into the kinds of dilemmas and concerns Muslim mystics grappled with when the juridico-theological system was consolidating its authority. It has also highlighted some important developments in Sufi theory as a result of this challenging process. If insight into the direct influences on Rumi’s teachings is sought instead, this could be gained by considering the treatment of these same topics in the mystical writings of the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries CE, closer to his lifetime. Rumi was after all far from being alone during this period in expounding teachings that contrast with the irenic manuals. Though they may not have left extended theoretical discussions directly confronting the issue of Friendship with God, recent studies on the twelfth-century Sufis Aḥmad Ghazzali, ʿAyn al-Quḍat Hamadani, Ḥakim Sanaʾi, Ruzbihan Baqli, and Farid al-Din ʿAṭṭar indicate that such a project could still prove a rewarding endeavor.16 However, that is a subject for another book.

Introduction by Haroon Moghul: It seemed a few years ago that the post-9/11 spike in the field of Islamic studies was waning, no doubt accelerated by economic crisis and fatigue with a long, uncertain war. But then the uprisings in Tunisia and Egypt brought Islam, Arabs, and the Middle East, back to global attention.

This interest will only continue to grow; the direction of the Middle East will be crucial to how our world turns out in coming decades. And with Islamist parties triumphing in recent elections across a democratizing region, we in America are ever more concerned—and confused.

Who can we turn to for some insight, and not only thought, but actual ideas? What voices over there can we learn from—and should we listen to?

I had the chance to speak with Mustafa Akyol, author of Islam Without Extremes: A Muslim Case for Liberty; Akyol is a Turkish media personality, newspaper columnist, and intellectual. He also gets to live in Istanbul, which should properly go on his resumé.

Many have argued Turkey’s experience is deeply important to the Middle East (and see my post this weekend about Newt Gingrich’s longtime admiration for Kemal Ataturk). Whether or not you agree, Akyol deserves to be more widely read, as he pushes well past the typical clichés—for him, Islam and liberalism are not merely reconciled, but—well, you’ll see.

HM: Tell me a little bit about how and why you wrote this book.

MA: This book is mainly about the problem of freedom in Islam. I argue that Islam, at its very core, is a religion that liberated the individual from the bond of the tribe and similar collective bodies. But I also show how the initial impetus of the faith was partly overshadowed as a result of some early theological controversies, and, moreover, political decisions. This also means that some of those early debates can be reopened, and coercive elements in Islamic law and culture can be reformed. And I am saying all these within a particularly Turkish outlook, as I explain the little known history of “Muslim liberalism” that emerged in the late Ottoman Empire and modern-day Turkey.

Who did you write this for?

Akyol: I wrote this for both Muslims and non-Muslims who believe that Islam and liberal democracy are fundamentally incompatible. Obviously, I disagree with them. I rather want to show them that a genuinely Islamic yet liberal view of the world is possible. Muslims can tolerate the “freedom to sin,” for example, not because they condone sin, but that its judgment should be left to God.

HM: Can you explain what you mean by liberalism?

Akyol: By liberalism, I mean a political and economic system which limits the powers of the state, and gives individuals, and their voluntary associations, the freedom to shape their destinies. I think liberty has been a value throughout history, but liberalism became a full-fledged ideology in the modern age, for the modern state threatened liberty in unprecedented levels.

I also think that today liberalism presents the best medium for Muslims to live Islam in the various ways that they understand it.

HM: Let me push you a little bit here. I would argue that most interpretations of Islam place a strong emphasis on the social, the communal, often above the individual—and if we stress the liberation of the individual from larger collectives, does Islam play any role in the great social questions of our time? Should Islam also speak to the intermediary institutions, between state power and individual life, to temper that power and protect that individual?

Akyol: Of course I am not saying that Islam does not have a sense of the community. It certainly does. Moreover, that sense implies a strong basis for civil society, which is of course very important for empowering and protecting the individual in the face of threats coming the from the modern state.

However, I believe that the Qur’an, with its strong emphasis on the individual’s personal faith and deeds, presented a more individualistic worldview than some Muslims appreciate. I actually believe that the individualism of the Qur’an was gradually overshadowed by a more communitarian mindset that shaped Islam in its formative centuries. I explore such differences between the Qur’an and the post-Qur’anic tradition, and how they came to be, in my book.

HM: You say Muslims should tolerate sin. But of course we don’t tolerate some sins—murder, cheating, lying in certain circumstances. Are there some sins that we must object to socially? And if it isn’t a matter of state power, should Muslims still condemn sins?

Akyol: You make a great point—and that is something I discuss in my book chapter, “The Freedom to Sin.” There, I suggest a distinction between sin and crime. Sins are acts of personal disobedience to God, like drinking wine or refraining from daily prayer. But crimes are acts that hurt other people, like murder or theft. Most crimes are also sins, but I am saying that not all sins should be considered crimes. And I am saying that by looking at what the Qur’an really penalizes and what it does not.

HM: You mention the distinction between sin and crime. However, many Muslims—like many people of other faiths—believe that sins cause genuine harm in the world. For example, that sinning causes God to, say, withhold rain from the earth. This might lead religious folks to believe that sins, too, should be socially punished. What do you say to that?

Akyol: Well, first I would disagree with the theology there. The Qur’an tells us that some specific societies in history—such as Sodom and Gomorrah—were destroyed by God via natural disasters, but I think those are exceptional miracles and not the norm. The norm, I think, is that natural disasters happen via natural causes which God has set in place, and are not related with our sins. Earthquakes really do not selectively hit cities of vice, such as, say, Las Vegas. They just hit the cities that are placed on tectonic faultlines. Or rain patterns, which really do not show any correlation with levels of godliness or godlessness.

Even if people believe that this or that disaster has happened because of this or that sin, this subjective idea cannot be the base of objective laws that will be imposed on us. Shall we impose vegetarianism by law, for example, because some Buddhists see meat-eating as the source of all evil? We have the right to believe in our theologies, but we cannot impose them on all people.

HM: I walk through the bookstore, see your book, and as a Muslim I think, another book about Islam that frames us around extremism.  Do you think that perhaps framing Islam around extremism, even to push back against it, might just reinforce the same narrative?

Akyol: Well, “extremism” is a vague term, and I really wanted to focus on something more specific: authoritarianism in Islamic law and culture. In other words, this book is not about why Muslims should reject terrorism—the overwhelming majority of the world’s Muslims already do that. But not all of them tend to be that liberal when it comes to issues such as apostasy, blasphemy, sin, or different interpretations of Islam. That’s why one scholar said that there is a problem of “illiberal moderates” in the Islamic world. That is the problem that I am really focusing on.

HM: You have a lot of reach in Turkey. And of course, Islam in Turkey is increasingly seizing the world’s attention. From your perspective, how do you see Islam in Turkey right now? What are you pleased with, and what are you worried about?

Akyol: Of course, we Turks still have lots of problems with our own politics and culture. Yet it is fair to say that Islam in Turkey has a much healthier experience with democracy. Many people would readily say that Turkey owes this to Ataturk and his ultra-secularist reforms. But, in my book, I argue that we actually owe our Islamo-democratic synthesis to the opponents of the strict Ataturkist tradition, such as Menderes of the ’60s, Ozal of the ’80s and most lately Erdogan. Today, the mainstream Islamic view in Turkey is at peace with the secular (but not secularist!) state, and how this came to be is a curious story that I relate in my book.

HM: Can you expand on the distinction between the secular state and the secularist state?

Akyol: Sure. A secular state is neutral to religion, and respects religious practices unless they cause harm to individuals. A secularist state, however, bears an ideological hostility to religion, and wants to secularize society by banning religious practices or institutions. Most communist dictatorships of the past century were secularist states. Kemalist Turkey, too, has been a secularist state—which banned the headscarf, Sufi orders, or religious education—and it has given a bad name to secularity among the world’s Muslims. Luckily, though, that excessive secularism of Turkey has been defanged to some extent in the recent years.

I want to elaborate on this distinction between secular and secularist. In places like Egypt, and potentially Libya and Yemen as well, democracy will throw forward explicitly Islamist parties, however much some of them might want to deny it (although Islamist doesn’t mean authoritarian). Do you think these parties can contribute to building democratic societies? Is it possible to build post-secular states, neutral between religion and secularism?

“Islamist” does not mean authoritarian, if it implies a political party that is inspired by Islamic principles and values, but articulates them within the rules of liberal democracy. The closest example to that seems to be Ennahda in Tunisia, and I am hopeful about its future. But other Islamist parties such as the Freedom and Justice Party of Egypt, an offshoot of the Muslim Brotherhood, still seem to believe in an “Islamic state” that will impose an “Islamic way of life” on society. The problem with that is not just authoritarianism. It is also that whomever imposes Islam via the state will be imposing the “Islam” that he or she understands.

But since no Muslim school of thought can claim an ultimate access to truth (as the “Postponers” of the 7th century realized, as I explain in my book), the state should be neutral when it comes to religious matters. Whether the Muslim Brotherhood of Egypt and its counterparts in other Arab countries will be humble enough to see that is the next big question.

HM: How do you see Islam faring in Europe? In America? Do you think the Arab Spring might make things better or worse?

Akyol: I think partly in America and more so in Europe, Islam suffers from being the religion of the immigrants. Immigrant communities sometimes have problems simply because of their “alienness,” and the unwelcoming-ness of their hosts, and these problems can appear as a friction between Islam and non-Islam.

Whenever I speak about this, I note that the EU member country with the highest percentage of Muslims in its population is not the UK, France, or Germany but Bulgaria. Yet you never hear about Bulgaria’s “Muslim question,” for its Muslims are native Turks and Pomaks who have been living in that country for centuries.

As for the Arab Spring, I am of course very supportive of it, for it is toppling or challenging the dictators who oppressed Arab societies for decades. (Right now, I am keeping my fingers crossed for the fall of the Baath tyranny Syria.) But democracies—let alone liberal democracies—do not emerge overnight, and the post-revolutionary countries will need some time and lots of effort to build them.

HM: I know this is a loaded question, but what is Islam’s purpose? Or, perhaps I’ll put it another way: What is it that attracts you, and keeps you affiliated with, this religion?

Akyol: Well, I believe Islam’s main purpose is the same with that of all other Abrahamic monotheisms: To make humans aware of their Creator and His intentions. In other words, it is primarily about connecting God and man. Of course, God, through the Qur’an, gives man some rules and principles that will guide his behavior to other men as well—that is where Islamic law comes from. But I also think that this law, in its divine origin, is intentionally limited and flexible, for social structures always change and laws should adapt to that change.

What keeps me affiliated with Islam? Well, its main purpose: I believe that I have a Creator, and Islam is the straightest path that I know to connect with Him.

HM: Let’s say I run a madrasa. (Note: I don’t.) What books, thinkers, ideas would you recommend to the next generation of Muslim scholars, theologians, and preachers?

Akyol: Well, if it were your madrasa, I am sure it would be a cool one, and I would be happy to support it. As for the religious curriculum, I would suggest, first, a good translation of and commentary to the Qur’an. Then a good book on the history of Islamic thought, which would expose the students to all the different colors of our religion that has evolved in the past fourteen centuries.

Among modern writers, I would suggest books by the late Alia Izzetbegovic, the “philosopher-king” and the brave leader of the Bosnians, Muhammed Abduh, Fazlur Rahman, and even Said Nursi, a Turko-Kurdish Islamic scholar and hero whose emphasis on “freedom” is little known outside of Turkey. Finally, I would also add the Bible to the curriculum. The Qur’an repeatedly refers to it, and it is a pity that we Muslims have taken very little notice of that.

HM: What’s next for you?

Akyol: Well, God knows that best. On my side, I am just expecting many talks and conferences in the year to come. But then I have other books in mind. Perhaps something with the title “Towards A Free Muslim Mind,” which will articulate a Muslim worldview that is genuinely religious but also consistently liberal. I am hoping to write a novel at some point, too—a novel that will put all my ideas into characters and events, and which will hopefully inspire the readers.

Interviewer: Haroon Moghul
RD associate editor Haroon Moghul is a fellow at the Institute for Social Policy and Understanding, a senior editor at the Islamic Monthly and a doctoral candidate at Columbia University. His work has appeared or he has been otherwise featured on CNN, BBC, History Channel, al-Jazeera, Today’s Zaman, and Tikkun. He is the author of The Order of Light (Penguin, 2006). Tags islam, liberal democracy, liberalism, mustafa akyol

Sufi Teachers Share Experiences of the Soul’s Journey
In a Weekend Retreat

Friday Evening March 23-Mid-day Sunday March 25

ICCNC (Islamic Cultural Center of Northern California), 1433 Madison St Oakland, CA 94612-4314

Cemalnur Sargut, Robert Abdul Hayy Darr, Camille & Kabir Helminski

Cemalnur Sargut, one of the most inspired and respected spiritual teachers of Turkey,
will make a rare appearance in the United States. Through her very being she is a living example of Divine Love and Wisdom.

Robert Abdul Hayy Darr, teacher of Sufism for an ordinary life.  He studied the Afghan Sufi path of the late Ustad Raz Mohammed Zaray, and is the author of The Spy of The Heart, and the translator of Shabistari’s Garden of Mystery.

Shaikh Kabir and Camille Helminski of the Mevlevi Tradition founded by Rumi,
are internationally respected Sufi teachers and authors. Their most recent book is The Rumi Daybook (Shambhala, 2012).

A Weekend of exploration: talks, music, spiritual practice, and friendship.

“The purpose of the Baraka Institute is to bring together authentic spiritual teachers from various lineages to explore all aspects of spiritual life and practice. We believe humanity is at a defining moment, facing unprecedented challenges, in need of traditional wisdom, as well as a fresh perspective on how that wisdom is to be lived today.” ~Kabir Helminski

Friday night 8-10. “Introduction: A Spirituality Adequate to the Times.”

Saturday, Registration 9-9:30, Sessions: 9:30-6 PM. Lunch provided.

Sunday, 9:30-12:30 Final Sessions and Conclusion.

All inclusive registration: $170 (at the door).

To register in advance on the Internet: $150. Use this donate button for the retreat.

Friday night only: $20 at the door.

CHILDCARE AVAILABLE. (confirm with Leila: bahreinian@gmail.com)

CLOSEST LODGING: MARRIOTT COURTYARD (Downtown Oakland)

Underlying his fearsome courage was a beautiful tenderness that was forgiving, loving, and filled with wisdom. His deep spirituality was expressed in the most exquisitely poetic way that at the same time is filled with powerfully raw and naked power. His words were imbued with the perplexity that overwhelm a heart drowned in the ocean of love. He spoke in ways that shocked ordinary people but awakened and were understood and cherished by his fellow travelers.

A friend of my daughter, Nedda, wanted to meet me. He was a young seeker, very interested in the Sufi Path. I picked Justin up at the train station and we spent the afternoon together talking. He told me how he grew up in a non-religious family, “basically atheist,” he explained telling me that he never learned how to pray. Then he attended a talk by Andrew Harvey at Omega and what he heard lit the fire of longing in his heart to communicate with the Divine. “But I didn’t know how!” he told me. It was then that I was awestruck at God’s amazing ways.

The night before I met Justin I was unable to sleep. I got up and for some reason felt an urge to read from the Diwan of Hallaj. I opened up the book and came upon a selection that moved my heart in a very deep way and I felt I needed to translate it. Then I came upon another selection that was also very moving and I translated it. By 4:00 am I was done with the translations and after prayer I fell asleep.

Now as I sat listening to Justin it became clear to me what had happened last night. “Would you like to hear how one of the greatest of all Sufis spoke to God?” I asked him? “Oh, yes! I would love too.” Justin replied eagerly. So I got up with tears welling up in my eyes and flowing freely down my face, and went to get my laptop amazed at how Love works and awed and humbled by how we are placed in service by Divine Decree. I felt the presence of Sidi Al Huseein ibn Mansur smiling gently and nodding as if to say, “Now you see what love does!”

Hussein ibn Mansur was born in the second half of 9^th Century in Persia. His father was a cotton carder and he learned the same skill, hence his nickname Al Hallaj. His family moved to Wasit in Iraq when he was a child. From his early teens he was drawn to learning and spirituality. He studied with some of the eminent Sufi teachers of his time such as Sahl Al Tustari and Amru ibn Uthman Al Makki.

In addition to being a spiritual seeker, Al Hallaj was also a devoted activist, publicly supporting the oppressed people of his society and siding openly with rebellions against the tyrannical rule of the Abbasid State at the time. These rebellions were deeply rooted to the martyrdom of Imam Hussein and this connected Al Hallaj to the profound mystical teachings of the Prophet and his descendents. Al Hallaj’s devotion to the spiritual path and his support for the week and oppressed made him popular among the people of Basra where he lived at the time. The Abbasid State was gripped in the throes of highly threatening political rebellions and saw the loss of its western dominions to the newly emerged Fatimid State in Egypt that basically split the Caliphate into two empires. Al Hallaj’s activism and growing popularity eventually made him an easy target for the wrath of the Abbasid authorities and eventually led to long imprisonment and eventual martyrdom.

Al Hallaj was fearless in his actions, unswerving in his commitment to truth, and welcoming of his own death, repeatedly asking people to kill him for his infidelity (few understood what he really meant, for they saw a pious devoted man dedicated to long acts of worship and spiritual work).

Underlying his fearsome courage was a beautiful tenderness that was forgiving, loving, and filled with wisdom. His deep spirituality was expressed in the most exquisitely poetic way that at the same time is filled with powerfully raw and naked power. His words were imbued with the perplexity that overwhelm a heart drowned in the ocean of love. He spoke in ways that shocked ordinary people but awakened and were understood and cherished by his fellow travelers.

The expressions of his intimate moments with the Beloved are like a powerful thunderstorm that sweeps the heart with terrifying power and yet brings serenity, life-giving water, freshness, and renewal to the heart, and occasionally a rainbow upon the horizon.

Al Hallaj often expressed his understanding of Oneness in paradoxical and beautifully poetic ways. For example he was once asked about the path to God and he replied, “A path is between two points but there is nothing beside God!” He was asked to clarify and he replied with a poem:

Is this you or is it I in two deities?

Far be it from you, far be it from confirming duality

Forever there is Hu-ness for you in my La-ness

Over all, my pain is the confusion of two faces

Where is your essence from me where I used to see?

For my essence now appears where there is no “where”

And where is your face sought with my sight?

Is it in the inner heart or in the eye’s seeing?

Between you and me is an I-ness interfering with me

Take away then with your I-ness my I-ness from between us!

And here are the two selections that our Master, Al Hallaj gifted to our young seeker, Justin so that his heart may know…

Here I am at your command, here I am!

You are my secrecy and my intimacy

Here I am at your command, here I am!

You are my purpose and my meaning

I call you, but it is you who calls me to you

Did I call out to you or did you call out to me?

You are the essence of the source of my existence, you are the reach of my resolve

You who are my logic, and my expressions, and my gestures

You are all of me entirely, you are my hearing and my seeing

You are my whole, and some of me, and my parts

You are all of me entirely, and all of it is entirely obscured

And all of you entirely are covered in my meaning

My soul clings to you with intense love until it is spent in ecstasy

And I become a hostage to my longing

I cry over my sorrow, over separation voluntarily from my homeland

And my adversaries please me with my own wailing

I approach but my fear sets me back, and I am anxious from a longing

That takes hold of my deeply hidden insides

What shall I do about an expansiveness that I am in such love with?

My Friend! My healers have despaired of my affliction

They say: take your cure of him from him.

And I say to them: O people, is the affliction cured by the affliction?

My love for my Friend pains me and afflicts me

How then shall I complain to my Friend of my Friend?

I gaze upon him and my heart knows him

Nothing can be explained of him except my gestures

O woe to my soul from this soul of mine,

O such sorrow in me over me for I am the source of my trials

I am like one who is drowned and his hand is seen raised up for help

While he is in an ocean of water

No one knows what I have seen

Except what shows in me of my grief

And that one who knows what I’ve seen of such intense love

In his will is my death and my life!

You are the purpose of my seeking! You are what I hoped for! You are my stillness!

You are the life of my soul! You are my faith and my world!

Tell me, upon my life, you who are my hearing and my seeing,

Why this going back and forth in my farness and exile?

If you are veiled from my eye in the unseen

This heart still keeps you in farness and in nearness.

I saw my Rabb with the eye of my heart

I said: who are you? He said: You

“Where” with you has nowhere

And there is nowhere where you are

Illusion with you has no illusion

Can illusion know where you are?

You are the one who gathers every “where”

To nowhere, so where are you?

In my annihilation my annihilation perished

And in my annihilation I found you

In the effacement of my name and the outline of my form

I asked about me so I said: You.

My inmost secret pointed to you

Until I was annihilated to myself, and you remained

You are my life and my heart’s secret

Wherever I may be, you are.

You encompass everything with knowledge

All that I see is you

So grant forgiveness my God

For there is nothing I wish for other than you

James Winston Morris

The aim of this essay is simply to point to certain guiding concerns and perspectives that are shared by both these artists, perspectives which are happily subsumed in the multifaceted Arabic technical term tahqīq or “realization” that was particularly favored by Ibn ‘Arabi and the long line of his later interpreters, or muhaqqiqūn.  And in examining this subject, we can hopefully suggest something of the unique comprehensiveness and proven effectiveness of Rumi’s and Ibn ‘Arabi’s writings in supporting that wider human task of realization.

Let me start with a story.  A year ago, at the Ibn ‘Arabi Society’s symposium in Berkeley, I was speaking of Ibn ‘Arabi’s far-reaching understanding of the implications of the central Qur’anic theme of divine and human “calling” and response, which is briefly summarized in the following brief excerpts from the Futūhāt (ch. 519):

… For all of Existence is God’s Words, and the “(divine) promptings that reach (our soul)” (wāridāt) are all of them messengers from God’s Presence.  That is how they are experienced by the Knowers of and through God, since for them every speaker is nothing but God, and every saying is a (new) knowing of God…

Therefore everything that is changing and shifting in the world is a divine messenger, whatever that motion/change may be…

So the Knower looks for what is brought about through its motion/change, and from that he seeks to draw the benefit of a knowing that he did not have (before)….  So the whole world, for the Knower, is a messenger from God to him (or her).  And that messenger and his message—I mean the whole world—with respect to that Knower, is a lovingmercy (rahma), because the messengers are only sent as a Lovingmercy.

Most of our discussion there, of course, involved the essential element of all tahqīq: eliciting and examining more closely the actual life-situations and experiences that alone make such grand metaphysical lessons—and their underlying complex of related Qur’anic verses, hadith and tradition—something “real” and actively transforming in each person’s life.  One of the most revealing moments in that discussion was when an attentive listener objected: “I think I understand what he’s talking about, on the level of my daily life and experience—but what does the Shaykh mean by this insān kāmil (“complete Human Being”) or “Muhammadan Reality” that he was talking about?”: the latter being a familiar technical term and symbol referring to the cosmic reality he calls the “Messenger” or “Message” in the short passage I just quoted.

So I was wrestling in my mind with how to answer this question about the “haqīqa muhammadiyya”—a subject which would minimally require a whole lecture-hour of its own—when I suddenly realized that there was no real need to take this up at all. I realized that what really concerns Ibn ‘Arabi is our realization of the interplay of ethical and spiritual “Signs” and the challenges of our response in the course of everyday life—not the complex, now unfamiliar symbolic and scriptural terminology that was meant to help point his initial audiences back in that direction.  For in its most basic terms, the process of tahqīq/tahaqquq, as it underlies the writings of both Rumi and Ibn ‘Arabi, can be described very simply.  If we shift our focus from the realized state of the rare “Knowers” mentioned in the short passage quoted above to a more inclusive description, we can say that everyone’s life in this school of earthly existence is a dynamic cycle of lessons beginning with each day’s “Signs” and learning situations, moving on to our initial attentive reflections (tafakkur, in Qur’anic language), leading eventually either to illuminated insight (taʽaqqul, basīra) and awareness (maʽrifa) or to more problematic outcomes, all requiring active responses that themselves lead directly to new Signs and unfamiliar, challenging new learning situations.

As scholars, teachers, interpreters or performers of Rumi and Ibn ‘Arabi (or their peers), it is very easy to ignore, or to take for granted, the fundamental role in this process of realization of elements and actors that are simply “given” in the human situation, and which provide both the context and the motor for that entire process of realization. These elements of the human situation are all prior to the intervention of guides, writings, arts, rituals, religions, or any of the other limited cultural instruments that we tend to focus on as supposedly critical elements in this process of realization.  Since the extraordinary trans-cultural and near-millenial influence and effectiveness of our two writers is surely connected to their remarkable artistic and rhetorical ability to engage the enormous spectrum of each of these “given” human elements of the process of tahqīq, it may help to start by listing some of the most important of those basic predestined elements (of taqdīr or qadar) in each person’s unique “personal equation” of realization:

(1) The diversity of character, personality types, etc. and their individual “karmic antecedents” (sawābiq, ‘ināya).

(2) The spectrum of relevant individual capacities and obstacles or “veils,” with regard to intellect, will, understanding, heart, motivation and so on.

(3)  The range of available social and cultural “supportive resources” (spiritual pathways, guides, methods, etc.).

(4)  The corresponding diversity of life’s lessons, challenges, difficulties and tests.

(5) The (initially mysterious or even arbitrary) interventions of “Grace,” of unexpected illumination and motivation—including above all the radically transforming power of Love, familiar to all of Rumi’s and Ibn ‘Arabi’s students.

Against that backdrop, it should be easier to recognize and acknowledge the very limited effectiveness of writings and other artistic tools and spiritual “methods”—or indeed even of experienced guides and devoted companions. Since our ego (or “basharic intellect,” in the language of these two authors) avidly recognizes for the most part, only what it already “knows”, and is only too readily sidetracked by imagination and other distractions, how can writings help us to go beyond that, to open up to and discover what our minds ordinarily refuse to even acknowledge?

If spiritual writings are often insufficient to get past the egoic mind, we can gratefully note the fundamental transformational role of music, or better yet, of dhikr in all its forms, in accomplishing what mere words cannot. And we might add to this how the contemporary multi-dimensional art of cinema often comes closest to recreating and serving the methods and intentions of both these artists.

But keeping our focus for now on the writings of these two authors, it is helpful—in order to appreciate the unique comprehensiveness of both Rumi and Ibn ‘Arabi—simply to identify the specific effective roles, in the vast process of realization, of some of the very different forms of earlier spiritual literature which are so constantly integrated in their works:

(1) Inspiring and motivating listeners in very different personal, dramatic testing situations (e.g., the role of stories, especially hagiographies and the like).

(2) Awakening the awareness of—and helping to avoid—hidden spiritual pitfalls and dangers.

(3) Contextualizing or situating where we are momentarily in the much larger path of realization (books on spiritual stages, “stations,” eschatology, and the like).

(4)  Sensitizing and expanding our awareness of the inner and outward divine “Signs” and their implications, possible responses, and the engagements flowing from them.

(5) Reminding us of forgotten or neglected elements and factors in our own situation and challenges.

(6) Learning to effectively communicate and share the fruits of our own lessons and drama of realization.

(7) Guiding reflection and the search for understanding, and suggesting possible or unsuspected meanings.

(8) Helping to recognize and heal all the different “wounds” and misapprehensions arising throughout this process, where our failures are often the most memorable teacher.

(9) Acting as a spiritual “catalyst” in revealing (and supporting our ongoing engagement with) the inherent mystery of our actual realization of the meanings of our particular “Signs.”

For those unfamiliar with the historical background of our two authors and the literatures that had emerged by their time intended to fulfill these different roles, we might start by noting how nearly contemporary (and often geographically close) both men were, and as a result, how much they shared in terms of their wider educational background and profound familiarity with all the schools of Islamic thought and disciplines of spiritual guidance that had developed by their time—despite the obvious difference in their eventual languages of artistic expression, which in turn can make them seem so dramatically different in their effects and demands on readers approaching them today in English or other Western translations.  The fact that one was a (uniquely hermetic) poet turned religious teacher, and the other a religious scholar turned poet should not obscure the deep common ground of reading, learning, and practical spiritual formation they both largely shared.

In any event, a comparison with the preceding Islamic literatures related to each of these above-mentioned spiritual functions—apart from the Qur’an itself—immediately highlights the very different ways that both these authors uniquely managed to maintain an inclusiveness and comprehensive presence of all these functions at the same time.  (In that context, we cannot avoid at least mentioning here the equally impressive spiritual artistry of Hafiz of Shiraz, who was in so many ways the perfect synthesis of both Rumi and Ibn ‘Arabi.)

The result of that compression of all these spiritual functions is that their writing in many ways mirrors the actual presence of a living spiritual master.  The comprehensiveness of their writings touches the existential dimension of the process of realization in each of their readers or listeners—and in ways that can make these texts often seem entirely “new” at each re-reading, because we ourselves are “tuned in” to different forms and issues of realization at each point in our lives. Without that point of direct engagement with the dramatic process of realization in each reader, writings with any of the above-mentioned spiritual purposes (whether drawn from Islamic or any other historical context) can understandably seem remote, theoretical, abstract, artificially systematic, idiosyncratic, or simply boringly “pedagogical”.  But these writings engage the sirr al-qadar, the “unsolved mystery-novel of each soul’s ultimate destiny.”

But none of this need remain mysterious or academic: it suffices to sit down regularly and begin to read and discuss either author, together with a small interested and committed group of seekers, over the years: there all these varied effects and influences will quickly become clear in their visible and lasting impact on other participants, which is often easier to perceive than in one’s own life….

*    *    *

So where do we find ourselves, in the midst of this?  And where do we turn?   As each of these authors constantly reminds us, there are three inseparable dimensions of each soul’s spiraling miʽrāj of realization: knowledge (‘ilm), action (‘amal), and the mysterious power of love, that inner seeking and determination that makes both possible and keeps them alive in midst of even the most painfully evident futility and incompletion.

The long concluding section of Rumi’s Masnavi—two contrasting accounts of three highly symbolic “brothers” (which we must conflate here)—provides  a richly memorable version of Plato’s unforgettable image in the Phaedrus of the spirit’s heavenly ascension drawn by the two winged steeds of the soul and intellect (nafs and ‘aql).  As in the Masnavi’s opening tale of the King and his earthly beloved, Rumi concludes here with another dramatization of three different human approaches to life’s intrinsic suffering, and to the tragic futility and incompletion of earthly love.  Together, all the preceding books of this Masnavi demonstrate how these three perspectives should rightfully work together. His unifying theme here is the contrast of divine and human “cunning” (makar) in responding to all the challenges and insecurities of life’s challenges of realization.  The first two princes here are emblematic of two inescapable—but one-sided and profoundly short-sighted—“tricks” we all use, at various times, to try to avoid or short-circuit the inherent sufferings, transformations, and uncertainties of love: two attempts to penetrate the “mystery of destiny” (sirr al-qadr), to “solve” the apparent injustice of suffering without the time, endurance, and inner attentiveness, quickness and active searching that are bound together in the untranslatable Qur’anic expression of sabr.

Thus the oldest prince boldly chooses a “voluntary death,” a passionate sacrifice to Love—in which he is momentarily redeemed by the King, but without any recourse to the human intellect (‘aql and ‘ilm), or to the soul’s transforming work of creating and discovering beauty and good (ihsān), which always depends on sabr.  In Rumi’s final summation or testament (wasiya) at the end of the Masnavī (Book 6), this prince is the unreflective, simple brother who simply relies on what is properly “said” and believed.  But Rumi’s own response to his choice is two long illustrations of divine “cunning” indicating that there is no substitute, in the path of realization, for all the painful tests and revelations of desire and its concomitant suffering.

In contrast, the middle brother—somewhat like the younger, pre-Shams Rumi—is a devoted master of our (necessarily very partial) intellect and its accumulated worldly “knowledge,” happily finding refuge in the royal company and patronage.  But without the humbling role of love and the sabr it requires of us, he is inevitably the victim of pride, pretension and self-delusion, so that he must die and start all over.  In the Masnavi’s final conclusion, he is the second brother who takes his time and cautiously digs deeply, but in the end still relies on what is “said” (in this case, by his mother!).

The third, almost invisible and (ironically) “lazy” brother—the embodiment of the goal of humble ego-surrender to God’s Will (nīstī)—is the one who lets the Real act and teach (the interrelated ultimate human perfections of taslīm, tawakkul, ridā, and sabr), who allows both steeds, both love and the purified intellect (‘ishq and ‘aql), to be guided by the Spirit’s charioteer, leading through the purification and illumination of suffering to divine Guidance and Wisdom.  Paradoxically, through sabr rather than sacrifice, he is also the brother whose realization is complete, who wins the ultimate Prize of both the “form” and the spiritual “meaning” of life (sūrat and maʽnā).

These are Rumi’s last words and testament, at the very end of the Masnavi, asking paradoxically: How do we ever know “God’s Side”?—when all sides of love (as he began in the opening story) necessarily lead to Him.  They are really the same as Ibn ‘Arabi’s dense words about the true “Knowers” with which we began, keeping in mind that the Beloved before whom we sit is in reality every facet we daily encounter of the ever-renewed Gift of creation:

I sit before Him in silence.

I make sabr a ladder toward the ascending stairs of heaven

so that sabr brings the key to bliss.

So if, in His Presence, there should burst forth from my heart

a communion (mantiq: the soul’s shared silent Word),  beyond this joy and sadness

I KNOW that He has sent that to me

from the innermost self (damīr), like Suheyl illuminating Yemen.

In my heart, that Word is from that auspicious Side

because there is a window between Heart and Heart!

The fear and revulsion that some people feel toward Sharia law is due to the perception that the penalties for certain crimes seem barbaric and cruel. The over emphasis of certain aspects of the Penal Code, both in the media and in the hands of some jurists, has led to the overshadowing of the moral principles which comprise true Shariah. There is a confusion between Shariah, the path that leads to happiness, justice, and well-being, and Fiqh which is the application of shariah principles  to specific societal circumstances–applications formulated mostly by middle-aged men in the context of a patriarchal society. Fiqh is man-made not Divinely revealed. Sometimes in the quagmire of details, the essential purpose of the Law is forgotten. A fundamental principle of Sharia is the law that controls all laws:  namely, that no harm or hardship should come from the application of these laws.

Perhaps what is most significant about Mr. Hathout’s understanding is that he does not absolutely hold that the penalties prescribed in the Quran for such things as adultery and theft are for all times and places. He says that these penalties may have been necessary and effective in the context of a society that had almost no legal system,  police force,  jails,  etc.   Under those circumstances a strong deterrent was needed, but Islam should be a dynamic process of achieving greater and greater levels of justice and compassion.

Abdul Hayy Darr, Commentary on The Eight Principles of the Khwajagan. Part 1

Abdul Hayy Darr, Commentary on The Eight Principles of the Khwajagan. Part 2 (a Muraqaba session)

Camille Helminski, “Wherever You Turn. . .”

Kabir Helminski, “And the Garden is Brought Near.”

The spiritual life must obviously take psychology into account; if we want to do good and know truth, we will have to understand what in us supports this intent, and what stands in the way of it. But after Jungian Psychology, Humanistic Psychology, Transpersonal Psychology, and Ken Wilber’s Integral Psychology, the reader may wonder what remains to be said vis-à-vis psychology and the Spiritual Path. In the author’s opinion, what remains is to present a psychology rooted in traditional metaphysics, one that he has termed “Principial Psychology”. This psychology is not essentially new; elements of it are to be found in every traditional path; but it has rarely been so explicitly defined. Principial Psychology does have certain affinities with Transpersonal Psychology, and with Integral Psychology as well; all three emphasize the attainment of self-transcendence. The difference is that Transpersonal and Integral Psychology draw various elements from the faith traditions, while Principial Psychology requires that we actually follow one of them. Principial Psychology is based on the premise that the different “faculties” of the psyche that the Scholastic psychologists studied–thought, feeling, will, memory, imagination–as well as the various “archetypes” that Jung discovered but didn’t entirely understand, identifiable in some ways with the levels of the human psychospiritual makeup in Sufi doctrine-are psychic reflections of timeless spiritual or metaphysical principles that exist in a world beyond the psychic dimension entirely. In terms of the human microcosm, these principles are the loom upon which the psyche is woven, and the body as well; in terms of the macrocosm, they are the eternal designs that underlie, and guide, the greater universe of which we are a part. From the point-of-view of this science, the whole spectrum of mental illnesses and psychological “complexes” can be seen as based on various wrong or inverted relationships between the faculties of the psyche-imbalances that are produced by, and further reinforce, the mis-perception and veiling of the archetypal Principles by the tyrannical and deluded ego. Principial Psychology recognizes the goal of human development not simply as the healing of mental illness or a balanced adjustment to social norms, but as the attainment of a state of “ideal normalcy” based on a complete conformation of the psyche to the principles from which it springs-in other words, on the “salvation of the soul”. Just as mental health is inseparable from moral development, so self-knowledge is impossible without self-transcendence.

A Talk by Ali Allawi on the earliest origins

and the Qur’anic support

for a tradition of inner spiritual practice.

Camille & Kabir Helminski, Amina Wadud, Ali Allawi, Abdul Hayy Darr. Presenters

Baraka Retreat, July 15-17, 2011, La Casa de Maria, Montecito (Santa Barbara)

Abdul Hayy Darr, as someone trained in the authentic Afghan root tradition of the Naqshbandi, will explore the 11 Principles of the Naqshbandi Way, essential principles for the spiritual seeker. He says about his presentation: “The Sufi understanding of individuality, in particular, allows us to comprehend and deepen our experience of selfhood while remaining actively engaged in a normal modern life.  The complete experience of individuality embraces what is outside and inside, what is worldly and spiritual.”
Ali Allawi will bring his vast knowledge and insight to bear on the spiritual values needed for awakening a spiritual civilization. His book, The Crisis of Islamic Civilization was named among the “Best Books of 2009″ by the Economist.
Amina Wadud, internationally respected Quranic scholar and activist, will illuminate the possibilities of living an authentic and just life as a woman on the spiritual path.
Camille Helminski author of Women of Sufism, will touch on the beauty of the soul expressed through the legacy of Rumi and Shamsi Tabrizi, and reflect on the Qur’anic verse: Everything is perishing except the Face of God.
Kabir Helminski, author and Mevlevi shaikh, will share reflections and practices for awakening to the ecstatic nature of Truth (Haqq)  in the midst of profound contemporary challenges.

Baraka 2011 Flyer Web
Baraka 2011 Schedule

With special guest: master musician, Ali Razmi,
and break-out sessions on special subjects, including “Energy Healing”  with Amean Hameed.

BARAKA is not an event where “experts” lecture you; but a weekend of friendship, intellectual engagement, music, and spiritual practice. We’ll explore how, in a world of highly developed “individuals,” we can reconcile this individuality with the requirements of the spiritual path.

The garden shall be brought near, for the God-conscious, not far. This is what you are promised, for everyone who returns, who preserves. Who is in awe of the Compassionate in the Unseen and comes with a heart constantly seeking. Enter it in peace, this is the time of abiding. In it is what they will and We have more. How many a generation before them who were mightier than they have We caused to perish? Seek then throughout the land, is there any refuge? Indeed in this is remembrance for one who has a heart, one who listens while witnessing. ~Quran, Qaf 31-37.

La Casa de Maria, the extraordinary site of this transformational event: