Baghdad during the time of ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī: - (Islamic History and Thought) 9781463244385, 146324438X

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Baghdad during the time of ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī

Islamic History and Thought

29 Series Editor Series Editorial Board

Peter Adamson Beatrice Gründler Beatrice Gruendler Ahmad Ahmad Khan Khan

Jack Tannous Isabel Toral-Niehoff Manolis Manolis Ulbricht Ulbricht

Jack Tannous

Advisory Editorial Board Islamic History and Thought provides a platform for scholarly research on any geographic areaUlbricht within the expansive Islamic Manolis Binyamin Abrahamov Konrad world, stretching from the Mediterranean to Hirschler China, and dated to Asadthe Q.eve Ahmed Howard-Johnston any period from of Islam untilJames the early modern era. This Jan Just Witkam Mehmetcan Akpinar Maher Jarrar(Arabic, Persian, series contains original monographs, translations Syriac, Greek, and Latin) and edited volumes. Abdulhadi Alajmi Marcus Milwright Mohammad-Ali Amir-Moezzi Harry Munt Arezou Azad Gabriel Said Reynolds Massimo Campanini Walid A. Saleh Godefroid de Callataÿ Maria Conterno Jens Scheiner Farhad Daftary Delfina Serrano trice Gruendler Wael Hallaq Georges Tamer Bea Ahmad Khan

Jack Tannous Islamic History and Thought provides a platform for scholarly research Isabel Toral-Niehoff on any geographic area within the expansive Islamic world, stretching from the Mediterranean to China, and dated to any Manolis Ulbricht period from the eve of Islam until the early modern era. This series contains original monographs, translations (Arabic, Persian, Syriac, Jan Justand Witkam Greek, Latin) and edited volumes.

Baghdad during the time of ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī

Pascal Held

gp 2022

Gorgias Press LLC, 954 River Road, Piscataway, NJ, 08854, USA www.gorgiaspress.com Copyright © 2022 by Gorgias Press LLC

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the prior written permission of Gorgias Press LLC. ‫ܗ‬

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2022

ISBN 978-1-4632-4438-5

ISSN 2643-6906

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A Cataloging-in-Publication Record is available from the Library of Congress. Printed in the United States of America

TABLE OF CONTENTS Table of Contents ......................................................................... v Acknowledgments ...................................................................... vii Introduction ................................................................................. 1 Previous studies .................................................................... 5 The sources ......................................................................... 13 Approach and Structure ..................................................... 23 Chapter 1. An attempt at reconstructing ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī’s life ...................................................................... 27 Gīlān ................................................................................... 27 The early years in Baghdad ................................................ 39 Withdrawal ......................................................................... 52 Later years in Baghdad ....................................................... 55 Chapter 2. Inner purity and desiring God .................................. 69 Basic requirements ............................................................. 69 The first stage of the mystical path: definition .................. 78 Conduct and practice: original tawba ................................. 83 Master-disciple ................................................................... 85 Other practices ................................................................... 90 ‘Pure tawba’ ........................................................................ 92 ʿAzīma/rukhṣa .................................................................... 94 Excursus: Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī................................ 97 Chapter 3. Inner strength ......................................................... 109 The second stage: definition............................................. 109 Features: states and stations ............................................. 114 Trials and affliction .......................................................... 119 Practice and conduct ........................................................ 123 Withdrawal and seclusion ................................................ 124 v

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BAGHDAD DURING THE TIME OF ʿABD AL-QĀDIR AL-JĪLĀNĪ General conduct ............................................................... 128 Samāʿ ................................................................................ 131 Excursus: Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī ........................ 142

Chapter 4. Surrender and revival ............................................. 163 The third stage: definition ................................................ 163 Features ............................................................................ 168 Theological basis .............................................................. 171 Encounters with the divine .............................................. 177 Love .................................................................................. 184 Excursus: Aḥmad al-Ghazālī ............................................. 189 Chapter 5. Return ..................................................................... 201 God’s representative in society......................................... 205 Excursus: Yūsuf Abū Yaʿqūb al-Hamadānī ....................... 208 Contemporary Sufism ....................................................... 219 Excursus: Ibn al-Jawzī ...................................................... 225 Conclusion ................................................................................ 249 Bibliography ............................................................................. 257 Index......................................................................................... 271

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank my wife Atefeh and my family for their encouragement throughout. I am also indebted to a number of colleagues for their continued support, especially Ahmed El Shamsy, Michael Sells, Christopher Melchert, Eleonora Fernandes, and Amina Elbendary. Finally, my thanks go to Adam Walker and Gorgias Press for making this happen.

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INTRODUCTION One of the early days of the month Rabīʿ al-ākhir in the year 561/1166 1 saw tumultuous scenes in Baghdad. According to chronicles, there was much commotion and crowding as people filled streets, alleys, markets and even the polo ground (ḥalba). 2 Everybody was heading towards Bāb al-Azaj. What had happened? ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, one of the city’s foremost preachers and pious and mystical figures, had just passed away, and Baghdadis were intent on paying their last respects to the man, which turned his funeral into an extremely crowded affair. 3 It is impossible to say which day exactly, but it most likely occurred between the 8th and the 11th day of Rabīʿ al-ākhir 561, that is February 11–14, 1166. There is no agreement on which day exactly al-Jīlānī died, with claims ranging between the 8th and the 10th of Rabīʿ al-ākhir. Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam fī tārīkh al-mulūk wa-al-umam, (Beirut: Dār al-kutub al-ʿilmiyya, 1992), vol. 18, 173; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām wa-wafayāt al-mashāhīr wa-l-aʿlām, (Beirut: Dār al-kutub al-ʿarabī, 1990), vol. 39, 100, Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, Mir'āt al-zamān fī tawārīkh alʿayān, (Beirut: Dār al-risāla al-ʿālamiyya, 2013), vol. 23, 77. 2 Ḥalba seems to have designated the ‘polo ground’ or ‘racecourse’, which was, at times, however used for large public sermons, George Makdisi, “The Topography of Eleventh Century Baghdad: Materials and Notes (I and II)”, Arabica, vi (1959), 289; Guy Le Strange, Baghdad during the Abbasid caliphate from contemporary Arabic and Persian sources, (London: Oxford University Press, 1900), 292. 3 Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, 79, al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 100. 1

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The public farewell after his death marks the end to what had become a close relationship between al-Jīlānī and the inhabitants of the city of Baghdad, though it was not love at first sight and did take a while to develop. Al-Jīlānī, as his nisba indicates, was not originally from Baghdad, but from Gīlān, a region south-west of the Caspian Sea, where he was reportedly born in 470/1077. He arrived in Baghdad at the age of eighteen in 488/1095 to further his education, like so many others during the medieval period. While al-Jīlānī found supervision, support and appreciation among the Ḥanbalī circles he frequented, especially by his master al-Mukharrimī (d. 513/1120), he appears to have remained painfully aware of his partial distinctiveness from the local Baghdadis, in particular through the pronunciation of his Arabic, as he was not a native speaker of Arabic. It was only when he was in his forties that he was able to leave those feelings behind. Spurred on by a new sense of purpose, al-Jīlānī was able to take over the madrasa of his old teacher al-Mukharrimī, which he later expanded and to which he also added a convent (ribāṭ), 4 and became an authority in Ḥanbalī jurisprudence, overseeing many students from Baghdad and elsewhere. He likewise became an acclaimed public preacher, whose sermons would eventually be attended by tens of thousands of Baghdadis on a regular basis. 5 At the same time, alJīlānī became known for his pious and ascetic lifestyle, and his mystical states (aḥwāl) and unveilings (mukāshafa). 6 A spiritually perceptive individual who could discern peoples’ thoughts, but also distinguished himself by his altruism, spiritual counsel, and friendliness. 7 This combination made al-Jīlānī into a public Ibn Rajab, al-Dhayl ʿalā tabaqāt al-ḥanābila, (Cairo: maṭbaʿa al-sunna al-muḥammadiyya, 1952), vol. 1, 291. 5 al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām 96. 6 Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, Ibn Rajab, 291. 7 al-Dhahabī, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, (Beirut: Manshūrāt Muḥammad ʿAlī Bayḍūn, Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2004), vol. 12, 605, Sibṭ Ibn alJawzī, 80. 4

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figure, a saintly and shaykh-like character, revered and followed by many Baghdadis. While his death in 561/1166 brought an end to his immediate influence in Baghdad, al-Jīlānī’s name remained closely connected to the city over the next generations through his offspring who would continue and further his legacy. His son ʿAbd al-Wahhāb (d. 593/1197) took over his father’s madrasa and ribāṭ and became an outstanding legal scholar and ascetic as well as a popular preacher among the Baghdadis, while another son ʿAbd al-Razzāq (d. 603/1207) became a respected hadith scholar and ascetic. 8 Of his grandsons, ʿAbd al-Razzāq’s son Abū Ṣāliḥ (d. 633/1236) likewise became a respected Ḥanbalī scholar. It was also in the generations following al-Jīlānī’s death, though most likely not until the thirteenth century, 9 that alJīlānī’s biography started to undergo substantial modifications. He became, accordingly, glorified as the performer of countless miracles and the source of many wise words and ecstatic expressions. A superhuman miracle-working Sufi saint. This was in line with the idea that he had been the founder of the Qādiriyya Sufi order, named after him, which started to emerge in the same time period. 10 As the Qādiriyya order turned, in the subsequent centuries, into one of the most popular Sufi orders in the Islamic civilization, by spreading as far as the Indian Subcontinent and Northern Africa, so too grew the fame of its eponymous founder throughout Islamic culture.

Ibn Rajab, 388; Angelika Hartmann, An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180– 1225): Politik, Religion, Kultur in der späten 'Abbasidenzeit, (New York; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1975), 193–94. 9 Jacqueline Chabbi, “ʿAbd-al-Ḳādir al-Djīlānī, personnage historique”, SI 38, (1973): 80–81. 10 The establishment and spread of the Qādiriyya, and Sufi orders in general, is not well understood today. It is most likely that this happened in the second half of the seventh/thirteenth and the first half of the eighth/fourteenth-century. 8

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Be that as it may, this monograph is not concerned with alJīlānī’s role as the putative founder of the Qādiriyya order, or the subsequent development of the order. 11 It is first and foremost concerned with ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī himself. The goal is to give a sketch of al-Jīlānī’s background and his life, as extensively and as accurately as trustworthy sources permit this, and thereupon elucidate the mystical path as proposed by him, based on those works that can be rightfully attributed to him. Given how closely al-Jīlānī became connected to Baghdad, spending eventually more than seventy years in the city until his death, and given that he was only one of several outstanding mystically inclined figures or Sufis 12 who made Baghdad their home in the sixth/twelfth-century, this study will also seek to relate al-Jīlānī’s ideas to the wider mystical and pious trends in Baghdad at the time. For that matter, we will be looking to link al-Jīlānī’s outlook with that of other notable contemporary mystics, who lived in Baghdad during his time there, such as Aḥmad al-Ghazālī (d. 520/1126), Abū Yaʿqūb al-Hamadānī See the studies of Chabbi, “ʿAbd-al-Ḳādir al-Djīlānī, personnage historique”; Andre Demeerseman, Nouveau regard sur la voie spirituelle d’ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jīlānī et sa tradicion, (Paris: J. Vrin, 1988); Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam, (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1971). 12 There has obviously been much discussion about the natures of ‘Sufism’ and ‘mysticism’ and the perceived differences between the two. For the purposes of this study, I will use the terms largely synonymously, with the exception of Ibn al-Jawzī, in whose case I do not think that the term ‘Sufism’ is appropriate. As for al-Jīlānī himself; it will be argued that he can be seen as part of the Sufi tradition, but nonetheless was not overly comfortable with the term ‘Sufism’. In light with this, and to accurately convey his ideas, there will be a preference for the term ‘mysticism’ when discussing him, without wishing to disassociate him from ‘Sufism’. For a recent discussion of these issues, see Lloyd Ridgeon, ‘Mysticism in medieval Sufism’, The Cambridge companion to Sufism, ed. Lloyd Ridgeon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 125–49; Alexander Knysh, Sufism: a new history of Islamic mysticism, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2017), 35–61. 11

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(d. 535/1140), Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī (d. 563/1168), Ibn al-Jawzī (d. 597/1201), and Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī (d. 632/1234). Throughout his life, al-Jīlānī came into contact with all of those individuals, in one way or another. The rationale is twofold: for one, this should help to contextualize al-Jīlānī’s own ideas. Beyond that, the aim is to arrive at a more coherent picture of the most prominent trends of pious and mystical thought and practice in Baghdad in the sixth/twelfth-century. Thus, this study intents to be as much an exposition of al-Jīlānī’s thought as an examination of the broader trends of mysticism and piety in sixth/twelfth-century Baghdad. The former is the starting point and the immediate focus, through the lens of which the latter shall be brought to light. In this way, the monograph attempts to introduce a cultural and geographical angle to the study of Islamic mysticism and piety; that is to say, to what extent can geographical regions and cultural environments be tied to specific modes of piety and mysticism, and how do they differ in this from other geographical regions and cultural environments.

PREVIOUS STUDIES

Despite being a major figure in medieval Islamic piety and mysticism and, as the eponymous founder of the Qādiriyya order which developed into one of the most widespread if not the most widespread of all Sufi orders, becoming posthumously one of the most venerated saints in the Islamic Civilization, al-Jīlānī has until now received relatively little attention in modern scholarship. The limited scholarship that has been devoted to him has mainly revolved around the matter of arriving at an accurate picture of the historical ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, rather than giving a thorough analysis of his thought. This agenda was determined by the significant apocryphal additions and embellishment of his biography, which was in many ways connected to the spread of the Qādiriyya order. Inevitably, the more wide-

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spread the order became, the more grew also the legend of its eponymous founder. 13 This was already a dilemma troubling scholars in medieval Islam. Scholars like al-Dhahabī (d. 748/1348) 14 or Ibn Rajab (d. 795/1392) 15 were clearly aware of this issue when attempting to provide an outline of al-Jīlānī’s life. Both give relatively well-balanced and critical accounts of al-Jīlānī, but steer clear of uncertain aspects and so, for example, do not give a list of his works. In modern scholarship, the common knowledge that alJīlānī’s biography had undergone serious posthumous embellishment naturally led to a focus on peeling away the layers of apocryphal material to unearth the historical al-Jīlānī. One pertinent question has been which, of the many works attributed to al-Jīlānī, can be justifiably considered to be genuine, since the inclusion of legendary material to his biography also led to the ascription of numerous evidently dubious works to him. 16 To my knowledge, the first attempt in this direction was undertaken by D. S. Margoliouth in his article “Contributions to the biography of ʿAbd al-Ḳādir” at the beginning of the twentieth-century. 17 Margoliouth shows himself aware of the apocryphal additions to al-Jīlānī’s biography and the unreliable nature of major later accounts like Nūr al-Dīn al-Shaṭṭanawfī (d. 713/1314) or Muḥammad b. Yaḥya al-Tādifī (d. 898–900/1493– 94 or 962–964/1555–56). He therefore seeks to bypass those untrustworthy sources and instead identifies al-Dhahabī’s account of al-Jīlānī, which he translates and discusses, as well as See for example the work of al-Shaṭṭanawfī or al-Tādifī discussed further below. 14 See al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-islām, vol. 39, 86–100; idem, Siyar aʿlām alnubalā’, vol. 12, 600–7. 15 Ibn Rajab, 290–99. 16 Brockelmann lists fifty-eight works attributed to al-Jīlānī. Carl Brockelmann, Geschichte der Arabischen Litteratur, (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2008), vol. 6, 560–564. 17 Samuel Margoliouth, Contributions to the Biography of ʿAbd al-Kadir of Jilan (according to al-Dhahabī), JRAS, (1907): 267–310. 13

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al-Jīlānī’s own works al-Ghunya li-ṭālibī ṭarīq al-ḥaqq, 18 Futūḥ alghayb, and al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī as far more suitable means to arrive at a historical illustration of the man. Walter Braune’s work on al-Jīlānī yielded a translation of Futūḥ al-ghayb into German and an entry in the Encyclopedia of Islam. 19 Like Margoliouth, he dismisses the biographical tradition on al-Jīlānī as largely ahistorical, and relies mainly on alDhahabī and Ibn al-Athīr’s (d. 630/1233) accounts. Braune appears, however, more inclined to prove that not all material in accounts such as given by al-Shaṭṭanawfī is necessarily untrue and legendary. 20 He was perhaps the first scholar to provide insight into al-Jīlānī’s thought, by giving summaries of the Ghunya and in particular of Futūḥ al-ghayb. 21 For that matter, Braune holds both of these works as well as al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī to be genuine. 22 The search for the historical al-Jīlānī led modern scholars eventually to question not merely the typical saintly and miraculous material in his biography but the very idea that he had been a Sufi. Like others before him, Spencer Trimingham, in his seminal book The Sufi Orders in Islam, seriously questions the genuineness of the accounts about al-Jīlānī’s life which emerged amidst the Qādiriyya order in the centuries following his death. 23 Yet, while Margoliouth and Braune do not doubt that alJīlānī was a Sufi, Trimingham concludes that there is no evidence at all that al-Jīlānī was a Sufi, not to mention that he had been teaching Sufism at his madrasa. Trimingham accepts that he may have received Sufi training under Hammād al-Dabbās (d. 525/1130–31), but maintains that, based on the testimony of Hereafter simply referred to as the ‘Ghunya’. ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Die Futūḥ al-ġaib des ʻAbd al-Qādir, trans. Walther Braune, (Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1933); Walther Braune, “ʿAbd al-Ḳādir al-Ḏjī̲ lānī”, Enc. of Islam II. 20 Al-Jīlānī, Die Futūḥ al-ġaib des ʻAbd al-Qādir, 26. 21 Ibid., 28–46; Braune, “ʿAbd al-Ḳādir al-Ḏjī̲ lānī”. 22 Braune, “ʿAbd al-Ḳādir al-Ḏjī̲ lānī”. 23 Trimingham, 41–42. 18 19

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contemporary sources, al-Jīlānī was but a strict Ḥanbalī scholar who taught fiqh at his madrasa. Nevertheless, Trimingham does not appear to explicitly doubt the authenticity of the most wellknown works attributed to al-Jīlānī, the Ghunya, Futūḥ al-ghayb, and al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī. Jacqueline Chabbi in her article ʿAbd-al-Ḳādir al-Djīlānī, personnage historique, 24 and more recently in her entry on al-Jīlānī in the Encyclopedia of Islam, 25 agrees with Trimingham. She illustrates him as an ‘ordinary Ḥanbalī scholar’ who was only elevated to the rank of an eminent Sufi saint by the Qādiriyya order in the decades after his death. She concedes that al-Jīlānī may have immersed himself in Sufism for a short while, as revealed in the episode of his acquaintance with the local Sufi Hammād al-Dabbās, but believes that he returned thereafter to teaching Ḥanbalī fiqh and public preaching. Performing those duties would, in her opinion, have been incompatible with following the mystical path. Unlike Trimingham, Chabbi only accepts the Ghunya as genuine but questions the authenticity of all other works attributed to al-Jīlānī, including Futūḥ al-ghayb and alFatḥ al-rabbānī. The first monograph dedicated entirely to al-Jīlānī in modern scholarship was Andre Demeerseman’s Nouveau regard sur la voie spirituelle d’ʿAbd al-Qadir, 26 published in 1988. It takes a novel approach and argues, based on linguistic comparison, for the authenticity of the Ghunya, Futūḥ al-ghayb and al-Fatḥ alrabbānī. As Demeerseman finds in those texts a close similarity to Sufi works of the tenth-century, he concludes that al-Jīlānī was aware of works associated with proto-Sufism, such as, by Ḥasan al-Baṣrī (d. 110/728), Sahl al-Tūstarī (d. 283/896) or alJunayd (d. 298/910), adopting their terminology and concepts. Overall, therefore, Demeerseman advocates that al-Jīlānī should Chabbi, “ʿAbd-al-Ḳādir al-Djīlānī, personnage historique”, 75–106. Jacqueline Chabbi, “ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī”, Enc. of Islam III. 26 Demeerseman, Nouveau regard sur la voie spirituelle d’ʿAbd al-Qadir alJīlānī et sa tradicion. 24 25

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be seen in the Sufi tradition, despite disregarding some of the developments in Sufism since the tenth-century. Most recently, Hamza Malik’s The grey falcon: the life and teaching of Shaykh 'Abd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī comes to the same conclusion, that al-Jīlānī should be seen as a Sufi. 27 The study relies mainly on the Ghunya, Futūḥ al-ghayb and al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, but implies that other works attributed to al-Jīlānī may be authentic as well. 28 Malik recognizes the typical problems in the study of al-Jīlānī; the posthumous additions to his biography in hagiographical literature and the preconceptions in modern scholarship. Nonetheless, he uses said hagiographical literature as well as other problematic sources rather freely to re-construct alJīlānī’s life. 29 While the study offers a detailed examination of his theological stance and the sources of his thought, the actual treatment of al-Jīlānī’s mystical path is fairly cursory. 30 Notwithstanding all the calls to avoid the apocryphal material in al-Jīlānī’s biography, there have also been attempts to use the hagiographical literature devoted to him, such as by Tilman Nagel. 31 Beyond that, there has also been a translation of Futūḥ al-ghayb into English by M.A. Ahmad, 32 and short biographies of al-Jīlānī in more general books and encyclopedias. 33 Hamza Malik, The grey falcon: the life and teaching of Shaykh 'Abd alQādir al-Jīlānī, (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2019). 28 Ibid., 8–13. 29 See for example, Ibid., 76–78, 83, 90, 92, 95–96. 30 Ibid., 171–206. 31 Tilman Nagel, Im Offenkundigen das Verborgene: die Heilszusage des sunnitischen Islams, (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002). 32 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Futuh al-ghaib; [or] The Revelations of the Unseen, by Shaikh Muhyuddin ʿAbdul Qadir Gilani, trans. Aftab-ud-Din Ahmad, (Lahore: Sh. Muhammad Ashraf, 1958). 33 See for example Marshall G.S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization, vol. 2, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974), 207–9; A.J. Arberry, Sufism, an Account of the Mystics of Islam, (London: Allen & Unwin, 1950), 85; Alexander Knysh, Islamic Mysticism: a short History, (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 181; Annemarie 27

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Modern scholarship about sixth/twelfth-century Baghdad, similar to modern scholarship on al-Jīlānī, is also rather limited. While the early history of the city up to the tenth-century is relatively well-covered and even the events of the eleventh-century have become much clearer, thanks to the work of George Makdisi, 34 and more recently Daphna Ephrat, 35 the sixth/twelfthcentury has been somewhat neglected. This is noteworthy because the sixth/twelfth-century is a rather important period in the history of Baghdad. Beyond being the time when the city was home to an unusual number of major Sufi figures, the period also saw the political revival of the Abbasid caliphate, which, after having been reduced to a figurehead status in the earlytenth-century, started to reassert some sort of political power and became again a regional power to be reckoned with, especially in the second-half of the sixth/twelfth-century. Relevant for our purposes is the already mentioned work of Makdisi on the fifth/eleventh-century, some of which actually stretches into the first decades of the subsequent century. 36 Makdisi’s work in general is crucial to understand the educational and scholarly milieu in the city. Apart from that, the only other major study about Baghdad in the first half of the sixth/twelfth-century is, to my knowledge, Herbert Mason’s biography of Ibn Hubayra (d. 560/1165), which sheds valuable Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1975), 247; B. Lawrence, “'Abd-Al-Qader Jilani,” Enc. Iranica. 34 See among others, George Makdisi, Ibn ʻAqil: religion and culture in classical Islam, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, c1997); Idem, History and politics in eleventh-century Baghdad, (Aldershot: Variorum; Brookfield, Vt: Gower, c1990); Idem, “Muslim institutions of learning in eleventh-century Baghdad”, BSOAS, Vol. 24, No. 1 (1961), 1–56. 35 Daphna Ephrat, A learned society in a period of transition: the Sunni ulama of eleventh century Baghdad, (Albany: State University of New York Press, c2000). 36 Makdisi, Ibn ʻAqil: religion and culture in classical Islam; Idem, “Muslim institutions of learning”.

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light on the political environment and the scholarly circles, and the interactions between the two. 37 In the second part of his book, Mason looks at Caliph al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (r. 575/1180– 622/1225), in the later sixth/twelfth-century and beyond, which also serves as the focus of two other studies relevant for our purposes. Angelika Hartmann’s detailed investigation of al-Nāṣir liDīn Allāh’s rule, 38 though it treats the time after al-Jīlānī’s death, provides useful information concerning the political, scholarly and cultural conditions in Baghdad at the time. Erik Ohlander’s work on Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī, while primarily focused on the latter, likewise offers important insights into the workings of the pious and Sufi circles in the city during this period. 39 In addition, we also have the study of Jacqueline Chabbi on the institution of the ribāṭ, 40 which covers a broader time frame, but is still valuable in this context. Of the contemporary mystics and pious figures that this study aims to compare al-Jīlānī with, none has received sufficient, let alone conclusive treatment. Abū Yaʿqūb al-Hamadānī has barely been studied, but some scholarship has been devoted to Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī and Ibn al-Jawzī, and more recently to Aḥmad al-Ghazālī and Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar alSuhrawardī. 41 Some of these studies certainly also help to better understand contemporary Baghdad. 42 Herbert Mason, Two statesmen of mediaeval Islam: Vizir Ibn Hubayra (499–560AH/1105–1165AD) and Caliph an-Nâsịr li Dîn Allâh (553–622 AH/1158–1225 AD), (The Hague: Mouton, c1972). 38 Angelika Hartmann, An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180–1225). 39 Erik S. Ohlander, Sufism in an age of transition: ‘Umar al-Suhrawardī and the rise of the Islamic mystical brotherhoods, (Leiden: Brill, 2008). 40 Jacqueline Chabbi, La fonction du Ribat à Bagdad, REI, xcii (1974), 101–21. 41 For Abu Yaʿqūb al-Hamadānī see, Wilferd Madelung, Yūsuf alHamadānī and the Naqšbandiyya, QSA 5–6 (1987–8), 499–509; Hamid Algar, “Abu Yaʿqub Hamadāni”, Enc. Iranica; Paul, Jürgen, “Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf al-Hamadānī”, Enc. of Islam III. 37

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For Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī see Florian Sobieroj, “Ibn Khafīf’s al-Kitāb al-Iqdiṣād and Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī’s Adāb al-Murīdīn, A Comparison between Two Works on the Training of Novices”, Journal of Semitic Studies 43, no. 2 (1998): 327–45; idem, “al-Suhrawardī”. Enc. Islam II; Ian Richard Netton, “The Breath of Felicity: Adab, Aḥwāl, Maqāmāt and Abū Najīb al-Suhrawardī”, Classical Persian Sufism: from its Origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn, (London; New York: Khaniqahi Nimatullahi Publications, 1993), 457–82. For Ibn al-Jawzī see, Joseph Norment Bell, Love Theory in later Hanbalite Islam, (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1979); George Makdisi, “Hanbalite Islam”, Studies on Islam, trans. and ed. Merlin L. Swartz, (New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981), 216– 74; idem, “Ibn al-Taymīya: A Ṣūfī of the Qādirīya Order”, The American Journal Of Arabic Studies 1, (1973): 118–29; idem, “The Hanbali School and Sufism”, Humaniora Islamica 2, (1974): 61–74; Merlin Swartz, “Ibn al-Jawzī; a Study of his Life and Work as Preacher”, (PhD diss., Harvard University, 1967). For Aḥmad al-Ghazālī see, Nasrollah Pourjavadi, Sultān-e ṭarīqat, (Tehran: Muʼassasah-ʼi Intishārāt-e Āgāh, 1358 [1979]); idem, “Selfhood and Time in the Sufism of Ahmad Ghazzali,” Sophia Perennis 4/2, 1981, 32–37; idem, “Metaphysik der Liebe: Der Sufismus des Ahmad alGazzali,” Spektrum Iran, 3/1, 1990, 45–72; Joseph Lumbard, Ahmad alGhazali, Remembrance, and the Metaphysics of Love, (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2016). For Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī see, Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar alSuhrawardī, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse des ʻUmar as-Suhrawardī: (ʻAwārif al-maʻārif). Übers. u. eingeleitet von Richard Gramlich, (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1978); Angelika Hartmann, An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180– 1225); idem, Cosmogonie et doctrine de l'âme dans l'oeuvre tardive de 'Umar as-Suhrawardī (m. 632/1234)”, Quaderni di studi arabi, 1993, vol.11, 165–78; idem, Bemerkungen zu Handschriften ʿUmar asSuhrawardīs, in Der Islam, ix (1983), 112–42; Erik S. Ohlander, Sufism in an age of transition; Leonard Lewisohn, “Shihab ad-Din 'Umar Suhrawardi: Treatises on Sufi Chivalry”, Windows on the House of Islam: Muslim Sources on Spirituality and Muslim Sources on Spirituality and Religious Life, ed. John Renard, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 235–44.

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THE SOURCES

As said, al-Jīlānī’s biography over time came to include considerable apocryphal material, which makes dealing with the sources difficult. First of all, we have the biographical information about al-Jīlānī, which comes from two kinds of sources; accounts of him that come out of the scholarly milieu, such as chronicles or biographical dictionaries, and accounts of him that come from authors related to the Qādiriyya order, and should be characterized as hagiographical. The hagiographical tradition about al-Jīlānī, at least in its early stages, centers around al-Shaṭṭanawfī’s Bahja al-asrār. 43 Although possibly not the earliest such account, 44 Bahja al-asrār proved to be very influential, serving as a basis for notable subsequent attempts, 45 like al-Tādifī’s Qalāʼid al-jawāhir. 46 A Shāfiʿī legal scholar from Cairo, where he was apparently considered a major religious and spiritual authority during his life, alShaṭṭanawfī indicates that he was initially motivated to write the work in order to gather reports about the famous ecstatic expression (shaṭḥ) attributed to al-Jīlānī “my foot stands on the necks of all friends of God”, 47 which would become a widely used slogan by the Qādiriyya order. 48 Especially, Swartz’s work on Ibn al-Jawzī, and the already mentioned book by Ohlander. 43 Nur al-Din al-Shaṭṭanawfī, Bahja al-asrār wa-maʿdin al-anwār: fī baʿḍ manāqib al-quṭb al-rabbānī Muḥyī al-Dīn Abī Muḥammad ʻAbd al-Qādir alJīlānī, (Dār al-Kutub al-ʿilmiyah, Beirut, 2020). 44 Margoliouth, “Contributions to the Biography of ʿAbd al-Kadir of Jilan”, 268. 45 Braune, “ʿAbd al-Ḳādir al-Ḏjī̲ lānī”. 46 Muhammad b. Yahya al-Tādifī, Qalāʼid al-jawāhir fī manāqib tāj alawliyāʼ wa-maʻdin al-aṣfiyāʼ wa-sulṭān al-awliyāʼ al-quṭb al-rabbānī alShaykh Muḥyī al-Dīn ʻAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, (Miṣr: ʻAbd al-Ḥamīd Aḥmad Ḥanafī, [1356 [1937]). 47 al-Shaṭṭanawfī, 11. 48 Nagel, 179–80. 42

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The first chapters of the book are indeed devoted to aspects related to this famous expression, such as which Sufi masters (shaykhs) heard and transmitted reports about it, who of them was present when al-Jīlānī said it and who experienced a mystical state as a result of it. 49 Thereafter, al-Shaṭṭanawfī looks at other ecstatic expressions attributed to al-Jīlānī, and describes the meaning and effect of al-Jīlānī’s words, before looking at the principles of his mystical path. 50 Following from that, the reader learns about such aspects as al-Jīlānī’s lineage and early years, his physical appearance, his noble character, the virtues of his companions, his education and training and those he trained and awarded a patched cloak (khirqa). 51 The book concludes by listing responses of al-Jīlānī to questions related to the mystical path, and by reporting the praise and esteem he was held in by other Sufi masters. 52 While Bahja al-asrār is actually a comparatively accessible work and at first glance also well-supported, seemingly offering a chain of transmission (isnād) for every report mentioned, it has been largely dismissed as untrustworthy in modern as well as in medieval scholarship, where scholars like al-Dhahabī and Ibn Rajab already felt the need to warn their audiences against it. 53 And it is not difficult to see why; we find in al-Shaṭṭanawfī’s book reports in which al-Jīlānī walks on air above the heads of those attending his session exclaiming that the sun does not rise without greeting him, 54 that he was surrounded by angels during his sermons, 55 or that other Sufi masters not present in Baghdad could hear al-Jīlānī’s ecstatic expressions made in the city, most notably, Aḥmad Rifāʿī (d. 578/1182), eponymous founder of the Rifāʿīiyya order, heard this in Umm ʿUbayda, in lower Iraq, in al-Shaṭṭanawfī, 14–45. Ibid., 45–52, 52–162, 163–70. 51 Ibid., 171–74, 190–96, 197–201, 201–26. 52 Ibid., 227–38, 251–444. 53 Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 100; Ibn Rajab 293. 54 al-Shaṭṭanawfī, 50. 55 Ibid., 176. 49 50

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576/1180, remarkably some fourteen years after al-Jīlānī had passed away. 56 In Bahja al-asrār we find al-Jīlānī for the first time, perhaps, depicted in the image of the superhuman, miracle-working Sufi saint. An image that would become pervasive but had little to do with the historical al-Jīlānī. Out of that, the book has been mostly shunned by scholars seeking to re-establish al-Jīlānī’s life and thought, and this will also be the approach of this study, which will neither rely on al-Shaṭṭanawfī nor on any of the subsequent hagiographical accounts of al-Jīlānī. That is not say, that al-Shaṭṭanawfī’s work is purely legendary. Some reports in it are also found in more reliable accounts about al-Jīlānī such as respected biographical dictionaries. 57 A limited part of Bahja al-asrār may well be factual, 58 but the problem is how to distinguish between fictional and factual elements, with anything resembling certainty, which seems to me impossible. In addition, one has to keep in mind that, by definition, hagiographies aim at depicting saints’ lives in idealizing and venerating fashion, which is at odds with the principles of the scholarly study of history. Instead, this study will rely on information about al-Jīlānī as provided in medieval Islamic scholarship around the time, as given in chronicles and biographical dictionaries. It is obvious that accounts in these works are by no means free from apocryphal material. In fact, one has to assume that, in a case like alJīlānī, a large portion of the material is unreliable, even in such scholarly works. As said, a few reports of al-Shaṭṭanawfī can also be found in so-called ‘scholarly works’, and the authors of the latter were certainly not devoid of their own agendas. 59 Yet, on Ibid., 13. See for example, ibid., 168, 174, 176, 201. 58 As has already been suggested by individuals like Braune and Nagel. Die Futūḥ al-ġaib des ʻAbd al-Qādir, 26; Nagel, 186. 59 Also noted by Nagel, Nagel, 186. See also the revealing remark of alDhahabī about Ibn al-Jawzī’s entry of al-Jīlānī in his al-Muntaẓam. AlDhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 89. 56 57

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the whole, contemporary chronicles and biographical dictionaries exhibit a certain degree of objectivity and adhere to an ideal of accumulating reliable knowledge, by seeking to distinguish between trustworthy and untrustworthy information, which makes them more suitable to the endeavors of this study. Beyond the biographical information about al-Jīlānī, we also have a list of works that are attributed to him. Carl Brockelmann found as many as fifty-eight books accredited to him. 60 Just as with accounts about al-Jīlānī’s life, many of those attributions can be dismissed as posthumous. Naturally, as al-Jīlānī’s biography grew ever larger and more legendary in the centuries after his death, so too grew the number of books ascribed to him. As outlined above, in modern scholarship, with the exception of Chabbi and possibly Trimingham, there is a broad consensus that recognizes three works attributed to al-Jīlānī as genuine: the Ghunya, Futūḥ al-ghayb, and al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī. This is also the position taken by this study, which will rely exclusively on these three works to elucidate al-Jīlānī’s thought and mystical path. The book that is unanimously accepted as genuine, even by those who question other ascriptions, 61 is al-Ghunya li-ṭālibī ṭarīq al-ḥaqq, 62 literally ‘sufficient provision for the seekers of the path of God’. It has also proven to be al-Jīlānī’s most famous work, and became a celebrated and often referred to manual of instruction in subsequent generations, both among those inclined to mysticism and others. 63 It constitutes in all likeliness, the only extant piece of writing by al-Jīlānī himself, composed during his lifetime, since both Futūḥ al-ghayb, and al-Fatḥ alBrockelmann, vol. 6, 560–564. Even the otherwise suspicious Jacqueline Chabbi accepts it as genuine, see for this Chabbi, “ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī; Chabbi, “ʿAbd-al-Ḳādir al-Djīlānī, personnage historique”, 103. 62 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya li-ṭālibī ṭarīq al-ḥaqq, (Beirut: Dār Iḥyā’ al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 1996). 63 Arberry, Sufism, an Account of the Mystics of Islam, 85; Knysh, Islamic Mysticism: a short History, 181. 60 61

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rabbānī are collections of his sermons assembled during or after his lifetime. Given that the Ghunya represents the accomplishment of a vastly experienced scholar and Sufi who brings together his extensive knowledge of the various branches of Islamic sciences, and his intimate familiarity with the mystical path including all pertaining spiritual and mundane aspects, it was likely produced during the last two decades of al-Jīlānī’s life, i.e. sometime between the early 1140s and the early 1160s (roughly 535–555 in the hijrī calendar). The fact that it was conceived from the beginning as a written work, is also borne out in its sophisticated organization and clear designation of its contents, which makes it a rather accessible book to the reader. Being a fairly sizeable work, 64 the Ghunya is divided into six books (kitāb); ‘the book of zakāt’, ‘the book of fasting during Ramaḍān’ (kitāb al-ṣiyām), ‘the book of retreat’ (kitāb al-iʿtikāf), 65 ‘the book of ḥajj’, ‘the book of conduct’ (kitāb al-ādāb) and ‘the book of conduct of the mystical novices’ (kitāb ādāb al-murīdīn). In truth, it really revolves around the last two books, the ‘the book of conduct’ and ‘the book of conduct of the mystical novices’, which make up almost the entire work. 66 These two books are divided into chapters (bāb), and, in turn, sessions (majlis) to discuss more specific matters. Classifying the Ghunya as a manual of instruction seems correct. 67 As its title suggests, al-Jīlānī intends to guide his readThe edition used for this study consists of about four-hundred and seventy lengthy pages. 65 Such retreats are performed all year, but are in particular associated with the last ten days of the month of Ramaḍān, into which falls layla al-qadr. This is related to a tradition that the Prophet retreated during this time. In works of Islamic jurisprudence its discussion therefore usually follows immediately after the fasting of Ramaḍān, as in the case of the Ghunya. G. H. Bousquet, “Iʿtikāf”, Enc. of Islam II. 66 About four-hundred sixty out of four-hundred seventy pages in the edition used here. 67 Arberry, Sufism, an account of the mystics of Islam, 85; Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, 181. The Ghunya has also been identified as ʿaqīda, a creed 64

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ers along the path that concludes in the proximity of God. For this, the Ghunya starts at the very beginning, with the conversion to Islam through the two professions of faith, before specifying the five pillars of Islam. 68 Thereafter the reader is, in the book of conduct, introduced to such fundamental matters as the required decorum in everyday life, ‘commanding what is good and forbidding what is reprehensible’, basic theological principles, seeking refuge from Satan, the sciences of the heart, the dangers of the lower soul, sincerity, returning to God (tawba) and supererogatory practices. Upon this comes ‘the book of conduct of the mystical novices’, which is to say that one enters upon the mystical path properly while what came before can be considered a preparatory stage to it. In this book, al-Jīlānī defines certain terms within the framework of his path, he sets rules of conduct for novices and regular mystics (faqīr) and finally he explains a number of central Sufi concepts. After the Ghunya, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 69 rendered ‘insights into the hidden’, has received most attention in modern scholarship, being translated on two occasions. In general, scholars have deemed it genuine, except for Jacqueline Chabbi, who has questioned its authenticity. 70 While Futūḥ al-ghayb, in its extant form, setting out the basic doctrines of Islam. While certain parts could perhaps be identified as such, the rest of the work, making up about threequarters of it, does not warrant such a definition. The Ghunya’s overall mystical focus, emphasis on everyday conduct and supererogatory works and detailed and lengthy way of discussion do not coincide with the concept of an ʿaqīda. At most, one could argue that it is a manual of instruction which, contains a creed. See for this Jon Hoover, “Creed”, Enc. of Islam III; Jacqueline Chabbi, “ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī”. 68 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 23–34. One noteworthy aspect is that retreat (iʿtikāf) is treated in a separate book, amid the books of the pillars of Islam, and could so be seen like an additional pillar. 69 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, (Cairo: al-Maktaba alAzhariyya li-l-Turāth, 2004). 70 Jacqueline Chabbi, “ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī”, Enc. Islam III. She questions the authenticity of Futūḥ al-ghayb mainly due to a perceived in-

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may have been compiled by al-Jīlānī’s sons after his passing away, there can be little doubt as to its authenticity. One indicator for this is, for example, that one finds the exact phrase ‘futūḥ al-ghayb’ mentioned in the Ghunya, which itself is unanimously accepted as authentic. 71 More significantly, there is considerable thematic, sometimes verbatim, overlap between Futūḥ al-ghayb and the Ghunya. For example, both works repeatedly appeal to their audiences to be content with their share in this world, and rely on the same argumentation and, at times, even the same wording in this. 72 The two works also concur in their choice, treatment and interpretation of Quran 15:99 73 and they highlight the very same central qualities for spiritual advancement and present them in the exact same order. 74 Finally, the testimonies of respected scholars living closer to the time of al-Jīlānī also confirm Futūḥ al-ghayb’s genuineness. The well-known scholar Ibn al-Kathīr (d. 774/1373) accredits the work to him 75 and the fellow Ḥanbalī Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328) even composed a partial commentary on it, in the belief that the work is al-Jīlānī’s. 76

compatibility with the Ghunya. However, in an earlier article “ʿAbd-alḲādir al-Djīlānī, personnage historique”, Chabbi seems to reluctantly accept the authenticity of Futūḥ al-ghayb due to Ibn Taymiyya’s later commentary on it, see Chabbi, “ʿAbd-al-Ḳādir al-Djīlānī, personnage historique”, 103. 71 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 22. 72 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 16–17; Ibid., 488. 73 ‘Worship your Lord until certainty (death) comes to you’ (waʿbud rabba-ka ḥattā yātī-ka al-yaqīn), ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 109–10; ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 142. 74 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 125–29; ʿAbd al-Qādir alJīlānī, al-Ghunya, 475–77. 75 Ibn al-Kathīr, al-Bidāya wa-l-nihāya, (Damascus; Beirut: Dār Ibn Kathīr, 2010), vol. 17, 171. 76 Ibn Taymiyya, Sharḥ Futūḥ al-ghayb li-l-imām al-rabbānī ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, (Damascus: Dār al-Qādirī, 1995).

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Physically, Futūḥ al-ghayb is a collection of seventy-eight treatises (maqāla), of variant length from a few lines to almost four pages, which were delivered as sermons. Al-Jīlānī was of course an eminent public preacher during his time, but it is unlikely that these sermons constitute public sermons. 77 While certain treatises or certain sections of treatises could have been part of larger public homilies, due to their relatively straightforward subject matter and delivery, many treatises of Futūḥ al-ghayb appear more fitting for lectures in a more private setting. They allude to mystical content in often complex and profound manner, and use specified concepts and technical terminology. Likewise, Futūḥ al-ghayb does not entertain its audience through poetry or pious stories nor does it exhort them through illustrations of the horrors of hell, all hallmarks of public sermons in medieval Islamic culture. 78 Futūḥ al-ghayb is al-Jīlānī’s most revealing exposition regarding his notions of the mystical path. The Ghunya stipulates all kinds of rules, principles, requirements and conduct attached to it, but it is not very forthcoming regarding his actual mystical path. This gap is filled by Futūḥ al-ghayb and also al-Fatḥ alrabbānī. Former sets out al-Jīlānī’s path over four stages by which the Sufi becomes one with divine will. In addition, the book also answers certain questions concerning the author’s view on mystical states and stations and the hierarchy among the mystically inclined. As for putting a date on Futūḥ al-ghayb, it evidently falls into the second part of al-Jīlānī’s life when he left behind ascetic seclusion, and adopted a more public role, taking charge of a Hodgson, 209; Braune, ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī; Die Futūḥ al-ġaib des ʻAbd al-Qādir, 27. 78 Angelika Hartmann, “Islamisches Predigtwesen im Mittelalter: Ibn alGauzi und sein “Buch der Schlussreden” (1186 n. Chr.)”, Saeculum 38, (1987): 339–41; Merlin Swartz, “Arabic Rhetoric and the Art of Homily in Medieval Islam”, in Religion and Culture in Medieval Islam, ed. Richard G. Hovannisian and Georges Sabagh, (Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 40–43. 77

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madrasa and a ribāṭ. We are therefore looking at the period between 1127 and 1166 (approximately 521–561 in the hijrī calendar). As Futūḥ al-ghayb represents, however, a compilation of lectures of a very experienced speaker, one would assume that those lectures took place in the last two decades of his life, between the early 1140s and the early 1160s (roughly 535–555 in the hijrī calendar). The work of al-Jīlānī that has received least attention is alFatḥ al-rabbānī, 79 translated as ‘divine opening’, despite the fact that it is generally regarded as authentic. Again, Chabbi objects to this view, accepting only the Ghunya as genuine. 80 When reading al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī in depth and with an awareness of the other books, it becomes however unambiguous that this is indeed al-Jīlānī’s work. While it contains no direct references to his two other works, and is not generally mentioned in medieval literature, the thematic, terminological and conceptual overlap with the other works is too obvious as to leave room for other conclusions. Many of the central themes of al-Jīlānī’s thinking, among others, his view on the lower soul, creation, accepting one’s lot, adherence to strict (ʿazīma) and lenient (rukhṣa) codes of conduct, sincerity and hypocrisy, the sciences of the heart, spiritual hierarchies and becoming one with divine will are presented in the exact same way as they are presented in the other two books. What may have prevented al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī from receiving more attention is that it is a substantial work, 81 much longer than Futūḥ al-ghayb, but, at the same time, rather onerous to use in comparison with the other two works. It consists of sixty-two sessions (majlis), ranging from a mere page to about thirteen pages except for the last two sessions, which extend over about ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, (Giza: Dār al-rayān liturāth). 80 And possibly Trimingham, who however does not explicitly state this. 81 In the edition used for this study over three-hundred and seventy longish pages. 79

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twenty and ninety pages respectively. The sessions are made up of sermons, or rather parts of sermons, given by al-Jīlānī. Generally, a specific session appears to only include part of one sermon, which is also indicated by the fact that the exact date and location of the sermon is usually given at the beginning of each session. This does, however, not apply to the last session, ninety pages in length, and possibly also not to the preceding session, both of these sessions seem to include parts of different sermons as well as separate questions answered by al-Jīlānī. While the style of oratory is very similar to the Futūḥ alghayb, there are some obvious differences; in al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, al-Jīlānī is more prone to make references to himself, and he shows himself notably more critical of his audience. 82 We have more information about the setting of the sermons that make up al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī than in the case of Futūḥ al-ghayb; they were apparently all held either in al-Jīlānī’s madrasa or ribāṭ. 83 This would mean that they were not public sermons at the largest scale, but more likely lectures at a more private level, just like the collection of sermons in Futūḥ al-ghayb, for which the madrasa and the ribāṭ were more appropriate. This would also coincide with the fact that the themes and terminology in those lectures are too specific and advanced to have been part of public sermons. Like with Futūḥ al-ghayb, it is possible that al-Fatḥ alrabbānī was only collected after al-Jīlānī’s death. With regard to content, there is, as said, much overlap with the two other books, but the greater length and lack of thematic organization of al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī make a brief overview of the content a difficult task. While it covers many of the same aspects that have already been highlighted in the other works, there are For his criticism of the audience see, for example, al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ alrabbānī, 17, 19–20, 24, 56, 75, 80, 90, 104, 114, 132, 155, 216, 246, 271, 277, 301–02; and for references to himself see, for example, ibid., 24, 38, 40, 56, 104, 146–51, 160–61, 172, 174, 176, 202, 219, 227, 243, 252, 255, 272, 277–78, 280, 308, 315, 322, 347, 368. 83 For one or two no venue is given, but it was in all likeliness either one of the two venues. 82

INTRODUCTION

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a number of aspects which find greater emphasis in al-Fatḥ alrabbānī, for example, love between God and human beings, trial and affliction, experiencing the hereafter in this world, or seclusion and withdrawal. Unlike the other works, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī can be precisely dated, for the reason that each session usually includes both date and venue. Accordingly, all sessions fall in the time period between the 3rd of the month of Shawwāl 545 (23rd of January, 1151) and the end of the month of Rajab (early November) of the same year. 84 As for other writings accredited to al-Jīlānī, I have not come across anything published that could pass as his. Even a cursory reading of books like Sirr al-asrār, 85 al-Safīnah alQādirīyah, 86 or al-Fuyūḍāt al-rabbānīyah fī al-maʼāthir wa-al-awrād al-Qādirīyah, 87 all of which are commonly counted among his corpus, makes clear that this is not his work. Although there may well be authentic manuscripts out there, which have not yet been edited and published, as things stand now, the most reasonable assumption that can be made is that the three books introduced above are the only genuine writings of this author that are extant.

APPROACH AND STRUCTURE

This study will for that reason rely primarily on these three works that can be positively authenticated as al-Jīlānī’s work as well as biographical information from what are deemed reliable No exact date is given for the last session. It says that it took place at the end of the month of Rajab 545/1151, but this must have been after the 20th of this month, since this was the date of the preceding session. 85 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Sirr al-asrār wa-muẓhir al-anwār: risālah fī altaṣawūf, (al-Qāhirah: Maktabat al-Thaqāfah al-Dīniyyah, 2008) 86 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, al-Safīnah al-Qādirīyah, (Ṭarābulus, Lībiyā: Maktabat al-Najāḥ, [197–]) 87 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, al-Fuyūḍāt al-rabbānīyah fī al-maʼāthir wa-alawrād al-Qādirīyah, ([Cairo]: al-Maktabah al-Azharīyah li-l-Turāth, 2000). 84

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medieval sources. The objectives of this monograph are twofold; first of all, it will focus on al-Jīlānī himself, which means that it will seek to draw an accurate picture of his background and his life as well as give an in-depth analysis of his thought and mystical path. Secondly, the monograph will attempt to connect al-Jīlānī’s outlook with the broader Sufi trends in Baghdad during his lifetime. Accordingly, it aims to compare his ideas with those of other major figures in the sphere of Sufism and piety in Baghdad during al-Jīlānī’s time. The study has for this purpose identified five other major figures, Aḥmad al-Ghazālī, Abū Yaʿqūb alHamadānī, Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī, Ibn al-Jawzī, and Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī. They can be regarded as the most eminent mystics in sixth/twelfth-century Baghdad and, as an added advantage, al-Jīlānī can be connected to each one of them by some form of personal contact. 88 Relating his ideas with those of his major contemporaries should help us contextualizing al-Jīlānī’s own viewpoint, and beyond that should allow us to arrive at a more comprehensive understanding of the most prevailing trends of piety and Sufism in Baghdad during this time. Some of the questions that this monograph seeks to tackle, in connection with this, are, how much similarity and divergence can be found in those trends in Baghdad, and, by extension, to what degree specific modes of medieval piety and mysticism can be tied to a geographical region and cultural environment, such as Baghdad, and to what degree this differs in this way from other geographical regions and cultural environments. This study is hence not primarily concerned with the two questions that have been the main focus of modern scholarship in connection with al-Jīlānī; his role as alleged founder of the Qādiriyya order and whether he should be seen in the Sufi tradition or not, though the latter aspect will naturally be touched Needless to say, the examination of those individuals will draw from another set of sources than what has been specified for al-Jīlānī.

88

INTRODUCTION

25

upon. The principal interest of this monograph, along with an exposition of his thought and his mystical path, is to find out how al-Jīlānī fits with the contemporary Sufi and pious milieu in Baghdad. Given that our reliable biographical information on alJīlānī is rather sparse, but we have decent resources regarding his thought and mystical path, thanks to the three generally accepted works of his, I have opted to set the structure of this monograph in accordance with the latter rather than the former. That is to say, except for the introductory chapter outlining his life, the chapters will be organized in line with the stages of his mystical path. I have made out four stages in al-Jīlānī’s path, each of which will be heading a chapter, along with the biographical chapter. Al-Jīlānī’s contemporaries will be treated in excursuses throughout the four chapters devoted to his thought. The following is an outline of the chapters. The first chapter will outline al-Jīlānī’s background and his life. For this purpose, we will examine where he originally came from, in other words, the region of Gīlān, south-west of the Caspian Sea, what the environment in Gīlān was like at the time, and to what degree we can find traces of this background in alJīlānī’s personality or outlook. Following this, the study will sketch out his time in Baghdad in as accurate manner as possible, exploring his education and his teachers, his early experiences with Sufism, his tendencies to withdrawal, his eventual return to society and becoming an eminent public preacher and head of a madrasa and a ribāṭ. Chapter two will be looking at the first stage of al-Jīlānī’s mystical path. It will give us the opportunity to elucidate his basic and theological outlook and identify the pre-requirements that he sets for individuals taking up the garb of a mystic. Thereafter the study will turn to such relevant aspects as returning to God (tawba), the master-disciple relationship, dealing with the lower soul, and adherence to strict (ʿazīma) and lenient (rukhṣa) codes of conduct. In this context, the monograph will make its first excursus to introduce Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī. In the following chapter, the second stage of al-Jīlānī’s mystical path will be treated. At this level, one has become a fully

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immersed mystic or Sufi, having left behind the noviciate and the initial steps of the path. This chapter hence revolves around extreme asceticism, voluntary poverty, spiritual exercises and periods of withdrawal from society. Simultaneously, it will be examined what is expected of mystics regarding conduct at this level and what friendship with God (wilāya), which designates this stage, means according to al-Jīlānī. In connection with this, the ideas of Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī will be examined. The fourth chapter will be concerned with the subsequent stage of al-Jīlānī’s path, the stage at which the mystic reaches the end of the path. For this, one has to undergo annihilation of the self (fanā’) 89 to be revived spiritually, two topics which will feature in this chapter. Furthermore, we will learn about standing in lieu of divine will (badaliyya), which defines this stage, experiencing the hereafter in this world and al-Jīlānī’s interpretation of love between God and the mystic. This chapter will also provide the setting to present Aḥmad al-Ghazālī in a further excursus. The final chapter will be devoted to the fourth stage of alJīlānī’s path. It is about returning to live in society after having completed the path, and as such assuming an outwardly regular lifestyle and accepting one’s allotments from God. We will discover how this happens as well as what it entails to become God’s representative in this world. This chapter will also shed light on al-Jīlānī’s outlook on contemporary Sufism and it will introduce Abū Yaʿqūb al-Hamadānī and Ibn al-Jawzī in two excursuses.

89

Or ‘passing away from the self’.

CHAPTER 1.

AN ATTEMPT AT RECONSTRUCTING ʿABD AL-QĀDIR AL-JĪLĀNĪ’S LIFE GĪLĀN

Medieval and modern sources all but agree that al-Jīlānī was originally from the region of Gīlān, south-west of the Caspian Sea, as indicated by his nisba. It should be noted, at this stage, that he is frequently found in medieval works under the nisba ‘al-Jīlī’ rather than ‘al-Jīlānī’, which makes however no difference to his origins. The name of the region Gīlān became arabized in the early Islamic period as ‘Jīl’ or less often ‘Jīlān’, and so the nisba for someone hailing from this region would either be ‘Jīlī’ or ‘Jīlānī’, as in this case. 1 Then again, there are occasional claims in medieval sources that seek to associate al-Jīlānī with a village by the name of ‘Jīl’ or ‘Kīl’, either near Madā’in or Wāsiṭ in Iraq, as this would pro-

See Abū Saʿd al-Samʿānī, Kitāb al-ansāb, (Beirut: Dar al-Janān, 1988), vol. 2, 145–46. In his discussion about the nisba related to Gīlān, Yāqūt al-Rūmī cites one noteworthy viewpoint which claims that if the attribution is in relation to the actual region of Gīlān, it is ‘Jīlānī’, and if it is in relation to a person from Gīlān, it is ‘Jīlī’. Shihāb al-Dīn al-Ḥamawī Yāḳūt al-Rūmī, Muʿjam al-Buldān, (Leipzip: F.A. Brockhaus, 1866–73), vol. 2, 179. 1

27

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duce the same nisba. 2 Such suggestions have however gained little traction in scholarship, as they appear contrived. Besides a closer look at biographical and autobiographical information about al-Jīlānī likewise disproves such claims. He gives the impression of someone who did not feel immediately at home in Baghdad and who was not a native speaker of Arabic. 3 Someone from near Madā’in or Wāsiṭ, or anywhere else in Iraq, would surely have settled in Baghdad with greater ease and would almost inevitably have been a native speaker of Arabic. Thus, we can say with certainty that al-Jīlānī came originally from the region of Gīlān, but beyond that fact looms much ambiguity; for one, because we do not really know where in Gīlān exactly he came from, and for another, and more importantly, we know precious little about the prevailing conditions in this region during this time, which makes a discussion of his background a very difficult task. One could of course argue that neither of those two aspects are overly significant, given that al-Jīlānī would become much more closely associated with Baghdad, where he would find fame and where he would spend the large majority of his life, around seventy years. Yet it is almost unanimously agreed in medieval sources that he only arrived in Baghdad at around the age of eighteen, in the year 488/1095, which means that he spent the entire formative period of his life in Gīlān. 4 Needless to say, that al-Jīlānī’s basic outlook and personality were thereSee for example Nur al-Din al-Shaṭṭanawfī, Bahja al-asrār wa-maʿdin al-anwār: fī baʿḍ manāqib al-quṭb al-rabbānī Muḥyī al-Dīn Abī Muḥammad ʻAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿilmiyah, 2020), 171–74. 33 Lawrence even reports, though based on later sources, that he was called ‘ʿajamī’, that is ‘non-Arab’, in Baghdad. B. Lawrence, “'Abd-AlQader Jilani,” Enc. Iranica. 4 One could even argue that since human beings had on average significantly shorter lifespans in the medieval period than they have in the modern age, they grew up and developed quicker than people today and so al-Jīlānī was at the age of eighteen more developed than someone at the same age today. 2

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fore a product of his time in Gīlān, and already in place when he arrived in Baghdad, which makes detailed information about the circumstances in Gīlān at the time, and the exact location of his provenance all the more desirable. Given the posthumous additions to al-Jīlānī’s biography, there has of course been no shortage of suggestions concerning his exact place of origin. First of all, it should however be noted that most medieval biographical dictionaries and chronicles do not specify a provenance beyond the region of Gīlān. Otherwise there are two main theories in medieval literature; the first, notably advanced by the well-known late sixth/twelfth and early seventh/thirteenth-century traveller and geographer Yāqūt alRūmī (d. 626/1229), claims that al-Jīlānī came from a place called Būshtīr in Gīlān, 5 and the other, perhaps first reported by al-Shaṭṭanawfī, holds that he originated from a place by the name of Nayf or Nīf, also in Gīlān. 6 Of the two theories, the latter, i.e. that al-Jīlānī came from Nayf or Nīf, appears to have been more accepted in the hagiographical and popular circles and even found some recognition in modern scholarship. 7 The problem with this claim is that it apparently originates with al-Shaṭṭanawfī, or can at least be traced back to him in those works still extant, and the difficulties of using his work for reconstructing al-Jīlānī’s life have already been outlined. It is telling that none of the medieval biographical dictionaries or chronicles picked up on this, despite the fact that some were aware of al-Shaṭṭanawfī’s writing and sometimes their reports even overlap. Yāqūt al-Rūmī, vol. 1, 631. Note also the author’s unusually negative tone regarding al-Jīlānī seemingly implying that he was a hypocrite. 6 Al-Shaṭṭanawfī, Bahja al-asrār wa-maʿdin al-anwār, 171. Al-Shaṭṭanawfī also lists other reports, which associate al-Jīlānī with certain villages in Iraq, as mentioned above. 7 See for example, Walther Braune, “ʿAbd al-Ḳādir al-Ḏjī̲ lānī”, Enc. of Islam II; Hamza Malik, The grey falcon: the life and teaching of Shaykh 'Abd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2019), 74. 5

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Furthermore, a place by the name of Nayf or Nīf, or anything resembling that, is not attested in any of the major medieval Islamic geographical sources dealing with Gīlān. 8 That in itself does not necessarily undermine this claim, because the geographical works generally only list larger settlements and there must have been hundreds of smaller villages which remained unmentioned and could potentially have been this particular place. But in many ways, even if we assume for a moment that this is true and al-Jīlānī really originated from a village called Nayf or Nīf, without additional details such as a location and other background information on the place, the name of his provenance alone holds little use for us. And the same applies to the second theory, that al-Jīlānī was from a place by the name of Būshtīr. This information comes from an evidently more reliable source, as Yāqūt al-Rūmī was a renowned traveller and scholar, and otherwise unconnected to al-Jīlānī, but again no additional background information or location is provided and no place of such a name, or anything resembling this, can be found in any other medieval Islamic geographical works, so that this is of little value to our purposes. Mustawfī mentions a village called ‘Naysir’ or ‘Nīsir’, but this is as close as it gets, Ḥamd Allāh Mustawfī, Bakhsh-i nukhust az maqāleh-i sevvum-i Nuzhat al-qulūb, (Tehrān: Kitābkhāneh-i Ṭahūrī, 1336 [1958]), 204. See otherwise also Abū Isḥāq al-Iṣṭakhrī, al-Masālik wa-l-Mamālik, (Leiden: Brill, 1927), 204–05; Ibn Ḥawqal, Kitāb al-masālik wa-lmamālik, (Lugduni-Batavorum: Brill 1873), 267–268; al-Muqaddasī, Aḥsan al-taqāsīm, (Berlin: Brill, 1906), 353–68; Ḥudūd al-ʿālam: The regions of the world: a Persian geography, 372 A.H. / 982 A.D., translated and explained by V. Minorsky; with the preface by V. V. Barthold, (London: 1937), 53, 136–37; Yāḳūt al-Rūmī, vol. 1, 631, vol. 2, 179–80; Abu al-Fidā, Taqwīm al-Buldān, (Paris: l’imprimerie royal, 1840), 426– 27; ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlī Kāshānī, Tāʻrīkh-i-Ūljāytū, (Tehrān: Bungāh tarjumah wa-Nashr-e Kitāb, 1348 [1969]), 56–61.

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Given that we are unable to corroborate either claim, and besides neither of them would add anything of substance to this discussion, we will have to be content ourselves with the knowledge that al-Jīlānī came originally from Gīlān, but that based on the currently available sources uncovering his precise provenance is not possible. Not for no reason, does none of the major medieval biographical dictionaries or chronicles that include entries on al-Jīlānī specify his birthplace any further than the region of Gīlān. Yet, while we are not in the position to determine the place of his provenance, this does not mean we cannot give a brief description of Gīlān around the time, and, based on that, attempt to further delimit the area that al-Jīlānī came from within the region. It should be noted that there are certain variations in the definitions and descriptions of Gīlān in the medieval geographical works, but throughout one gets the impression that the region was a backwater. Situated between the south-western end of the Caspian Sea and the north-western corner of the Alborz mountain range, the region included both mountainous areas and the lowlands of the coastal strip. To the south Gīlān was bordered by Ṭabarestān and to the north by the Tālish region, though the latter is at times considered as part of Gīlān. 9 The “Hyrcanian” climate that affects the Caspian coastal area as a whole made for luxuriant vegetation and dense forests in both spheres. 10 As a result of its secluded and peripheral location, central authorities struggled to impose their authority on the region throughout history. In early Islamic times, Gīlān was apparently not directly controlled by the Arabs and conversion to Islam was Some writers like the author of Ḥudūd al-ʿālam, al-Muqaddasī or Kāshānī consider Tālish part of Gīlān, while others do not. AlMuqaddasī, 353–55, 360; Ḥudūd al-ʿālam, 388–90; Kāshānī, 56–61; Wilferd Madelung, “Gīlān”, Enc. Iranica; B. Spuler, “Gīlān”, Enc. Islam II. 10 al-Iṣṭakhrī, 204–05; Ibn Ḥawqal, 268; Kāshānī, 55. 9

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slow. 11 The region was home to the so-called Gilites, in other words, the inhabitants of Gīlān, 12 but there were also other people inhabiting the region, such as, the Deylamites, and sometimes the Tālish people in the north were counted as part of it. The Gilites, as well as the Deylamites, spoke in the early Islamic centuries a north-western Persian dialect, that was mostly incomprehensible to other Persian speakers. 13 There are however indications that this may have been changing from the late fourth/tenth-century onward; either that a growing number of Gilites knew regular Persian or that they adopted a more intelligible dialect. 14 In the early period, especially in the fourth/tenth and fifth/eleventh-century, Gīlān, and its inhabitants the Gilites, are generally defined in contrast to or in connection with Deylam, and its people the Deylamites. In fact, the most prominent geographers at the time such as al-Iṣṭakhrī, Ibn Ḥawqal, alMuqaddasī and the anonymous author of Ḥudūd al-ʿālam tend to identify the region that became later known as Gīlān as Deylam or Deylamān. 15 Within this region, according to most sources, Madelung, “Gīlān”, Enc. Iranica. Or Gīl people, today known as Gīlakis. 13 Although both Ibn Ḥawqal and al-Iṣṭakhrī actually felt that the languages spoken in Gīlān were no longer Persian, but something different altogether. Madelung, “Gīlān”, Enc. Iranica; Ibn Ḥawqal, 268; alIṣṭakhrī, 204–05. 14 al-Muqaddasī, 365; Madelung, Abu Ishaq al-Sabi on the Alids of Tabaristan and Gīlān, 26. Interestingly, later works such as the early fourteenth-century Nuzhat al-qulūb and Tāʻrīkh-i-Ūljāytū no longer make any mention of encountering strange tongues in the region, which could indicate that by that time a majority of the Gilites were capable of communicating in standard Persian. Mustawfī, 202–05; Kāshānī, 56– 61. 15 Deylamān being the plural of Deylam. Indeed, al-Muqaddasī defines all of the southern Caspian coastal strip as Deylam and the region that later became known as Gīlān as Deylamān. On the other hand, the anonymous author of Ḥudūd al-ʿālam designates all of the southern 11 12

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Deylamites are said to have lived in the highlands, therefore also called Deylam, 16 and Gilites are said to have inhabited the coastal plain, hence designated as Gīlān. This is however a bit of an over-simplified categorization, as Ḥudūd al-ʿālam and also modern research has shown that Deylamites also commonly lived in the lowlands, especially in eastern Gīlān, close to the border with Ṭabarestān. 17 Be that as it may, in this way, Gīlān was not seen as a region, but as a mere sub-region in the region of Deylam. This emphasis on Deylam, and the Deylamites, was due to the political circumstances at the time. With the Būyid dynasty (333/945–447/1055), of Deylamite origin, controlling much of the eastern half of the Islamic civilization including Baghdad for over a century, Deylam received more than its fair share of attention. 18 After the demise of the Būyid dynasty in the midfifth/eleventh-century, the emphasis on Deylam, and indeed the name itself, slowly disappears and the region becomes again

coast of the Caspian Sea as Deylamān, and the region later known as Gīlān, as Deylam. Al-Muqaddasī, 353–55; Ḥudūd al-ʿālam, 133–37; alIṣṭakhrī, 204–05; Ibn Ḥawqal, 267. 16 Depending on the context, Deylam can hence refer to 1) all of the southern Caspian coastal region including the mountainous areas, to 2) the region later known as Gīlān, and to 3) the highlands within the region later known as Gīlān. 17 Ḥudūd al-ʿālam in fact states that there was a Deylamite dominated area in the territory that lies between Ṭabarestān and Gīlān, called Deylam proper, including the coastal strip. This view is shared by modern scholars such as Madelung, see Madelung, “Gīlān”, Enc. Iranica; idem, “Deylam”, Enc. Iranica; idem, “Abu Ishaq al-Sabi on the Alids of Tabaristan and Gīlān”, Journal of Near Eastern Studies, Vol. 26, No. 1 (Jan., 1967), 24–26; Ḥudūd al-ʿālam, 136–37. 18 For the Būyids efforts to have their own history recorded and rectify the image of Deylam, see, Madelung, “Abu Ishaq al-Sabi on the Alids of Tabaristan and Gīlān”, 18–20.

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designated as Gīlān in later geographical works, such as, Yāḳūt al-Rūmī, Mustawfī and Kāshānī. 19 Gīlān as a region overall, and in particular the lowland, was divided into two parts, eastern and western Gīlān, by the Safīdrūd river descending from the Alborz mountains and eventually flowing into the Caspian Sea. 20 Rather than a mere geographical demarcation, this divide entailed political and cultural implications, which became particularly manifest in the late third/ninth and the fourth/tenth-century. It was during this period that the inhabitants of Gīlān converted wholesale to Islam. Eastern Gīlān, with the main towns of Lāhījān and Hawsam, modern-day Rūdsar, became dominated by the Zaydis with the establishment of a Zaydi Imamate in the 860s based in Hawsam. 21 Its secluded location and a lack of control of the central authorities made Gīlān, and the adjacent Ṭabarestān, a popular place of refuge for various Alid groups in these centuries. Eastern Gīlān also appears to have been home to a substantial Deylamite community, as the Būyid family itself is believed to have originated in Lāhījān and to have come from Zaydi background. 22 The Zaydi rule in eastern Gīlān likewise spread to the neighbouring region of Ṭabarestān and even as far as Jurjān. It would start to decline in the sixth/twelfth-century. 23 Western Gīlān, on the other hand, became apparently around the same time predominately Sunni, 24 and in particular Guy Le Strange, The lands of the eastern Caliphate: Mesopotamia, Persia, and Central Asia, from the Moslem conquest to the time of Timur, (Cambridge; University Press, 1930), 172–73; Mustawfī, 202–04; Yāḳūt al-Rūmī, vol. 2, 178–80; Kāshānī, 56–61. 20 Ḥudūd al-ʿālam, 136–37, 388–90. 21 Madelung, “Abu Ishaq al-Sabi on the Alids of Tabaristan and Gīlān”, 27; idem, “Gīlān”, Enc. Iranica; idem, “Deylam”, Enc. Iranica. 22 Madelung, “Abu Ishaq al-Sabi on the Alids of Tabaristan and Gīlān”, 24–26; idem, “Gīlān”, Enc. Iranica; idem, “Deylam”, Enc. Iranica. 23 Although even thereafter Shia Islam remained predominant in the region, Kāshānī, 56, 60. 24 Al-Muqaddasī, 365. 19

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closely attached to the Ḥanbalī school. This seems to have been due to the efforts of a missionary by the name of Abū Jaʿfar alThūmī 25 al-Tamīmī, who was originally from Amol and later buried in Rasht. 26 While there may have been intermittent pockets of adherents to the Shāfiʿī legal school in western Gīlān, sources indicate that the inhabitants in this area were almost to a man following the Ḥanbalī school. 27 Ibn Rajab’s biographical dictionary of the Ḥanbalī school between the years 460/1068 and 750/1349 lists eleven Ḥanbalīs with the nisba ‘Jīlī’, excluding al-Jīlānī himself and his offspring, most of whom apparently came themselves from Gīlān and settled in Baghdad. 28 In comparison, in an earlier biographical dictionary of this school by Abū al-Ḥusayn b. Abī Yaʿlā al-Farrāʼ (d. 525/1131), covering the time until 513/1119, we find only one individual with this nisba. 29 This dramatic increase in important Ḥanbalī scholars coming from Gīlān, and western Gīlān more specifically, alludes to the near monopoly the school enjoyed during those days in this area. Obviously, given their rather different interpretations of Islam, there was frequent conflict between eastern and western Gīlān. Based on this, it is reasonable to assume that ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī was from western Gīlān. When he arrived in Baghdad in 488/1095, he chose, seemingly without hesitation, to study and associate with the Ḥanbalī school, while rejecting other His nisba is apparently referring to a garlic seller, Samʿānī, vol. 1, 518. 26 Ibid., vol. 1, 518; Kāshānī, 58; Madelung, “Abu Ishaq al-Sabi on the Alids of Tabaristan and Gīlān”, 29–30; idem, “Gīlān”, Enc. Iranica. 27 Samʿānī, vol. 1, 518; Kāshānī, 56; Madelung, “Abu Ishaq al-Sabi on the Alids of Tabaristan and Gīlān”, 29–30. 28 As opposed to simply bearing the nisba, because of an ancestor who had hailed from Gīlān. Ibn Rajab, al-Dhayl ʿalā tabaqāt al-ḥanābila, (Cairo: maṭbaʿa al-sunna al-muḥammadiyya, 1952), vol. 1, 49, 213, 216, 290, 311, 329, 380, vol. 2, 376, 435, 456, 472. 29 Abū al-Husayn Muhạmmad b. Abī Yaʿlā al-Farrāʼ, Tạbaqāt alHạnābila, (Cairo: Matḅaʿa al-sunna al-muhạmmadiyya), 110. 25

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available options, which clearly indicates a background in this legal school and consequently a very likely provenance in western Gīlān. Given his educational background and the fact that the highlands even around western Gīlān were dominated by the Deylamites, 30 it is also probable that he came from the coastal plain. We are therefore talking about the coastal lowland west of the Safīdrūd river up to the Tālish county in the north. The area today dominated by the city of Rasht, the modern capital of Gīlān, which did however not have such a prominent position in the medieval period. The identification of major towns in medieval western Gīlān varies greatly, but some of the more frequently mentioned towns are Tūlim, Dūlāb 31 and Barwān, none of which exist anymore today, at least not under these names, and none of which can be situated. 32 By the early eighth/fourteenth-century Fūman, still existing today, appears to have been become the main town in western Gīlān, and Rasht also appears to have grown in importance. 33 One has to assume that there were actually no major towns in western Gīlān in the fourth/tenth and fifth/eleventh-century, which would explain why we have such inconsistent accounts regarding major places in the medieval geographical sources, why hardly any of those places mentioned exist in later times and barely any of them can be located. The descriptions of some of these ‘major towns’ in medieval geographical literature similarly cast serious doubt on whether those places should be clas-

Had al-Jīlānī been of Deylamite descent, he would have born the nisba ‘Deylamī’, rather than ‘Jīlānī’ or ‘Jīlī’. 31 Although Dūlāb was probably already part of Tālish county, according to the calculations of Le Strange, Le Strange, 172–73, see, also, Kāshānī, 59. 32 Al-Muqaddasī, 353–55, 360; Abu al-Fidā, 426–27. 33 Deduced from the fact that Mustawfī devotes a paragraph to describe Rasht and Kāshānī also makes frequent mention of it. Mustawfī, 202– 03; Kāshānī, 57–58. 30

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sified as such. 34 Indeed, some sixth/twelfth and seventh/ thirteenth-century sources convey the impression of a region made up of villages without major towns. 35 Overall the impression one gets from the medieval geographical works is that western Gīlān was a backward corner of the Islamic civilization. While the area itself was actually fertile and ideally suited to agriculture, due to the exceptional climate, it remained underdeveloped with no major towns developing, larger settlements not having proper markets and the merchants dealing with the produce, coming from outside of Gīlān. 36 Even eastern Gīlān, across the river, is said to have been more developed in comparison. 37 It was in this rural, backward and predominantly Ḥanbalī setting of lowland western Gīlān that ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī was born, in what is generally believed to have been the year 470/1077, 38 and spent the first eighteen years of his life. It became after his death common to claim that he was of Ḥasanid 39 or even of Ḥusaynid descent, 40 but this can be rather swiftly dismissed, as either his father or grandfather’s name was Jengī

See for example, al-Muqaddasī’s description of Barwān, which accordingly does not have a large market or a congregational mosque. AlMuqaddasī, 360. 35 Yāḳūt al-Rūmī, vol. 2, 179; Abu al-Fidā, 426. 36 Ḥudūd al-ʿālam, 137; al-Muqaddasī, 353–55, 360. 37 al-Muqaddasī, 360; Mustawfī, 204. 38 Though Ibn Rajab has 490–91 (1096–1098), as birth years, which would make little sense given that al-Jīlānī arrived by most accounts in Baghdad in 488/1095. Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 291. 39 See for example, Shaṭṭanawfī, 171; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām wawafayāt al-mashāhīr wa-l-aʿlām, (Beirut: Dār al-kutub al-ʿarabī, 1990), vol. 39, 87; Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 290; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, Mir'āt al-zamān fī tawārīkh al-ʿayān, (Beirut: Dār al-risāla al-ʿālamiyya, 2013), vol. 23, 80. 40 Ibn Shākir, Fawāt al-wafayāt, (Beirut: Dār al-Ṣādir, 1973), 373. 34

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Dūst, which is of Persian origin and indicates non-Arab ancestry. 41 The only other relevant piece of information to this early period in al-Jīlānī’s life, is his own reference to his parents in the al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, where he describes his father as practicing asceticism and his mother as being supportive of this. He furthermore recognizes his parents as pious and dedicated believers who had compassion for others, and he credits them, first and foremost, with showing him the right path and allowing him to succeed on it. 42 Thus, al-Jīlānī grew up in an environment of asceticism (zuhd), being in all likeliness introduced to it in his youth by his father, which would remain a prevalent element throughout his life. 43 To what degree asceticism was widespread in western Gīlān as a whole, is difficult to evaluate, because the

As with most other aspects of al-Jīlānī’s biography, there are likewise ambiguities about the names of his direct ancestors. Some sources list his father’s name as Abū Ṣāliḥ Jengī Dūst, while others list it as Abū Ṣāliḥ b. Jengī Dūst, i.e. making his grandfather’s name Jengī Dūst. In any case, this does not change the fact that al-Jīlānī was of non-Arab descent hence not of Ḥasanid or Ḥusaynid descent. Walther Braune, “ʿAbd al-Ḳādir al-Ḏjī̲ lānī”, Enc. of Islam II. See, also Malik, who argues that al-Jīlānī may have been of Arab descent, and that therefore these claims of Ḥasanid or Ḥusaynid descent could be correct, Malik, 76. 42 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, (Giza: Dār al-Rayān liturāth), 278. 43 There are reports claiming that his grandfather was Abū ʿAbd Allāh al-Ṣawmaʿī al-Zāhid, apparently a famous ascetic from Gīlān, but this seems based entirely on later traditions and cannot be substantiated. As al-Jīlānī’s father was an ascetic, by his own account, it is of course conceivable that his grandfather too was inclined to such a lifestyle, yet whether this was really the case and whether his name was said Abū ʿAbdullah al-Ṣawmaʿī al-Zāhid is impossible to say. The claim that his grandfather was this famous ascetic is also undermined by the fact that, as mentioned above, some sources give his grandfather’s name as Jengī Dūst, rather than said Abū ʿAbd Allāh al-Ṣawmaʿī al-Zāhid. Sibṭ Ibn alJawzī, vol. 23, 80; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 86, 93. 41

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portrayals of the sources are somewhat inconsistent. 44 In any case, al-Jīlānī seems to have been imbued during his upbringing with such values as piety, religious devotion, and social awareness, which would likewise feature prominently in his later life. 45

THE EARLY YEARS IN BAGHDAD

It is commonly agreed that al-Jīlānī arrived in Baghdad from Gīlān in 488/1095, a year remembered because the great Ḥanbalī scholar Rizq Allāh al-Tamīmī passed away in it. 46 Al-Jīlānī relocated to further his education, having likely taken his training in the place of his origin as far as one could. This was a common move, that many before and after him would undertake in medieval Islam. Arriving in Baghdad, the heart of the Islamic civilization and at the time one of the biggest cities in the world, must have been a bit of a shock but simultaneously awe inspiring for a youth from a backward rural region like western Gīlān.

On one hand, the slogan of the western Gilites was apparently ‘prayer is better than sleep’, as in the call for fajr prayer, which could point to vigil and hence an ascetic lifestyle. Also, Kāshānī describes them as following the teachings of the ‘ascetic (zāhid) and pious (ʿābid) imam Aḥmad [b.] Ḥanbal’, which may suggest that the western Gilites combined their adherence to the Ḥanbalī school with fervent piety and asceticism. On the other hand, Mustawfī, for example, would later describe the inhabitants of Fūman as devoted to worldly rather than religious aspects. Henry Corbin likewise thought that the inhabitants of the Caspian coastal strip were overall less inclined to asceticism than people in other parts of medieval Persia, due to the fertile climate. Mustawfī, 203; Kāshānī, 56; Madelung, “Abu Ishaq al-Sabi on the Alids of Tabaristan and Gīlān”, 29–30; Henry Corbin, En Islam Iranien, ([Paris]: Gallimard, 1971–1972), vol. 3, 158. 45 To what degree al-Jīlānī is simply back-projecting these ideals upon his parents is of course a legitimate question here, but since we have no way of verifying, we will have to take him at his word. 46 Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 23, 80; Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 77–85. 44

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At the time, Baghdad was by far the most populous city in the Islamic world as well as its political, economic and cultural center. Yet there are indications in contemporary sources suggesting that both the condition of the city as well as the culture of its inhabitants was perhaps no longer as sophisticated as it had once been. 47 In particular, the account of the famous Andalusian traveller and writer Ibn Jubayr (d. 614/1219), who visited Baghdad in 579/1183–580/84, that is, some two decades after al-Jīlānī passed away, casts the city in a negative and declining light. In general, he depicts Baghdad as being well past its prime and only a shadow of its former self. The condition of the west side of the city, i.e. what lies on the western bank of the Tigris, was especially lamentable according to his report with the buildings being all but in ruins or their materials being taken possession of and used for building new buildings elsewhere. 48 In the same way, Ibn Jubayr finds little favor for the inhabitants of Baghdad, calling them arrogant, insincere, and pretentious, feigning humility while actually being the opposite. They belittle strangers, despise those below them in the social hierarchy, and disparage anybody not part of them. Baghdadis were hence also rather superficial and impious, being more interested in showing off their fancy clothing and making business deals than devoting themselves to God. Some of these criticisms coinIndeed, the city was already perceived to be in decline in the early fifth/eleventh-century. That said, it appears that the economic situation improved in the 1070s and 1080s (460s and 470s in the Islamic calendar), i.e. just before al-Jīlānī’s arrival. Daphna Ephrat, A learned society in a period of transition: the Sunni ulama of eleventh century Baghdad, (Albany: State University of New York Press, c2000), 21–22, 25. 48 There was apparently a genuine shortage of building material in medieval Baghdad, which led to the appropriation of material of older buildings to build new ones. Ibn Jubayr, Riḥlat Ibn Jubayr, (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 1964), 193–94, 200; George Makdisi, “Muslim institutions of learning in eleventh-century Baghdad”, BSOAS, Vol. 24, No. 1 (1961), 30–36. 47

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cide with other contemporary sources; Yāḳūt al-Rūmī’s entry on the city also alludes to the inhabitants’ deceptive and abusive ways, their impiety and the deplorable conditions of western Baghdad. 49 The Baghdadis supposed prioritizing of exterior appearance over religiosity also comes out in Ibn al-Jawzī’s Talbīs Iblīs. 50 On the other hand, Ibn al-Jubayr also has to say some positive things about Baghdad; in general, the condition of the east side of the city, i.e. what lies on the eastern bank of the Tigris, where al-Jīlānī spent his life, was much better and most buildings were new. Original Baghdad had been built on the west bank of the Tigris by Caliph al-Manṣūr (r. 136/754–158/775), but by the sixth/twelfth-century the eastern side had become the city’s focal point. Ibn Jubayr lauds the numerous public baths and mosques, the hospitals and the thirty madrasas of Baghdad, all of which were on the east side. Thus, the city’s eminence lay in its madrasas, which attracted students from all over, and its sophisticated hospitals. 51 The political situation that al-Jīlānī encountered in Baghdad was one of a weak Abbasid caliphate, which had become a shadow of its former self ever since the early fourth/tenthcentury. While the caliph was in political terms a mere figurehead, subject to the whims of the predominant military commanders, his standing derived from being recognized as the representative of the Sunni community, which gave him symbolic power. The caliphate hence became in this period an indispensable source of legitimacy for the dynasties of military commanders physically controlling the lands. The latter came from humble non-Arab origins and so were in need for the legitimization of their rule by the Abbasid caliph.

Yāḳūt al-Rūmī, vol. 1, 690–91. Ibn al-Jawzī, Talbīs Iblīs, (Cairo: Idāra al-ṭabāʿa al-Munīriyya, 1928), 191–200. 51 Ibn Jubayr, 204–05. 49 50

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At the time of al-Jīlānī’s arrival, the Seljuks (447/1055– 552/1157) had established themselves as the ruling military dynasty in Baghdad and in fact in most of the Middle East, having replaced the Būyids in the mid-fifth/eleventh-century. It was the time just after the rule of Sultan Malikshāh (r. 1072–1092), commonly considered the beginning of the decline of the Seljuk power with growing infighting between the military commanders and renewed division of the Seljuk territories. 52 This would facilitate the political resurgence of the Abbasids in the sixth/twelfth and early seventh/thirteenth-century, during the caliphates of al-Mustarshid (r. 512/1118–529/1135), al-Muqtafī (r. 530/1136–555/1160), and in particular al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (r. 575/1180–622/1225), when the Abbasids would intermittently regain control of Baghdad and the surrounding territories. 53 Al-Jīlānī would witness the early stages of this resurgence first hand. Upon arriving in the city, al-Jīlānī was in many ways confronted with a very different situation than back home. Unlike in western Gīlān where one had seemingly little choice but to adhere to the Ḥanbalī legal school, Baghdad offered a much wider variety of religious viewpoints. All four schools of Sunni Islam were represented in their different outlooks, a substantial part of the city was inhabited by Twelver-Shia Muslims, and there were of course Christian and Jewish communities and perhaps still other religious minorities. And yet, our protagonist appears to have had no second thoughts as to where he belonged, and with which group within Islam his loyalties lay. There is a revealing tradition, often related in modern scholarship, that upon his arrival al-Jīlānī refused to study at the famous Niẓāmiyya madrasa that was at the time headed by

A. C. S. Peacock, The Great Seljuk Empire, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015), 72–76. 53 Herbert Mason, Two statesmen of mediaeval Islam, 19–23. 52

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Aḥmad al-Ghazālī. 54 I have been unable to substantiate this report in any medieval source, but al-Jīlānī’s arrival in Baghdad does in fact coincide with al-Ghazālī being the professor at the Niẓāmiyya, as substitute (nā’ib) for his brother Abū Ḥāmid (d. 505/1111) who had left behind his position and the city due to a well-documented personal crisis. 55 To what degree the report is true and al-Jīlānī explicitly refused to study with Aḥmad alGhazālī at the Niẓāmiyya is difficult to say, but given that he clearly had the choice to join the institution, but opted instead for another, shows that there was at least a tacit rejection involved. Be that as it may, Aḥmad al-Ghazālī was of course a famous Sufi, whose ideas will be discussed below, but as so many Sufis from Khorasan at the time he was also associated with the Shāfiʿī legal school and the Ashʿarī theological school. It was in all likeliness this connection to the Shāfiʿī/Ashʿarī circles rather than the specifics of his Sufi path that deterred al-Jīlānī from studying with him, in whatever explicit or implicit form that happened. Coming from a Ḥanbalī background he evidently did not want to be associated with the Shāfiʿī legal school, in particular not with those Shāfiʿī circles, i.e. the Ashʿarīs, inclined towards speculative theology, something that the large majority of the Ḥanbalī school, including al-Jīlānī, rejected. It is, in my opinion, extremely unlikely that al-Jīlānī opted against studying with al-Ghazālī because of anything related to the latter’s Sufism. For one, the teaching at the Niẓāmiyya would have been primarily related to Islamic jurisprudence. In addition, al-Jīlānī, having barely been introduced to the mystical path, would at the time hardly have been mindful of the subtle differences beSpencer Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam, (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1971), 41; Andre Demeerseman, Nouveau regard sur la voie spirituelle d’ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jīlānī et sa tradicion, (Paris: J. Vrin, 1988), 7; Lawrence, “'Abd-Al-Qader Jilani”. 55 George Makdisi, ‘Muslim institutions of learning in eleventh-century Baghdad’, BSOAS, Vol. 24, No. 1 (1961), 40; Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, Munqidh min al-ḍalāl, (Beirut: Dār al-Andalus, 1967), 104–05. 54

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tween al-Ghazālī’s and what would become his own ideas, and would in any case hardly have been aware of al-Ghazālī’s ideas given his probably limited access to such works in western Gīlān. 56 As it happened, he chose to stay loyal to the school of Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal (d. 241/855), and entered the Ḥanbalī institutions of learning. Thus, began for al-Jīlānī a period of formal education, which seems to have defined the next few years, probably the next decade, of his life. Back in western Gīlān, he had likely studied the Quran, hadith and Arabic to some extent, but now in Baghdad his curriculum revolved mainly around the study of Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh), in particular majority opinions of Ḥanbalī jurisprudence (al-madhhab), legal theory (ʿusūl), and disputed legal points (khilāf). 57 In addition, he received training in hadith and literature (adab). 58 In connection with this, al-Jīlānī studied with a large number of scholars, among them some of the most prominent Ḥanbalī authorities of the time. Of all those scholars, medieval sources single out Abū Saʿd al-Mukharrimī as the most important teacher of al-Jīlānī in fiqh.

Hamza Malik has suggested that after completing his studies in the Ḥanbalī school, al-Jīlānī actually studied Shāfiʿī jurisprudence and could even issue fatwas according to this legal school. I have found no conclusive evidence of this. The grey falcon: the life and teaching of Shaykh 'Abd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2019). 57 al-Dhahabī citing Ibn al-Najar also lists substantive law (furūʿ). alDhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 92; idem, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, (Beirut: Manshūrāt Muḥammad ʿAlī Bayḍūn, Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2004), vol.12, 603; Ibn Rajab, vol.1, 290; Ibn al-Wardī, Tārīkh Ibn alWardī, (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿilmiyah, 1996), vol. 2, 70; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam fī tārīkh al-mulūk wa-al-umam, (Beirut: Dār al-kutub alʿilmiyya, 1992), vol. 18, 173. 58 Some sources state that he may also have received further tuition in aspects related to the Quran and the art of preaching (waʿẓ). alDhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 92; Ibn al-Wardī, vol. 2, 70. 56

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Al-Mukharrimī was born in 440/1048 in Baghdad 59 and later studied hadith and fiqh with such leading Ḥanbalīs as Qāḍī Abū Yaʿlā (d. 458/1066) and al-Sharif Abū Jaʿfar (d. 470/1077). Following this, he started to teach fiqh himself, give fatwas and engage in legal disputations, all the while subsequently attaining the offices of professional witness (shāhid), substitute judge (nā’ib), and finally judge in the quarter of Bāb al-Azaj in 495/1102. In the same location, he established a madrasa in the late fifth/eleventh or early six/twelfth-century. 60 Al-Mukharrimī attracted many students and became one of the most prominent Ḥanbalī scholars of his time, indicated by his well-documented legal disputation regarding the sale of damaged or unused waqf property with the fellow Ḥanbalī Ibn ʿAqīl (d. 513/1119), the most outstanding scholar of this legal school during this period. 61 Al-Mukharrimī retained his judgeship until 511/1117 and passed away two years later in 513/1119. 62 While there is little doubt that al-Mukharrimī was alJīlānī’s principle teacher and chief intellectual influence in this early period in Baghdad, some sources illustrate their relationship as more intimate than a mere student-teacher attachment. Two episodes between these two men especially allude to this; first of all, that al-Mukharrimī bestowed al-Jīlānī with a khirqa, 63 The nisba al-Mukharrimī apparently referring to the quarter of Mukharrim in the east of Baghdad according to Ibn Rajab, Ibn Rajab, vol.1, 166. 60 George Makdisi, ‘Muslim institutions of learning in eleventh-century Baghdad’ 29. 61 Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 167–71. 62 Ibid., vol. 1, 166–71; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam fī tārīkh al-mulūk waal-umam, 183–84; George Makdisi, “Muslim institutions of learning in eleventh-century Baghdad”, 29. 63 See for example, Ibn al-Wardī, vol. 2, 70; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 23, 78–79. According to Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī’s account, the khirqa received by al-Jīlānī was given to al-Mukharrimī by his own master Abū al-Ḥasan ʿAlī al-Qurashī and in turn went back by way of the eminent figures of the Baghdadi school Abū Bakr al-Shiblī, al-Junayd, and Sarī al-Saqaṭī to 59

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and secondly, that al-Mukharrimī entrusted al-Jīlānī with his madrasa in Bāb al-Azaj upon his death. 64 Both of these suggestions are problematic, but at this stage we will only examine the former, while the latter shall be discussed below. The claim that al-Jīlānī received a khirqa, in other words, a cloak symbolizing the initiation to the mystical path, 65 from alMukharrimī implies that the two men were also connected by a shaykh-disciple relationship, as found in Sufism. As mentioned above, al-Mukharrimī is generally regarded as al-Jīlānī’s main teacher in fiqh, but there is no mention anywhere that his instruction included anything related to the mystical path or Sufism, where such a khirqa would be given. There is, in fact, no indication in the sources that al-Mukharrimī was but a Ḥanbalī legal scholar, no mention of him being mystically or even ascetically inclined, so again it would make very little sense for him to award a khriqa to al-Jīlānī. 66 Our protagonist is also said to have studied Islamic jurisprudence with another very eminent Ḥanbalī scholar, Abū alKhaṭṭāb al-Khalwadhānī, though this does not appear to be universally held. 67 Al-Khalwadhānī was born 432/1041 in Baghdad Ḥasan al-Basri and eventually to ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib. This shows the growing influence of hagiographical elements in the biography of al-Jīlānī as well as the slow emergence of the notion of the Qādiriyya order seeking to establish a silsila, a chain of spiritual descent, linking the eponymous founder of the order, al-Jīlānī, with the cousin of the Prophet, ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib. 64 See for example, Ibn al-Kathīr, al-Bidāya wa-l-nihāya, (Damascus; Beirut: Dār Ibn Kathīr, 2010), vol. 17, 171. 65 Or even a Sufi aspirant’s successful completion of his training, see Ohlander, 208–14. 66 Though it has to be said, that Ibn al-Rajab does state that many of his offspring went on to become Sufis and saints, but without further information, one has to assume that this may have been unrelated to alMukharrimī himself. Ibn Rajab, vol.1, 167. 67 Ibn Rajab and Ibn Najar, in a report related by al-Dhahabī, list alKhalwadhānī among al-Jīlānī’s teachers in fiqh, but others like Ibn al-

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and was another outstanding student of Qāḍī Abū Yaʿlā. Not only did he leave his mark in the different areas of fiqh, with many books accredited to him, but he also had an impact on Ḥanbalī theology. In addition, he became a recognized figure in the literary circles, passing away in 510/1116. 68 There are still further claims suggesting that al-Jīlānī moreover studied with Qāḍī Abū Yaʿlā’s son Abū al-Ḥusayn b. Abī Yaʿlā al-Farrāʼ, 69 but that seems even less widely accepted. 70 In any case, even if we disregard the last claim, al-Jīlānī evidently studied Islamic jurisprudence with some of the most prominent Ḥanbalī legal scholars at the time. He is said to have excelled in areas like majority opinions of Ḥanbalī jurisprudence, legal theory, and disputed legal points. 71 As for his studies in hadith, most of his frequently mentioned teachers, such as, Abū Bakr Aḥmad b. Sawsan alTammār, Abū Qāsim ʿAlī b. Aḥmad al-Razzāz, Abū Ṭālib b. Yusūf, Abū Ghālib al-Bāqīlānī, Abū Saʿd b. al-Khushaysh, are unattested in the sources. The exception to the rule is Abū Muḥammad Jaʿfar al-Sarrāj who was born in Baghdad between 416/1025 and 418/1027. Besides being a specialist in Quranic recitation and hadith, al-Sarrāj became recognized for his expertise in grammar, literature and sermons. In addition, he became a respected literary figure and poet with a number of works attributed to him, most notably Maṣāriʿ al-ʿushshāq. Al-Sarrāj travJawzī or al-Dhahabī himself do not. Ibn Rajab, vol.1, 117, 290; alDhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 92. 68 Ibn Rajab, vol.1, 116–127; Elias Saba, “al-Kalwadhānī, Abū lKhaṭṭāb”, Enc. of Islam III. 69 Ibn Rajab, vol.1, 176–78. 70 I have only come across this in Ibn Najar’s account, as related by alDhahabī. Ibn Rajab states that it was said (wa-qīla) that Abū Husayn Ibn Farrā’ was also amongst al-Jīlānī’s teachers, but he seems sceptical about this to say the least, as clearly indicated by his wording, and does not mention it elsewhere. Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 92; idem, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, vol.12, 603; Ibn al-Rajab, vol. 1, 290. 71 Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 290.

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elled and taught also in Egypt and Syria, and died in the year 500/1106. 72 Occasionally, the already mentioned Ibn ʿAqīl is also listed among al-Jīlānī’s teachers in hadith, but this is not generally accepted. 73 In literature, al-Jīlānī studied with Zakariya al-Tabrīzī, who had been a student of the celebrated poet Abū al-ʿAlāʾ al-Maʿarrī (d. 449/1058), and was a major figure in Arabic language scholarship during those days. 74 Without more concrete information, one would assume that his studies kept al-Jīlānī busy for the first decade in Baghdad, or even a bit more, in other words until sometime between 498/1105 and 503/1110. We know literally nothing about this early period in Baghdad beyond his education and his teachers, even the hagiographies otherwise replete with reports are actually relatively quiet on this period. What is clear, however, from his subsequent development, is that al-Jīlānī already during his formal education felt an inclination towards asceticism and the mystical path. Whether and to what degree he already immersed himself in these in the early years in Baghdad, keeping in mind that he already had a background in this, is difficult to say, but it is unlikely to have Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 17, 102–104; Ibid., vol.1, 100–03; alDhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 36, 315–19. 73 Again, I have only found this properly confirmed in Ibn Najar’s report cited by al-Dhahabī. Like in the case of Abū Husayn Ibn Farrā’, Ibn Rajab does mention that it was said (wa-qīla) that Ibn ʿAqīl was also amongst al-Jīlānī’s teachers, but he seems clearly unconvinced by this, as clearly shown by his wording, and does not mention it elsewhere. While it is entirely possible that al-Jīlānī sat in on the occasional study circle of Ibn ʿAqīl, it is unlikely that he was among his proper students; Makdisi does not list him as one of the main students of Ibn ʿAqīl. Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 290; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 92; idem, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, vol.12, 603; George Makdisi, Ibn ʻAqil: religion and culture in classical Islam, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, c1997), 44–46. 74 Ibn al-Wardī, Tārīkh Ibn al-Wardī, vol. 2, 70; Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 291; Mason, 26–29; P. Smoor, “al-Maʿarrī”, Enc. Islam II. 72

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been a wholesale commitment, since he was otherwise occupied with his regular studies. After the completion of his studies, or perhaps already during the last part of it, i.e. roughly the years 498/1105 to 509/1115, al-Jīlānī progressively became more absorbed in a lifestyle conducive to mysticism. In medieval sources, this is generally illustrated by his adherence to a local Sufi shaykh, Ḥammād al-Dabbās, which has come to be seen as the defining feature of this period of al-Jīlānī’s life. 75 There are two crucial aspects that are ambiguous in al-Jīlānī’s association with alDabbās; first of all, there is some disagreement in the sources about who this Ḥammād al-Dabbās exactly was, and, secondly, the nature of their relationship is likewise somewhat shrouded in doubt. As for the first matter, the portrayals of al-Dabbās in the important medieval sources vary to some degree. While Ibn alJawzī presents him as sham Sufi devoid of any knowledge, who catered to and took advantage of the ignorant masses, a description very much in line with his assessment of many contemporary Sufis in his Talbīs Iblīs, other historians such as his own grandson Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī and Ibn Athīr take offence at that and defend al-Dabbās as a genuine miracle working saintly figure and Sufi. 76 Al-Dhahabī, taking up a middle position between the two sides, implies that Sibṭ and Ibn Athīr’s reaction to Ibn alJawzī’s characterization may have been slightly out of place, but

Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 291, It is particularly noteworthy, how passionately Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī defends al-Dabbās against the accusations of Ibn al-Jawzī, his own grandfather. Sibṭ attempts to justify al-Dabbās’ actions and rather severely criticizes his grandfather for his derogatory remarks, concluding that the latter’s remarks were made without proper information. Ibn alJawzī, al-Muntaẓam fī tārīkh al-mulūk wa-al-umam, vol. 17, 266; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 20, 235–36; Ibn Athīr, al-Kāmil fī-l-tārīkh, (Beirut: Dār alKutub al-ʿilmiyah, 1987), vol. 9, 259–60. 75 76

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all the same illustrates al-Dabbās as a genuine Sufi shaykh and saintly figure. 77 Since most accounts, with the exception of Ibn al-Jawzī’s, seem rather adamant that al-Dabbās was a genuine Sufi and saintly figure, and in addition Ibn al-Jawzī clearly had an agenda in this matter both related to al-Jīlānī and contemporary Sufi masters in general, 78 I think we can conclude that al-Dabbās was sincere in his endeavours. We learn that he was originally from Raḥba in eastern Syria, but raised in Baghdad, and may still have practiced the profession of the syrup monger, from where his nisba stems. He acquired fame as an ascetic and mystic advocating renunciation, inner Jihad, and extreme scrupulousness in avoiding anything haram. Al-Dabbās also warned others about the shortcomings in their acts and their lack of sincerity, and appears to have alluded to the Sufi notion of becoming devoid of one’s will. He became a popular shaykh, attracting disciples, even Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī (d. 563/1168) is said to have followed him for a while, guiding people to God, bringing blessings upon them and performing miraculous deeds. Apparently, ecstatic expressions during mystical states, so-called shaṭḥ, were attributed to him and a number of books were written about him, during his days, even though he himself was illiterate. He passed away in 525/1131. 79 Regarding the precise nature of the relationship between alJīlānī and al-Dabbās, which is the more obscure matter, the implication in the medieval chronicles and biographical dictionaries is mostly that it was a regular disciple-master affiliation. The gist seems to have been that al-Jīlānī experienced inexplicable mystical states and, being confused for a while, eventually ran into al-Dabbās who clarified them for him. Al-Jīlānī thereafter attached himself to al-Dabbās, but as a legal scholar was not accepted at first and viewed with suspicion. After passing some al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 128–30. This shall be discussed in excursus devoted to Ibn al-Jawzī. 79 al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 128–30. 77 78

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tests and harsh treatment to verify his sincerity, al-Dabbās eventually took to him and started to instruct him in the knowledge of the mystical path. 80 That al-Jīlānī did associate with al-Dabbās in some form is probably beyond dispute, given the frequent treatment in the sources. Superficially speaking, one can also point to a certain overlap between some of the ideas of al-Jīlānī and certain notions attributed to al-Dabbās, for example, the emphasis on sincerity and the mystical idea of becoming devoid of one’s will, which would indicate contact between the two. Al-Dabbās was a recognized Sufi shaykh in Baghdad during the early decades of al-Jīlānī’s stay, and it is therefore likely that the latter became the former’s disciple, or at least sought to do so but failed, as hinted at in some reports. The relationship between the two men seems however to have been neither lasting nor transformative, at least from the perspective of al-Jīlānī. For this speaks the fact that there is not one single mention of al-Dabbās in any of his writings, or even a report attributed to al-Jīlānī about al-Dabbās in the medieval chronicles or biographical dictionaries. Even Abū al-Najīb alSuhrawardī, who is likewise believed to have been a disciple of al-Dabbās for a while, is accredited with the odd report about alDabbās. Fittingly, some of the principal medieval sources do not associate the two men at all, despite having entries on both alJīlānī and al-Dabbās. 81 Most significantly, it is evident from al-Jīlānī’s autobiographical references and other sources that he spent roughly a decade before his return to public life in 521/1127 alone in retreat, in other words, the period from about 509/1115 to 521/1127, and even after when living in Baghdad and with alThis is mostly based on Ibn al-Najjār’s account, as given in alDhahabī, but other sources also refer to it. Ibid., vol. 39, 92, 95; idem, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, vol.12, 603–04; Ibn Shākir, 373; Ibn al-Wardī, vol. 2, 70. 81 Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 128–30, vol. 39, 87–100; Ibn alJawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 18, 173. 80

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Dabbās still being alive there is no mention of the two men being in contact in any way. Now, shaykh-disciple relationships came in various forms, especially in the era before their formalization through the Sufi orders, but the fact that al-Jīlānī went off on his own for a decade or more, and even when returning to Baghdad and living in the same city as al-Dabbās did not associate with him, points to a short and rather inconsequential encounter between the two men. Had it been anything more, one would have expected that al-Jīlānī, as a devoted disciple, would have stayed with al-Dabbās for a much longer period, or at least that he would have stayed in touch with him.

WITHDRAWAL

Unfortunately, it is impossible to reconstruct much else about alJīlānī’s early explorations into mysticism in the years 498/1105–509/1115 on a reliable basis. If his association with al-Dabbās was rather brief, as assumed here, then there were possibly other figures he became attached to 82 and surely fundamental experiences he underwent. The only other aspect from this period that is known is that al-Jīlānī was increasingly drawn to solitude and wandering in uninhabited areas, to intensify the effect of his ascetical practice and his mystical states. This seems to have begun as short seclusions of several days during the period 498/1105–509/1115, and eventually resulted in prolonged withdrawals lasting for months or even longer, which defined the period 509/1115 to 521/1127. There are a number of references to al-Jīlānī’s seclusions during this time; first of all, by himself, especially in al-Fatḥ alrabbānī, when alluding to his own experiences and to the practice of withdrawal in general, and secondly, in the medieval sources relating accounts of his solitude and wanderings. 83 As In particular, as he would later put much emphasis on the Sufi aspirant being guided along the path by a shaykh. 83 Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 92–96; idem, Siyar aʿlām alnubalā’, vol. 12, 603–05; Ibn Shākir, 373–74; Ibn Rajab, vol.1, 294, 82

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always, the latter have to be treated with caution and cannot really be taken at face value, as many give already the impression of hagiographical rather than historical accounts, something that the authors of those works themselves were wellaware of and warn their readers of. 84 Nevertheless, those accounts certainly contain a grain of truth, if perhaps not always in their details but in the broader sense, in that they show how central the practice of withdrawal was for al-Jīlānī during this period of his life. Moreover, a few accounts in the medieval chronicles and biographical dictionaries in fact share certain similarities with al-Jīlānī’s autobiographical references. Taken together, they give some insight into his experiences during those periods of solitude. In Ibn Najjār’s account, as preserved in al-Dhahabī, we read that al-Jīlānī went out to the desert, afflicted by poverty and trying to figure out a way of his dire situation, when a speaker, whose shape he could not make out, started instructing him how to borrow money and rectify his situation. 85 This concurs with al-Jīlānī’s allusions to his own retreats and the practice of withdrawal in general, in which talking to angels frequently occurs. 86 Accordingly there is nothing sweeter than the speech of angels, to whom the mystic listens in the desert. The whole point of withdrawal is to become closer to God, by leaving behind human beings and worldly distractions, but before being admitted into His presence, one meets angels. 87 In another report attributed to Ibn al-Najjār, as rendered by Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, we find the following extract: 298; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 23, 81–84. There are of course many accounts in purely hagiographical works too, but, as said, they will not be taken into consideration here. 84 See for example, Ibn Rajab’s observation regarding a well-known report about one of al-Jīlānī’s withdrawals, Ibn Rajab, vol.1, 294. 85 Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 94; idem, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, (Beirut: Mu’assasa al-risāla, 1996), vol. 20, 445. 86 al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 95, 268, 324, 354, 363. 87 Ibid., 354.

54

BAGHDAD DURING THE TIME OF ʿABD AL-QĀDIR AL-JĪLĀNĪ “He [al-Jīlānī] said to me, “I was imposing upon myself serious striving until God brought upon me a mystical state, He brought it upon me day and night when I was in the desert, so I shouted and wandered aimlessly and ecstatically, and then all I knew was keeping my tongue in silence and frenzied love (junūn), [eventually after being found by wayfarers 88] I was brought to a hospital, 89 but mystical states continued to come upon me until [it appeared as if] I [had] passed away and they brought a shroud and a corpse washer, and put me in a wash room to wash me [for burial], but then [the states] left me and I got up.”” 90

While some of the details in this report, in particular the second half of it in the hospital, may well be embellished or plainly fictitious, 91 other central features such as states of frenzied love (junūn) and keeping silent during retreats coincide with alJīlānī’s references to his own experiences in al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, when he confirms that he was known for his states of frenzied love and holding his tongue while withdrawing. 92 His states of frenzied love, were of course liable to be considered madness, another meaning of the word junūn, by others, 93 which is actually one of the main reasons that al-Jīlānī resorted to withdrawal in the first place, because he was afraid of betraying the secret of his love for God. He explains elsewhere in al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, “if you want to drink with the kings [of the mystical path], you have to [live] in ruins and deserts, until your intoxication becomes sober, so that Ibn Rajab, vol.1, 299. Or ‘mental hospital’ (bīmārestān) 90 Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 23, 84. 91 In fact, there are several different versions of it, see for example, alDhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, 42, 94; Ibn Rajab; vol.1, 299. 92 al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 252. See also the general reference to the frenzied nocturnal lover who rejoices solitude and lives with wild animals. 93 Ibn Rajab, vol.1, 299. 88 89

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you do not reveal their secrets and they will make you perish”. 94 Therefore seclusion in uninhabited areas is not just a way to find proximity to God, but likewise a way to deal with the ensuing states of intoxication, in other words, the frenzied love mentioned above, because neither the latter nor the secret of the mystic’s love for God are to be disclosed to anybody else. By seeking solitude, the mystic, in this sense, is able to grow spiritually and gain self-control, until he reaches the ranks of the ‘kings’ 95 of the path, when he is able to return to society without the risk of disclosing those secrets.

LATER YEARS IN BAGHDAD

Al-Jīlānī is generally believed to have returned to permanent life in society in 521/1127, 96 at the age of fifty. This would start the last but also the longest chapter in his life, until his death in 561/1166, about which we also seem to know the most. This ‘return to creation’, as he likes to call it himself in his work, was however by no means a keenly awaited event on his part. As he reminds the audience in his sermons, he would not have minded staying in solitude but God forced him to come back. 97 In a frequently found report, al-Jīlānī is said to have later lamented “I wish I was still [staying] in the desert and uninhabited areas [like] in the beginning of my path (amr) when I did not see other human beings nor did they see me”. 98 As it happened, he was obliged to resume life in society, after years of seclusion, and this return would also come to mark a distinct stage in his mystical path. But there is more to this than simply a return to society from seclusion. Al-Jīlānī would in fact in the years following his al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 336. That is, the most advanced mystics. 96 Though some sources say 520 (approximately 1126), Ibn Rajab, vol.1, 291. 97 See for example, al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 252. 98 al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, 42, 94. 94 95

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re-settlement become a famous public preacher. We are talking hence about a transformation from a recluse to a socially extremely involved individual. Even more so, as al-Jīlānī initially was lacking the background, confidence and aptitude of an eminent public speaker. He was by his own admission known as tongue-tied and stammering, leave alone that he was not an Arabic native speaker. Nevertheless, al-Jīlānī claims to have received divine affirmations of both the favour with which he was looked upon and his future mission as a community leader and preacher, on a number of occasions throughout his life, but especially during his years of seclusion. 99 The transformation from a shy mystic to a famous public preacher is in the medieval sources sometimes explained by a meeting with Abū Yaʿqūb al-Hamadānī, who will also be discussed further below. Accordingly, al-Hamadānī returned to Baghdad, having lived there before, and al-Jīlānī reportedly said, “he [al-Hamadānī] was known as the spiritual pole (al-quṭb) and stayed in a ribāṭ, when I heard of it, I went to the ribāṭ but did not see him, so I asked about him and was told that he was in the cellar (sardab), so I descended and when I approached [him] he rose, offered me a seat and spread [a bed] for me, then he mentioned to me all of my mystical states and explained to me [all] that was obscure to me. Then he asked me, “do you preach to the people? (tatakallam ʿalā al-nās)”, so I responded “my lord, I am a tongue-tied (akhras) pure-born non-Arab man, what would I preach to the eloquently Arabic speaking people (fuṣaḥā’) of Baghdad?” He said, “You have studied jurisprudence, legal theoal-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 252, 275. Needless to say, in the lack of confidence and inarticulateness, the seclusion and eventual return to become a community leader, there are some similarities to the story of Moses, to whom al-Jīlānī seems to have felt some sort of connection. See the frequent allusions to Moses, ibid., 24, 52, 64, 78, 219, 238, 239, 251, 258, 315, 347.

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ry, disputed legal points, grammar, philology, and Quranic commentary, and you would not be suited to preach!? Get on the chair and preach to the people, I see with regard to you a bunch of dates that will become a palm tree.” 100

The question is whether this report is genuine or not. At the first glance, there is little that seems obviously suspicious; alHamadānī’s ability to perceive al-Jīlānī’s spiritual condition, without seemingly being informed about it, and then explain to al-Jīlānī what had eluded him is not really extraordinary in the medieval period, where we have literally thousands of reports of Sufi shaykhs, including al-Jīlānī himself, being able to read people’s minds and states, without being asked. The report overlaps with our protagonist’s autobiographical remarks that he used to be tongue-tied, and sources place al-Hamadānī, who spent considerable time in the east, in Baghdad around the time of alJīlānī’s return from his seclusion. 101 Hence, while the details of the report may well have been subject to embellishment and fabrication, it may nevertheless be reflective of the truth in a broader sense that al-Jīlānī met and found inspiration through al-Hamadānī. One could even speculate that al-Jīlānī associated with al-Hamadānī for a short while, similar to his attachment to Ḥammād al-Dabbās, because, apart from the latter, his spiritual development appears curiously empty of a guiding hand, considering how much emphasis he places on this in his own teaching. Imbued with a sense of mission, coming from the divine inspirations and perhaps interaction with al-Hamadānī, al-Jīlānī turned to the profession of public preaching and very soon found extensive success in this, being able to attract thousands of Baghdadis to his sermons on a regular basis. Ibn al-Jawzī, known for his antipathy towards al-Jīlānī and hence certainly not prone to exaggerate the latter’s success, notes that al-Jīlānī’s al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 94–95. Wilferd Madelung, “Yūsuf al-Hamaḏānī and the Naqšbandiyya”, Quaderni di Studi Arabi, 1987–1988, Vol. 5/6, 502.

100 101

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sermons became popular to the degree that the madrasa where he preached became too narrow and he took to sit outside in nearby public space preaching to people. 102 So touched were the Baghdadis by his sermons that the majority mended their ways and many Jews and Christians converted to Islam. 103 But beyond the divine affirmations and the possible guidance by al-Hamadānī, how did al-Jīlānī seemingly in a relatively short time of a few years turn into such a celebrated preacher? It is difficult to make a judgement on this, since we do not have any sermons from his early days with both Futūḥ al-ghayb and alFatḥ al-rabbānī dating from a later period. In one report found in the medieval sources, al-Jīlānī himself gives the following explanation, “I received divine commands and prohibitions when awake and when asleep, then words overcame me, and overcrowded my heart, so that if I did not speak [those words] I would nearly choke, and I was not able to suppress those words. [In the beginning] two or three men would gather around me to listen to my sermon, then I became known among the people, and mankind swarmed around me, until roughly seventy-thousand attended a session.” 104

According to this report, al-Jīlānī was inspired with the words that he would later convey to his audience. Initially, he received commands and prohibitions in this way, but then, likely after his return to society, he started to be overcome with words, which he was forced to utter. He clearly attributes his success as a preacher to these inspirations, rather than, for example, his oratory or voice. Notions like divine inspiration are of course not verifiable in a critical scholarly context, but one clearly gets the impression from the sources that al-Jīlānī had a certain presence Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 18, 173. al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 99; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 23, 85. 104 al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 96; idem, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, vol. 20, 446. 102 103

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once he started devoting himself to preaching, again a notable contrast to the somewhat timid and solitary man beforehand. Fittingly, it is commonly observed that al-Jīlānī was very sparing with his words, not wasting any in needless talk, 105 which would make sense given how much time he had spent in solitude. Furthermore, it is reported that his silence was actually more powerful than his speech. 106 Such a depiction again suggests a certain presence, or charisma, derived from an inner confidence, that a mystically inclined Muslim in medieval Islam would unsurprisingly attribute to divine inspiration. As alluded to above, the main venue where al-Jīlānī preached, as well as taught Ḥanbalī jurisprudence and other relevant subjects, was the madrasa, or what became known as his madrasa, madrasa ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī. This was the madrasa that had been originally founded by al-Jīlānī’s teacher Abū Saʿd al-Mukharrimī, and there is some disagreement in the sources about whether al-Mukharrimī bestowed it to al-Jīlānī, or whether it was given to him by an unnamed third party. 107 Given the fact that al-Mukharrimī passed away in 513/1119, while al-Jīlānī only permanently returned to Baghdad in 521/1127, and indeed was only given the madrasa some six to seven years later in 527/1133–528/1134, 108 it seems unlikely that alMukharrimī designated him as his successor. Rather, one would assume that al-Jīlānī upon re-entering society had been making a name for himself as a preacher and scholar and was therefore

Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 18, 173; Ibn Shākir, 373; Ibn alKathīr, vol. 17, 171. 106 Which is quite a thing to say for a public preacher, al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 99; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 23, 78. 107 Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 18, 173; Ibn Rajab, vol.1, 291; Ibn al-Kathīr, vol. 17, 171. 108 al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 92; Braune, “ʿAbd al-Ḳādir alḎjī̲ lānī”. 105

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given the madrasa, most probably by the political authorities at the time, that is, either the Abbasids or the Seljuks. 109 It is reported that al-Jīlānī also lived and, as he became more well-known, barely left the madrasa. 110 As his fame spread, his madrasa seems to have become too small, leading him to rebuild and expand it. 111 One aspect that remains somewhat obscure in all of this is al-Jīlānī’s ribāṭ, a Sufi convent. While it is attested in medieval sources, and even in his al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, it remains unclear where exactly it was located. It would appear that the ribāṭ was not in the same building as the madrasa, but situated in the immediate vicinity because al-Jīlānī is said to have walked there on a regular basis from his madrasa and when his madrasa became too small for the audience, the sessions he held outside instead were said to have been conducted adjacent to his ribāṭ. 112 The madrasa was located in the Bāb al-Azaj quarter in Baghdad. In the mid-fifth/eleventh-century, Bāb al-Azaj was considered one of nine quarters on the eastern bank of the TiMakdisi points out that the founder of a madrasa, in this case alMukharrimī, had the first choice to appoint a professor, but once the founder had passed away, the appointment of future professors fell to the state, which given the circumstances at the time could either have been the Abbasids or the Seljuks. On the other hand, Daphna Ephrat suggests that religious scholars may have had more autonomy in these matters, as, for example, holders of teaching positions in madrasas had a major say regarding new appointments. Makdisi, “Muslim institutions of learning in eleventh-century Baghdad”, 14–17; Daphna Ephrat, “Religious leadership and associations in the public sphere of Seljuk Baghdad”, The Public Sphere in Muslim Societies, Miriam Hoexter, Shmuel N. Eisenstadt, Nehemia Levtzion (eds.), (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2002), 33–34. 110 al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 98; Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 291; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 23, 78. 111 Ibn Rajab, vol.1, 291; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 18, 173. 112 Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 18, 173; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 98; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 23, 78. See also below for further discussion. 109

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gris, the river dividing the city of Baghdad. 113 Among the quarters in the east, Bāb al-Azaj appears to have been located in the southern-western part, in relatively close proximity to the Tigris, to the west. As indicated by its name, the quarter consisted of neighbourhoods surrounding a major inner gateway of Baghdad, Bāb al-Azaj. 114 The quarter is described as one of the busiest and liveliest in Baghdad, and also included poorer neighbourhoods. 115 In addition to al-Jīlānī’s madrasa, the quarter would be home to a number of madrasas of the Ḥanbalī school, such as madrasa Mālik b. Dīnār, madrasa Binafsha, and Ibn al-Jawzī’s madrasa, 116 which could well indicate that it was a stronghold of this particular legal school. 117 For this also speaks that a proportionately high number of members of this school around that time were known by the nisba ‘al-Azaji’. 118 That being said, the famous Niẓāmiyya madrasa as well as the older Bahā’iyya madrasa, both devoted to the Shāfiʿī school, and the madrasa TuMakdisi, “The Topography of Eleventh-century Baghdad, Materials and Notes, I & II”, History and politics in eleventh-century Baghdad, (Aldershot: Variorum; Brookfield, Vt: Gower, c1990), 194–196. 114 Guy Le Strange, Baghdad during the Abbasid caliphate from contemporary Arabic and Persian sources, (London: Oxford University Press, 1900), 296. 115 Lutz Richter-Bernburg, ‘Ibn al-Māristānīya: The Career of a Ḥanbalite Intellectual in Sixth/Twelfth Century Baghdad’, Journal of the American Oriental Society, vol. 102, no. 2 (1982), 266, 269. 116 Both madrasa Binafsha and madrasa Ibn al-Jawzī were only established in 570/1174, after al-Jīlānī’s lifetime. Ephrat, A learned society in a period of transition, 29–30; Angelika Hartmann, “Islamisches Predigtwesen im Mittelalter: Ibn al-Gauzi und sein “Buch der Schlussreden” (1186 n. Chr.)”, Saeculum 38, (1987), 351–54 117 See also, Richter-Bernburg, 266, 269. 118 Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 141, 223, 230, 250, 289, 350, 354, 399, 440, vol. 2, 63, 120, 125, 210, 212, 215, 230, 243, 286, 384, 410, 459, 461. The prominent sixth/twelfth-century Ḥanbalīs Ibn Yūnus (d. 593/1197) and Ibn al-Māristānīya (d. 599/1203) also came from this quarter, RichterBernburg, 270. 113

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tushiyya, belonging to the Ḥanafī school, lay likewise in close proximity. 119 Finally, Bāb al-Azaj either included or was in close vicinity to the Tutushī hospital and the Tutush market. 120 As the head of a madrasa, al-Jīlānī naturally had a great number of students in jurisprudence, and related subjects. His most important student from a Ḥanbalī perspective was certainly Ibn Qudāma al-Maqdīsī, who came originally from near Jerusalem and first studied in Damascus before coming to Baghdad, where he entered the circle of al-Jīlānī. He was accommodated in the madrasa of al-Jīlānī, who instructed him in fiqh and hadith. 121 While their association did not last for a long time, as alJīlānī died only a short while later, 122 it seems to have left a deep impression on Ibn Qudāma. Like al-Jīlānī, he had ascetic and mystical inclinations as revealed in his kitāb al-tawwābīn, 123 and he was in the same way rigorously opposed to speculative theology, as shown in his condemnation of the rationalist tendencies of the fellow Ḥanbalī Ibn ʿAqīl. Within the Ḥanbalī school, Ibn Qudāma became primarily recognized for his scholarship in law, such as through his books al-Mughnī and ʿUmda alEphrat, A learned society in a period of transition, 29–30 Makdisi, The Topography of Eleventh-century Baghdad, 182, 194; Le Strange, Baghdad during the Abbasid caliphate, 263, 296. 121 Ibn Rajab, vol. 2, 5–6, 134. 122 There seem to be different accounts, about how long he studied with al-Jīlānī. Ibn Rajab mentions a report according to which it was only forty days, while Makdisi says that it was more than a year. Ibid., vol. 2, 5–6; Ibn Qudāma, Ibn Qudāma’s Censure of speculative theology: an edition and translation of Ibn Qudāma’s Tahrīm an-nazar fī kutub ahl al-kalām, with introduction and notes: a contribution to the study of Islamic religious history by George Makdisi, (London: Printed for the trustees of the “E. J. W. Gibb memorial” and published by Luzac, 1962), introduction. 123 He seems to have already come from an ascetic and pious background with both his father and his brother inclined that way, Ibn Rajab, vol. 2, 134; Ibn Qudāma, Ibn Qudāma's Censure of speculative theology, introduction. 119 120

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fiqh. He eventually returned to Damascus, where he took up teaching, which was notably interrupted by his participation in Saladin’s (d. 589/1193) expedition against the Crusaders and the conquest of Jerusalem in 583/1187. Ibn Qudāma died in 620/1223. 124 Ibn Qudāma arrived in al-Jīlānī’s circle together with his maternal cousin ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Maqdisī, who became another exceptional student of al-Jīlānī. ʿAbd al-Ghanī was from the same village near Jerusalem like his cousin, 125 and equally arrived in Baghdad by way of Damascus. Like Ibn Qudāma, he was accommodated in the madrasa of al-Jīlānī, and followed the same curriculum. 126 After studying with some other Ḥanbalī authorities, ʿAbd al-Ghanī returned to Damascus, from where he set out to attain more knowledge travelling to Alexandria, Isfahan, Hamadan and Mosul. Having become a major authority in hadith, he eventually returned to Damascus where he taught hadith and became known for his piety and ascetic tendencies, passing away in 600/1204. 127 Another noted student of al-Jīlānī was ʿAlī b. Idrīs alBaʿqūbī, 128 who became a respected shaykh in his own right. He became associated with al-Jīlānī, as a student in hadith and as a disciple of the mystical path, but likewise became attached to other masters. ʿAlī b. Idrīs became known for his constant devotion and asceticism and is said to have travelled to Damascus and Jerusalem. He died in 619/1222. 129 ʿAdī b. Musāfir (d. 557/1162), a well-known ascetic and shaykh, who would later become a revered figure in the Yāzidiyya, is sometimes said to Ibn Rajab, vol. 2, 133–49, George Makdisi, “Ibn Ḳudāma al-Maḳdīsī” Enc. Islam II; Ibn Qudāma, Ibn Qudāma’s Censure of speculative theology, introduction. 125 By the name of Jammāʿīl. 126 Ibn Rajab, vol. 2, 5–6. 127 Ibid., vol. 2, 5–34. 128 Or al-Yaʿqūbī, Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 87. 129 Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 47, 455–456. 124

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have been associated with al-Jīlānī. 130 Likewise, the famous biographer Abū Saʿd al-Samʿānī (d. 562/1161) is believed to have attended al-Jīlānī’s circles in hadith for a while. 131 Beyond that, two of al-Jīlānī’s sons ʿAbd al-Wahhāb and ʿAbd al-Razzāq became highly regarded scholars and pious figures. ʿAbd al-Wahhāb b. ʿAbd al-Qādir was born in 522/1128, and studied with his father as well as many other Ḥanbalī authorities at the time, excelling especially in fiqh. Soon he started to stand in for his father in his study circles, before teaching independently. After his father’s death, he took over the madrasa and remained in charge of it for the rest of his life, with the exception of a short period when the madrasa was taken from him and his family due to his son Rukn al-Dīn’s (d. 588/1192) meddling with philosophy. 132 He was a highly respected legal scholar and eloquent preacher, who like his father was inclined to mystical and ascetic endeavours. 133 ʿAbd al-Wahhāb had some well-known students himself like the famous historian Ibn Dubaythī (d. 637/1239). He passed away in 593/1197. ʿAbd al-Razzāq b. ʿAbd al-Qādir, born in 528/1134, studied with his father and other major Ḥanbalīs at the time, but unlike his brother his strength lay in hadith rather than fiqh. He became an authority in hadith, whose transmission was considered trustworthy and reliable. Being al-Jīlānī’s son, he became also known for his renunciatory and pious lifestyle. ʿAbd al-Razzāq

Daniella, Talmon-Heller, “ʿAdī b. Musāfir”, Enc. of Islam III. Although, I have not come across any conclusive indication for this in the biographical dictionaries, see Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 41, 230– 33; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 23, 32–35; Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-aʿyān, (Paris: Maṭbaʿ al-akhawayn firman Ditwah, 1838), 437–38. 131 Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 87. 132 This episode will be further treated in the excursus on Ibn al-Jawzī below. 133 Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 388–90; Angelika Hartmann, An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180–1225), 193–94. 130

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died in 603/1207. His son Abū Ṣāliḥ (d. 633/1236) equally became a respected Ḥanbalī scholar. 134 While almost all of those individuals are said to have formally studied hadith or Ḥanbalī fiqh with al-Jīlānī, it appears that, with the exception of al-Samʿānī, each one of them was also influenced by him on another level, the realm of asceticism and mysticism. It is doubtful that this happened in the framework of the regular madrasa curriculum, which was rather restricted to Islamic law and related subjects, 135 unless it happened in extra-curricular sessions. That is where we have to return to the ambiguous matter of al-Jīlānī’s ribāṭ, which was the setting where he appears to have instructed disciples in the mystical path. It is based on this, likely that there was some overlap between the madrasa and the ribāṭ, with regard to the students and disciples of al-Jīlānī. Some students likely only attended formal sessions in the former, and certain disciples took part solely in the sessions of the latter, but seemingly a sizeable number of individuals joined both. Even concerning content, there may have been some overlap; judging from al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, which includes sermons from both the madrasa and the ribāṭ, there is no discernable difference between the sermons given at either venue. 136 Ibn Rajab, vol. 2, 40–41; Angelika Hartmann, An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180–1225), 193–94. 135 Makdisi, “Muslim institutions of learning in eleventh-century Baghdad”, 10–14. 136 What adds to the confusion is that there is hardly any mention, if at all, of the ribāṭ after al-Jīlānī; his son ʿAbd al-Wahhāb took over the madrasa but there is seemingly no reference to a ribāṭ, unless it was at that stage regarded as part of the madrasa. In fact, when ʿAbd alWahhāb was rehabilitated as the head of the madrasa, after it had been taken from him in the aftermath of the affair about his son Rukn alDīn’s involvement with philosophy, it is said that a ribāṭ was built for him, as a sign of the new favour he enjoyed in the Abbasid court, but this was a new ribāṭ, known as ribāṭ khilāṭiyya. Angelika Hartmann, An134

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Relating hadith to his students, al-Jīlānī is mentioned in a number of chains of transmissions (isnād), and as a trained jurist he would also give legal opinions (fatwa). 137 The years as head of the madrasa and ribāṭ yielded the three works of al-Jīlānī that are extant today, they likely fall into the period between the early 1140s and the early 1160s (roughly 535–555 in the hijrī calendar). Ending his seclusion in deserted areas and returning to society did not mean that al-Jīlānī adopted a completely new lifestyle, he continued to be known for his asceticism, and in many ways practiced a kind of ‘inner worldly withdrawal’, which saw him retreat to his madrasa, only leaving it for the Friday prayer in the congregational mosque or to go to the ribāṭ. 138 In the same way, he preferred silence over pointless chatter. 139 Al-Jīlānī is generally lauded for his exemplary conduct, even by individuals who had otherwise little sympathy for him. 140 The outcome of his focus on his and others’ conduct, reflecting on and scrutinizing this, can be seen in the Ghunya. He is said to have constantly Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180–1225), 194. Jacqueline Chabbi questions whether al-Jīlānī had a ribāṭ in the first place, and, in fact, suggests that this was a later attribution. When taking everything into consideration, especially the mention of the ribāṭ in al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, it is difficult to argue against it. Nonetheless, Chabbi is certainly right in pointing out certain oddities in this matter, not least al-Jīlānī’s rather negative treatment of the ribāṭ institution in the Ghunya. Jacqueline Chabbi, “ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī”, Enc. of Islam III; Jacqueline Chabbi, ʿAbd alḲādir al-Djīlānī, personnage historique, Studia Islamica, 38 (1973), 100. See also Malik’s recent interpretation of this matter, Malik, 91. 137 Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 301; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 87. 138 Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 23, 78; Ibn al-Jawzī, Manāqib Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal, (Cairo: Hijar li-l-ṭabāʿa wa-l-nashr wa-l-tawzīʿ, 1409/1988), 707. 139 Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 23, 78; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 18, 173; Ibn Shākir, 373; Ibn al-Kathīr, vol 17, 171. 140 Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 18, 173; Ibn Shākir, 373; Ibn alKathīr, vol 17, 171.

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practiced dhikr and reflection (fikr). Often, he is characterized as someone who experienced mystical states (aḥwāl) and divine unveilings (mukāshafa) leading to mystical knowledge (maʿrifa). 141 He was known as altruistic and as a man of the people, which comes as little surprise given his Ḥanbalī background, who at the same time kept his distance to political elites. 142 This roughly sums up his portrayal in medieval chronicles and biographical dictionaries, or least those sections of his depiction that can be deemed acceptable according to modern scholarly perspectives and standards. Beyond that, there are unfortunately even in medieval scholarship already traces of the onsetting hagiographical tradition visible, 143 if obviously not to the degree as in purely hagiographical literature. Thus, numerous saintly miracles (karāma) fill these ‘scholarly’ accounts of alJīlānī, often related to his ability to read people’s minds. There may well have been some truth to this, as there are numerous accounts of Sufi shaykhs being credited with this ability, but, on the whole, miraculous accounts of al-Jīlānī tell us more about the notions and beliefs of people in the seventh/thirteenth and eighth/fourteenth-century, when many of them were recorded, than about al-Jīlānī himself. As this book is first and foremost concerned with the latter, and not with the former aspect, these accounts of saintly miracles will not be discussed here.

Ibn Rajab vol. 1, 290–91; Ibn al-Kathīr, vol. 17, 171; Ibn al-Wardī, vol. 2, 68. 142 Ibn Rajab vol. 1, 291–92; al-Dhahabī, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, vol. 12, 605. 143 For an indicative example, see the later section of Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī’s entry on al-Jīlānī, Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 23, 77–130. 141

CHAPTER 2.

INNER PURITY AND DESIRING GOD The following four chapters will explore ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī’s mystical path, in other words, the spiritual and physical development a human being would have to undergo to reach divine proximity in this world. For the purposes of this study, I have divided this path into four stages, each taking up one chapter. This is based on my own understanding of al-Jīlānī’s ideas; he himself does not explicitly refer to four stages, though his view evidently lends itself to such a division. The current chapter will examine the principles and features of the first of those four stages. Yet before doing so, a brief discussion needs to be devoted to a number of basic requirements an individual has to fulfil in order to embark on the path in the first place. These requirements precede al-Jīlānī’s mystical path, and are hence not strictly speaking part of it, but they nevertheless merit a passing mention.

BASIC REQUIREMENTS

Notably in the Ghunya al-Jīlānī demonstrates that he has no presumptions about his readers’ levels of preparedness to don the cloak of a mystic. The path that he outlines does not set out somewhere half way along a Muslim’s spiritual development. Rather, he starts at the very beginning, with the conversion to Islam through the two professions of faith before detailing ritual

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prayer. The Ghunya devotes the next few pages to the remaining three pillars of Islam: zakāt, the fasting of the month of Ramaḍān, and ḥajj. 1 Thereupon, the work introduces the reader to a code of elementary rules related to everyday life, so as to establish a lifestyle conducive to succeeding on the path, all of this is based on hadith and, if possible, verses from the Quran. 2 Thus, we learn how to greet others in public, how to keep a fair public appearance, how to sleep, what to say when looking in a mirror, what names to give, how to treat one’s spouse and how to look after the sick. This basic approach of the Ghunya obviously resembles, and was probably inspired by, Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī’s (d. 386/996) Qūt al-qulūb, which sets out a detailed way of life in accordance with Islamic mysticism, always anxious to relate this to hadith and the Quran. The influence of Qūt al-qulūb on the Ghunya is obvious; 3 the former likely served as a model for the latter, for which reason al-Jīlānī was criticized within certain sections of the Ḥanbalī legal school. 4 Beyond that, the Ghunya’s ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya li-ṭālibī ṭarīq al-ḥaqq, (Beirut: Dār Iḥyā’ al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 1996), 23–34. One aspect that might be deemed noteworthy is that retreat (iʿtikāf) is dealt among those pillars of Islam, as if it were an additional pillar. 2 Ibid., 34–78. 3 See, for example Ibid., 141, 341–46, 357–58, 360–62; Abū Ṭālib alMakkī, Qūt al-Qulūb, (Cairo: Maktaba Dār al-Turāth, 2001), 39, 55–65, 68–94, 95–96. There is in addition a substantial overlap in vocabulary and fundamental principles between Qūt al-Qulūb and the Ghunya. AlMakkī puts much emphasis on such qualities as ‘return to God’ (tawba), ‘patience’ (ṣabr), ‘thankfulness’ (shukr), ‘fear of God’ (kawf), ‘trust in God’ (tawakkul), ‘contentment’ (riḍā) and ‘sincere devotion to God’ (ikhlāṣ), all of which also feature heavily in al-Jīlānī’s ideas. Al-Makkī, 499–585, 616–79, 851–1040, 1342–72; al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 159–90, 330–33, 440–41, 468–69, 473, 477–80, 482–86. 4 Alexander Knysh, Islamic Mysticism: a short History, (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 181. 1

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elementary starting point coincides with claims that al-Jīlānī’s teaching found appeal beyond the confines of the Sunni-Muslim community, with many Christians and Jews converting at his hands. 5 Following this, al-Jīlānī specifies a number of theological tenets that an individual presumably should embrace in preparation for embarking on the suggested mystical path. 6 Some of these tenets are unanimously accepted in Islam, such as, the notion that God is unlike anything else or that He does not beget nor is He begotten, while others are more disputed, for example, free will vs. predestination or the nature of the Quran. 7 In connection to the latter issue, al-Jīlānī advocates that the Quran is God’s speech and as such uncreated, not just in its original state but also in any human manifestation thereof, that is to say, in human recitation, reading or writing down of the Quran. 8 This question divided the Ḥanbalī school in the late fifth/eleventh and early sixth/twelfth-century; one faction argued that the Quran as God’s speech was per se uncreated, yet any human manifestation thereof was created. This group has been associated with scholars like Ibn Ḥāmid (d. 403/1013), Qāḍī Abū Yaʿlā (d. 458/1066), Ibn ʿAqīl (d. 513/1119), and later Ibn al-Jawzī (d. 597/1201). 9 The other faction, to which alAl-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām wa-wafayāt al-mashāhīr wa-l-aʿlām, (Beirut: Dār al-kutub al-ʿarabī, 1990), vol. 39, 99; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, Mir'āt alzamān fī tawārīkh al-ʿayān, (Beirut: Dār al-risāla al-ʿālamiyya, 2013), vol. 23, 85. 6 Al-Jīlānī, Ghunya, 84–123. 7 For a more expansive discussion on al-Jīlānī’s theological outlook, see The grey falcon: the life and teaching of Shaykh 'Abd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2019), 103–49. 8 Al-Jīlānī, Ghunya, 88–89. 9 The inclusion of Ibn Ḥāmid and Qāḍī Abū Yaʿlā in this faction has to be treated with caution. While Qāḍī Abū Yaʿlā was, on one hand, seemingly less hostile to methods of speculative theology (kalām) than his fellow Ḥanbalīs, composing the well-known work al-Muʿtamad, that uses kalām approaches to defend the literalist viewpoints of the Ḥanbalī 5

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Jīlānī, his teacher al-Mukharrimī (d. 513/1119) and the latter’s teacher Qāḍī Yaʿqūb (d. 486/1093) belonged, 10 held that not only was the Quran as divine speech uncreated, it remained so even in human manifestation. 11 Both factions invoked the spirit of the school’s eponymous founder Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal (d. 241/855) to support their views. This dispute was related to another major doctrinal disagreement that beset the Ḥanbalī school during this period; how to deal with potentially problematic passages in the Quran and certain hadith, which could give rise to anthropomorphic interpretations of God if read literally. The majority of the school appears to have adhered to literal reading of such passages, but a number of prominent scholars like Ibn ʿAqīl, whose rationalist inclinations have already been alluded to, and his student Ibn alJawzī preferred to resort to metaphorical readings (ta’wīl) of such passages. 12 school, he was, on the other hand, himself denounced for anthropomorphism, i.e. what the other Ḥanbalī faction in this conflict could be accused of, on account of another book of his, Kitāb ibṭāl al-ta’wīlāt liakhbār al-ṣifāt, which is not extant. In the same way, would Ibn alJawzī in the next century blame Qāḍī Abū Yaʿlā and Ibn Ḥāmid in addition to Ibn al-Zāghūnī (d. 527/1132) for introducing anthropomorphism in the Ḥanbalī school. Siyafiq A. Mughni, “Ḥanbalī movements in Baghdād from Abū Muḥammad al-Barbahārī (d. 329/941) to Abū Jaʿfar al-Hāshimī (d. 470/1077)”, (PhD diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 1990), 136–42; Merlin Swartz, A Medieval Critique of Anthropomorphism: Ibn al-Jawzī's Kitāb Akhbār aṣ-ṣifāt, a critical edition of the Arabic text with translation, introduction and notes, (Leiden: Brill, 2002) 34–37, 58–62; Tilman Nagel, Im Offenkundigen das Verborgene: die Heilszusage des sunnitischen Islams, (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), 191. 10 Nagel, 191–92. 11 Ibid., 187–195. This appears to have been the unanimous Ḥanbalī stance in this matter in the late fourth/tenth century, but thereafter diverging opinions emerged. Mughni, 234. 12 See for an informative discussion of Ibn al-Jawzī’s stance in this matter; Swartz, A Medieval Critique of Anthropomorphism, 3–64. In general,

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Although he does not explicitly state so, al-Jīlānī appears to have sided with the majority, favouring a literal reading of the Quran in every respect. This can be deduced from the criticism of ta’wīl and its advocates by some of his foremost students like Ibn al-Qudāma (d. 620/1223), 13 as well as his stance in said debate about the nature of the Quran. Affirming that the Quran is unconditionally God’s uncreated speech, even when expressed by human beings, had in the eyes of many anthropomorphic implications, as the Quran, when being recited by a human being, could hence be seen as God’s speech taking on human form. 14 Al-Jīlānī’s lack of concern with such anthropomorphic implications would suggest a similar stance in the question whether to approach problematic Quranic passages literally or metaphorically. In the debate about free will vs. predestination, al-Jīlānī upholds divine predestination of all human acts, meaning that both good and bad acts are preordained by divine decree. 15 Overall his treatment of those theological tenets is of course based on the Quran and the Sunna, and devoid of any rational argumentation. Al-Jīlānī was rigorously opposed to speculative theology (kalām), which was in line with the large majority of the Ḥanbalī school, as well as the outlook prevailing among most major mystics in Baghdad at the time. In fact, al-Jīlānī is commonly credited in later biographical dictionaries and chronicles with turning the younger Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī

even the Ḥanbalī school would eventually be forced to allow a limited form of metaphorical reading (ta’wīl), under certain circumstances, to avoid contradictions. Mughni, 227–28. 13 Swartz, A Medieval Critique of Anthropomorphism, 42. 14 Al-Jīlānī reveals, in other places, that he is clearly aware of the dangers of anthropomorphic explanations, for instance holding that God has a body or human features, and distances himself from what he perceives as such. Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 86, 129. 15 Ibid., 97. See below for further discussion.

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away from such endeavours. 16 Al-Suhrawardī was as a young man apparently attracted to speculative theology, but later in his life he became one of its fiercest critics. The theological section of the Ghunya is concluded by an examination of the major sectarian groups like the Shia and its various sub-divisions, the Murji’a, the Jahmiyya or the Muʿtazila, elucidating how they have erred and thus asserting the supremacy of Sunni Islam. 17 In short, an individual aspiring to embark on the mystical path, has accordingly to be a Sunni Muslim adhering to the five pillars of Islam, and to embrace a certain lifestyle and theological viewpoint. Beyond this rather rudimentary blanket description, al-Jīlānī outlines a more specific mind-set in Futūḥ alghayb, where he explains that it is indispensable for such individuals to be defined by three characteristics: submission to the divine command, steering clear of divine prohibitions and contentment with the divine decree. 18 Drawing on the same notion, al-Jīlānī, elsewhere, sums up the essence of this preliminary stage simply as genuine submission to God (islām) in all circumstances and aspects. 19 Submission to God’s command for al-Jīlānī is not limited to mere adherence to the sharʿīa, but rather entails actively embracing and becoming intimately familiar with the divine command. This is made possible by means of the two ‘lights’, the Quran and the Sunna, which help a believer to examine notions or inspirations that occur to him. Therefore, if one finds in such what has been prohibited or what is permissible, he should abAl-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām vol. 39, 92, 98; idem, Siyar aʿlām alnubalā’, (Beirut: Manshūrāt Muḥammad ʿAlī Bayḍūn, Dār al-Kutub alʿIlmiyya, 2004), vol. 12, 603; Ibn Rajab, al-Dhayl ʿalā tabaqāt alḥanābila, (Cairo: maṭbaʿa al-sunna al-muḥammadiyya, 1952), vol. 1, 295–296. See for a detailed examination of this the next chapter. 17 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, (Cairo: al-Maktaba alAzhariyya li-l-Turāth, 2004), 123–33. 18 Ibid., 7. 19 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, (Giza: Dār al-Rayān liturāth), 146–48, 184, 232, 235–36, 311. 16

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stain from them as they come from the devil or the lower soul respectively. Only if there is neither of these two, then a notion or inspiration is assuredly a divine command. 20 Once a divine command has been identified, one should, in al-Jīlānī’s opinion, show urgency and spare no effort to carry out the divine command, rather than await passively for divine decree (qadar) to bring this about. 21 While he espoused the doctrine of divine predestination, al-Jīlānī shows himself critical of the overly passive attitude of some of his contemporaries, holding that since everything is decreed by God, there is no more need to make an effort to actively enforce, or even passively comply with, His commands. He feels that one should, even in the presence of divine predestination, actively engage with God’s command, for one, since one can in any case never foresee what will happen and, for another, because such active engagement with the divine command, familiarizes the believer with it, which, in turn, again reinforces submission to it. That being said, al-Jīlānī repeatedly reminds his audience that they should be content with the allotment God has decreed for them. He differentiates between three kinds of allotments; the allotment that God intends for a believer and which reaches him whether he likes it or not. The allotment made for another, which will thus not be attained by this believer however much he exerts himself. And the allotment meant for no one, created by God as a mere temptation, which will likewise not reach this believer. 22 The point is that we should not waste our energies pursuing those lots not destined for us, but be content with the lots allocated to us, because it is in any case all we will attain. After all, trials and afflictions are inescapable parts of our existence in this world, which swings between the temporary states

Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 20. Ibid., 24. 22 Ibid., 16–17, 40–41, 67–68. 20 21

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of blessing and affliction; one is always either subject to one or the other. 23 It is hence imperative to understand that neither times of happiness nor affliction last forever but constantly alternate, and one is expected to behave appropriately in both situations. In Futūḥ al-ghayb, al-Jīlānī frequently urges his listeners to show themselves thankful to God in times of blessing, and not to become infatuated with the gift instead of the Donor. 24 During phases of trial, he encourages them to remain patient 25 and in particular not to become angry with God, 26 or voice their grievances to anybody else but Him. 27 One should also not envy others for their turn of good fortune. 28 Spells of trials and afflictions have their own purpose in that they allow a believer to demonstrate his faith and patience and enable his heart and certainty to grow stronger. They suggest, in fact, love and proximity to God, since the more intimate one becomes with God, the more one suffers from such. 29 The key to living in compliance with God’s command and in contentment with one’s lot is to recognise and control the workings of one’s lower soul (nafs). Given our oscillating between blessing and affliction, the lower soul is either in a state of vitality when we are being blessed or in a state of distress when we are afflicted. In distress, it is anxious, angry and given to complaining and accusing God. When healthy, the lower soul turns greedy, arrogant and in constant pursuit of sensual satisfaction. Its greed is inexhaustible, ever desiring better and more. One unaware of this will in times of blessing become profoundly Ibid., 77–80, 97–99. Ibid., 23, 78–79, 97. 25 Ibid., 54, 78, 97. 26 Ibid., 60–63, 106. 27 Ibid., 80, 98. Though one ought to be careful in this too, as Futūḥ alghayb warns of doing so excessively or even accusing God, see for example ibid., 98. 28 Ibid., 67–69. 29 Ibid., 39. 23 24

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fatigued since the lower soul can never be satisfied, while during times of affliction such an individual will be provoked to inappropriate conduct by his lower soul. 30 One achieves control over the lower soul, according to Futūḥ al-ghayb, by keeping one’s submission to God’s command and contentment with His decree close to one’s heart. Additionally, it is somewhat ambiguously suggested that the believer should talk ‘his lower soul into’ this approach (yuḥaddith bi-hā nafsu-hu or taḥadduth bi-hā li-nafsi-hi). 31 What al-Jīlānī seems to refer to with this is a way of channelling one’s focus so as to control one’s lower soul. The ideal is of course that one directs one’s focus to God, by, for example, continuously and in all situations, summoning His favours and kindness. 32 Another method is to make the hereafter one’s centre of attention instead of this world. 33 People who do not channel their focus in this way, are in al-Jīlānī’s mind, abusing their lower souls, as they expose them to the temptations of this world. He pleads with his audience to have mercy and compassion on their lower souls by focusing on God alone, or at least by means of constantly remembering the hereafter. 34 Only in this way, can we control our lower souls, rather than vice versa, which in turn prepares us for the mystical path.

Ibid., 74. Ibid., 7, 79. 32 Ibid., 25, 79, 96. 33 Ibid., 63–67. It is obviously preferable and in proper mysticism absolutely essential to focus on God alone rather than in combination with the hereafter. Since this constitutes, however, a preliminary stage to the actual mystical path, the regular believer may obviously find it easier to gradually arrive at an exclusive focus on Him by means of initially focusing on the hereafter. 34 Ibid., 25, 66, 96. 30 31

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THE FIRST STAGE OF THE MYSTICAL PATH: DEFINITION

We then arrive at the outset of the proper path, having succeeded in submitting to divine command and being content with divine decree by means of controlling our lower souls. The first stage of al-Jīlānī’s path is about ‘passing away from creation’ (māta ʿan or fanā ʿan al-khalq), that is to say, leaving behind any aspect unrelated to God, as He is the only Creator on whom everything else depends for creation. More specifically, this means leaving behind one’s fellow human beings and their way of life. The aspirant mystic, for this reason, renounces any material possession as well as any desires or aspirations pertaining to this world. 35 He furthermore limits or even completely suspends physical contact with his contemporaries and breaks off any emotional attachment to them by ceasing to rely on them or setting his hopes on them. Freeing themselves from their dependency on their fellow human beings is an important step for mystical aspirants, on a material level to facilitate their adoption of an ascetic lifestyle, and on an emotional level to guard their inner lives from other human beings. They are therefore advised to neither complain nor confide to their contemporaries. The only sphere of intimacy for mystical aspirants is in the presence of God, where they are allowed to open their hearts and, if need be, complain. 36 In this way, one is encouraged to resort to dissembling one’s actual inner state at the outside, if necessary, while always remaining truthful and forthright to God at the interior. 37 The resulting internalization and emotional focus on God builds on the outlook of the preliminary stage, and provides the basis for a spiritual advancement leading the aspirant mystic ever closer to God. Leaving behind creation also entails one’s detachment from one’s lower soul (nafs). In Islamic mysticism, the lower soul is Ibid., 11, 19. In addition, to their shaykh, in whom they should confide, see below. 37 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 32–33. 35 36

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identified as the origin of human physical and material lusts and desires connected to this world, which in this way hinders humans from assuming a more spiritual perspective and drawing nearer to God. Al-Jīlānī expects that individuals embarking on the path have attained an understanding and control over their lower soul, so that they are able to completely renounce it at this stage, since this is the only way to free oneself of it for good and, by extension, make one’s leaving behind of creation last. For that reason, novices embrace an ascetical lifestyle, by leaving wealth, fasting during daytime, nocturnal vigil and seclusion, while remaining focused on God, which will help them to overcome and chain their lower souls permanently. Succeeding in this, the lower soul becomes known as a ‘pacified’ (muṭma’inna) lower soul. 38 In Futūḥ al-ghayb, as well as other works of Islamic mysticism, the lower soul is, due to obstructing humans from spiritual advancement, represented as being directly opposed to God. While being a creation of God, it distinguishes itself from all other things by resisting Him, upholding its own claims, and following its desires and lusts. By turning away from the lower soul, the novices therefore take the side of God, becoming enemies to the lower soul on behalf of God. 39 This is the beginning of an alliance between God and the mystic. If it proves itself to be a stable alliance, by the mystical aspirant overcoming his lower soul permanently, then it develops into a friendship (muwālāt) and the mystical aspirant is elevated to the rank of God’s friends (awliyā’). 40 In this sense, al-Jīlānī illustrates advancement during this first stage as the believer’s lower soul turning into a heart (inqalabat nafsu-hu qalban) at the completion of it, that is to say,

See for example, al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 9, 223, 230, 245, 247, 269, 370. This is in connection with Quran 89:27–30. 39 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 18–19. 40 Ibid., 19. 38

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the heart replaces the lower soul as his seat of perception. 41 This represents a fundamental change of perspective; cutting himself loose from his prior vantage point of the lower soul, curtailed by worldly preoccupations, the believer now perceives through the heart, by means of which he attains a new more spiritual perspective. On another level, we find, in Futūḥ al-ghayb, the heart frequently associated with the divine command (amr), 42 the closer and more persistent this association becomes, the more dominant and resistant to creation and the lower soul the heart becomes. 43 Thus, by perceiving through the heart, the believer becomes yet closer to the divine command. It is in connection with this, that al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī generally identifies this stage with faith (īmān), following from genuine submission in the preliminary stage. 44 The emergence of the heart as the organ of perception, replacing the lower soul, as a result of leaving behind creation and pacifying the lower soul, is predictably accompanied by a growth of faith. In this way, alJīlānī defines faith as a ‘rejecter’, in the way of rejecting things such as creation for the sake of God. 45 The more such attachments to this world are ‘rejected’, the more assertive and purer the heart becomes and correspondingly the stronger faith grows. 46 In any case, al-Jīlānī cautions that entering this first stage, leave alone succeeding on it, is certainly not a given and rather exclusive. One passes away from creation by the permission of God (bi-idhni allāh); in other words, it is in His hands to guide a believer through this stage successfully, rather than in the hands of the believer himself. It is thus only those who are given diIbid., 124. Ibid., 11, 21, 45–46, 94. 43 Ibid., 45. 44 See for example, al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 101, 111, 147–48, 184, 232, 235–6. 45 Ibid., 215 46 Ibid., 262. 41 42

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vine approval who succeed, but by no means all who aspire for it. Al-Jīlānī also characterizes this early phase of the path in relation to the concept of ‘desire for God’ (irāda). Desiring God is of course commonly regarded as tantamount to the starting point of the mystical path, with the novice styled as murīd, meaning ‘desiring God’, coming from the same Arabic root r-w-d as irāda. 47 Yet al-Jīlānī offers a slightly different view, as he distinguishes between a beginner (mubtadi’) on the path and a murīd. According to him, the beginner cannot yet be defined as murīd, in the sense of ‘desiring God’, rather the early steps of the path are associated with the beginner’s quest to attain such a desire for God in the first place. Thus, the beginner adopts the ascetic and pious lifestyle alluded to above, renouncing this and the next world while seeking God (ṭalab al-ḥaqq). This allows his heart to awaken (nuhūd al-qalb) to God and his desire to become divested of other things, becoming exclusively devoted to Him (tajarradat irādatuhu). Al-Jīlānī compares this to an ember of fear (jamra alkhashya) that is dropped into the heart of the beginner burning everything related to himself to the ground. 48 Once this has Though other words, with roughly the same meaning, are also found; al-Junayd, for example, generally prefers the term ‘qaṣd’ and ‘al-qaṣd ilā allāh’, as in ‘seeking’ or ‘desiring God’, and by extension refers to ‘seekers (qāṣidūn) of God’. Abū Qāsim al-Junayd, Rasāʼil al-Junayd, (Damascus: Dār Iqraʼ, 2005), 39–86. 48 Al-Jīlānī’s understanding of the workings of the heart is that it is embattled by six inclinations (khawāṭir). The inclinations of the lower soul (nafs) and the devil incite all the sinful and negligent acts that should be shunned like indulging in one’s worldly passions and desires, accusing and complaining to God or being unfaithful to Him. In contrast stand the inclinations of the spirit (rūḥ) and the angel (malak) inspiring humans to obedience to God. The inclination of reason can go either way, sometimes siding with one side and sometimes with the other. Lastly, the inclination of certainty (yaqīn) is the essence of true faith in God and the starting place of true knowledge (rūḥ al-īmān wa-mawrid 47

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happened, the desire for God is able to assert itself and prevails over all concerns. It becomes the source of guidance for the novice’s intention and actions. In essence, he returns to the true state of desire (ḥaqīqa al-irāda), where he exclusively desires God’s countenance (wajh allāh), as indicated by the verses 6:52 or 18:28 of the Quran. It is only then, when filled with this pure desire for God, that the wayfarer can be identified as a (murīd) ‘desiring God’. On another occasion, al-Jīlānī attempts to link his path with the term ‘Sufi’ (ṣūfī), so that the beginner becomes known as mutaṣawwif, that is an ‘aspirant Sufi’ or ‘would-be Sufi’. The latter is someone who takes it upon himself, initially in an assumed manner (yatakallafu), to be a Sufi, assuming the Sufis’ way of exterior conduct and dressing. 49 While the aspirant Sufi’s status is merely based on his exterior appearance, and says nothing about his inner state, he endeavours to undergo the same process of inner purification to eventually reach the level of wholehearted devotion for God that marks the proper Sufi. This because, according to al-Jīlānī, being a Sufi has nothing to do al-ʿilm). It is God given in form of directly imparted knowledge and understanding of hidden matters (ʿilm ladūnī wa-akhbār al-ghuyūb waasrār al-umūr). It is exclusively given to His elect friends (awliyā’) and ‘those standing in lieu of His will’ (abdāl). The heart is therefore the battle ground in which the forces of good and bad, represented by the different inclinations of the heart, meet. It is also, where one struggles with the devil through inner jihād. In order to repel the evil forces and guard their hearts, believers are urged to seek refuge with God, engage in dhikr, live ascetically and rely solely on God until they reach the stage of certainty when their refuge with Him has reached a perfected and permanent state because their exterior has been taken over by God while they are ever conscious and watchful of their interior. Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 141–43; See for overlap with al-Makkī, al-Makkī, 39. 49 al-Jīlānī compares this to someone who puts on a shirt and becomes hence known as ‘one donning a shirt’ (mutaqammiṣ) or who puts on armor and hence becomes known as ‘armored’ (mutadarriʿ). Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 441–42.

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with donning wool, as oftentimes assumed, but is entirely down to inner purity. He even seeks to prove on a linguistic basis that the term ṣūfī refers to the latter rather than the former. 50 Be that as it may, it has to be pointed out, and will no doubt be noted below as well, that attempts of aligning his mystical path with derivations of the term Sufi are not really convincing, as the division of his own path does not correspond with it. The term Sufi otherwise barely features in al-Jīlānī’s work, and was evidently not innate to his thinking. Its use here seems more to have been due to seeking to explain a term unfamiliar to his audience, by placing it into the familiar framework of his own path.

CONDUCT AND PRACTICE: ORIGINAL TAWBA

At the beginning of al-Jīlānī’s mystical path stands tawba, the return to God. The term tawba usually stands for a turn away from sinful to sound conduct, in accordance with Islamic law. In al-Jīlānī’s thought the term has three different connotations; it refers to said common interpretation, a kind of spiritual renewal (discussed further below), and finally it also denotes a ‘radical reorientation to God’, 51 a seminal event in a mystic’s life when he resolves to devote his life to Him wholeheartedly and leaves behind the illusory lower world, in other words, when he resolves to become a mystic or Sufi. Naturally such a pivotal event leads to a change of lifestyle, manifesting itself in controlling one’s tongue, blocking any illfeelings towards others in one’s heart, stopping to interact with people of morally unsound character who weaken one’s resolution in this matter, being ready for death and seeking forgiveness for past mistakes. All the while, one strives for obediSee for the examination of his argument chapter 5. Gerhard Böwering, “Early Sufism between Persecution and Heresy”, in Islamic Mysticism Contested: Thirteen Centuries of Controversy and Polemic, ed. John de Jong and Bernd Radtke, (Leiden: Brill, c. 1999), 45– 53. 50 51

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ence to God, continuously seeking His countenance by devotion and contemplation (mushāhada), which intensifies one’s desire (irāda) and gives incentive to persist with the course taken. 52 This interpretation of tawba is nothing new, but in keeping with earlier viewpoints in mystical Islam. Gerhard Böwering has noted that already in early Sufism tawba signified a seminal event of one’s first direct encounter with the divine, and hence the outset on the mystical path, which resulted in a ‘radical reorientation to God’ and abandoning the illusory lower world. 53 Tawba in the sense of ‘radical reorientation’ represents the first stage on the mystical path in many medieval Sufi manuals. 54 It is however always a reciprocal act; humans can only turn to God once the Latter has turned to them, in agreement with the way the term is used in the Quran in connection with Adam. 55 Humans are not able to direct their energies to God, unless He has already turned to them. For al-Jīlānī this kind of tawba demonstrates sincere commitment to God, reflected both on the inside and the outside. He reminds his audience repeatedly not to be deceived by their external adherence to Islam, merely conforming with the five pillars and restraining from outward disobedience, while remaining spiritually destitute (ʿārin). For that reason, he urges them to perform this form of tawba, embodying the adoption of the mystical cloak, which he views as the best available protection against hypocrisy (riyā’). The Ghunya establishes the precedence of the practice of tawba among the prophets and messengers of God, starting with God’s turning to Adam, 56 and therefore invites regular believers to seek the presence of and join the ranks of mystics, in order to Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 189. Böwering, 45–53. 54 See for example al-Qushayrī, Al-Risāla al-qushayriyya, (Beirut: Dār alKutūb al-ʿIlmiyya, 2001), 126–33. 55 Sūra 2:37. 56 Sūra 2:37. 52 53

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turn to God and avoid falling into hypocrisy. 57 While one will never be totally immune to feelings of hypocrisy and pride, even if one should arrive at the advanced stage of the badal, who is guarded by divine protection (ḥifẓ) and divine assistance (tawfīq), embarking on the mystical path, and in particular reaching the higher stages of it, makes one far more unlikely to succumb to it. 58

MASTER-DISCIPLE

As mentioned, the individual who starts out on the path is in alJīlānī’s thought known as a beginner. 59 The beginner has to acquire three qualities: he has to attain genuine faith (al-iʿtiqād alṣaḥīḥ), in line with this first stage also being identified with faith, 60 which has to be based on the doctrine of the pious ancestors (al-salaf al-ṣaḥīḥ) in the tradition of Sunni Islam, be they prophets, messengers of God, companions of Muhammad, or former friends of God as well as the Quran and the Sunna. A beginner has to strive with the utmost effort and exertion to succeed on the path. Finally, the beginner is required to distinguish himself through his fidelity (ṣidq) to God, based on a pledge (yakhluṣ maʿa-llāh ʿazza wa-jalla ʿahdan) that he will leave all initiative to God and not be turned away from his intention to arrive in His presence either by blameworthy behaviour (malāma malīm) or by saintly marvels (karāma). 61 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 164–66. Ibid., 333. 59 Ibid., 445–47. 60 Al-Jīlānī seems to use the terms iʿtiqād and īmān interchangeably. 61 Louis Gradet sensibly translates karāma as ‘marvel’ instead of ‘miracle’, see L. Gardet, “Karāma”, Enc. of Islam II. The last condition suggests concern that the beginner either falls short of the rigorous comportment expected of a wayfarer of the path, or that he does well but then becomes preoccupied by insignificant aspects. Saintly marvels were generally seen as confirmations (taṣdīq) of a mystic’s fidelity (ṣidq) in his activity. The danger, however, with the appearance of saintly 57 58

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Once the beginner’s heart becomes purified (ṣafat al-qulūb) and divested of all worldly desires, and attachments, he becomes a novice, or one ‘desiring God’ (murīd). It is at this stage, that the mystic becomes eligible to seek the tutorship of a master (shaykh). Al-Jīlānī differentiates thus between the beginner (mubtadi’), who is not yet associated with a master, and the novice who, having undergone some purification and re-adjusted his focus to God, is allowed to seek the supervision of a shaykh. Indeed, the novice is all but expected to do so, because such a guiding hand is incumbent for the remainder of the path. 62 As al-Jīlānī reminds his listeners “he who does not have a master, Iblis becomes his master…[and] if you do not adhere to the Quran and the Sunna and a master knowledgeable of them you will never succeed”. 63 The master is best defined as a middle man or mediator between the murīd and God. He symbolises, according to al-Jīlānī, the means by which one reaches divine proximity, similar to a chamberlain who prepares a subject for an audience with the king. 64 The custom that a disciple is to be supervised by a masmarvels, for al-Jīlānī, lies in becoming pleased or preoccupied with them at the expense of God. One reaches divine proximity due to divine omnipotence (al-qudra) alone and the saintly marvels experienced early on the path are nothing other than decoration (thamarā) and signposts of this divine omnipotence. The mystic is therefore cautioned to remain focused on the essence instead of being distracted by one of its outward expressions, a danger that disappears only when he reaches God. By then, he will naturally keep the saintly marvels between himself and God while beforehand he is at risk of disclosing them to others. This is, in fact, how saintly marvels are distinguished from prophetic miracles (muʿjizāt); the latter are displayed publically to validate the prophet’s claim, whereas the former are kept private. Keeping saintly marvels private seems to be in line with the opinion of the majority of early mystics, see al-Qushayrī, 378–80. 62 Al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 112, 158–59, 162, 203, 210. 63 Ibid., 162. 64 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 447–48.

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ter, was thus established by God Himself, and found manifold appearance throughout history, beginning with God being the master of Adam, later Gabriel being the master of Muhammad, and later still Sarī al-Saqaṭī (d. 253/867) being the master of alJunayd (d. 298/910). Excluding a few special cases like Abraham or Uways al-Qarānī (d. 37/657), it is hence unavoidable that there is a shaykh to every murīd. Only once he has arrived in divine proximity, may a mystic leave his master, because from then on God Himself will take charge of his further development. 65 Given its importance, what should the relationship between master and novice look like? Al-Jīlānī strongly emphasizes that a novice desists from contradicting his master outside or disagreeing with him inside in any manner. Instead, he is advised to direct this negative energy towards his own lower soul, renouncing and reproaching it. If there is in his master’s conduct something that stirs his dislike in connection to revealed religion, the novice should ask about it indirectly so as not to alienate his master. If he finds a shortcoming in his master, he should try to conceal it from him and try to interpret it favourably based on revealed religion. In case this does not produce the desired excuse, the novice is asked to plead for God’s forgiveness on his shaykh’s behalf, and invoke blessings on him. Obviously, he is never to disclose anything about it to another person. The next time he meets his master, the novice should assume that this shortcoming has been removed. Indeed, he should assume that his master has in the meantime been transferred to a higher spiritual station (rutba) and that his negligence or transgression was part of being stuck between his previous and his current mystical station. Al-Jīlānī explains that, being moved from one mystical station to another, one passes through a sort of anteroom that includes falling back to a lenient code of conduct and permissibility (rukhaṣ al-sharʿ wa-ibāḥati-hi) and the temporary suspension of adherence to a strict code of 65

Ibid., 448–49.

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conduct (ʿazīma). 66 Be that as it may, one can infer from this that a novice should never be at variance with his shaykh. This represents only one out of three occasions over the short space of a few pages, in which al-Jīlānī cautions against this. 67 Opposition to one’s master, according to him, contains ‘deadly poison’. 68 From this follows that the novice is expected to adhere to his master in blind obedience and reverence. He should venerate his master, seeing in him the worthiest of individuals. Suitably, the murīd should refrain from speaking in the shaykh’s presence, unless requested or necessary. At the same time, he is supposed to inform his master about everything personal and not keep any secrets from him. The novice is not to unfold his carpet in the master’s presence, except for ritual prayers, after which he should fold it up at once. Moreover, he should be ready at all times to serve his master and anybody else sitting with him on his carpet. 69 As for the expectations regarding the shaykh, his duty entails training the novice so as to introduce him to God, by virtue of sound advice, compassion, and gentleness, in particular in situations of failure. Al-Jīlānī likens the shaykh to a father who raises his offspring in a compassionate, wise, and caring manner. He is asked to treat what transpires in the context of his guidance of the novice strictly confidential, whether he becomes aware of it through the murīd’s disclosure or whether this is directly imparted to him from God (ʿilm ladunī). In case he comes across a slight flaw or laxness of his novice, the master is to act on the disciple’s behalf in his innermost, i.e. seeking to atone for his imperfections. If the shaykh is faced with reprehensible behaviour related to revealed religion, he is to exhort and correct the novice in private. The master is furthermore advised to curb See below for a detailed discussion on this matter. Ibid., 447, 450. Ibid., 450, 451–52. 68 Ibid., 451. 69 Ibid., 450–52. 66 67

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the murīd’s pride, even downplaying the novice’s progress and feats on the path. 70 Al-Jīlānī holds that the relationship between shaykh and murīd has to be based on a strong bond between the two, building on the compassion, wisdom and responsibility of the former and the reverence, surrender and trust of the latter. In this way, both attempt to view the other in the best possible light, and to give the other the best possible impression of himself. The wall of secrecy by which they set themselves apart from others further tightens their relationship. A close bond like that, provides the ideal basis for a novice’s spiritual progress. This illustration seems in line with the prevalent conceptions of the shaykh-murīd relationship at the time. Fritz Meier has shown that the responsibility of the shaykh in the third/ninth and forth/tenth-century was generally limited to instructing novices, for which reason he was known as shaykh al-taʿlīm. From about the fifth/eleventh-century onwards, the master’s authority started to additionally include the novice’s lifestyle, so that he became designated as shaykh al-tarbiya. 71 The position of the shaykh extended therefore from mere academic instruction (taʿlīm) in the beginning to entailing both instruction and training (tarbiya). 72 Such conditions necessitated greater commitment from both sides, which, in turn, added to the bond between them, very similar to the relationship depicted here. Accordingly, al-Jīlānī often defines the shaykh’s responsibility as training (tarbiya) the murīd.

Ibid., 452–53. Interestingly, the principles of hiding one’s mystical acts and achievements and suppressing pride were associated in particularly with the ascetic-mystical malāmātī movement in third/ninth and forth/tenth-century Khurāsān. 71 Or ‘shaykh al-taʿlīm wa-l-tarbiya’, see Fritz Meier, “Khurasan and the End of Classical Sufism”, Essays on Islamic Piety and Mysticism by Fritz Meier; trans. John O'Kane with editorial assistance of Bernd Radtke, (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 191–97. 72 Or ‘shaykh al-taʿlīm wa-l-tarbiya’, Ibid., 191–97. 70

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Having come under the guidance of a shaykh, the murīd’s development hinges on two things; to continue the process of constantly turning to God and moving closer to Him and, simultaneously, turning away from anything other than Him. Consequently, as he starts to perceive things by the light of God (nūr allāh), the novice no longer sees but His acts and therefore recognizes that God is indeed the only actor. This makes him blind to creation and their deeds.

OTHER PRACTICES

Beyond the rather detailed account of how to relate to his shaykh, one finds relatively little information regarding conduct in other situations or specific practices that a novice, or a beginner for that matter, should engage in. The exhaustive treatment of practices such as seclusion and audition (samāʿ) is mostly aimed at more advanced mystics, for whom we also find more detailed stipulations concerning their conduct. This is noteworthy, given that al-Jīlānī would become the eponymous founder of the Qādiriyya order, where novices probably in most cases outnumbered more advanced mystics. We learn that, in addition to his observance of the Quran and the Sunna, the murīd distinguishes himself by supererogatory practices, most likely in form of personal devotions to God (wird) and nightly prayers (witr). 73 He is also committed to inner jihād, struggling against self-attachment. The novice embraces and faithfully executes God’s command (yakhtār amr allāh and qā’im bi-amr allāh). He steers clear of empty talk and does not seek the admiration of his contemporaries, but he provides them with sound advice, if asked. In general, he is however most at ease in solitude devoted to God. As for his dress code, it should not stand out from his contemporaries, in the sense of deviating from their customs and Though al-Jīlānī does not specifically link these practices to this stage, al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 338–69.

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hence provoking complaints, and comply with Islamic law. 74 The concern behind this rule is evidently to protect the murīd from pride, being mindful of the dangers and temptations that a distinguishing dress brings with it, especially for one at the outset of the mystical path. The murīd delegates any matter pertaining to himself to God and is happy with whatever His judgment is. He persists in this way genuinely dedicated to God (mukhliṣ) until he is permitted into His proximity. 75 In addition, the importance of dhikr (continuously remembering God) is evident in al-Jīlānī’s thought, as the primary means to focus on God and purify the heart, and is therefore practiced at all levels of the path. 76 At the beginning of the path, it should however be practiced as ‘silent dhikr’, not enunciated, as al-Jīlānī clarifies, “dhikr without the heart will not attain you any esteem or standing [with God], dhikr is [first and foremost] dhikr of the heart and the innermost, and [only] then dhikr of the tongue…continuously remember Him until He continuously remembers you, continuously remember Him until dhikr unburdens you from your impure burdens, and you remain devoid of any, and become obedience [to God] without [any trace of] disobedience.” 77

Thus, as a rule, dhikr should come from the heart, and has otherwise no meaning. This true form of dhikr purifies the heart, until one is unencumbered by burdens to focus on God alone, so that He starts remembering the mystic too, or in al-Jīlānī‘s words, the ‘mystic acquires esteem and standing with God’. Only once the dhikr of the heart and the innermost has been perfected, and the heart has been completely cleansed from imperfecIbid., 337–38. Ibid., 439–41. 76 See for example, Ibid., 140–41; idem, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 30, 77, 112, 174, 192, 221, 250, 256, 264, 274. 77 Al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 250. 74 75

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tions, is the mystic permitted to perform it by tongue. For that reason, novices are obviously limited to silent dhikr.

‘PURE TAWBA’

Another practice that applies to all stages of al-Jīlānī’s path, and is hence also relevant to the first stage is tawba, not in the sense that we have encountered it above as the seminal event, in which a person resolves to turn to God and away from everything else, and neither in the conventional interpretation in Islam of turning away from sinful to sound conduct. This form of ‘returning to God’ refers to an individual’s affirmation of his sincere devotion to God (khāliṣ li-llāh), which he declares not in a state of sin but in a state of complete uprightness and obedience. In view of that, al-Jīlānī defines this form of tawba as ‘pure tawba’ (tawba mujarrada), since it is not connected to seeking penance for disobedience, or attempting to preclude one’s fall into sinful conduct because of temptation. A mystic simply reaffirms his sincere devotion to God, and along with that his rejection of sin and self-attachment. The state of inner purity attained by ‘pure tawba’ is commonly designated as ‘sincere devotion to God’ (ikhlāṣ or khāliṣ li-llāh), not only in the sense of ‘genuineness’ but also in the sense of ‘purity’ or ‘untaintedness’ by anything that is irreconcilable with this devotion, such as sin or disobedience. 78 In this state, nothing comes between God and man, Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 159, 330–38. Both coming from the same Arabic root kh-l-ṣ. Similarly, al-Junayd defines ikhlāṣ as making God one’s sole focus (niyya), by intending every act for Him, and being completely sincere to Him (ḥusn al-qaṣd ilā-hi). Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī also ties ikhlāṣ closely to niyya (intending for God); he explains that while it simply denotes sincerity (ṣidq) among regular believers, ikhlāṣ is synonymous with niyya among the people of the path. It means thus that an act is devoid of dissimulation and passion, sincerely intended for God. As a mystic is required to have niyya in all he does, intending every act he does for God, he so becomes sincerely devoted to God. Al-Junayd, 129; Al-Makkī, 1442–43, 1449.

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and it represents the exact opposite to hypocrisy, which in alJīlānī’s view means being occupied with anything other than Him. Like the conventional form of ‘returning to God’, when human beings repent for transgressions, this form of ‘pure tawba’ has an element of repetition to it. Futūḥ al-ghayb specifies it as part of every mystical state, based on a famous ḥadīth which says that the Prophet asked God for forgiveness seventy times a day. 79 The Ghunya moreover stipulates that any supererogatory performance such as prayers, dhikr or fasting is only accepted by God if it is preceded by tawba and therefore carried out in a state of purity of the heart (ṭahāra al-qalb), when one’s acts are sincerely devoted to God, and one has renounced any hypocrisy and attachment to the self. 80 Returning to God becomes thus a ritualized part of any supererogatory worship. The mystic either renews his allegiance to God or, in case of minor shortcomings, seeks repentance to get ready for his devotional activities. Based on this, ‘pure tawba’ turns into an internal ablution, a counterpart to the external ablution, performed before ritual prayers. The use of the term ṭahāra similarly points to this, as it normally signifies the state of ritual purity required for performing ritual prayers, attained by external ablution, but here refers to the state of prerequisite inner purity achieved by ‘pure tawba’. As seen, the emphasis on ‘pure tawba’ is related to alJīlānī’s concerns about hypocrisy, of which he warns his audience throughout. He exhorts them to be constantly mindful of feelings of hypocrisy and pride; even very advanced mystics are never entirely immune to this. In particular, that means that one should intend one’s work, or supererogatory devotion, for God, as failing to do so induces hypocrisy, preoccupation with the exterior (ru’ya al-khalq) and pride (ʿujb). 81 This is where ‘pure Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 15. Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 330. 81 Ibid., 333. 79 80

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tawba’ becomes relevant, because it assures that a mystic’s spiritual bearings are set straight before any devotion, being reminded of his focus in this.

ʿAZĪMA/RUKHṢA

An essential element in the murīd’s conduct is his adoption of a strict (ʿazīma) as opposed to a lenient (rukhṣa) 82 code of conduct. Overall, ʿazīma vs. rukhṣa is one of the more prominent themes in al-Jīlānī’s thought. In Islamic law rukhṣa denotes a dispensation from a general legal ruling, such as, being allowed to eat during Ramaḍān fasting due to illness. 83 In Islamic mysticism, the concepts of ʿazīma and rukhṣa have a particularly ethical implication. 84 It is generally differentiated between a lenient code of conduct for the common believers (ʿāmma) and a strict one for the mystically inclined (khāṣṣ). Celibacy and avoiding the company of worldly rulers is, for instance, generally regarded as pertaining to ʿazīma, while marriage and associating with rulers is classified as rukhṣa. Thus, an individual adhering to rukhṣa, as interpreted in Islamic mysticism, lives in complete agreement with the stipulations of Islamic law, but simply does not live up to the lofty ethical ideals of the mystical path. Beyond this basic interpretation, there were however differing views as to which particular acts belonged to either of those two categories and how this applied to the mystical path. In accordance with their understanding of the concept of trust in God (tawakkul), some mystics would advocate that begging or ab‘rukhaṣ’ in its plural form. R. Peters and J.G.J. ter Haar, “Rukhṣa”, Enc. of Islam II. 84 Samuela Pagani, “The Meaning of the Ikhtilāf al-Madhāhib in ʿAbd al-Wahāb al-Shaʿrānī’s al-Mīzān al-Kubrā”, Islamic Law and Society 11, no. 2 (2004): 190–91; Florian Sobieroj, “Ibn Khafīf’s al-Kitāb al-Iqdiṣād and Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī’s Adāb al-Murīdīn, A Comparison between Two Works on the Training of Novices”, Journal of Semitic Studies 43, no. 2 (1998): 327–45;, R. Peters and J.G.J. ter Haar, “Rukhṣa”, Enc. of Islam II. 82 83

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staining from seeking a livelihood is ʿazīma but that seeking a livelihood is rukhṣa, whereas many others would see it in the directly reversed way. Moreover, certain mystics believed that adherence to ʿazīma was a lifelong duty, whereas others, including al-Jīlānī, considered it relevant only for the duration of the mystical path. Al-Jīlānī suggests that there are two ways for a master to introduce a novice to ʿazīma. The regular way seems to have been a gradual approach, so that upon reaching manhood the murīd is, in a first step, encouraged to start conforming with the lenient code of conduct (rukhaṣ al-sharʿ), by renouncing his natural disposition (ṭabʿ). Once this is complete and he has become firmly established in divinely decreed religion, the novice is gradually transferred to a strict code of conduct, replacing his inclination for rukhṣa with one for ʿazīma. The other approach is more direct; when a shaykh discerns a novice’s genuine desire for fighting inner jihād (ṣidq al-mujāhada) and embracing ʿazīma, he leads the murīd, upon attaining maturity, directly to ʿazīma, though the master has to take care not to overburden him with spiritual exercises (riyāḍāt) he is not ready for. 85 One of the obvious concerns of a-Jīlānī here is not to overburden the novice unduly. Whichever way the shaykh chooses, he should in any case wait until the novice reaches manhood. And even then, the shaykh is advised repeatedly not to burden the murīd with spiritual exercises that are beyond his capacities. Al-Jīlānī advocates a sensible introduction to such activities so as not to push the disciple too far and hence possibly alienate him from this kind of endeavour altogether. Other contemporaries, like Ibn al-Jawzī, also emphasize this point, which may allude to a common custom at the time of initiating youngsters into exercises and conduct devised for grown-ups. From what we can tell, young men, and at times women, seem to have been regularly present in certain mystical circles, which is reflected, in the lively discussions among Sufis about the permissibility of 85

Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 452.

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looking at beardless youths and being in the company of women. Once however a novice has adopted ʿazīma, he has to stick with it. Al-Jīlānī specifies that for the regular mystic (faqīr) “it is not appropriate that defects beset his acts and circumstances…the lenient code of conduct (rukhaṣ) is for the weak and the common believers (al-ḍuʿafā’ wa-l-ʿawāmm) and not for the strong and the mystics (al-aqwiyā’ wa-l-khāṣṣ); rather their (the mystics’) concern is always the strict code of conduct under any circumstances.” 86

While this refers to the regular mystic, in other words, someone more advanced than the murīd, it applies to the latter as well. He is warned of gathering with others in order to find dispensations from ʿazīma or in order to revert to things he renounced for it. Such acts are regarded a great sin among the people of the mystical path, and tantamount to revoking one’s desire for God (faskh al-irāda), i.e. the very basis of being one who ‘desires God’ (murīd). 87 Thus, al-Jīlānī considers adherence to ʿazīma as an inevitable condition of the path, and makes no concessions in this matter, with the one notable exception. 88 His interpretation in this matter is noteworthy, when considering the prevailing circumstances. The trend to admit loosely associated lay members (muḥibbūn) to mystical and Sufi circles was seemingly already underway, even though it would only peak in the seventh/thirteenth and eighth/fourteenth-century with the establishment and spread of the Sufi orders, which expanded their influence in society by welcoming lay members in addition to full members. 89 While this is often seen as one of the main reaIbid., 464. Ibid., 452. 88 That being the previously mentioned dispensation when a mystical adept is being moved from one mystical station to another. 89 Sobieroj, “Ibn Khafīf’s al-Kitāb al-Iqdiṣād and Abū al-Najīb alSuhrawardī’s Adāb al-Murīdīn”; Alexander Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, 86 87

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sons for the popularization of Sufism during this period, the admission of lay members likely contributed to a dilution of the rigorous Sufi conduct, by means of establishing rukhṣa as a legitimate part of Sufi lifestyle.

EXCURSUS: ABŪ AL-NAJĪB AL-SUHRAWARDĪ

One individual who has been identified as a founding figure of this trend is Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī, 90 who was born around 490/1097 in Suhraward, between Zanjān and Hamedān in the Jibāl region, 91 into the Banu ʿAmmūya family, which claimed descent from the first Rashidun caliph Abū Bakr (d. 13/634). 92 His family enjoyed close ties to the Shāfiʿī legal school and Sufism, which appears to have led some members of it to Baghdad in search for further training. Abū al-Najīb followed the same path; he underwent basic education in his hometown and then, probably in 507/1113–14, moved to Baghdad. 93 Given his allegiance to the Shāfiʿī legal school, Abū al-Najīb studied for the next years at the famous Niẓāmiyya madrasa in Baghdad, under Asad al-Miḥānī (d. 527/1132) and ʿAlī al-Faṣīḥī (d. 516/1122). 94 At the same time, he was introduced to Sufism, receiving a khirqa, by his paternal uncle, Wajīh al-Dīn al176–77; Ian Richard Netton, “The Breath of Felicity: Adab, Aḥwāl, Maqāmāt and Abū Najīb al-Suhrawardī”, Classical Persian Sufism: from its Origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn, (London; New York: Khaniqahi Nimatullahi Publications, 1993), 461. 90 Sobieroj, “Ibn Khafīf’s al-Kitāb al-Iqdiṣād and Abū al-Najīb alSuhrawardī’s Adāb al-Murīdīn”, 336–44; Netton, 460–66, 480; Erik S. Ohlander, Sufism in an age of transition: ‘Umar al-Suhrawardī and the rise of the Islamic mystical brotherhoods, (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 33, 243–46. 91 Also known as ʿIrāq al-ʿAjam, in other words, western Persia. 92 Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-aʿyān, (Paris: Maṭbaʿ al-akhawayn firman Ditwah, 1838), 415–16. 93 Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 165. 94 He may have first moved to and studied in Isfahan from Suhraward, before moving on to Baghdad. Sobieroj, “al-Suhrawardī”, Enc. of Islam II; Ohlander, 76.

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Suhrawardī (d. 532/1137), who was in charge of a ribāṭ. 95 After some years of formal studies, Abū al-Najīb became increasingly drawn to seclusion and asceticism. He abandoned his studies and withdrew from the public for a prolonged period. 96 As part of this seclusion, he made his way to Isfahan, where he came under the supervision of Aḥmad al-Ghazālī. When Abū al-Najīb returned to Baghdad, he is said to have accompanied Ḥammād al-Dabbās, the local Sufi shaykh al-Jīlānī also associated with. Sometime after coming back to Baghdad, Abū al-Najīb ended his seclusion and started preaching, calling people to mend their ways and adopt Sufism. Nevertheless, his early years in Baghdad, both before and following his sojourn in Isfahan, were reportedly spent in very modest circumstances, as Abū al-Najīb inhabited a ruin near the Tigris river with some companions and resorted to work as water carrier, even attempting to make a living as rice grinder. 97 As he attained greater prominence as a preacher, Sufi and hadith scholar, he attracted the attention of the predominant political circles of the Abbasids and the Seljuks, which improved his situation. The ruin he inhabited was rebuild into a ribāṭ with an adjoining madrasa, where he taught and preached to his students and disciples, and in 545/1150–51 he was put in charge of teaching at the Niẓāmiyya madrasa. 98 He was dismissed from this position about two years later, due to the weakened position of the Seljuks, who had sponsored his appointment, as well as apparently teaching in Persian. 99 Thus, he returned to teach Islamic jurisprudence and hadith in his madrasa and Sufism in the ribāṭ. He had a number of outCalled ‘Saʿādat al-khādim’, Ohlander, 72. This is believed to have happened when Abū al-Najīb was twentyfive, i.e. around 515/1122. F. Sobieroj, “al-Suhrawardī”; Ohlander, 76. 97 Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 164–67; Al-Subkī, Ṭabaḳāt alShāfiʿiyya, (Cairo: Dār iḥyā' al-kutub al-ʿarabiyya, 1997), 173–75. 98 Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 164. 99 Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam fī tārīkh al-mulūk wa-al-umam, (Beirut: Dār al-kutub al-ʿilmiyya, 1992), vol. 18, 83–84; Ibn Khallikān, 415–16; F. Sobieroj, “al-Suhrawardī”. 95 96

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standing students and disciples; in hadith, the famous historian Ibn ʿAsākir (d. 571/1176), the outstanding biographer alSamʿānī (d. 562/1166) and the Sufi and later chief shaykh of Baghdad Ibn Sukayna (d. 607/1210–11), and in Sufism most notable his nephew Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī and ʿAmmār al-Bidlīsī (d. 590/1194–604/1207), who would in turn become the master of Najm al-Dīn al-Kubrā (d. 618/1221). 100 In 557/1161–62, Abū al-Najīb spent some time in Damascus as a result of not being able to precede, as planned, to Jerusalem, due to the renewed hostilities between the Zengids and the Crusaders. After eventually returning to Baghdad, he died in 563/1168 and was buried in his madrasa. 101 Other than a commentary devoted to a hadith collection, Abū al-Najīb’s most well-known work is his Adāb al-murīdīn, 102 which gained posthumous fame with the spread of the Suhrawardiyya order following his nephew Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar. One can detect a number of similarities between the lives of Abū al-Najīb and al-Jīlānī. Both were born in the Persian world, and received their basic education in their birthplaces before moving to Baghdad in their late teens to further their studies. Both were exposed to the mystical path during this, and eventually devoted to it full time by seeking seclusion for a prolonged period. Both experienced hardship in their early years in Baghdad and for a while associated with Ḥammād al-Dabbās. And both men eventually returned to society to become prominent preachers and mystics, heading a madrasa and a ribāṭ. That being said, there are differences as well; the most obvious ones being their affiliations to different legal schools, Abū al-Najīb’s association with Aḥmad al-Ghazālī, with whom al-Jīlānī apparently wanted nothing to do, and Abū al-Najīb’s involvement Al-Subkī, 174. Though Ibn Khallikān states that he was buried in his ribāṭ, Ibn Khallikān, 416. 102 Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī, Adāb al-murīdīn, ([Jerusalem]: Institute of Asian and African Studies, the Hebrew Univ. of Jerusalem, c. 1978). 100 101

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with political elites, in particular the Seljuks, of whom al-Jīlānī steered clear. Adāb al-murīdīn, rendered ‘the conduct of the novices’, is a concise Sufi manual, much shorter than al-Jīlānī’s Ghunya. 103 It is divided into four chapters 104 and arranged according to rules; the author goes one by one through specific rules or aspects of Sufi conduct. The treatment of this draws on the Quran and hadith, as much as possible, as well as the opinions of the pious ancestors and first generations of Sufis. The first chapter of Adāb al-murīdīn is devoted to fundamental aspects of Sufism and Islam in a broader sense. Unsurprisingly it reads a bit like a medieval Islamic creed. Abū alNajīb sets out by elaborating the theological basis that a novice should embrace including God’s nature, the nature of the Quran and predestination. 105 He agrees in the main tenets with alJīlānī, holding that verses of the Quran referring to God’s hand or making Himself level on the throne, should neither be interpreted literally inviting anthropomorphism, nor metaphorically leading to transcendentalism (taʿṭīl). 106 Abū al-Najīb advocates that God is the creator of all human acts, good or bad, and that the Quran is God’s speech and as such uncreated whether in its original form or in human manifestation, by being written down, recited or memorized, both of which is in line with alJīlānī’s thinking. 107 Perhaps more important than their doctrinal consensus is the fact that they share the same approach to these issues. Both The edition used here makes up about a fifth of the Ghunya. According to the edition by Menahem Milton, used here. 105 Al-Suhrawardī, Adāb al-murīdīn, 1–5. 106 Although al-Jīlānī may have been more inclined to literalism, see above. Ibid., 2–3. The term taʿṭīl literally stands for divesting God of His attributes, but by extension it was applied to metaphorical and transcendental approaches of the Muʿtazila in relation to God’s nature, by people who opposed this, such as Abū al-Najīb, see also J. van Ess, “Tas̲h̲bīh wa-Tanzīh”, Enc. of Islam II. 107 Al-Suhrawardī, Adāb al-murīdīn, 3–4. 103 104

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base their treatment on verses of the Quran, hadith and traditions of the companions and the pious ancestors. There is no room for any metaphorical or rational readings, as used by the Muʿtazila and the Ashʿarī schools of speculative theology (kalām), in their discussions. Many Shāfiʿīs followed the Ashʿarī school in theological questions, but Abū al-Najīb like his nephew Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar had no inclination for speculative theology. Other than Sufism, his primary concern lay with hadith and then with fiqh, and accordingly he later identifies hadith scholars, legal scholars and Sufis as the three groups that guard and preserve the pillars of the Islamic faith, speculative theology has no part in this. 108 In addition to the theological tenets, the first chapter of the Adāb al-Murīdīn looks at basic conduct pertaining to Sufism in general, not always limited to the novice. It examines such aspects as earning a livelihood, dressing, the difference between saintly and prophetic miracles, and audition (samāʿ). Abū alNajīb and al-Jīlānī broadly coincide in their viewpoints regarding these matters, but the latter tends to adopt a slightly stricter interpretation. Abū al-Najīb holds that earning a livelihood, even in the way of commerce or practicing a craft, is permissible, as long as God remains one’s focus and one does not resort to begging at the side. That being said, the preferred choice is of course not to engage in any of this, and rely on God for one’s provisions, which then also allows for begging as long as this is done out of necessity and one does not ask for more than one’s needs. 109 For al-Jīlānī, on the other hand, earning a livelihood at the beginning of the path is required to strengthen one’s faith and acquire trust in God (tawakkul), but this should be done on a need basis, which possibly excludes commerce and crafts. By Ibid., 14. Even though begging for oneself is considered reprehensible (makrūh), while begging for one’s companions is recommendable (mustaḥabb), ibid., 6, 8, 71–72. 108 109

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attaining tawakkul, one’s focus turns from the livelihood to God, or in his words, to the provider of the means rather than the means. As the mystic moves along the path, tawakkul eventually takes over completely no longer allowing the mystic to earn a livelihood, as he will henceforth receive his provisions from God. At no time, should one however engage in begging, which does not demonstrate one’s trust (tawakkul) in God, but in what is in peoples’ hands. 110 Concerning dressing, Abū al-Najīb advocates that any way of clothing is acceptable as long as it does not violate the divinely decreed law. 111 As explained above, al-Jīlānī concurs with this, but adds that a murīd should not stand out from his contemporaries by his dress code and so provoke complaints. 112 The treatment of audition in Adāb al-murīdīn stretches over different chapters, 113 and corresponds with the Ghunya, with respect to the general principles of the practice. Both advocate for the legitimacy of samāʿ, though Abū al-Najīb is certainly more committed to proving this point. 114 Its permissibility hinges however on a number of stipulations that have to be adhered to, and which are delineated by both Abū al-Najīb and al-Jīlānī. Of central importance in connection with this, in the view of both authors, is ‘fidelity’ (ṣidq) during audition; that is to say, that one acts in a manner genuinely reflecting one’s inner state and avoids affected behaviour (takalluf), such as, feigning ecstatic states when not actually experiencing them inside. While they agree on these basic principles of audition, Abū al-Najīb and alJīlānī diverge in regard to some significant aspects as the use of the Quran, poetry and permissible forms of movement. A more Al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 109, 126. Though al-Jīlānī does allow begging under certain conditions at a higher level. 111 Al-Suhrawardī, Adāb al-murīdīn, 10. 112 Though al-Suhrawardī does later imply that he may have shared this concern, ibid., 27, 53–54. 113 Ibid., 11–13, 41, 61–68. 114 Ibid., 61–62. 110

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detailed analysis of this, also drawing on Abū al-Najīb’s ideas, will be part of the next chapter. The second chapter of Adāb al-murīdīn is devoted to the structure of the Sufi path. We learn that Abū al-Najīb broadly divided it into three stages: the novice (murīd) who sets out on the path seeking God (ṭālib), the intermediate Sufi who is a wayfarer (sālik), and the one who has completed the path (muntahī) and arrived in the divine presence (wāṣil). 115 While the features of the path as described by Abū al-Najīb do not differ significantly from al-Jīlānī’s account, the division is somewhat distinctive. In relation with this, Adāb al-murīdīn pays more attention to clearly outlining the different mystical stations (sing. maqāma/plur. maqāmāt) and states (sing. ḥāl/plur. aḥwāl), something that is largely missing in al-Jīlānī’s work. 116 In the next chapter, Adāb al-murīdīn examines specific conduct related to the novice, such as, how to travel, eat, sleep and marry. 117 The chapter resembles al-Jīlānī’s own Kitāb adāb almurīdīn, which is part of the Ghunya. The two are similar in the way that they address the same kind of topics, and even coincide concerning specific rules, such as, that ripping apart one’s dress during samāʿ has no basis in mystical Islam. But unsurprisingly there are also distinctions; the already mentioned issue of begging or Abū al-Najīb allowing novices to marry, even if remaining unmarried is preferable, while al-Jīlānī does not. 118 Where Abū al-Najīb and al-Jīlānī diverge is with regard to said matter of ʿazīma and rukhṣa, distinguishing between a strict and a lenient code of conduct, which is the topic of the fourth and final chapter of Adāb al-murīdīn. It defines rukhṣa as intermediate zone between the planes of reality, i.e. ʿazīma, and error and ignorance; whoever drops from the plane of reality falls into rukhṣa, and whoever drops down further from this, falls into Ibid., 16. Ibid., 20–21. 117 Ibid., 23–80 118 Ibid., 68–72; al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 345–46. 115 116

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error and ignorance. Adopting a rukhṣa lifestyle, by quitting ʿazīma, indicates a deficiency, as it is tantamount to turning away from real inner knowledge to exterior knowledge. The point of rukhṣa is to provide individuals at the beginning of the path with a code of conduct that allows them to arrive at the stage of the proven Sufi (mutaḥaqqaq), who adheres to ʿazīma. 119 Thus far, there is little difference to al-Jīlānī’s basic view of rukhṣa, which regards it as the code of conduct regulating regular believers and in line with the stipulations of Islamic law, but below the ethical ideals of the mystical path. Obviously, failing to live in conformance with this, similarly results in descending to a level of error. Likewise, rukhṣa mostly serves as means to introduce the novice gradually to ʿazīma. Abū al-Najīb hence broadly divides between the proven Sufis, who live in accordance with ʿazīma, and those who have not reached this level and live in accordance with rukhṣa. More specifically in connection with the stages of his path, he explains “rukhṣa is a watering place (manhal) at which the beginner, being a novice, arrives, at which the intermediate Sufi (mutawassiṭ), being a wayfarer, feels restless (yataḥayyaza), 120 and at which the accomplished Sufi (al-fā’iz), being endowed with mystical knowledge, finds [occasional] refreshment, but the proven Sufi does not stay in it for long…[and] only in case of an exigency with the intention of leaving [again].” 121

The implication is that rukhṣa is the natural milieu of the novice, and that even the intermediate Sufi, the wayfarer, wavers between it and ʿazīma, as it is only at the highest stage that one has left it behind completely, though one may, at the highest Al-Suhrawardī, Adāb al-murīdīn, 81–82. yataḥayyaza literally denotes ‘twisting’, ‘coiling’, and, by extension, ‘being restless’ and ‘unquiet’. As yataḥayyaza could be a typo, one could also read it as yataḥayyara, meaning that the middling Sufi ‘resorts to it in confusion’. 121 Al-Suhrawardī, Adāb al-Murīdīn, 80–81. 119 120

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stage, have occasional inconsequential recourse to it in case of an urgent need. This impression is confirmed at the end of the chapter, where Abū al-Najīb reiterates that only the highest stage indicates complete embracing of ʿazīma, meaning inside and outside, while at the intermediate stage Sufis observe it on the outside only (mutarassim), but are still attached to rukhṣa inside. Those who adhere to rukhṣa completely, during the first stage, are defined as genuine imitators (mutashabbih ṣādiq), but they are nevertheless considered proper Sufis. 122 In al-Jīlānī’s view, by contrast, rukhṣa is only acceptable at the first stage of the novice, and even there only for a limited time, because already the murīd is supposed to be gradually introduced to ʿazīma. Deviating from the latter is completely out of the question for a regular mystic, and even the novice is not allowed to revoke his adherence to ʿazīma under any circumstances. Given its extended relevance on Abū al-Najīb path, rukhṣa plays a bigger role in his thought than in al-Jīlānī’s, and he goes to great length to examine where and how rukhṣa applies. 123 Based on this, he legitimizes for his less advanced disciples a number of acts that would otherwise seem rather at odds with medieval Sufi conduct, such as, travelling for purposes that are not religious, taking loans, joking around, seeking leading positions in this world, associating with rulers and adopting their manners in their presence, looking for entertainment, or eating delicious food. It has to be said, though, that the allowance of each of those acts comes with stipulations; one is only permitted to seek entertainment if steering clear of what is forbidden and objectionable, or one may eat delicious food only under the condition that this is not done habitually and falls between periods of ascetic and mystical exercises. 124 Needless to say, that on the Ibid., 98. Ibid., 82–98. 124 Ibid., 88. 122 123

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whole any of those dispensations are only valid as long as the mystic upholds his conformance with the three basic pillars; performing all religious duties, abstaining from anything forbidden, and leaving behind this world and its creation completely. Still, it seems implausible that al-Jīlānī would have permitted any of those dispensations even to novices. Adāb al-murīdīn also alludes to the presence of said associate or lay members (muḥibbūn), a feature that became increasingly common in the subsequent centuries with the establishment and spread of the Sufi orders. 125 Indeed, the work’s detailed analysis of dispensations from ʿazīma has generally been interpreted in modern scholarship as being aimed at accommodating such lay members, rather than addressing fully established disciples, who would thus find it easier to balance between their worldly and their spiritual commitments. 126 By extension, Adāb al-murīdīn is presented as an example for the growing popularization of Sufi circles in the subsequent decades and centuries. Yet, it appears that Abū al-Najīb may have been partially misunderstood in this aspect. For one, the importance of such lay members is nowhere near as pronounced as some research would have it; there are a total of three mention of them in the whole work, all in the context of the same topic of audition, in the third chapter. 127 If he had addressed the chapter about rukhṣa to such lay members seeking to provide a basis for their affiliation with Sufi circles, one would certainly have expected Abū al-Najīb to refer to them more frequently throughout, and in particular in the context of this specific chapter. However, he Ibid., 67–68. Netton, 460–65; Sobieroj, “Ibn Khafīf’s al-Kitāb al-Iqdiṣād and Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī’s Adāb al-Murīdīn”, 344; Ohlander, 243–46. 127 Al-Suhrawardī, Adāb al-Murīdīn, 67–68. A suggested forth mention, touching on ahl al-maḥabba rather than muḥibbūn in the context of travelling, is unlikely to refer to them, because the term used (ahl almaḥabba) appears to allude to ‘people well-inclined’ to Sufis encountered on the latters’ travels, rather than actual lay members (muḥibbūn). 125 126

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does not, because lay members are a marginal feature in his work and the rukhṣa stipulations are actually aimed primarily at the novice. Adāb al-murīdīn is very consistent in using a three-fold division of the path, and it unequivocally links rukhṣa, at the very beginning of the forth chapter, to these three stages; the novice, the middling Sufi, and the accomplished Sufi, as outlined above. The implication of aligning rukhṣa with these three stages is that the novice arrives at the stage of rukhṣa and throughout this first stage draws strength from it, as he is not yet ready to live permanently in conformance with ʿazīma. The middling Sufi is no longer comfortable with rukhṣa but still resorts to it on occasions, because he is still in the process of embracing ʿazīma completely. The proven Sufi, who has overcome rukhṣa, ‘refreshes’ himself with it on occasions. At the end of the chapter, we find the same three-fold division with a different terminology, but based on the same idea. The novice is defined as genuine imitator (mutashabbih ṣādiq), because he is still mostly stuck at rukhṣa but the aim is to eventually adopt ʿazīma. 128 The middling Sufi is observant of ʿazīma solely at the exterior (mutarassim), because he has not yet fully internalized it. And the accomplished Sufi has proven (mutaḥaqqaq) his complete abandonment of rukhṣa, that is, inside and outside. And just to remove any lingering doubts, Abū alNajīb, a few lines below, states that the person adhering to the basics of rukhṣa is the beginner (mubtadī), who is required to strive earnestly and make every effort to advance and reach the level of the proven Sufi and ʿazīma. If this really referred to lay While the definition may appear a pejorative, it was actually rather common to illustrate the early stages of the path in the way of ‘imitation’ and ‘would-be’. As seen above, al-Jīlānī refers to Sufis at the beginning of the path as ‘would-be Sufis’ and perceives their actions as assumed, and Ibn al-Jawzī likewise refers to ‘would-be ascetics’ (mutazahhid) and ‘would-be mystics’ (mutaʿbbid), not necessarily with negative connotations, see for example Ibn al-Jawzī, Baḥr al-dumūʿ, (Tanta: Dār al-Ṣahāba li-l-Turāth, 1992), 76–77, 83. 128

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members, this would be rather unrealistic expectations. In addition, the term beginner is closely linked to the novice. 129 That is not to say that Adāb al-murīdīn did not contribute to the trend of popularizing Sufism and, by extension, its ramification of declining ethical standards in Sufism. After all, it gives some evidence of the presence of lay members in audition, something that al-Jīlānī does not seem to have permitted, and by expanding rukhṣa, it arguably lowered the ethical standards for novices and middling Sufis, in comparison with someone like al-Jīlānī. 130 But the manner and extent to which the work advanced such trends should be re-assessed. Nevertheless, on the whole, with the exception of ʿazīma and rukhṣa, Abū al-Najīb and al-Jīlānī share a very similar vision of the mystical path; both espouse a strictly law-abiding mysticism, firmly in line with divinely decreed law, and which finds reflection in their detailed rules for the novice and more advanced mystics. In connection with this, their paths are, at least at the surface, characterized as rather sober and unadventurous, in line with the original Baghdad school in the third/ninth and early forth/tenth-century. Themes such as love with God are relatively sparingly referred to, and if so by terms, such as ḥubb and maḥabba, acceptable to the Islamic tradition, rather than the much more contentious ʿishq, designating ‘passionate love’ with God. 131 Instead, greater emphasis is given to such notions as ‘fidelity’ (ṣidq) and ‘sincere devotion to God’ (ikhlāṣ). 132

Al-Suhrawardī, Adāb al-Murīdīn, 80. And certainly, in comparison with earlier Sufi standards, Sobieroj, “Ibn Khafīf’s al-Kitāb al-Iqdiṣād and Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī’s Adāb al-Murīdīn”. 131 See for example, al-Suhrawardī, Adāb al-Murīdīn, 26–27. 132 Ibid., 20–21, 31–32, 62–63. 129 130

CHAPTER 3.

INNER STRENGTH THE SECOND STAGE: DEFINITION

Having completed all requirements of the novitiate, including complete abandonment of creation and the lower soul, purification of one’s desire for God and full adoption of a strict code of conduct, the mystic reaches the second stage of al-Jīlānī’s mystical path. This stage revolves around passing away from selfattachment (hawā). 1 Thus, while at the previous stage, the aspirant cut his mental and emotional ties with his fellow humans, he does the same here, but in relation to himself. One ceases thus to rely on oneself or to make any effort for one’s own sake, but instead becomes empty of any self-initiative. In practical terms, this entails abstaining from any kind of exertion to obtain a livelihood (takassub), secure any kind of advantage or ward off disadvantage on behalf of oneself. Instead the aim at this point is to entirely leave one’s affairs with God, in this way opening one’s eyes to the fact that one cannot affect one’s fate in any way, as in the end everything is up to divine decision-making. In Futūḥ al-ghayb’s words, the mystic becomes “an infant baby lying

Hawā is generally translated as ‘passion’, ‘love’ or ‘inclination’ and intrinsically bears no indication of ‘self’. In context, however, it becomes clear that the author refers to ‘self-attachment’.

1

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in its crib” passive and wholly reliant on its mother, in other words, God. 2 For this reason, this stage is alternatively associated with divine command (amr) in al-Jīlānī’s thought. It is the culmination of the process, started during the preliminary stage highlighting submission to divine command, by way of a growing awareness and adoption of it. At the beginning of the actual path, the emphasis lay then on living in accordance with divinely decreed law (sharʿ), but with the purification of the heart the mystic becomes, by divine inspiration, increasingly aware of the individual divine command. Divinely decreed law accordingly stands for the legal framework guiding human beings in general, whereas divine command, although being in line with divinely decreed law, implies an individualized divine guidance and is as such more specific. Being able to perceive such divine command is obviously a reflection of the mystic’s increasingly intimate relationship with God. 3 Herein lies for al-Jīlānī the distinction between asceticism and mysticism; the former is mere adherence to divinely decreed law without an awareness of the personalized divine command, while being endowed with such an awareness is tantamount to mysticism. Being conscious of divine command and following it is therefore linked to humans’ love for God; the more one adheres to divine command, the more grows one’s love for God. The wayfarer, during this second stage, has reached the apex in this development, distinguishing himself by never being at variance with God in any of his acting. As he exists through divine command alone (qā’im maʿa al-amr), in the sense that any ordinary act, such as dressing or eating, is performed merely in accordance with divine command, he becomes a manifestation of

ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, (Cairo: al-Maktaba alAzhariyya li-l-Turāth, 2004), 9–10, 11–13, 124. 3 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, (Giza: Dār al-Rayān liturāth), 42–43, 105. 2

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it. By becoming such a manifestation of divine command, one passes away from self-attachment. 4 For al-Jīlānī this stage likewise symbolizes the transformation of the mystic’s heart into an innermost (sirr). The term sirr signifies both ‘secret’ and ‘heart’. 5 In Sufism, where it features frequently, the word retains this twofold meaning. It represents, on the one hand, the mystic’s secret with God, which should be jealously guarded from others, even from one’s masters or disciples. 6 The widely influential martyred mystic alḤallāj (d. 309/922) is commonly criticised in later Sufi literature, for failing to do this. At the same time, the term ‘sirr’ can in Sufism refer to the innermost, 7 or what is generally conceived of as the inner part, or centre, of the heart, spiritually most perceptive and so the obvious meeting place with the divine. In Futūḥ al-ghayb, for example, we find three layers of the heart; the outmost layer called ṣadr, the heart proper (qalb) 8 and finally the innermost (sirr). 9 The work also highlights the significance of the inner-

Ibid., 151, 171, 195–96, 294, 336; idem, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 47–48, 89. The root s-r-r, from which sirr derives, occurs in various forms in the Quran, but the word sirr in particular appears five times (sūras 6:3, 9:78, 20:7, 25:6, 43:80) usually in the sense that God knows man’s secrets (sirr). It also turns up a few times in its adverbial form (sirrān), meaning ‘secretly’. 6 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 30. 7 That being said, it can also signify ‘heart’ in its generic meaning. 8 See ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 45, 50, where ṣadr is depicted as courtyard (sāḥa) to the heart (qalb), which is in turn inferior to the innermost (sirr). 9 Many Sufis appear to agree with the idea of three layers of the heart, while others, like al-Nūrī (d. 295/907) propose four layers adding fu’ād (another word for ‘heart’) between the heart proper (qalb) and the innermost (sirr). Also, rather than sirr, al-Nūrī uses the term ‘lubb’ to refer to the innermost, see Alexander Knysh, Islamic Mysticism: a short History, (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 62. 4 5

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most in encountering God by explaining that the mystic contemplates God through ‘the eye of the innermost’. 10 That being said, the two meanings of sirr naturally overlap, 11 and, at some level, differentiating between them becomes increasingly difficult, as the mystic’s innermost is simultaneously his secret with God and vice versa. Being both characterized as hidden, internalized and invisible to the senses, they are essentially two sides of the same coin. We can observe this again in Futūḥ al-ghayb, where the mystic sets out by disavowing his lower soul and creation, and instead internalizes and channels his emotions and energy to God. As he becomes detached from himself during the present second stage, the intensity of his focus on God still grows. This process explains how the source of his perception moves from the lower soul to the heart and then to the innermost. Except that one might, with this spiritual development, just as well arrive at the other meaning of the term sirr. Sustained physical and emotional reliance on God and single-minded attachment to Him, predictably results in an intimate and confidential relationship with Him, which is actually nothing else than a secret shared with Him (sirr). From this point of view, it also makes sense that the mystic is, at this stage, elevated to the rank of God’s friends (awliyā’), as the mutual bond based on sharing a secret creates the conditions for friendship. It is also fitting, in connection with this, that al-Jīlānī begins to characterize the relationship between the mystic and God at this stage

10 11

Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 124–25. See for example, Muhammad Ali Amir-Moezzi, “Sirr”, Enc. of Islam II.

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with love, 12 and designates individuals in this setting as ‘the people of God’ (ahl allāh). 13 In addition, an individual who has progressed this far is at times defined as ‘elect’ (khāṣṣ/ or pl. khawāṣṣ), which reflects his pre-eminent status as opposed to the regular believers (ʿāmm) and novices, but at the same time highlights his inferiority to more advanced mystics, defined as ‘elects of the elects’ (khāṣṣ alkhāṣṣ or khawāṣṣ al-khawāṣṣ). 14 More common than that, especially in the Ghunya, is however the term faqīr, 15 which is probably best translated in this context as ‘regular mystic’, in the sense of having completed the novitiate but not yet reached the final stages of the path. 16 Al-Jīlānī’s use of ‘faqīr’ appears to be It has to be mentioned though, while al-Jīlānī specifically refers to the wayfarers at this stage as ‘friends of God’ (walī/awliyā’) or ‘friendship with God’ (wilāya), there are occasions when those terms appear to acquire a broader meaning of an advanced mystic, including the two later stages. See for example, al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 23–27. 13 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya li-ṭālibī ṭarīq al-ḥaqq, (Beirut: Dār Iḥyā’ al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 1996), 455. 14 See for example, al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 42–43. 15 Or fuqarā’ in plural. 16 Faqīr, literally meaning ‘poor’ or ‘impoverished’ in Arabic, and its Persian equivalent darvīsh, became from the eleventh-century onwards increasingly common in Islamic mysticism carrying different connotations. In the most basic sense, the term signified a pious individual, who willingly embraced a life in poverty and, in combination with this, social marginality. This sort of lifestyle became associated with the socalled ‘antinomian movement’, which has been commonly viewed as a counter-movement to established Sufism and its more and more ritualized and systematized form of mysticism, especially with the arrival of the Sufi orders. Given al-Jīlānī’s popular reputation as the founder of the Qādiriyya order and pioneering figure in establishing the predominance of Sufi orders, it is of course somewhat surprising that the term faqīr is found frequently in his work, especially the Ghunya. AlJīlānī, however, describes a faqīr as someone who ‘sells himself and his wealth in this world to God in return for the paradisiacal garden’, based on verse 6:111 of the Quran, and then in a second step sells the paradi12

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more or less synonymous with how the term ‘ṣūfī’ was used at the time; exchanging the two designations seems not to have been unusual and, in al-Jīlānī’s case, it reflects his reluctance to rely on ‘ṣūfī’, a term with which he does not appear to have been overly comfortable. 17

FEATURES: STATES AND STATIONS

One aspect that the wayfarers encounter in this setting are mystical states (sing. ḥāl/pl. aḥwāl). That being said, al-Jīlānī’s notion of mystical states and the closely related mystical stations (sing. maqam/pl. maqāmāt) is rather difficult to ascertain, due to the absence of any clarifying statements as well as a certain laxness in the use of relevant terminology. 18 One has thus no choice but to infer the meaning and implications of either from the context.

siacal garden for being in God’s presence. In other words, someone who gives up this and the next world for God. Beyond that, he distinguishes the faqīr as someone who adheres strictly to ʿazīma. Al-Jīlānī, alGhunya, 456, 459, 464; Alexandre Papas, “Dervīsh”, Enc. of Islam III. 17 See for this chapter 5 below. A revealing indication offers a short treatise in Futūḥ al-ghayb named ‘Regarding Sufism (taṣawwuf) and what it is based on’, in which he actually only uses the word ‘Sufism’ a couple of times and instead mainly refers to the term ‘faqr’, the noun form to ‘faqīr’. This goes to show that he used ‘faqīr’ and ‘faqr’ as synonyms for ‘Sufi’ and ‘Sufism’, al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 121–22. 18 Especially in Futūḥ al-ghayb he uses the two concepts, mystical states and stations, at times interchangeably or analogously with still other terms. Ḥāla, derived from the same root as ḥāl and generally associated with a very similar meaning, seems on occasions to serve as a synonym to mystical state (ḥāl) and on others as a synonym for mystical station (maqām). The term appears to denote short lived mystical states as well as more enduring conditions on the mystical path. Needless to say, there are also occasions when ḥāla or ḥāl allude to a worldly state or situation without any mystical implication. See ibid., 7, 15, 21, 55, 76, 80, 84, 92, 99, 116, to provide just a few examples of this.

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Mystical states are commonly defined as temporary divinely induced states of overwhelming positive or negative emotions, which come upon the mystic’s heart in the context of his relationship with God, such as, feelings of delight, rapture, love, fear or contraction and expansion of the heart. It is generally believed that such states are not attained by human effort, but only ‘God given’, 19 a viewpoint shared by our author, who explains that such states are ‘God given’ or ‘divine gifts’ (mawhiba) that God induces and removes whenever He pleases. Mystical stations, on the other hand, are commonly believed to be phases a mystic undergoes on his path, such as contentment (qanāʿa), trust in God (tawakkul), gratitude (shukr) or certainty (yaqīn). It defines the standing of the mystic on the path, as well as the mental discipline, conduct and exercises he practices to achieve the quality associated with a station. 20 Mystical states tend to be seen as more fleeting and unstable, and mystical stations as more enduring, on occasions even turning into a permanent condition for a Sufi. Although al-Jīlānī appears to broadly agree with this viewpoint, 21 his own ideas are somewhat different. He considers mystical states and stations as related, often referring to them in the same context, but where he stands out is in the alignment of the two. It was mostly believed that mystical stations and states are found along the entire mystical path from the beginning to the end. Our author however holds mystical states to be inferior to mystical stations, in the sense that the former characterize the intermediate stage of the mystical path, of the friends of God, and the latter the more advanced stages of the path. 22 In essence, mystical states are found exclusively during the second stage, and mystical stations only during the stages beyond that. See al-Qushayrī, Al-Risāla al-qushayriyya, (Beirut: Dār al-Kutūb alʿIlmiyya, 2001), 92. 20 Ibid., 91. 21 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 17. 22 Ibid., 17, 35–36, 94. 19

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Despite this clear alignment between the two in terms of hierarchy, the outcome is all the same somewhat puzzling because, in the absence of mystical stations, mystical states on this second stage of the path frequently take on the form of mystical stations. It is based on this perhaps most appropriate to conclude that al-Jīlānī viewed emotions experienced in the intermediate phase of the mystical path per se as states and in the later phases per se as stations. Given that he agrees that stations are more permanent than states, the implication is that advanced mystics are emotionally more balanced than middling ones. Thus al-Jīlānī perceives mystical states as a distinct feature of this stage yet his identification and explanation of specific states is again rather negligent. Remarkably, Abū al-Najīb alSuhrawardī’s (d. 563/1168) treatment of mystical states and stations has been described as ‘low profile’, 23 but he manages at least to clearly identify and list them, 24 which is not something one can say for al-Jīlānī. What we do find out is that ‘asking God for forgiveness’ (istighfār), based on a famous prophetic tradition, is the most beautiful and ‘returning to God’ (tawba) the most common state, as they both enable acknowledgment of shortcomings and purification from this. 25 Beyond that, al-Jīlānī is more intent on pointing out principal emotions and experiences that characterize and extend over all mystical states, rather than specific states. In this way, we learn that ‘fear’ (khawf) and ‘hope’ (rajā’) and ‘contraction of the heart’ (qabḍ) are constant features of all mystical states, which, in addition, always happen either in the ‘absence from God’ or in ‘proximity to Him’. 26 Portraying mystical experience as ‘conNetton, “The Breath of Felicity: Adab, Aḥwāl, Maqāmāt and Abū Najīb al-Suhrawardī”, 459. 24 Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī, Adāb al-murīdīn, ([Jerusalem]: Institute of Asian and African Studies, the Hebrew Univ. of Jerusalem, c. 1978), 20–21. 25 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 15. 26 Ibid., 76–77. 23

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traction of the heart’ or its opposite ‘expansion of the heart’ (basṭ) 27 is very widespread in Sufism, both concepts are usually considered to be relatively elementary and corresponding states in the development of a Sufi. 28 While ‘contraction of the heart’ has normally sombre overtones and is thought of in relation to fear and divine censure, the implications of ‘expansion of the heart’ are more positive, being associated with hope and closeness to God. 29 Al-Jīlānī shares this outlook, with the difference that he does not view them as specific mystical states per se, but as either covering all mystical states, as in the case of ‘contraction of the heart’, or being all but beyond them, as in the case of ‘expansion of the heart’. Distinguishing the heart of the mystic during the second stage as being perpetually contracted, a metaphor for sombre sentiments like fear and divine censure, as opposed to the more common view in which the heart alternates between contraction and expansion, underlines the sober shades in which al-Jīlānī paints this stage of his mystical development. Along the same lines, he attaches little importance to ecstatic or rapturous emotions. Overall, al-Jīlānī’s ideas steer clear of familiar Sufi concepts with ecstatic import like ‘passionate love for God’ (ʿishq), ‘ecstasy’ (wajd), ‘longing for God’ (shawq) or ‘spiritual intoxication’ (sukr or sakra). Themes such as love and affection between the Creator and creation do come up in his work, especially in Fatḥ al-rabbānī, but he sticks in this to the more generic root ḥ-b-b. Even so, one could argue that such aspects receive relatively little consideration, in comparison with other themes in al-Jīlānī’s thought as well as in comparison with how much space is devoted to such aspects in other Sufi works at the time. As for the effects of mystical states on humans; all we learn is that the mystic attains by means of them blessings, divine inSee for treatment of this below. al-Qushayrī, Al-Risāla al-qushayriyya, 92. 29 Ibid., 93–95. 27 28

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sight (nubuwa), knowledge, contentment, patience and friendship with God. 30 Given how inadequate his elaborations are in respect to mystical states, as well as mystical stations for that matter, it comes as somewhat of a surprise how much space our author devotes to how one should conduct oneself in this context. Hence, as it is entirely up to God to either incite or withdraw those states, the mystic is obliged to uphold (ḥifẓ) them as long as they last. What is meant with this is that a mystic has to stay within the perimeters of Islamic law, even in the presence of such a state, and conduct himself in morally impeccable manner appropriate for those circumstances. 31 In addition, upholding a state also stipulates that one has to remain fully immersed in this, rather than switching to some passive mode. Accordingly, it is particularly dangerous to become concerned in any way with potential other mystical states, instead of one’s present state, be that by desiring such, envying others for it, seeking to be moved to it or attempting to redefine one’s actual state. The key is to remain fully focused on one’s current state, but all the same relinquish all initiative to God. In this sense, al-Jīlānī explains in a metaphor that when one is standing in front of the door of the King’s residence “one should not desire to enter the residence until one is made to enter by force, that is, a repeated, forceful and assured command [to enter].” 32 At the same time, it is not recommended that one becomes too strongly attached to one’s state, given that God is in control of these matters and can alter them any instant. In connection with this, one should not reveal anything about this to another human being, because such states depend on absolute secrecy between God and the mystic, and also because relating about it to others may lead to an excessive degree of attachment. One’s identification is supposed to be with God, not with a certain Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 16. Ibid., 14–17, 92. 32 Ibid., 16. 30 31

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state, which could in this way become an obstacle to one’s spiritual development. The author points to the numerous Quranic verses revealed to the Prophet, which were then abrogated, exchanged and moved around in their order, as an analogy to the continuously changing mystical states. 33

TRIALS AND AFFLICTION

Implicitly related to mystical states are phases of trial (sing. āfat/balā’ or pl. āfāt/balāyā) and affliction (sing. muṣība or pl. maṣā’ib) that the mystic undergoes. As such, they are obviously part of any phase of spiritual development and being, just as they are part of regular life, even if their intensity and impression varies. That being said, the current stage lends itself in particular to exploring these themes, as it represents the beginning of friendship with God. Trials and afflictions in Sufism are usually linked to either being removed from His presence, in the case of advanced mystics, or being detained in one’s advancement towards Him, in the case of intermediate wayfarers; in other words, they indicate a periodical suspension of the privileges of friendship with God, which makes this specifically relevant here. Being tested or burdened with difficulties is a prominent theme in particular in Fatḥ al-rabbānī, but also in Futūḥ al-ghayb, which highlights again the sober tone of al-Jīlānī’s mysticism. Mystically inclined individuals, just like humans in general, are afflicted either because of their own making or due to the cyclical appearance of bliss and despair. As for ordeals resulting from one’s own shortcomings, God tends to test humans in accordance with their claims, so that, for example, one who claims to be generous will be asked to give. 34 For mystics the most dangerous trap is being blinded by God’s favour, that is, in times of being bestowed with His favours or blessings they become focused on these rather than God Himself, and are misled to believe that they are lasting, when in fact they are not. 33 34

Ibid., 14. Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 258, 291.

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Al-Jīlānī alludes in relation with this also to the notion of the ‘divine stratagem’ (makr), which in the Quran refers to God’s greater resourcefulness in outdoing deceitfully acting unbelievers. 35 For our purposes, it designates that God tests the steadfastness and patience of His friends by initially misleading them, such as in the case of becoming reliant on divine favour rather than Himself, and then afflicting them with a trial. 36 In such a situation, individuals become consequently detached from God until they have recognized their faults and undergone repentance. 37 According to Fatḥ al-rabbānī, a period of adversity may include experiences such as making invocations that are not answered, asking without receiving answers, complaining that only increases the problems complained about, seeking relief that cannot be found, fearing God without finding a way out, and praising God and devoting to Him sincerely without perceiving any proximity to Him, as if one was not even a regular believer. 38 Life in this world per se is mostly about trials and affliction in both physical and spiritual (fī-l-qalb) form, as our author likes to remind his audience, even if blessing and divine favour also play a role. 39 Yet, while the natural human instinct is to attempt to avoid or escape suffering, this is not what al-Jīlānī advises: “Do not [try to] run away from trials, indeed trials [endured in] patience are the spiritual foundation (asās) of anything sound, it is the spiritual foundation to prophethood, messengership and friendship with God, and to knowledge [of Him] and love [for Him], if you [cannot] endure a trial patiently then you have no spiritual foundation…if you run away from See, for example, verses 3:54, 7:99, 8:30, 10:21, 13:42, 14:46. Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 16, 78–79. Al-Jīlānī’s fellow Ḥanbalī Sufi Khāja ʿAbdullāh al-Ansārī al-Harawī (d. 481/1089) also refers to this concept in his Munājāt. 37 Ibid., 28–30, 71–74. 38 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 71. 39 Ibid., 42, 114, 127, 280. 35 36

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trials because of [the weakness of] your being, then you have no need (ḥāja) for friendship, knowledge and proximity to God, [thus] endure [trials] patiently and in sound conduct, until you [are allowed to] travel by night with your heart, innermost or spirit to the gate of proximity of your Lord…” 40

Therefore, one should not seek to sidestep affliction, 41 but embrace it in steadfast endurance, maintaining proper conduct and abstaining from complaining. 42 According to al-Jīlānī, such forbearance is tantamount to a spiritual foundation, necessary for any form of close relationship with God, be that as prophet, messenger or friend of God. Anybody who lacks this kind of fortitude, being spiritually too weak, falls short of attaining this spiritual foundation, and, by extension, of any possibility of proximity to Him. As can be understood from this passage, trials and affliction are not just burdens placed on humans by God in arbitrary fashion, they have purpose, in the sense of enabling certain individuals to discover their forbearance and hence establish their spiritual foundation. Furthermore, as the passage alludes, misfortune actually leads humans to God, as al-Jīlānī explains elsewhere “God burdens His servant so as to return him to Himself and so that his heart does not become dependent on creation.” 43 For that matter, He makes sure that all other doors, i.e. other sources of relief, are bolted and the believer is forced to seek out the front of His door to plead for respite. 44 Times of affliction are therefore meant to be times of refocusing on God, and turning away from other distractions. In line with this, it is recommended that one busies oneself with recalling one’s mortality in

Ibid., 61. See also Ibid., 210, 240. 42 Ibid., 17, 19, 26, 90, 158, 164, 241, 249. 43 Ibid., 321. 44 Ibid., 321. 40 41

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this world and one’s sins, performing tawba and devoting oneself to a number of specified invocations. 45 The problem is of course that most humans are unable to endure such periods patiently, because they are prone to side with their lower souls, worldly desires and passions, rather than focusing on God. In this way, they are driven to complaining and even challenging Him regarding their suffering, which consequently becomes even more troublesome, while, as our author clarifies, this becomes more bearable if one focuses on God. 46 It is in fact only the spiritual elite who is able to bear such burdens in the appropriate manner. As al-Jīlānī likes to repeat, trials distinguish genuine believers and true lovers of God from the rest; if it was not for these, everybody would be a pious ascetic and friend of God. 47 Navigating periods of misfortune successfully is, for that reason, an inevitable precondition to create a loving relationship with God and acquire intimate knowledge of Him, as also shown in the extract above. 48 Anytime the mystic is able to prove his sincere devotion to God in this way, he emerges purified and with his faith strengthened, and this naturally brings him closer to God and helps him to advance to previously unattained levels of the path. 49 From this perspective, times of affliction, especially if not due to their own making as in the case of divine stratagems, are ultimately intended to facilitate the mystics’ spiritual advancement. Once they have completed the path and been admitted to divine presence, the perception of afflictions is transformed. AlFatḥ al-rabbānī indicates that individuals at that stage are no longer properly aware of such things, finding relief and comfort Ibid., 210, 237. Ibid., 195, 237, 267. 47 Ibid., 16, 71, 197, 216, 223, 259, 266. This point seems to be based on the Quran verses 3:140–41. In general, al-Jīlānī’s notion of trials and affliction can be traced to the Quran, see, for example, 3:139–43 as a basis for his ideas. 48 See also, al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 123, 195, 268. 49 Ibid., 171, 236; idem, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 51–53, 79–80. 45 46

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in their proximity to God. 50 In any case, this belongs already to the next stage, and will so be addressed in the next chapter.

PRACTICE AND CONDUCT

During the second stage of al-Jīlānī’s path, asceticism and renunciation of this world is most pronounced. In line with this, the mystical wayfarers have at this level adopted firm adherence to a strict code of conduct (ʿazīma) and are expected to observe constant scrupulous piety (waraʿ). 51 His identification of this as the stage of the faqīr, literally one who voluntarily renounces worldly values in exchange for becoming closer to God, likewise emphasizes the ascetic nature of this stage. But what does voluntary impoverishment or renunciation actually constitute? Based on the explanations of the Ghunya, it does not mean abject poverty, but rather existing at a level of bare sufficiency (yaqif maʿa kifāyati-hi), but not above that, because in these conditions lies the probity of the lower soul. Effectively, this specifies sufficient sustenance and clothing to ensure a healthy functioning body able to perform ritual prayers and the other duties, but at the same time refraining from plenty (ḥaẓẓ). The faqīr is asked to strife in order to maintain this level of existence of poverty, just like a wealthy individual seeks to maintain his wealth. If their life standards drop below bare sufficiency, mystics at this stage are, unlike novices, allowed to beg, though only under certain conditions. Accordingly, a begging faqīr should, for example, not look at his human benefactor, but rather thank God, in order not to adopt lords apart from Him. Mentally, the faqīr should be prepared for death and not think about the future but merely about the present, so as to keep hope, the lower soul and passions in check and find contentment in his hardship. If he needs to complain about his poverty, he should do so only to God. He is not permitted to pursue a move to different pastures out of his own volition, but instead 50 51

Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 90, 127, 165–66, 191, 202, 268. Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 456, 459, 464.

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has to rely on divine decree alone to indicate to him when to do so. 52 This stage’s emphasis of asceticism likewise comes to the fore with regard to dressing. While during the previous stage, the priority was not to distinguish oneself from one’s contemporaries and comply with Islamic law, here the aim is to dress as lowly as possible, as our author explains: “The dress of the friends of God is what coincides with divine command (al-amr), the most modest (adnā) possible and necessary to cover the body and the private parts, so as to bring about the breaking of self-attachment (al-hawā).” 53 As outlined above, this stage revolves around cutting one’s ties to oneself to pass away from self-attachment, or alternatively becoming one with, and a manifestation of, divine command, which therefore also finds expression in one’s dress code. Regarding actual exercises that mystics are to engage in at this stage, al-Jīlānī offers rather limited information, as indeed throughout his path. Given the setting, mystics are required to observe almost constant fasting and vigil, and when not occupied with ritual duties they devote to dhikr, and supererogatory worship, all of which may result in secret conversations (munājāt) and other forms of encounter with God. 54

WITHDRAWAL AND SECLUSION

Naturally a central feature of this stage is withdrawal and seclusion (khalwa). It should be pointed out that, while the primary emphasis here is on physical retreat, al-Jīlānī equally treats this concept on a mental level. He tends to illustrate the major themes of the first stage such as renouncing creation, the lower soul and this world as a mere mental isolation, perhaps similar Ibid., 457–59. Ibid., 337–38. 54 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 30, 267, 272, 280, 315. On occasions, the author also refers to nightly conversations with God (musāmara), see for example, al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 115–16. 52 53

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to what Max Weber has termed ‘inner-worldly asceticism’. 55 On the whole, however he refers with it to the physical realm, even if on a few occasions the two spheres are difficult to differentiate. As such, some sort of seclusion is an absolutely indispensable part of the path, as Fatḥ al-rabbānī explains, “they [the mystics] are chosen above their people and contemporaries because they distinguish themselves internally (maʿānī-him) and are [therefore] illuminated externally (mabānī-him), because they separate from creation and abstain from close interaction [with them], they go out…with no reason to return [to creation] and get used to solitude. They choose ruins, coastal areas, wastelands and deserts, but not inhabited areas. They [sustain themselves by] eating herbs from the desert and drinking water from its pools, and become [in their lifestyle] like wild animals. In this way, their hearts become close and intimate with Him, externally they become aligned with the messengers of God, the sincerest believers and those bearing witness to God, internally they become aligned with Him. They continue serving [God] day and night in the seclusion and the comfort of those longing [for God] and the sweetness of those being allowed intimacy with God.” 56

Thus, becoming part of the spiritual elects and friends of God is based on withdrawal from creation and inhabited surroundings, in which the mystics live in the most remote and primitive of circumstances. It is in this setting that they find proximity to God and become spiritually aligned with Him. This becomes possible because, after having been freed from creation with all

Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 97. Max Weber, Economy and Society, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 542. 56 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 61. 55

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its distractions and corruption, 57 solitude facilitates the purification of the heart. 58 However, while withdrawal from creation is no doubt essential, that does not mean that everybody should do so on a whim. Rather al-Jīlānī warns repeatedly against such undertakings without proper preparation, in itself an indication that this was probably a common practice at the time. Required for seclusion are training with a shaykh, and leaving behind one’s lower soul and passions, and in fact anything other than God. 59 One should not withdraw, according to our author, as long as there is even one person on earth that one is mentally attached to by hope or fear. 60 Beyond that, one has to have attained religious knowledge and developed an understanding of divine decision-making (ḥukm), and act accordingly. 61 One’s own efforts are important in this, but eventually it also comes down to whether God finds a person suitable for such endeavours and hence enables such an individual, or not. 62 On occasions, al-Jīlānī even alludes that it may be more beneficial to retreat initially with others, who are likeminded, before doing so on one’s own. Thus, the necessary preparation for withdrawal is approximately the equivalent of the first stage, which makes the current stage, the setting to undertake this. Those who forgo this formation are accordingly ignorant, and their practice flawed as they have not cut their ties with creation and are hoping for worldly compensation and social standing as a result of their seclusion. 63 Since their object of worship is creation and they remain unaware of God, their practice is nothing but hypocrisy. 64 Ibid., 37, 45, 48, 95–97, 336, 371. Ibid., 230. 59 Ibid., 45. 60 Ibid., 291. 61 Ibid., 234, 265. 62 Ibid., 97. 63 Ibid., 97. 64 Ibid., 234, 265. 57 58

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As for the setting in which this seclusion is to take place, alJīlānī does not explicitly specify this, but his obvious ideal is to seek out uninhabited and remote locations for these purposes, as in the extract cited above and below. Rather than being stationary, there is also often an element of itinerancy, wandering from one place to another, involved in his descriptions. 65 This notion is in line with the outlooks of the early Sufis, but in al-Jīlānī’s time, retreats to cells, located in ribāṭs or khānaqāhs, or zāwiyas appear to have become the norm. Such seclusions differ from those in open country in that they did not require people to leave inhabited areas. There is a subtle bias against withdrawals to cells discernible in Fatḥ al-rabbānī, in that they are often found in negative context related to unprepared and hypocritical withdrawal. 66 The primary cause of our author’s criticism is, however, lacking training or commitment, and it is unlikely that he was opposed to withdrawals to cells per se, if conducted properly. Still, cells were seemingly in his view associated with these degraded practices of seclusion. From what can be deduced, practices during withdrawal do not fundamentally differ from regular Sufi practices in society, that is to say, fasting, vigil, dhikr, and supererogatory worship. 67 While the goal of seclusion is to become closer to God, one similarly undergoes other experiences, as al-Jīlānī relates, “…when the defects of this world become obvious to the mystics (al-qawm) they flee from it, when the defects of creation become obvious to them they leave it and flee from it, disgusted by it, they become familiar with the deserts and wastelands, with ruins and caves, and jinns and angels, wandering overland, they are visited by jinns and angels in [different] shapes other than their own shapes, they (the angels

See, for example, the extract quoted below. See, for example, al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 45, 95, 97, 265, 271, 291. 67 Ibid., 267, 291. 65 66

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Meeting angels in these circumstances in different forms is very common in our author’s experience 69 and, as already indicated above, a natural part of approaching divine proximity, as one encounters and speaks to angels before being admitted to God. 70 Additionally, one also interacts with jinns and wild animals, though the latter may be angels or jinns in disguise.

GENERAL CONDUCT

Al-Jīlānī simultaneously examines a faqīr’s more everyday conduct in society. For example, among his spiritual brothers (ikhwān), that is, Sufis of his immediate circle, he is to be guided by the principles of altruism (ithār), signifying the renunciation of ‘one’s rights and claims in favour of others’ (futūwa), 71 forgiveness (ṣafḥ), serving others (khidma) and amenability (takhalluq). This means, in practical terms, that a mystic should always act in agreement with whatever his spiritual brothers say or do and shun ill-feelings and conflicts. If any of them is not well-inclined to him, the faqīr should not hold it against him, but blame his own lower soul. If any of them is happy about something, he is expected to share their happiness, even if not feeling this way. When the mystic himself goes through a trial, he has to keep this from the others, so as not to burden them. Yet when others experience the same, and he realizes this, he is to console and support them. When asked, he is to lend them his possessions liberally without expecting this to be returned. 72 In the company of mystics in general (fuqarā’), i.e. people not part of one’s immediate circle, the same altruistic values Ibid., 95. Ibid., 95, 167, 260, 268, 277, 324, 354, 363. 70 Ibid., 354. 71 Mohsen Zakery, “Javānmardi”, Enc. Iranica. 72 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 453, 459–61. 68 69

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apply, in the sense of giving others precedence over oneself. In this setting, one is asked to respect prevailing practices and avoid standing out, for example, by raising one’s voice above the others in recitation or by fasting when the others eat or vice versa. The Ghunya specifies that one should, in another Sufi circle, consider oneself below others, but seek to become a secret dispenser of divine blessings to their hearts, without forgetting that the blessings come from God and not oneself. In general, the faqīr is supposed to receive other mystics openly, listen to them patiently and be understanding and reassuring in response to their problems so as not to alienate them from himself or even from God, which would have serious consequences for the faqīr’s own standing with God. Likewise, when lending others something, he should not regard this a debt to be repaid. 73 Beyond that, being in the presence of those prioritizing wealth and standing in this world (aghniyā’) should be kept to a minimum (bi-l-taʿazzuz) to protect the soundness of one’s faith. 74 When the faqīr encounters them, such as, in the mosque, the ribāṭ or when travelling, he should be sympathetic to them and not consider himself morally above them. 75 The same applies to regular believers outside the mystical realm (al-ajānib), with whom the mystic should avoid intimate contact, and from whom he should conceal his mystical secret (al-sirr), and principles of the path. But again, when in their company, he should treat them with compassion, generosity and acquiescence. 76 As for his own family, the faqīr is responsible to provide for them properly and should give them precedence over himself regarding food. He is not allowed to rely on God’s provision alone (tawakkul), suffering hunger and shortage, if his family does not share his ascetic inclinations. In this case, he has to Ibid., 454–57, 461–62. By this al-Jīlānī seems to speak out against frequenting political elites, in contrast to others like Abū al-Najīb and Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar alSuhrawardī, or Ibn al-Jawzī, see below and above. 75 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 454. 76 Ibid., 453–54. 73 74

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earn a living for them. Indeed, if the faqīr finds in his family piety and sound conduct, it is his duty to procure a legitimate livelihood (kasb al-ḥalāl) and provide for them in a permissible manner (mubāḥ) so that their ways may prosper. The more he works on refining his outward actions, fidelity to God (ṣidq), and inner purity, the more will God improve his relationship with his dependents and bless his family. In connection with this, the mystic should prepare his offspring to live in adherence to exterior religious knowledge (ẓāhir al-ʿilm) and the sharīʿa, as well as encourage them to eventually embrace the same renunciant lifestyle. 77 In addition, al-Jīlānī specifies the faqīr’s conduct in specific situations, as already seen in the rules stipulated regarding begging above. With regard to eating, a mystic is, for example, expected to steer clear of gluttony and retain control over his lower soul, while remaining focused on God in his heart in this situation. When eating together with other mystics, the faqīr should not reach for food before those who are above him in standing. 78 Travelling plays an important role in the faqīr’s formation, because mystical states are more likely to arrive under these circumstances. Being itinerant does not accommodate temporary abandonment of ʿazīma and a wayfarer is required to subsist on the same number of water portions (awrād) as in a stationary setting, which makes it physically harder for him, but concerning mystical states also more fruitful. It is for this purpose incumbent that he is spiritually focused (qalbu-hu maʿa-hu) and not lingering with those relations left behind. Travelling for a faqīr is limited to religious purposes like ḥajj, other pilgrimages (ziyāra), or meeting a shaykh, and he should abstain from travelling for other reasons. He is also urged to avoid travelling in the company of beardless youths to remove any potential cause of temptation, unless he has achieved a very high standing. 79 Ibid., 463–64. Ibid., 461. 79 Ibid., 464–65. 77 78

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SAMĀʿ

The practice that receives most attention is audition (samāʿ). Its examination is of course not limited to the faqīr, but also related to the murīd. That said, it makes more sense to discuss the practice here because it is at this stage that the mystic becomes properly involved in audition, whereas the murīd’s participation in this is still peripheral. Audition would also be practiced by mystics who advanced beyond this middle stage and indeed completed the path, but they are barely mentioned in al-Jīlānī’s work in connection with this, in all likeliness because at that stage they are supposed to have perfected their conduct and are no longer in need of guidance. Samāʿ is an exercise that has assumed different forms, but the basic idea is a gathering of mystics for the purpose of listening to a recitation of the Quran, poetry or music with view to stimulating their ‘emotional chord’ and so being transported to a state of ecstasy (wajd), which may result in greater proximity to God. The nature of samāʿ was a hotly debated topic among medieval Sufis and scholars, in particular in connection with such aspects as using instruments, poetry and music, or admitting novices, beardless youths and regular believers. As a result, there emerged a wide range of viewpoints on different aspects of audition. Due to being identified by some as a means to spread Sufism among the masses and being associated with disputed practices like the recitation of poetry, singing and dancing, samāʿ was occasionally classified as rukhṣa in Sufi circles and sometimes outright rejected as irreconcilable with Islam by legal scholars. 80 The Ghunya does not have such reservations, holding that

Fritz Meier, “The Dervish Dance; an Attempt at an Overview”, Essays on Islamic Piety and Mysticism by Fritz Meier; trans. John O'Kane with editorial assistance of Bernd Radtke, (Leiden, Brill, 1999), 39; Arthur Gribetz, “The Samā’ Controversy: Sufi vs. Legalist”, Studia Islamica, No. 74 (1991): 43–44. 80

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BAGHDAD DURING THE TIME OF ʿABD AL-QĀDIR AL-JĪLĀNĪ “true samāʿ is the indirect (ḥadīth) and direct divine speech (kalām) which is [heard in the context of exclusive] recurrent encounters between God and those who know him and the elect among which are His friends, those standing in lieu of His will and selected mystics (al-samāʿ al-ḥaqīqī wa-huwa al-ḥadīth wa-l-kalām aladhī huwa sunna allāh ʿazza wa-jalla maʿa-l-ʿulamā bi-hi wa-l-khawāṣṣ min al-awliyā’ wa-l-abdāl wal-ʿayān).” 81

Accordingly, samāʿ originally signifies ‘hearing’, in the sense of the mystic ‘hearing’ God’s speech, whereby the author distinguishes between direct (kalām) and indirect speech (ḥadīth). Kalām can here be understood as the mystic being addressed by God through the very words of the Quran being recited, since audition was especially in the early Islamic period, commonly based on the recitation of the scripture, a model also advocated by the author. It does not, to be sure, refer to a first-hand revelation of God’s formulated speech, but instead to a second-hand inspiration by means of what has already been revealed. 82 To Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 466. Elsewhere al-Jīlānī also points to the distinction between formulated (kalām) and unformulated divine speech (ḥadīth), to explain the difference between prophets and mystics. It is the prophet or messenger of God’s prerogative to receive God’s direct speech (kalām) through a revelation (waḥy), i.e. articulated divine speech passes from God (yunfaṣil min allāh) in the company of a divine spirit (rūḥ) to the prophet. Since the revelation is in this way implemented and sealed (yukhtam) by the divine spirit, in the sense of completing it but also in the sense of vouching for God’s approval of it, the prophet accepts it as genuine. Therefore, in turn, believing in it becomes binding for everybody else too, and anybody who fails to do so becomes classified as unbeliever. The advanced Sufi receives God’s indirect speech (ḥadīth) by way of divine inspiration (ilhām), that is, God sends His still unformulated speech implicit in a ‘message of divine truth’ (ʿalā lisān al-ḥaqq or maʿa al-ḥaqq) in the company of divine presence (sakīna). As the heart of the mystic is similarly under the control of this divine presence (sakīna), the message is received and accepted as genuine. It originates with God 81 82

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give some examples, we learn of a mystic participating in a session of audition to whom it appears as if the tongue of the reciter of the Quran has turned into his own tongue, through which, in turn, God speaks to him with the words being recited. On another occasion, there is the case of a mystic’s hearing being struck by a state (shai’) 83 that makes him see the reciter of the Quran as being examined before God, obviously by the very words that he is himself reciting. 84 Ḥadīth, in contrast, indicates that a mystic is addressed by God, as an effect of the recitation, by words, signs, sentiments or instructions that are not verbalized or, if so, not identical with the words of the Quran being recited. We can, for example, point to a report of a mystic, who, in this setting, is physically overwhelmed by a powerful divine command (amr ghālib), which takes hold of his movements. 85 There are two other notable points in the quoted passage; it conveys a sense of exclusiveness, as ‘hearing’ God’s speech is restricted to ‘selected mystics’, ‘friends’, ‘those standing in lieu of His will’ and ‘those who know but is enunciated by His friend, i.e. the mystic. While individuals who do not believe this inspired utterance of the mystic do not fall into unbelief, they end up frustrated and spiritually unhealthy. Al-Jīlānī’s distinction between formulated (kalām) and unformulated divine speech (ḥadīth) is probably based on the difference between the Quran and prophetic traditions. The former, being God’s direct speech, is usually labelled as kalām, while the latter, being Muhammad’s sayings and acts, which were divinely inspired but mostly not divinely articulated, are known as ḥadīth. Ibid., 445. Abū Ḥamīd al-Ghazālī’s (d. 505/1111) similarly distinguished between the inspiration received by the mystic and the revelation by the prophet. One of the differences between them is, in his view, that the prophet perceives the angel conveying God’s revelation, as opposed to the mystic, see Daniel A. Madigan, “Revelation and Inspiration”, Enc. of the Qur’ān. 83 The word ‘shai’’ literally means ‘thing’ or ‘something’, but in this context, it refers to a ‘state’. 84 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 466. 85 Ibid., 466.

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Him’. Furthermore, samāʿ is deemed an established custom (sunna) between God and those privileged individuals. The effect that hearing God’s unformulated or formulated speech has on the friends of God is that it creates a sense of intimacy with Him, which simultaneously stimulates a desire in the mystic for still closer proximity. Anybody, we are told by alJīlānī, who has had the privilege of being admitted to the presence of the Beloved, agrees that it intensifies one’s desire for Him, so that “the faithful novice (al-murīd al-ṣādiq)…whose Beloved (maḥbūb) is not absent [from him] nor is he estranged from his intimate Friend but he is [rather] constantly growing closer in nearness and proximity [to Him]…nothing incites his fervour and desire to move on from his mystical position [to a higher one] except [hearing] the direct and indirect speech from the One whom he desires which is his Lord (kalām murādi-hi wa-ḥadīth-hi, al-ladhī huwa rabbu-hu). In doing so, he is detached from [relying on] poetry, singing, melodies, and the clamour of those who wrongfully pretend (muddaʿīn), the associates of the devil, [who behave like] riding animals [reined by] passions and mounts [reined by] urges and natural dispositions, following anybody who screams or clamours.” 86

The importance of audition lies therefore also in averting the wayfarers’ premature stagnation on the path. Love is not the only emotion that incites further advancement on the path, in the Ghunya we find reference to ‘knowledge of the unseen’ which may elicit desire and feelings of intimacy with God, but may also produce sentiments like fear or self-reproach. Ultimately, however, even the latter aims to lead the mystic closer to God. The second half of the passage shows that, while he views it as an important practice of the path, al-Jīlānī’s notion of audi86

Ibid., 451.

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tion entails specific requirements. No doubt the single most important aspect to ensure the soundness of a samāʿ session is related to the genuine conduct of those participating. In early Sufism, it was believed that being bestowed with a mystical state in this setting was an intermittent occurrence and was in any case outside of humans’ control. It was generally considered unnatural for a Sufi to undergo such an experience every time he attended a samāʿ session or for all participants at one event to be affected by this. Therefore, the expectation was for attendees to remain true to their emotional states, and to abstain from affecting unnatural feelings and states. With the popularization of Sufism in the sixth/twelfth-century, the notion that arriving at an ecstatic state was a fixed part of an audition became increasingly accepted, 87 which, unsurprisingly, resulted in a growing number of people feigning mystical states. Reacting to this, al-Jīlānī begins his discussion on conduct during samāʿ in the Ghunya by insisting that mystics should refrain from pretentious behaviour and that it is not up to their wills or desires to bring about ecstatic states, but entirely up to God. 88 Accordingly, people who conform with this are described as ‘faithful’ (ṣādiq), corresponding to our author’s specification of ‘fidelity’ (ṣidq) as an essential requisite for a beginner of the path. 89 As we learned, one aspect of such ‘fidelity’ is to surrender all initiative to God, which overlaps with the emphasis here that occurrences of mystical states are in God’s hands alone. People who do not adhere to those stipulations are defined as ‘wrongful pretenders’ (muddaʿīn). Rather than patiently waiting for divine favour to descend upon them, they chase it themselves, incited by their passions and lower souls. An alleged ecstatic state without divine invitation is tantamount to God’s abMeier, “The Dervish Dance; an Attempt at an Overview”, 37, 40–41; Arthur Gribetz, “The Samā’ Controversy: Sufi vs. Legalist”, 56. 88 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 465. 89 The term ‘ṣādiq’ is the adjective and ṣidq the noun of the same root ṣd-q. 87

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sence in it, which naturally renders it fake. 90 In al-Jīlānī’s judgement, such participants are therefore closer to a mount reined by its sensual passions than a mystically perceptive human being. Our author’s adverse attitude towards unnatural behaviour in audition is shared by Ibn al-Jawzī (d. 597/1201), who agrees that spiritual intoxication comes from God’s hands alone, anything else is devoid of Him and simulated. 91 Yet genuineness applies in al-Jīlānī’s mind to being truthful about experiencing a mystical state per se as well as being truthful in one’s reaction to this. Thus, whether one’s movements are taken over by an ecstatic force, one removes one’s clothes, one hastens to comply with what has been revealed, or one simply sits down quietly and remembers God; 92 all of this is acceptable as long as it is a faithful reflection of the divine inspiration received. Another central principle in al-Jīlānī’s notion of samāʿ, emerging from both extracts cited above, is that the practice should be based on the Quran alone. Inspiration is in any case the result of Quranic recitation, either by God’s direct or indirect speech. Whether one is addressed by the very words being recited or other previously unformulated words or signs by means of the words being recited, the Quran is at the outset of the inspiration one way or another. As he clearly states in the second passage, using poetry, music, or singing is not a legitimate option. This was a rather anachronistic viewpoint. While audition was commonly based on the Quran in early Sufism, together with poetry, music and singing, it was thereafter gradually replaced by those other means. By the sixth/twelfth-century, at the latest, poetry was far more common in this setting than the Al-Junayd defines ṣidq as controlling one’s lower soul, living in accordance with established religious knowledge at the exterior, and being sincerely devoted to God at the outset of each act at the inside. Abū Qāsim al-Junayd, Rasāʼil al-Junayd, (Damascus: Dār Iqraʼ, 2005), 127. 91 Ibn al-Jawzī, Baḥr al-dumūʿ, (Tanta: Dār al-Ṣahāba li-l-Turāth, 1992), 108. 92 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 450, 466–67. 90

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Quran. An indication for this trend is Abū Ḥamīd al-Ghazālī’s (d. 505/1111) advocacy for using poetry instead of the scripture for the purposes of audition. 93 In response to the prevailing contemporary trends al-Jīlānī contends that “if they [the mystics] are faithful in their intentions, in their exclusive devotion to Him and in their behaviour (law ṣadaqū fī qaṣdi-him wa-tajarrudi-him wa-taṣarrufi-him), their hearts and members will only get stirred by hearing the speech of God (lamā inzaʿajū fī qulūbi-him wa-jawāriḥi-him bighayr samāʿ kalām allāh), because it is the speech (kalām) of their Beloved…”. 94

Since samāʿ is about encountering God by hearing His speech, of which the Quran is the only accepted source, there is really no way around basing audition on the holy book. That being said, when carefully reading his discussion of non-Quranic audition, one discovers a more nuanced outlook. It turns out that al-Jīlānī is evidently aware of the preferences of his contemporaries for using poetry and adding musical elements, by employing musicians, singers and instruments. 95 While he undoubtedly holds on to the ideal of relying on the Quran alone, we come across repeated references in his discussion to said alternative methods of performing samāʿ, which alludes to a tacit toleration if no full approval of this. His perspective is probably best summed up in this statement, “even if we do not approve of audition [being accompanied by] poetry, dancing [preceding ecstatic states] 96 and music Leonard Lewisohn, “The Sacred Music of Islam; Samā’ in the Persian Sufi Tradition”, British Journal of Ethnomusicology 6, (1997), 19–21. 94 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 466. 95 Ibid., 450–51, 466. 96 That al-Jīlānī does not disapprove of dancing as such can be seen in his frequent depictions of mystics losing control over their movements as a result of genuine spiritual intoxication. His reference to the faithful 93

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BAGHDAD DURING THE TIME OF ʿABD AL-QĀDIR AL-JĪLĀNĪ (al-qawl wa-l-raqṣ wa-l-qaṣab), the distasteful nature (karāhata-hu) of which we have already mentioned before, except that, in light of what we have reported on what the people of our time incline to in their ribāṭs and assemblies, it is undeniable that some amongst them are faithful (ṣādiq) in what they do. The true meaning of what [such a faithful mystic] hears ignites the brilliant flame of his fidelity (nā’ira ṣidqi-hi) drawing all of his attention to it. He becomes completely absorbed by his brilliant flame and is consumed by it. His limbs are stirred amongst the people [who are present in the audition] but he is removed from [their] poetic utterances (qawl) which entails pleasure, natural disposition and passion.” 97

Despite his apparent disapproval of music and poetry in this setting and his general suspicions regarding people involved in this, our author acknowledges that some of those are sincere in their doing. He describes them as ‘faithful’ to God (ṣādiq and ṣidq), a sign of approval usually reserved for individuals adhering to his own principles. In any case, this reveals that he regarded audition in this manner as diverging from the ideal, but still just about acceptable. In line with this, the extract defines such forms of audition as karāha, the adjective of which (makrūh) signifies in Islamic law that something is ‘reprehensible’ or ‘disliked’ but not ‘sinful’ or ‘unlawful’ (ḥarām). 98 Above all, al-Jīlānī emphasizes again the central importance of genumystic’s ‘limbs being stirred’ in the same extract also points to this. Instead one has to differentiate between dancing as an expression of ecstasy and dancing as a cause for ecstatic states. Al-Jīlānī allows the former, as long as it is genuine, but, as shown here, disapproves of the latter. As this second form of dancing became increasingly popular, he addresses it here. See for this Meier, “The Dervish Dance; an Attempt at an Overview”, 37–40. 97 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 450–51. 98 In connection with the discussion above about ʿazīma and rukhṣa, this probably implies that al-Jīlānī considered this kind of samāʿ as rukhṣa.

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ineness in this context. Even an audition in flawed conditions including music and poetry cannot undermine the endeavour of a sincere mystic. What really matters, therefore, is not so much the outer circumstances, but a mystic’s genuineness, in other words, his fidelity to God. 99 Beyond the manifest importance of genuineness, al-Jīlānī does not neglect to establish a detailed set of rules in relation to both the novice and the faqīr in this context. As such, the fact that he includes the murīd in this setting is noteworthy, since it A passing note should be made regarding the negative light in which the ribāṭ is described here, apparently associated with improper kinds of audition. It is one of three references to such in the Ghunya; one other mention is neutral, but interestingly there is one other rather negative reference to ribāṭs at the end of the book related to consuming alcoholic beverages and inventing customs. 99

“this is the end of what we have composed on behalf of the mystics’ (al-qawm) conduct…but as far as entering ribāṭs and places where [alcoholic] drinks are brewed and served (dukhūl al-rubuṭ wa-l-siqāyāt), putting on sandals (ḥidhā) and [other] things which [the members of the ribāṭs] devised, invented and named among themselves, this is to be learned from their customs, associating with them, and asking them about it…”.

It is remarkable that al-Jīlānī who is reported to have been in charge of such an institution himself, would illustrate it in such negative light. Especially this passage would suggest that he was critical of ribāṭs and the conduct associated with them and sought to distance himself from them. A propos, it should be pointed out that, in addition to said references in the Ghunya, there is, to my knowledge, no mention of ribāṭs in Futūḥ al-ghayb. Hence al-Jīlānī’s link to this institution, other than what is mentioned in later historical chronicles and biographical dictionaries, is limited to Fatḥ al-rabbānī. And even in Fatḥ al-rabbānī the link is indirect, in that he does not himself refer to such institutions in his sermons, but some sermons are said to have been held in his ribāṭ. AlJīlānī, al-Ghunya, 468. Regarding the ambiguities surrounding alJīlānī’s own ribāṭ, see also above.

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implies that novices were considered active participants in audition. In contrast, earlier authorities like al-Qushayrī (d. 465/1072) or Abū Ḥamīd al-Ghazālī are reported to have been in favour of novices staying away from such sessions. 100 In alJīlānī’s case, the rules for novices and faqīrs broadly overlap. Novices are, for example, asked to defer to any present shaykh during samāʿ, just as they are usually expected to submit to their masters. They are to abstain from getting into motion in the company of masters, unless ordered to do so, or from making spectacles of themselves, unless, genuinely overwhelmed by a mystical state. The regular mystics are in the same way required to submit to attending shaykhs, which for instance entails that they refrain from stirring into motion as long as possible. Only when irresistibly overcome by ecstasy, should they give in to this, but find repose as soon as it abates. 101 With regard to fellow attendees, novices are cautioned against challenging anybody suspected of acting affectedly. Rather this falls into the responsibility of the shaykh present. Both murīd and faqīr are advised to ignore unbecoming behaviour of other participants. Furthermore, they are asked to respect other Sufis overwhelmed by states and leave them undisturbed. On the other hand, if they themselves are overcome by ecstasy, they should yield to others, if possible, so as to avoid problems. They should be prepared to assist others in a mystical moment (waqt), yet should not ask others for their help. It is in the same manner not appropriate to compete with other attendees so as to direct the reciter. In general, attempting to direct or contest the reciter or singer, so as to, for example, make them repeat what has already been recited or sung, is completely out of the question, a view shared by Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī. 102 Nevertheless, the trend to include novices in samāʿ, also advocated, for example, by the great Khurāsānī shaykh Abū Saʿīd ibn Abī al-Khayr (d. 440/1049), would eventually prevail. See for this, Lewisohn, “The Sacred Music of Islam; Samā’ in the Persian Sufi Tradition”, 10–11. 101 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 450, 466. 102 Ibid., 451, 466–67; Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī, Adāb al-murīdīn, 63. 100

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More specifically in connection to the faqīr, it is noteworthy how much space the Ghunya allots to the custom of taking off one’s khirqa 103 or other pieces of clothing during audition. The discussion revolves chiefly around two aspects; the mystic’s motive to remove his cloak and how to deal with it thereafter. In this sense, a faqīr who has taken off his garment in this context is to be questioned about the reasons for doing so, in order to figure out what to do with it. If said mystic claims that he sought to coincide with the shaykh who removed his own cloak due to being overcome by ecstasy, this is, according to al-Jīlānī, a particularly feeble argument as it is unlikely that their states correspond precisely. On the same basis, the claim that he wanted to coincide with a whole group of mystics throwing off their khirqas is even weaker. On this subject, our author argues that the common practice in mystical brotherhoods to throw off their cloaks jointly has no basis in the sharia, or the mystical path. 104 Trying to explain taking off one’s khirqa, by asserting that one did not actually have the intention to do so, but that it happened in the heat of the moment, is similarly considered unconvincing. Yet in this scenario, the mystic gets to decide about the thrown off cloak himself, whereas in all other situations it is up to either the present shaykh or the attendees collectively to decide over it. In fact, the only way that such behaviour can be justified is when the concerned individual does so as a result of a divine indication (ishāra) coming upon him during a mystical moment. Accordingly, God wants to confer him a spiritual robe of honour (khilʿa) and so directs him to remove his actual cloak, signifying his preparedness to receive the immaterial robe of honour. In that case, the mystic cannot claim the disposed khirqa again, let alone wear it. On the whole, these points reemphasize the notion that in the mystical realm any act brought about by human intention or desire is flawed and prone to proA rough or coarse cloak distinguishing the bearer as a wayfarer of the mystical path. 104 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 467. 103

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duce unnatural behaviour. Rather all initiative should be surrendered to God. 105

EXCURSUS: ABŪ ḤAFṢ ʿUMAR AL-SUHRAWARDĪ

Al-Jīlānī’s view on audition is largely shared by Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī (d. 632/1234), the nephew of the previously discussed Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī (d. 563/1168). 106 Just like the latter, Abū Ḥafṣ was born in Suhraward in the Jibāl region in 539/1144–45, coming from the same Banu ʿAmmūya family. In line with the family tradition, he moved to Baghdad around the age of sixteen in 555/1160 to further his education. 107 There he was taken under the wing of his paternal uncle Abū al-Najīb and studied hadith, Islamic jurisprudence of the Shāfiʿī legal school, disputed legal points (khilāf), public oratory, belles letIbid., 467. On Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī’s life see Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh alIslām wa-wafayāt al-mashāhīr wa-l-aʿlām, vol. 49, 112–15; idem, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, (Beirut: mu’asasa al-risala, 1996), vol. 22, 373–78. AlSubkī, Ṭabaḳāt al-Shāfiʿiyya, (Cairo: Dār iḥyā' al-kutub al-ʿarabiyya, 1997), vol. 8, 338–41; Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-aʿyān, (Paris: Maṭbaʿ al-akhawayn firman Ditwah, 1838), 529–31; Ibn al-Wardī, Tārīkh Ibn alWardī, (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿilmiyah, 1996), vol. 2, 158–59; Ibn Kathīr, Ṭabaqāt al-fuqahāʼ al-shāfiʻīyīn, (Cairo: Maktaba al-thaqāfah aldīnīyah, 1993), vol. 2, 735–36; Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse des ʻUmar as-Suhrawardī: (ʻAwārif al-maʻārif). Übers. u. eingeleitet von Richard Gramlich, (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1978), 1–17; Angelika Hartmann, An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180–1225): Politik, Religion, Kultur in der späten 'Abbasidenzeit, (New York; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1975), 111–18, 233–54; idem, “al-Suhrawardī”, Enc. of Islam II; Erik Ohlander, Sufism in an age of transition: ‘Umar al-Suhrawardī and the rise of the Islamic mystical brotherhoods, (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 60–63, 82, 113–16. 107 Ohlander, 80–82. Gramlich says that Abū Ḥafṣ was fifteen when arriving in Baghdad, al-Suhrawardī, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 1. Other sources simply mention that he was ‘beardless’, in other words, still in his youth, Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 49, 112. 105 106

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tres and Arabic language (al-ʿarabiyya). In hadith, Abū Ḥafṣ studied among others with his paternal uncle and Abū Zurʿa alMaqdisī (d. 566/1171), and in fiqh his main teachers were Abū Qāsim b. al-Fadlān (d. 595/1199) and his paternal uncle. Simultaneously, Abū Ḥafṣ was introduced to Sufism, primarily of course by Abū al-Najīb, in whose ribāṭ he studied and by whom he was invested with a khirqa. Moreover, it is often reported that in his early years in Baghdad, Abū Ḥafṣ ‘associated’ (ṣaḥiba) with al-Jīlānī, in the way of becoming his disciple. 108 Most medieval sources do, however, not elaborate beyond that, and there is but one sole report that provides a few more details about the relationship of the two. This report is transmitted by al-Dhahabī (d. 748/1348) and Ibn Rajab (d. 795/1392), each of which offers two different versions of the same report. Both authors transmit the same version, attributed to Ibn al-Najjār, and in addition one other version, which, though obviously related, differs in certain details. One can hence differentiate between three versions of the same report. In the version offered by both, al-Dhahabī and Ibn Rajab, Abū Ḥafṣ is said to have related that “I was studying Islamic jurisprudence in my youth, then it occurred to me to read something [in the field] of speculative theology, and I resolved to do so without telling anyone. It happened that I prayed together with my paternal uncle Abū al-Najīb, and with him was shaykh ʿAbd al-Qādir [alJīlānī]…my paternal uncle asked him to make an invocation for me and told him that I was studying Islamic jurisprudence. I got up and kissed his [al-Jīlānī’s] hand, but he took my hand and said to me, “turn away from what you have resolved to study, then you will succeed”, then he fell silent and left my hand. My resolve to study speculative theology did [however] not change until my mystical states became troubled and my mystical moments disturbed, and I realized See, for example, al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 49, 112; idem, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, vol. 22, 374; Ibn Khallikān, 530; Al-Subkī, vol. 8, 339; Ibn al-Wardī, vol. 2, 158; Ibn Kathīr, vol. 2, 735. 108

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BAGHDAD DURING THE TIME OF ʿABD AL-QĀDIR AL-JĪLĀNĪ that this was because [I had been] at variance with the shaykh [al-Jīlānī]”. 109

Accordingly, Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī, who would in his later life become a major critic of speculative theology, was attracted and indeed determined to delve into this field of scholarship in the heedless days of his youth. While keeping this to himself, he encounters al-Jīlānī, who reads his mind and tells him to turn away from those undertakings. Abū Ḥafṣ initially ignores this, but eventually, when his spiritual life takes a turn for the worse, realizes that this is because he did not follow alJīlānī’s advice. The second version of the same account mentioned only by Ibn Rajab, and attributed to no other than Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328), varies somewhat in its details and wording, most notably by implying that al-Jīlānī and Abū alNajīb habitually prayed together, but basically conveys the same story. 110 Both pre-modern and modern scholarship has mostly focused on these two versions of the report. 111 al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 97–8; Ibn Rajab, al-Dhayl ʿalā tabaqāt al-ḥanābila, (Cairo: maṭbaʿa al-sunna al-muḥammadiyya, 1952), vol. 1, 296–97. The version given in Ibn Rajab adds that Abū Ḥafṣ thus turned away from these endeavours, and by extension returned to God, and so his inner purity and balance were restored. 110 This version is related by Ibn Taymiyya on the authority of ʿIzz alDīn Ahmad al-Fārūzī who heard al-Suhrawardī say, 109

“I had resolved to study something from [the field of] speculative theology and was wavering, “should I study Imām al-Ḥaramayn [al-Juwaynī’s] Irshād, or alShahrestānī’s Nihāyat al-iqdām” or another book that he (Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī) mentioned. [It happened that] I accompanied my maternal uncle Abū al-Najīb [alSuhrawardī to the mosque for prayer], and he would pray side by side with shaykh ʿAbd al-Qādir [alJīlānī]...[who] turned and said to me “ʿUmar, this is not part of the provisions for the grave, this is not part of the provisions for the grave”…[so] I turned away from this [resolution].”

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As for the veracity of the account in general, this is obviously difficult to assess; al-Jīlānī lived in Baghdad in the first years after Abū Ḥafṣ’ arrival, and he was almost certainly acquainted with Abū al-Najīb, both being major figures in Baghdadi Sufism and both having accompanied Ḥammād al-Dabbās for a while, even if the claim that the two would regularly pray together in the version attributed to Ibn Taymiyya may well be a later elaboration. We also learned that al-Jīlānī, and in fact many other shaykhs, were credited with reading people’s minds and that he was rigorously opposed to speculative theology. Based on this, the account could be true, but that is as much as one can say, especially when bearing in mind the posthumous additions to al-Jīlānī’s biography as well as the many fictional meetings with other famous Sufis later ascribed to Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī. 112 Even if we accept the account as genuine, it actually sheds little light on Abū Ḥafṣ formally becoming al-Jīlānī’s disciple for a period of time, but rather implies that the latter acted as a spiritual guide to the former on one specific occasion. Based on the rather inconclusive picture painted in these two versions, it is noteworthy that a number of medieval scholars suggest that Abū Ḥafṣ associated with al-Jīlānī. In modern scholarship, this view has generally been accepted, 113 though most recently Erik Ohlander has pointed out that the report, in these two versions

Note, the mistaken identification of Abū al-Najīb as maternal rather than paternal uncle. According to Ibn Rajab, Ibn Taymiyya also saw this version written down in the handwriting of al-Jīlānī’s student Ibn Qudāma (d. 620/1223), Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 297. 111 Ohlander, 113–16, al-Suhrawardī, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 3. 112 Ohlander, 116–33. 113 Herbert Mason, Two statesmen of mediaeval Islam, 97n; alSuhrawardī, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 3; Hartmann, An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180–1225), 235; idem, “al-Suhrawardī”, Enc. of Islam II.

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alone, does not provide a convincing basis for this assumption. 114 This is where we get to the third version of the report, or the second version transmitted by al-Dhahabī, which to my knowledge has actually received very little, if any, attention so far. The author states that I heard our shaykh Ibn Taymiyya say that he had heard shaykh ʿIzz al-Dīn Ahmad al-Fārūzī say that he [in turn] had heard… Abū Ḥafṣ [ʿUmar] al-Suhrawardī say: “I resolved to study speculative theology (kalām wa uṣūl al-dīn), but said to myself: “I will ask shaykh ʿAbd al-Qādir [al-Jīlānī] for advice [regarding this].” I went to him, [but] before I could say [anything] he said: “ʿUmar, this is not part of the provisions for the grave, this is not part of the provisions for the grave”…[so] I left it.” 115

Thus, what we have here is evidently related to the two versions above, but still different in a number of crucial aspects. Abū Ḥafṣ similarly decides to delve into speculative theology, but opts to get al-Jīlānī’s approval for this. The latter however tells him to stay away from such endeavours, which Abū Ḥafṣ duly does. As Abū al-Najīb has no part in this version, the relationship between al-Jīlānī and Abū Ḥafṣ emerges in a different light, being much closer. The fact that Abū Ḥafṣ is said to have consulted al-Jīlānī before immersing himself in speculative theology, would very much imply a master-disciple relationship. The chain of transmission is almost the same as cited by Ibn Rajab for his second version, but for the last link, which is stronger because al-Dhahabī affirms that he himself heard Ibn Taymiyya relate this version, while Ibn Rajab uses the more Ohlander also rightly points out that Abū Ḥafṣ barely mentions alJīlānī inʿAwārif al-maʿārif, which could be interpreted as speaking against a longer association between the two. Ohlander, 113–16. 115 al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 91; idem, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, vol. 20, 443. 114

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neutral “Ibn Taymiyya said…”. 116 Al-Dhahabī is known to have studied with Ibn Taymiyya, while Ibn Rajab was born too late for that. 117 The first transmitter, Ahmad al-Fārūzī (d. 694/1295), a Shāfiʿī legal scholar, hadith expert and Sufi, is reported to have studied with Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī. 118 Although nothing is known about his meeting Ibn Taymiyya, he is said to have spent considerable time in Damascus in the second half of the seventh/thirteenth-century, when the latter also lived there. As this version, has a slightly stronger chain of transmission than Ibn al-Rajab’s second version, but is more concise and less detailed, it is probable that this constitutes the earlier version and that Ibn Rajab’s is a later elaborated version, mixing both this and the version attributed to Ibn al-Najjār. What this version makes clear is that we have, at least, two different ‘original’ versions; the one attributed to Ibn al-Najjār, which alludes to a one-off encounter between Abū Ḥafṣ and al-Jīlānī resulting in the latter’s spiritual guidance of the former, and the other transmitted by Ibn Taymiyya and related by al-Dhahabī, which alludes to an actual master-disciple relationship between the two men. As said, the second version found in Ibn Rajab’s work is likely a combination of the two. Having two independent ‘original’ versions as opposed to just one, as assumed in previous scholarship, 119 naturally increases the likeliness that there is some truth to the basic aspects in which the two ‘original’ versions overlap, i.e. that there was some sort of relationship between the two men, even if none of this provides any certainty. What’s more, none of the biographical dictionaries that specifically state that Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī became alJīlānī’s disciple support this with any version of the report, at

Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 296. Ibn Rajab was born 736/1335, a few years after Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328) passed away. 118 al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 55, 207; al-Subkī, vol. 8, 6, 339. 119 Ohlander, 113–16, al-Suhrawardī, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 3. 116 117

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least not in the same entry. 120 One could explain the absence of reference to this in different ways, such as, a lack of space, a perceived unreliability of the report per se, or an unwillingness to convey its anti-kalām message, but it seems most probable that those biographical dictionaries based their statements on still other sources, which would mean that, in addition to the two independent ‘original’ versions, there existed still other reports testifying to Abū Ḥafṣ’ association with al-Jīlānī’. 121 For this speaks additionally the fact that Abū Ḥafṣ’ attachment to al-Jīlānī is only specifically noted in works of scholars, such as, Ibn Khallikān (d. 681/1282), al-Dhahabī (d. 748/1348), Ibn al-Wardī (d. 749/1349), al-Subkī (d. 771/1370), or Ibn Kathīr (d. 774/1373), connected to the Shāfiʿī legal school, i.e. the legal school of Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī himself. 122 Given the strong sense of identification people had with their legal schools in medieval Islam, one would not expect them to Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām vol. 39, 91, 97–8. vol. 49, 112; idem, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, vol. 20, 442, 448, vol. 22, 374. Al-Subkī, vol. 8, 339; Ibn Khallikān, 530; Ibn al-Wardī, vol. 2, 258; Ibn Kathīr, vol. 2, 735. Al-Dhahabī is to my knowledge the only one who both affirms that Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī was al-Jīlānī’s disciple and gives two versions of the report, but this happens in separate entries, the affirmation of the master-disciple relationship in Abū Ḥafṣ’ entry and the two versions of the report in al-Jīlānī’s. Ibn Rajab’s work, in contrast, includes two versions of the report, but does not explicitly allude to a master-disciple relationship. Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām vol. 39, 91, 97–8. vol. 49, 112; idem, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, vol. 20, 442, 448, vol. 22, 374; Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 296–97. 121 Most likely the lost works of Ibn al-Najjār and Ibn Dūbaythī, which had considerable influence on subsequent medieval historians. Both were in fact students of Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī, which would make their information on him seemingly more reliable. 122 The Ḥanafī Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī makes no mention of it, vol. 22, 321– 22. Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām vol. 39, 91, 97–8. vol. 49, 112; idem, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, vol. 20, 442, 448, vol. 22, 374. Al-Subkī, vol. 8, 339; Ibn Khallikān, 530; Ibn al-Wardī, vol. 2, 258; Ibn Kathīr, vol. 2, 735. 120

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credit a member of the Ḥanbalī school with having had a significant hand in the formation of a major Shāfiʿī figure, unless they had credible sources supporting this. 123 Taking all of this into account, it is likely that Abū Ḥafṣ was indeed al-Jīlānī’s disciple, even if only for a short while. 124 In addition to al-Jīlānī and Abū al-Najīb, Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī is also reported to have been attached to Abū Muḥammad b. ʿAbd (d. 580/1184–85) in Basra. By that stage, al-Jīlānī and Abū al-Najīb had passed away and Abū Ḥafṣ’ formal education had been completed. He left Baghdad, probably in the early 1170s to join Ibn ʿAbd’s circle in Basra, but he is said to have also spent a number of years in retreat where he practiced persistent fasting, dhikr and devotions. Eventually, Abū Ḥafṣ returned to public life in the early 1180s, as a Sufi master and public preacher. Thus, his development resembles both Abū al-Najīb and al-Jīlānī in that he moved to Baghdad during his adolescence to complete his formal education. After this was achieved, and he had also become initiated to Sufism, he spent a prolonged period in withdrawal before returning to society as a respected Sufi, scholar, and preacher. After teaching for a while in the ribāṭ which Abū al-Najīb had left to his offspring, Abū Ḥafṣ was given the newly built alMa’mūniyya ribāṭ, founded by the Abbasid caliph al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh’s (d. 622/1225) mother Zumurrud Khātūn (d. 599/1203), who was a prominent patron of pious institutions. In the early thirteenth-century, he was additionally appointed director of alMarzubāniyya ribāṭ and the official caliphal preacher at the Badr al-Sharīf gate, which highlighted his close relationship to the caliph as well as his standing as a major religious authority. Abū Ḥafṣ became known as an eminent hadith and legal scholar, the Even if we take into account that they obviously influenced each other. 124 Interestingly, al-Dhahabī does suggest on one occasion that Abū Ḥafṣ’ association with al-Jīlānī was short, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā’, vol. 22, 374. 123

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outstanding Sufi shaykh of his time and an eminent public preacher able to inspire his audience with his simple and unembroidered way of preaching. He attracted numerous students and disciples, such as, Ibn al-Najjār and Ibn Dūbaythī (d. 637/1239) in hadith, and ʿAlī b. Buzgush (d. 678/1280) and Bahā’ al-Dīn Zakarīyā al-Multānī (d. 661/1262) in Sufism. Close ties to the caliphal palace soon resulted in Abū Ḥafṣ’ involvement in diplomatic missions; between 588/1192 and 618/1221, he was sent out as caliphal envoy to Armenia, Syria and Egypt, the Jibāl region and Anatolia. While he did fall out of favour with caliph al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh, following his apparently pompous, and thus inappropriate, return from the mission to the Ayyubids in 604/1207–8, and as a result lost his directorship of the ribāṭs temporarily, Abū Ḥafṣ was soon restored to his previous position, not only regaining control of the previously held ribāṭs, but also attaining control over three additional ones. 125 He may likewise have been bestowed by the caliph with the title of ‘chief shaykh’ (shaykh al-shuyūkh), though the exact implications of the title remain in any case disputed. 126 He eventually passed away at a high age in 632/1234. Abū Ḥafṣ clearly benefited from supporting the caliphal policies, and possibly even wrote his two theses on the futuwwa associations 127 in order to aid al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh’s attempts to create a union between them, Sufism and the caliphate, under the control of the caliph himself. 128 He differs thus in his connections to the political establishment from al-Jīlānī, who avoided Ohlander, Sufism in an age of transition, 112. Ibid., 107–12. 127 Futuwwa has different meanings in pre-modern Islamic civilization, but here refers to associations of young men. 128 Hartmann, An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh, 111–18, 239–43; Ohlander, Sufism in an age of transition, 271–91; Leonard Lewisohn, “Shihab ad-Din 'Umar Suhrawardi: Treatises on Sufi Chivalry”, Windows on the House of Islam: Muslim Sources on Spirituality and Muslim Sources on Spirituality and Religious Life, ed. John Renard, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 235–36. 125 126

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such. In contrast to his reported attraction to speculative theology in his youth, Abū Ḥafṣ distinguished himself later as a fierce critic of kalām, condemning it along with philosophy in a polemic, which was in line with both his paternal uncle Abū al-Najīb and al-Jīlānī’s thinking. 129 The work for which Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī became widely known is ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, which has been characterized as the conclusion and peak of the classical Sufi manual literature. 130 In his later days, Abū Ḥafṣ would use ʿAwārif almaʿārif to teach his disciples, and after his death, some of these disciples, as the above mentioned ʿAlī b. Buzgush and Bahā’ alDīn Zakarīyā al-Multānī, spread the work all-over the Islamic civilization, facilitating the eventual emergence of the Suhrawardiyya order. 131 The priority of the work is not originality, but to base itself as much as possible on the Quran, the Sunna, and the early Sufi tradition. Abū Ḥafṣ draws from an impressive array of hadith and verses of the Quran to support his discussion, demonstrating his expert knowledge of Islamic tradition and thought. The work’s approach, according to Erik Ohlander, is the notion that Sufism’s doctrine and practice are based on the Quran and hadith and embodied in the practice of the pious ancestors (salaf) and early Sufis, similar to Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī’s (d. 386/996) Qūt al-qulūb, Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī’s (d. 505/1111) Ihyā’ ʿulūm aldīn, and al-Jīlānī’s Ghunya. 132 Abū Ḥafṣ also draws heavily from prior Sufi literature, such as Sahl al-Tūstarī (d. 283/896), al-Sarrāj (d. 378/988), alKalābādhī (d. 384/994), Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, al-Sulamī (d. 412/1021), and al-Qushayrī, (d. 465/1072) placing his own Angelika Hartmann, “Cosmogonie et doctrine de l'âme dans l'oeuvre tardive de 'Umar as-Suhrawardī (m. 632/1234)”, Quaderni di studi arabi, 1993, vol.11, 164–65. 130 Al-Suhrawardī, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 1. 131 Ibid., 6, 14. 132 Ohlander, 52–53. 129

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work in line with them. 133 He probably followed in this the lead of his paternal uncle Abū al-Najīb, who already relies heavily on the Sufi tradition in adāb al-murīdīn. Overall, Abū Ḥafṣ considered al-Junayd (d. 298/910) in particular as his spiritual forbearer, in whose tradition of sober Sufism he saw himself. 134 This is one aspect where we find clear differences to al-Jīlānī’s work; Abū Ḥafṣ is anxious to illustrate and support virtually every matter discussed with reports of earlier Sufis, turning ʿAwārif al-maʿārif into a storehouse of the Sufi tradition, but alJīlānī, on the other hand, does so at best rather infrequently, and oftentimes abstains from this in aspects that one would expect him to do so. The former literally embeds his discussion in the Sufi tradition, whereas the latter only very sporadically refers to it. While Fatḥ al-rabbānī occasionally refers to earlier Sufis, 135 the Ghunya does so still less and only in the context of specific topics, 136 and Futūḥ al-ghayb is literally devoid of any mention of earlier Sufis. 137 Furthermore, Abū Ḥafṣ cites Sufis up to his own time and including the Khorasani tradition of the forth/tenth and fifth/eleventh century, but in the instances that he mentions earlier Sufis, al-Jīlānī does not draw from such a wide range. 138 With a few notable exceptions, he does in this neither go beyond Al-Suhrawardī, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 1. Ohlander, 42–47. 135 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 73, 104, 122, 197, 200, 307, 308, 309, 314, 317, 322, 328, 332, 335, 346, 355, 360–61, 369, 373. 136 Al-Jīlānī, Ghunya, 165–67, 190–95, 330–33, 468–70. 137 It contains to my knowledge but one reference to a report of Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī (d. 261/874). Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 19. 138 The Sufis commonly referred to are Ibrāhīm b. Adham (d. 161/777), Maʿrūf al-Karkhī (d. 200/815), Bishr b. al-Ḥārith (d. 227/841), alḤārith al-Muḥāsibī (d. 243/857), Dhū al-Nūn al-Miṣrī (d. 246/861), Sarī al-Saqaṭī (d. 253/867), Yaḥyā b. Muʿādh al-Razī (d. 258/872), Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī (d. 261/874), Abū Bakr al-Warrāq (d. 280/893), Sahl al-Tustarī (d. 283/896), Abū al-Ḥasan al-Nūrī (d. 295/907), al-Junayd (d. 298/910) or al-Ruwaym (d. 303/915). 133 134

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the early 10th century, nor does he include the Khorasani tradition. 139 Abū Ḥafṣ’ work is thus, at least ostensibly, appreciably more in line and in touch with the Sufi tradition than al-Jīlānī’s. As ʿAwārif al-maʿārif combines this with a heavy reliance on the Quran, the Sunna, and the traditions attributed to the first generations of Muslims, it has been suggested that the author sought to establish Sufi ‘exegetical authority’ over these sources. 140 In any case, one can detect a thorough identification with the Sufi tradition in ʿAwārif al-maʿārif. Reading it, one gets the impression that it is presented back-to-back from a Sufi viewpoint, which is especially shown in the said acknowledgment of the Sufi tradition throughout, the constant mention of the terms ‘Sufi’ and ‘Sufism’, and the detailed examination of its origins, terminology, principles and its difference to related movements, like the malāmatī and antinomian (qalandariyya) movements, in the beginning of the book. The same cannot be said of al-Jīlānī’s work, where in addition to the rather sporadic reference to the Sufi tradition, the terms ‘Sufi’ and ‘Sufism’ barely feature. While there are, in the three works under consideration here, two occasions on which the author briefly seeks to explain the principles and the term ‘ṣūfī’, 141 it actually reinforces the impression that al-Jīlānī was not all that comfortable with the term, but probably thought that it was necessary to explain this in the framework of his own

Chronologically, the ‘latest’ Sufis he refers to are Abū Bakr al-Wāsiṭī (d. 320/932), Abū ʿAlī al-Rūdhbārī (d. 322/933), al-Shiblī (d. 334/946), Abū al-Qāsim al-Naṣrābādhī (d. 376/978), Ibn Khafīf (d. 371/982), Abū ʿUthmān al-Maghribī (d. 373/983), al-Sarrāj (d. 378/988) or al-Daqqāq (d. 412/1021). A notable exception chronologically and geographically is al-Daqqāq, who lived into the fifth/ eleventh-century and was part of the Khorasani tradition. Reference to these ‘later’ Sufis in al-Jīlānī’s work is however rather infrequent, and he primarily resorts to the ‘earlier’ individuals mentioned above. 140 Ohlander, 140–42. 141 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 441–45; idem, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 121–22. 139

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mystical path. 142 Overall, al-Jīlānī’s identification with Sufism seems therefore to have been considerably weaker than Abū Ḥafṣ’. This should, however, not be confused with al-Jīlānī’s commitment to the mystical path per se, which cannot be questioned, but has to be understood in the way of a detachment from recent developments in Sufism, in the fifth/eleventh and sixth-twelfth century, similar to Ibn al-Jawzī, but not as pronounced. ʿAwārif al-maʿārif has been justly lauded for its comprehensive and logical structure, which, it has to be said, certainly makes the work more accessible than comparable works, for example, the Ghunya or even al-Makkī’s Qūt al-qulūb. It is divided into sixty-three chapters, all of which are devoted to issues related to Sufism. Being a substantial work, there are obviously slight differences to al-Jīlānī’s thought, but for our purposes it should suffice to specify but a few of those. Abū Ḥafṣ, for example, distinguishes himself from al-Jīlānī, and in fact many other mystics, in his interpretation of the terms murīd and murād; whereas the former is defined in the conventional manner as the individual ‘desiring God’, without being yet desired in return, the latter is already at the outset of the path ‘desired by God’, and unveiled to divine secrets, without any effort or choice, in this way starting his path from the end backwards. 143 ʿAwārif al-maʿārif offers, in addition, a somewhat different view on voluntary poverty (faqr), which it defines as inferior to Sufism, the Ghunya, on the other hand, habitually uses the terms ‘faqīr’ and ‘faqr’ as synonyms for ‘Sufi’ or ‘Sufism’. 144 Abū Ḥafṣ’ unusually elaborate theory of the lower soul (nafs), drawing on

See for further discussion of this chapter 5. Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, (Cairo: Maktaba al-thaqāfah aldīnīyah, 2006), 60–61; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 62–63; Ohlander, 149–50. 144 Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 66; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 67–68; Ohlander, 225–27. 142 143

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Neoplatonic notions, 145 also does not correspond with al-Jīlānī’s. Finally, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif provides a much more detailed and indeed quite innovative theory of mystical states and stations, which does not strictly differentiate between states and stations, but holds that every station starts out as a state that then, by progress and regress, becomes a station. However, a station does not become firmly established before the arrival of the next state, which eventually also results in the next station. 146 There are, nevertheless, many broader similarities between the two authors, not least the shared advocacy of a sober form of mysticism, de-emphasizing ecstatic states, their propagating of a socially conscious form of Sufism, and their detailed rules for the novices covering all kinds of daily situations. 147 The same can also be said of audition (samāʿ). Similar to the Ghunya, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif devotes considerable space, four whole chapters, to this topic, which highlights again the importance of this practice. If Abū Ḥafṣ was actually rather critical of audition and kept himself aloof from it, as has been suggested in modern scholarship, 148 then the detailed examination in ʿAwārif almaʿārif should probably be seen in light of the prevalence of the practice at the time, to which the author felt obliged to respond. Audition is based on listening to God, and hence before delving into the specific practice, Abū Ḥafṣ establishes primarily the importance of listening to God in general. 149 Attentive listening to God in general, not just in the setting of samāʿ, in particular to His word in the Quran and by way of the prophetic tradiAl-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 490–500; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 381–87; Ohlander, 157–65; Hartmann, Cosmogonie et doctrine de l'âme dans l'oeuvre tardive de 'Umar as-Suhrawardī (m. 632/1234)”, 165–72. 146 Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 524; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 404–05; Ohlander, 165–71. 147 Ohlander, Sufism in an age of transition, 193. 148 Al-Suhrawardī, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 9–10; Ohlander, 139–43. 149 Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 25–36; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 34–43. 145

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tions, is therefore identified as the foundation for anything good, spiritual advancement and knowledge. Yet perception and understanding of God’s speech and messages originates with the heart, which needs to be pure in order to be able to do so. Opposing forces, as the lower soul and worldly passions prevent this ability. It is therefore decisive to maintain inner purity, for if not listening to God, one is listening to Satan’s whisperings and to the lower soul. 150 The same is naturally also true for the actual practice of audition, where a state of inner purity is absolutely incumbent. Abū Ḥafṣ explains that “the basis of Sufism is fidelity (ṣidq) in any state, and it is earnestness throughout…it is inappropriate for the faithful (ṣādiq) to intend joining a [Sufi] meeting that will include audition, except after having reaffirmed his pure devotion to God (yukhliṣ al-niyya l-illāh), expecting an increase in desiring and seeking Him because of this, and remaining on his guard from the inclination of the lower soul…If he attends [the samāʿ], he is to adhere to fidelity and gravity, and to keep his limbs motionless…and the faithful has to be beware of inviting [himself] a state of ecstasy (wajd) and should avoid moving as much as possible…” 151

Just like al-Jīlānī, and in fact also his paternal uncle Abū alNajīb, 152 Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī holds fidelity to be absolutely fundamental, not only in the context of audition, but in Sufism in general. He repeatedly emphasizes the centrality of fidelity in the chapters related to this topic, making clear that without it the practice is flawed and in fact forbidden

Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 25–28; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 34–37 151 Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 220; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 187. 152 Abū al-Najīb al-Suhraward, Adāb al-murīdīn, 62–63. 150

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(ḥaram). 153 Such a state of fidelity hinges on the mystic turning to God in sincere commitment, focus, and submission of his own will to His, as well as, at the same time, turning away from worldly distractions, most notably the lower soul. The necessity of this inner purification before performing samāʿ, is noticeably reminiscent of what al-Jīlānī defines as ‘pure tawba’, in which a mystic reaffirms his sincere devotion to God (ikhlāṣ or khāliṣ lillāh) before any supererogatory worship, and based on the same Arabic root kh-l-ṣ. In the context of audition, this entails that one acts in complete sincerity, i.e. one’s exterior being a genuine reflection of one’s inner state. As outlined in the extract, ecstatic states should be left to God, rather than being chased by the Sufi himself, and one should avoid falling into motion, unless overcome and no longer able to prevent this. The same applies evidently also to dancing, as clarified elsewhere, which has to spring from a mystical state and should under no circumstances be feigned, whereby the author in particular identifies rhythmical dancing and movement as a problem. 154 Like al-Jīlānī, Abū Ḥafṣ consequently disapproves of dancing as a means to induce spiritual states rather than an expression of it. In relation to dancing, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, similar to the Ghunya, devotes considerable space to discussing such habits as taking off one’s khirqa, rending it or even throwing it at the singer during audition, which implies that this was widespread at the time. It provides a comparably detailed examination of the possible motives to do so and how to deal with the discarded or torn apart cloak. 155 Both works agree that any of this is only See for example, al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 194, 199, 200, 207, 211; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 167, 170–71, 179–180, 187. 154 Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 199–200; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 170–71. 155 Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 221–25; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 188–91. Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī likewise looks at these aspects in detail, Abū al-Najīb al-Suhraward, Adāb al-murīdīn, 67– 68. 153

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acceptable if done in the pure intention of a genuine mystical state, although ʿAwārif al-maʿārif is somewhat more accommodating in these matters, advocating that there is generally no objection to such practices, as long as this basic requirement is fulfilled. 156 Abū Ḥafṣ also shares al-Jīlānī’s critical view of some other habits of his contemporaries in the setting of audition. He notes that many individuals of inadequate background, with little commitment to pious works and mystical states, join those samāʿ meetings, some of which even feature food being distributed among the attendees, naturally attracting all the wrong folk steered by their carnal rather than their spiritual desires. 157 He also speaks out against the custom of using beardless Sufis as reciters or singers and the presence of women during audition, as they both lead to corrupted ideas. 158 One finds in such sessions also instruments, like the tambourine and the flute, poetry and even singing. While there are numerous opinions regarding the use of instruments in this context, Abū Ḥafṣ recommends that one should abstain from it. 159 Singing (ghinā’), on the other

The Ghunya sets out more specific stipulations regarding this, see above. Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 222–23; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 188–90. 157 al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 207; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 177. 158 al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 199, 211; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 170, 180. Taken together, Abū Ḥafṣ seems plainly opposed to the practice called shāhidbāzī (Persian) or al-naẓar ilā al-murd (Arabic), that is the beholding of beautiful young boys to contemplate divine beauty in earthly forms, even though other Sufis at the time, such as Aḥmad al-Ghazālī (d. 520/1126) or Awḥad al-Dīn Kermānī (d. 635/1238) considered this an effective way to attain ecstatic states. See also, Ohlander, 237–39. 159 Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 194; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 167. 156

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hand, is plain sinful and rejected, as it has the same negative effects on human beings like wine. 160 As for poetry, there is no objection to poetry of religious content, but profane poetry is generally unacceptable, even though profane verses depicting the beauty of the beloved are worse than those simply treating separation from and union with the beloved. 161 This position largely overlaps with that of his paternal uncle Abū al-Najīb, 162 but is slightly more accommodating than al-Jīlānī’s, who seems to dismiss poetry out of hand, without differentiating between religious and profane content. There is no doubt, however, that Abū Ḥafṣ on the whole agrees with al-Jīlānī that the ideal samāʿ is based on the Quran. 163 At the very beginning of his discussion about audition, he cites Quran 39:17–18, which reads “bring good news to My servants, who listen to the word (yastamiʿūna al-qawl)[my emphasis] and follow the best of it, those are the ones whom God guides and who are the holders of understanding,”, and Quran 5:83, which reads “and when they listen (samiʿū) to what has been revealed to the messenger [my emphasis], you will see their eyes filled with tears as they perceive the truth”. Abū Ḥafṣ then explains “this is true audition, about which no two believers disagree…[in] this audition, its heat comes upon the coldness of certainty and fills the eyes with tears, because it causes sadness at times, and sadness is hot, it causes longing at other times, and longing is hot, and it causes regret at [still] other times, and regret is hot. When audition causes these characAl-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 208–09; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 178. Ibn al-Jawzī also followed this theory, see below, chapter 5. 161 Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 194–95; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 167. 162 Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī, Adāb al-murīdīn, 11. 163 Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī likewise implies that audition based on the Quran is the ideal, ibid., 11. 160

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As both cited verses of the Quran unmistakably allude to listening to the Quranic revelation, it is clear that this represents to the author the ultimate and true form of audition. That this is a point of central importance for him is underlined by the fact that he starts the discussion about audition with this passage. Simultaneously, while holding on to this ideal, Abū Ḥafṣ is not blind to the capacities and inclinations of his contemporaries and allows the use of religious poetry. The extract also gives us an idea about the kind of emotional and physical reactions the author associated with genuine samāʿ. He distinguishes three chief emotional reactions, sadness, longing and regret, and identifies three physical reactions, which are shudders on the skin, if the impact of audition is weak, and either weeping or screaming and a feeling of agitation, if it is strong. 165 Emphasizing such emotional and physical reactions, rather than ecstatic states, feelings of spiritual intoxication and passionate love, and frenetic movements and dancing, is in line with the sober kind of Sufism he stood for, just like al-Jīlānī. 166 This does not mean that ecstatic states (wajd) are per se indicative of flawed audition, some certainly are, but others are sound stemming from genuine desire for God. 167 Still, even if genuine, such states indicate, according to Abū Ḥafṣ, a certain spiritual immaturity, as he expounds

Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 192; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 165. 165 Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 192; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 165. 166 Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī’s description of physical and emotional reactions, though along very similar lines, is actually less dismissive of ecstatic states, Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī, Adāb al-murīdīn, 12–13. 167 Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 213; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 181. 164

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“ecstasy is ‘arriving’ (wārid), [as in] arriving from God, but who desires God will not be content with what is [merely] from God, whoever reaches the place of [divine] proximity, having become certain of it, will not be distracted nor stirred by what arrives from God, arriving from God is an indicator of farness [from God]. Being in [divine] proximity is finding (wājid) [God], what should one do with [something] arriving [from God]!? Ecstasy is fire, but the heart finding its Lord is light, and light is subtler than fire…as long as a mature Sufi (rajul) stays on the path of his righteousness, without deviating…no ecstasy through audition will reach him [except] if carelessness and negligence beset him…” 168

Accordingly, ecstasy, or an ecstatic state, denotes remoteness from God, coming from Him, rather than finding God and being in His presence, for which reason it will not affect any advanced mystic, as long as he does not stray from the sound path. It is thus only in a state of spiritual immaturity or weakness that one attains such ecstatic states. On another occasion, Abū Ḥafṣ links ecstasy to ‘finding’, as they share the same root in Arabic, w-j-d, and reasons that the latter implies a prior ‘loss’, by which he means that one has to lose or lack something before finding it (again), that is to say, by extension, that such rapturous feelings require a lack or imperfection in the first place in order to occur. 169 In addition, to underlining the sober kind of Sufism he shared with al-Jīlānī, this relegation of ecstasy can also be understood as a criticism of more ecstatic forms of Sufism, as practiced by the likes of Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī (d. 261/874) and alḤalāj (d. 309/922) or Aḥmad al-Ghazālī (d. 520/1126) and Rūzbehān Baqlī (d. 606/1209) closer to the time of the author.

Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 215; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 183. 169 Al-Suhrawardī, ʿAwārif al-maʿārif, 213; idem, Die Gaben der Erkenntnisse, 181. 168

CHAPTER 4.

SURRENDER AND REVIVAL THE THIRD STAGE: DEFINITION

While people embarking on the mystical path can reasonably expect to reach the second stage, only a select few will attain the subsequent third stage, which is strictly speaking the final stage of al-Jīlānī’s path. Those who do so can be defined as advanced mystics. This stage revolves chiefly around passing away from one’s will (irāda), so that the Sufi becomes freed from any of his own intentions or needs, which allows him to become one with God’s will, desiring nothing but His will. For this to happen, the mystic has to undergo what al-Jīlānī describes as the major annihilation (al-fanā’). Having endured two minor annihilations, by passing away from creation at the first stage and selfattachment at the second, 1 the wayfarer completes this process by passing away from his will. Alternatively, this transformation is illustrated by his heart, which previously evolved from his lower soul, turning into his innermost. 2 The major annihilation represents a key event on al-Jīlānī’s path, he identifies it as “the final point and place of return (ḥadd Al-Jīlānī relies on two distinct Arabic roots (māta ʿan and fanā ʿan) with the same significance to describe minor annihilations, but the use of the noun al-fanā’ is reserved for the major annihilation. 2 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, (Cairo: al-Maktaba alAzhariyya li-l-Turāth, 2004), 9–10, 11–13, 124. 1

163

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wa-maradd) to which leads the journey of the friends of God (awliyā’), it is the position which [they] set out for so as to pass away from their own wills and replace it with the will of God, so that henceforth they will solely with [God’s will].” 3 In Futūḥ alghayb it is closely connected to the notion of the heart being broken (munkasir) or cracked (munthalim). Those who have traversed this final stage are identified as ‘broken hearted’, as they “…enter the group of those whose hearts have been broken (almunkasira qulūbi-him), whose human wills have been broken and their inherent desire (shahwātu-hum al-ṭabīʿīya) removed, now a divine will (irāda rabbānīya) resumes on their behalf….” 4 The concept of the ‘broken heart’ was not uncommon in Sufism at the time, it appears in the work of the here also treated Aḥmad al-Ghazālī (d. 520/1126) and Ibn al-Jawzī (d. 597/1201), as well as the former’s famous brother Abū Ḥamīd al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111). 5 The concept was based on the weakly attested hadith qudsī according to which God said “I am in the presence of the hearts of those broken on My behalf (anā ʿinda al-munkasira qulūbi-him min ajl-ī)”. 6 In line with al-Jīlānī’s thinking, the heart becomes broken or cracked so that it can no longer hold but divine will. As he explains “…you will remain forever broken (munkasir), so that you can no longer hold desire or Ibid., 13. Ibid., 12; idem., al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, (Giza: Dār al-Rayān li-turāth), 56, 164–66, 92. 5 Ibn al-Jawzī, Baḥr al-dumūʿ, 30; Aḥmad al-Ghazālī, tajrīd fī kalima altawḥīd, (Tehrān: Intishārāt-e Dānishgāh-e Tehrān, 2005 or 2006), 13– 14. 6 Ibn al-Jawzī, Baḥr al-dumūʿ, 30n, based on al-Sakhāwī (d. 902/1497) the editor reports that this is a weakly attested hadith, which can be traced back to Abū Ḥamīd al-Ghazālī. Richard Gramlich, on the other hand, identifies it as weakly authenticated speech of God (hadith qudsī), see Aḥmad al-Ghazālī, Der reine Gottesglaube: das Wort des Einheitsbekenntnisses: Ahmad Al-Ġazzālis Schrift At-Taǧrid fī kalimat at-tawḥīd, eingeleitet, übersetzt und kommentiert von Richard Gramlich, (Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, 1983), 20n. 3 4

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will just like a broken vessel (inā’ munthalim) which can no longer hold thin or thick liquid… and your interior will not accept except God’s will.” 7 That being said, this stage is not only defined by a major annihilation, but also by the subsequent revival. Breaking the wayfarer’s heart, symbolizing the destruction of his will and desire, lays the foundation for a spiritual revival by God (yuḥīyu-hu bi-rūḥi-hi). 8 According to Futūḥ al-ghayb this entails that one becomes alienated not only from one’s acts, but likewise from one’s limbs, sight, hearing, speaking, mind, and indeed from one’s very being, all of which are veils separating one from God. 9 The purpose of al-Jīlānī’s path, including two minor and one major annihilation, is to bring about such a purification of the self, to set the premises for spiritual revival. As a result of Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 11. See also ibid., 35, 45, 56. Ibid., 73; idem., Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 176, 190. 9 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 70. Al-Hujwīrī in a particularly perceptive passage notes that Sufis tend to relate to either divine beauty (jamāl) or divine majesty (jalāl). Those who witness His beauty are prone to long for a vision, and those who witness His majesty are prone to become alienated from their own attributes (awṣāf) and their hearts are prone to be afflicted by fear. ʿAlī ibn ʿUthmān Hujvīrī, Kashf al-maḥjūb, (Tehran: Kitābkhāne Tahūrī, 1375 [1996]), 370. Al-Hujwīrī’s division between sober and ecstatic Sufism along the lines of divine beauty and majesty is rather common. In medieval Sufism, mystical experiences were as a rule linked to either category; encounters with divine beauty would elicit joyful and ecstatic states and encounters with divine majesty would produce states of fear or uncertainty. His observation that sober Sufism, focused on divine majesty, leads, in addition to fear, to a sense of aversion to one’s own attributes seems particularly relevant in this context. Al-Jīlānī, whose outlook can certainly be described as sober, presents a mystical path that sees the wayfarer gradually renounce his own attributes and being. He passes away from his lower soul, selfattachment, and will, in the process of this becoming alienated from his own limbs and faculties, which are surrendered to God. Therefore, in the case of al-Jīlānī, a sober form of Sufism can be linked to alienation from one’s attributes, ostensibly supporting al-Hujwīrī’s theory. 7 8

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this, the mystic becomes but a spirit detached from anything else (rūḥ munfarida). 10 He is designated as ruḥānī, that is, one who exists merely through spirit, and is in this way privy to divine secrets and knowledge directly imparted by God (asrār wal-ʿulūm al-ladunī). 11 Al-Jīlānī also portrays this in the way of God opening the mystic’s chest (sharḥ ṣadra-hu) to enlighten his heart, in relation to Quran 6:125 and 39:22. 12 As for the physical consequences of this revival, the author somewhat ambiguously alludes to a specially formed body (takwīn), accompanied by a miraculous capacity, which faithfully executes the divine will that has taken over the mystic’s interior. 13 In any case, it is plain that the wayfarer’s exterior turns into a reflection of divine will, to the degree that “…in the presence of God’s will and deed he becomes a puppet (sākin aljawāriḥ)…directed by divine omnipotence, prompted by the tongue of eternity and instructed by the Lord of all faiths (rabb al-milal)...” 14 He becomes hence a representative of divine will in this world, or in al-Jīlānī’s words, ‘one standing in lieu of divine will’ (badal/pl. abdāl). 15 This is not a radically new idea, traces Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 70. Ibid., 9, 71. 12 Quran 6:125 reads ‘whoever God wants to guide, He will open his chest so that he [embraces] complete surrender [to Him]…’ (fa-man yurid allāh yahdiya-hu yasharaḥ ṣadra-hu li-l-islām) and Quran 39:22 reads ‘so is one whose chest has been opened by God [to embrace] complete surrender [to Him] and he is in the presence of the Lord’s light [like one whose heart has hardened]!?...’ (a-fa-man sharaḥa allāh ṣadra-hu li-l-islām fa-huwa ʿalā nūri rabbi-hi), see also Quran 20:25 and 94:1, which have similar connotations. Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 11, 29, 35, 59. 13 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 11–12, 29, 70–71. 14 Ibid., 11. 15 Badal is a relatively common term in Sufi literature, but interpretations regarding it differ. Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī (d. 386/996), al-Hujwīrī (d. 460s/1070s) and, al-Anṣārī al-Harawī (d. 481/1089) were among the first Sufis to allude to it. Al-Makkī defines the badal, or abdāl in 10 11

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of it can already be found with Abū Qāsim al-Junayd (d. 298/910). 16 plural, as someone who eats like a pauper, sleeps only when overcome by it, and speaks only when necessary. The badal spends his nights in vigil, being kept awake to serve his Beloved, and similarly acts in line with this attitude during daytime. Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-Qulūb, (Cairo: Maktaba Dār al-Turāth, 2001), 275. After al-Jīlānī, Ibn ʿArabī (d. 638/1240) would expand on this by proposing that the abdāl were organized in a strict hierarchy and limited to a fixed number, see Hussein La-Shay' and Farzin Negahban, “Abdāl” Enc. Islamica; Ahmet Karamustafa, Sufism: the formative period, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007), 88–89. 16 Al-Junayd describes the highest stage of ‘affirming God’s absolute oneness’ (tawḥīd), tantamount to the highest stage of the mystical path, as the mystical adept, “…standing [like] a phantom in the presence of Him without anybody else between them, the execution of His direction flows through him (tajrī ʿalay-hi taṣārīf tadbīrihi) in streams of almighty decrees, [the adept is absorbed] in the depth of the seas of his affirmation of God’s absolute oneness, through passing away from himself….[he is] in the realities of the existence of His unicity, and the reality of His proximity, by the disappearance of his sensation and movement, so that God performs through him what He wants through him, and the mark of this is that in the end the servant of God returns to his beginning (rajaʿ ākhir al-ʿabd ilā awali-hi)…”.

Abū Qāsim al-Junayd, Rasāʼil al-Junayd, (Damascus: Dār Iqraʼ, 2005), 134. Even though it is rather convoluted, the passage clearly characterizes the most advanced mystics in God’s presence as conveyors of divine will, as divine decree flows through them, without their own movements or sensations. They thus become but divine limbs, being completely at God’s disposal. Note also the notion of returning to the beginning after completing the path. There are other broader similarities between al-Junayd and al-Jīlānī, for example, in their shared emphasis on ‘fidelity’ (ṣidq), ‘inner purity’ (ṣafāʼ) and ‘sincere devotion to God’ (ikhlāṣ), the way they divide and illustrate their mystical paths,

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Elsewhere our author defines such a person as ‘existing in accordance with God’s decree’ (qiyām maʿa al-qadar or qā’iman maʿa al-qadar) or as being ‘desired by God’ (murād). 17 Murād, has a twofold meaning. It firstly denotes a mystic who has attained divine proximity; desiring God as well as being ‘desired by Him’ (murād) in a relationship of mutual affinity, as opposed to the novice whose yearning for God (murīd) is still unreciprocated. 18 Another significance of murād is ‘what is intended’ or ‘intention’, which is also pertinent here. In this sense, it refers by extension to ‘God’s intention’, of which the mystic has become representative. Both meanings of murād are hence closely linked in this way.

FEATURES

In contrast to the previous stages of the path where the heart was in a state of contraction (qabḍ), the badal’s heart becomes constantly expanded (basṭ). As shown above, al-Jīlānī characterizes the stages preceding this one as dominated by mystical states (aḥwāl), all of which are conditioned by contraction of the heart, but upon being admitted to the rank of the abdāl the heart becomes permanently expanded. While contraction of the heart has as a rule sober connotations, expansion of the heart is usual-

and the vocabulary they rely upon, see, for example, ibid., 43–48, 50, 61–67, 72–73, 127–32. 17 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 92–95. 18 All the same, some Sufis believed that even a murīd was already ‘desired’ (murād), since without this he would never have been permitted to embark on the mystical path, i.e. approach God, in the first place. This is related to the notion that all human acts are predetermined by God, so that if He enables one to take up the path leading to His proximity, that individual must therefore already be ‘desired’. See for a discussion of this ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya li-ṭālibī ṭarīq al-ḥaqq, (Beirut: Dār Iḥyā’ al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 1996), 441.

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ly related to more positive states like hope and closeness to God. 19 The explanation we are given for this is that prior to this stage, mystics are commanded to consciously maintain (yu’miru bi-ḥifẓ-hi) those mystical states and to stay vigilant about their limits, which keeps their hearts contracted. Although al-Jīlānī hardly provides any specific information about those mystical states, 20 he is adamant that a mystic has to continue adhering to divine commands during such and be content with His decrees regarding it. 21 Given that wayfarers in pre-badal territory are still in control of their own hearts, whenever states come upon their hearts, they make a conscious and, to some extent, necessarily contrived effort to comply with those requirements, which leaves their hearts contracted. When merging with divine will, we are told, the mystic’s heart becomes constantly expanded “since he is no longer commanded to maintain anything, but merely exists through the divine decree (kaunu-hu mawjūdan fī-l-qadar or qiyām maʿa alqadar).” 22 That is to say, he is no longer in charge of his own heart, which has been taken over by divine will. It is no longer necessary to command the heart to maintain particular requirements since, now under the control of divine will, it does so naturally. The point is, as especially emphasized in Futūḥ al-ghayb, that disowning one’s own will and turning into a vessel of divine will is not only the most desirable but also the natural state for the heart. The major annihilation is linked to a place of return (maradd); in this context, this can be understood in the way that Al-Qushayrī, Al-Risāla al-qushayriyya, (Beirut: Dār al-Kutūb alʿIlmiyya, 2001), 93–95. 20 As mentioned above, such states are generally related to emotions like joy, fear or longing, which come upon the hearts of the mystics without their doing. In fact, contraction and expansion of the heart are commonly regarded as being part of those states. Al-Qushayrī, 92–93. 21 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 7, 13–17. 22 Ibid., 94. 19

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passing away from one’s will enables the heart to be restored to its natural state. 23 The root b-s-ṭ, from which ‘expansion of the heart’ (basṭ) derives, likewise has the meaning of ‘unfolding’, ‘becoming free’, ‘unconstrained’, ‘simple’, or ‘frank’. 24 Based on this, the ‘expansion of the heart’ hints here at a sense of abandoning the chains of imposed behaviour and attaining a state of ease and unpretentiousness in line with the heart’s natural condition. In this setting, the latter no longer consciously upholds mystical states, but is rather ‘upheld’ (yuḥfaẓ) or ‘carried’ (maḥmūl) by divine will, with the badal becoming but a passive and ever-compliant instrument through which divine decree is carried out. 25 While, on the whole, al-Jīlānī’s work clearly creates the impression that the conditions of mystics who have reached the third stage are considerably more stable than those of individuals traversing the previous stages, this does not mean that such advanced mystics are not subject to a degree of vicissitude. After all, despite their attempts to negate their attachment to themselves and this world, they remain to some extent inevitably stuck in the human realm, and consequently prone to occasional weakness and sin. Having turned into instruments of divine will, the obvious danger lies in reviving their own wills and associating (yushrikūna) them with God’s will in a state of inattentiveness or confusion. This is, according to our author, tantamount to polytheism (shirk), which here goes beyond the typical definition of associating partners with God, and likewise includes following one’s passions, preferring one’s own choice over God’s, or putting one’s trust in something other than Him. In the case of the badal in particular this means re-developing his own will vis-à-vis diThis may also be related to al-Junayd’s thought, see above. Edward William Lane, An Arabic-English lexicon: derived from the best and the most copious eastern sources, (London: Edinburgh: Williams & Norgate, 1863–1893), 203. 25 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 94. 23 24

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vine will, viz. for him to become personally invested or partial in the delivery of the latter. Such transgression produces divine jealousy and the summary breaking of the revived will, and may lead to the mystic’s provisional removal from divine proximity, until he realizes his mistakes and regains his previous awareness. 26 As a badal, being a puppet operated by divine will, even a feeble attempt to take an active role in this is thus considered polytheism. The broken heart, inhabited by the divinely inspired spirit transmitting divine will, is no longer occupied by him. In al-Jīlānī’s words, the mystic becomes the mere gatekeeper of his own heart; that is to say, that there is no more space in it for anything other than God, not even for himself, being reduced to the part of the gatekeeper. 27 In contrast, without human interference, the badal’s heart is described by our author as abode of ‘professing God’s absolute oneness’ (tawḥīd), the exact opposite to polytheism (shirk). 28 Hence his complete submission to divine will is in effect the wayfarer’s profession that there is nothing except God occupying his heart.

THEOLOGICAL BASIS

The whole endeavour of becoming one with divine will raises however a number of quandaries. With the exception of the theological schools of the Qadariyya and the Muʿtazila, the broad majority of medieval Muslim scholars advocated divine predestination of human acts, viz. both good and bad human acts being created by God. While, according to the most prevalent theory developed in the Ashʿarī school, and also shared by alJīlānī, 29 God is not directly involved in human deeds due to humans acquiring (kasb) the acts created by Him, humans have essentially no alternative but to accept them and carry them out. Ibid., 13–15, 57–58. Ibid., 13, 45. 28 Ibid., 50, 100; see also ibid., 92, 96, 103. 29 Ibid., 12. 26 27

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This raises however the question; if all our acts are predetermined by God, through His will, what is the point in attempting to become one with it, as we can in any case not evade it? Furthermore, given that human acts entail both good and bad, what is the point in merging with divine will, if that likewise includes good and bad? Confronted with such issues, some medieval Muslims resorted to extremely passive attitudes. Especially Sufis, being exclusively focused on God, tended to accentuate the immutable nature of divine decree from which humans could not escape. It was therefore a rather widespread notion in Sufism that one had to wholly surrender to God’s will and be content with whatever He decreed; ‘to endeavour not to endeavour’, as some put it. 30 As Sufism became increasingly popular from the sixth/twelfth century onward, some pushed this conviction even further. The Shādhiliyya order in Egypt, for instance, rated surrendering one’s will before God and being content with His decree higher than love for Him. Other orders, such as the Qalandariyya and the Rifāʿiyya have been credited with similar beliefs. Many observers regarded such tendencies as being overreliant on divine decree, especially as they gave way to extremely passive outlooks in the manner of giving up earning a livelihood, while depending on the charity of others, or even negligence or outright disregard for social norms and the regulations of the sharīʿa with the excuse that this was in any event predestined and not in fact in the hands of the perpetrators. 31 This attitude found expression in a number of similes; probably the most well-known one comparing the Sufi in God’s presence to a corpse in the hands of a corpse washer, i.e. utterly Fritz Meier, “The Cleanest about Predestination: a bit of Ibn Taymiyya”, Essays on Islamic Piety and Mysticism by Fritz Meier; trans. by John O'Kane with editorial assistance of Bernd Radtke, (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 318. 31 See Meier, ‘The Cleanest about Predestination: a bit of Ibn Taymiyya’, 318–20. 30

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passive, 32 which is also alluded to in Futūḥ al-ghayb. 33 One also finds other illustrations with the same significance in al-Jīlānī’s work, depicting the mystic in this context as infant baby lying in its crib or an infant baby in the hands of the wet nurse. 34 As seen, our author also advocates that one should be content with one’s divinely decreed lot and not pursue other lots. Thus, one may wonder whether he indeed shared this excessively inert outlook, and whether his notion of merging with divine will simply means that one becomes utterly passive, like a fallen leaf drifting wherever the wind is blowing, be that sound or sinful conduct. Yet that is evidently not the case, as he clarifies elsewhere “you should profess the absolute oneness of God but in the midst of this not become oblivious to man’s acquisition of acts (kasba-hum) so as to rid [yourself] from tenets of the Jabriyya…[at the same time] you should not believe that God has no part in man’s acts…so that you become a Qadarī, rather profess that God creates and man acquires [acts].” 35

Al-Jīlānī rejects beliefs of free will related to the Qadarī school as well as the overly passive worldviews of certain Sufis by pointing to the Jabriyya. 36 Declaring, on the one hand, that eveMeier, ‘The Cleanest about Predestination: a bit of Ibn Taymiyya’ 318; apparently the simile was in later times similarly used to depict the relationship between novice and shaykh, see for this Fritz Meier, “Khurasan and the End of Classical Sufism”, Essays on Islamic Piety and Mysticism by Fritz Meier; trans. John O'Kane with editorial assistance of Bernd Radtke, (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 202. 33 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 92. 34 Ibid., 92. Al-Jīlānī likewise illustrates the shaykh as wet-nurse (ẓi’r and dāya), Ibid., 31. 35 Ibid., 19–20. 36 Jabriyya derives from ‘jabr’ (compulsion) and was related to individuals who allegedly believed that God is the sole actor in the universe and that humans do not act. The term was used in different circumstances; advocates of free will like the Muʿtazila applied it to members 32

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rything comes from God, by reference to His absolute oneness as Creator, but, at the same time, highlighting human acquisition of acts created by God, he attempts to distinguish a level of human responsibility, even if this is, in reality, rather illusory. If we recall the development of the first three stages of his path it becomes clearer what our author means. Throughout the mystic renounces every aspect that may lead him to break divinely decreed law, such as creation, the lower soul and later, during the second stage, attachment to himself. Furthermore, the second stage in particular is closely related to obedience to divine command (amr). 37 Thus we learned that the mystic is commanded to consciously uphold (yu’miru bi-ḥifẓ) temporary mystical states and to be attentive to their limits, leaving his heart contracted. Accordingly, mystics are to heed divine command even if overwhelmed with powerful emotions. Upon mastering this, the wayfarers turn into manifestations of divine command, which is thoroughly consistent with divinely decreed law. When individuals have passed the major annihilation, and merged with divine will, they exist permanently through divine will or, to use another illustration, are ‘upheld’ (yuḥfaẓ) by it, so that temporary mystical states and their limits are no longer relevant; the abdāl simply do whatever God tells them to do. But does the lifting of such restrictions excuse violating legal and social boundaries and adhering to heretical beliefs, as claimed by certain Sufis who justified their offensive conduct by referring to the inevitable nature of divine decree? Al-Jīlānī evidently does not think so, he states that “it does not suggest nor lead to such…rather God protects him (the mystic) from all [this corrupt conduct] mentioned by turning him away from it, shielding him from [it], warnof the Ashʿarī school. The latter, in turn, applied it to groups who they saw as being excessively reliant on predestination and dismissive of the Ashʿarī doctrine of human acquisition of acts created by God (kasb). 37 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 92.

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ing him of [it] and deterring him from [it] so that the limits are maintained (li-ḥifẓ al-ḥudūd). [This] protection and observation of limits happens by means of (the mystic’s) strains and efforts, 38 all the while he is in the proximity [of God] unaware of this.” 39

Having become a vessel operated by divine will in this world while being focused on God in His presence inside, the badal remains unaware of his outside actions. Being protected, he follows the straight path without being aware of it. In this sense, the root ḥ-f-ẓ from which the term ‘upheld by divine volition’ (yuḥfaẓ) stems also has the connotation to ‘protect’ or ‘shield’. Being ‘upheld’ by God’s will, the badal is in the same way ‘shielded from transgressions’ (yuḥfaẓ), 40 though this does not make him infallible (maʿsūm) to error, which is limited to prophets and messengers of God. On rare occasions, the badal can still be found wanting, when becoming personally attached to divine will steering him. Yet, essentially, as long as he is in God’s presence he remains sheltered from wrongdoing, because the badal “is carried by the Lord and is [as such] equal to His intention (huwā maḥmūl al-rabb wa-huwā murādu-hu), He instructs him in the enclosures of His proximity and kindness, so how should the devil reach him, or shameful and reprehensible acts with respect to the divinely decreed religion get to him!?” 41

While al-Jīlānī here uses the term ʿisma which also has the meaning of ‘being infallible’, he explains elsewhere that the badal is not infallible (maʿsūm). I am therefore reading this mention here as ‘protected’, see also what immediately follows and further below. 39 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 95. 40 At times, al-Jīlānī similarly describes the badal as maḥfūẓ, which is the passive participle of the same root with the same meaning, see, for example, Ibid., 102. 41 Ibid., 95. 38

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Although both good and bad acts originate with divine decree, al-Jīlānī clarifies that “once you have passed away from yourself and from creation, [both of] which [entail] good and bad because God’s decree (qadr allāh) entails good and bad, God will protect you (yu’minu-ka) from the bad of His [decree] and immerse you in the seas of the good of His [decree], so that you become a receptacle of all goodness and a spring for all blessing, bliss, joy, light and safety.” 42

This brief review shows thus that the badal cannot possibly stand for God’s entire doing in this world. The transformation he undergoes on the mystical path, becoming first a manifestation of God’s command and then of His will, is directed at removing every last trace of the unpleasant side of the divine decree. In truth, the badal represents a union of what has been designated God’s ‘religious will’ (al-irāda al-dīniyya) and His ‘existential will’ (al-irāda al-kawniyya). The former, which has also been identified as His ‘commanded will’ (al-irāda al-amriyya) 43 or just His ‘command’ (amr), signifies what should happen in accordance with God’s law. The latter, at times similarly called God’s ‘predestined will’ (al-irāda al-qadariyya) or just His ‘will’ (irāda), signifies what actually happens. Sometimes, the two converge when humans act in conformance with God’s command, yet at other times they diverge when this does not happen. 44 In the case of the badal, God’s religious and existential will converge permanently because he exists in perfect harmony with God’s religious will. The idea of dividing divine volition in this fashion was first systematically developed in the Ashʿarī school, though its origins can be traced Ibid., 12–13. Sometimes also ‘His legally prescribed will’ (irāda al-sharaʿī). 44 For an informative discussion about this, see Fritz Meier, ‘The cleanest about predestination: a bit of Ibn Taymiyya’, 321–22; idem, Abū Saʿīd ibn Abī al-Ḫayr (357–440/967–1049): Wirklichkeit und Legende, (Téhéran: Bibliothèque Pahlavi, 1976), 73–77. 42 43

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back even further. It was in subsequent centuries adopted by many medieval Muslim thinkers, including famous Sufis such as Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī (d. 386/996) and al-Qushayrī (d. 465/1072). 45 Al-Jīlānī is therefore by no means the first one to embrace this theory. Obviously when looking at it from this perspective, renouncing one’s will, which by nature wavers between obedience and defiance of divine law, so as to transform into an embodiment of a perfect union of God’s religious and existential will is certainly a meaningful endeavour.

ENCOUNTERS WITH THE DIVINE

Having left their physical sides in the hands of divine will, the abdāl are able to channel their energies to interior endeavours, allowing them to devote their undivided attention to God. This setting is naturally conducive to becoming closer and more familiar with their divine Friend, which manifests itself in a number of encounters with Him. Al-Jīlānī differentiates chiefly between two kinds of unveilings (kashf); in the first, God unveils His deeds to the bearers of His will, so that they begin understanding the intricacies of His work in this world by a perception that surpasses human capacity and norms. In the other kind of unveiling, God uncovers His countenance to the mystics, which allows witnessing (mushāhada) the divine in unprecedented ways and having secret conversations (munājāt or muḥādatha) with Him. 46 Both unveilings happen through the heart, 47 and can, in principle, either take the form of divine majesty (jalāl), which gives rise to fear and anxiety, or divine beauty (jamāl), which induces joy and radiance. Nonetheless, despite not spelling it out in so many words, al-Jīlānī does create the impression that as a Meier, Abū Saʿīd ibn Abī al-Hayr (357–440/967–1049), 73–77. Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 17–18; idem, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 30, 60, 94, 98, 230, 267–68, 271–2, 280 47 Or more correctly the innermost, which is closely related to the heart, see what follows below. 45 46

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rule being unveiled to God’s work is chiefly accompanied by divine majesty (jalāl), and being unveiled to His countenance by divine beauty (jamāl). This second form of unveiling is painted in far more positive light, and in Fatḥ al-rabbānī frequently associated with feelings of desire, intimacy and spiritual intoxication, and can therefore be principally tied to divine beauty. 48 It is true that the badal encounters both divine beauty and majesty, but our author evidently gives more attention to the former than the latter, in particular in Fatḥ al-rabbānī. Thus, although al-Jīlānī’s path up to this point is overshadowed by sombreness, reflected by the ascetic lifestyle, the importance of trials and affliction, and the constant contraction of the heart, the current stage has noticeably brighter connotations, illustrated by the frequent mention of intimacy, spiritual intoxication and desire. In our author’s words, “mystics (al-qawm) 49 have no joy to their grief, no unburdening their burdens, no delight to their eyes, and no comfort for their afflictions until they encounter their Lord. Their encounter [with Him happens] in two ways; encountering [Him] in this world with their hearts and innermost, which is rare, and encountering [Him] in the hereafter. When they encounter their Lord, bliss and joy come to them, but before this their afflictions are constant”. 50

Accordingly, the first two stages of the mystical path, and indeed existence in this world in general, are merely trial and affliction, and it is only when coming face to face with one’s Creator, which happens in most cases after death in the hereafter, and in rare cases in this world through one’s heart or innermost,

Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 17–18; idem., Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 90, 108–09, 229, 242, 325. 49 The term ‘al-qawm’ in general denotes ‘people’, but in al-Jīlānī’s work it stands for ‘mystics’ or ‘Sufis’ broadly speaking. 50 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 127. 48

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that this changes for the better. 51 The only way to attain real joy and bliss in this world is by attaining the third stage of the path, when one is admitted into God’s presence, and hence able to behold His beauty, which explains the more positive light in which it is painted here. This is, however, from another viewpoint rather remarkable, as al-Jīlānī states elsewhere that affliction and trials actually grow correspondingly with faith and certainty. 52 In other words, a badal suffers more intense affliction than mystics during the previous stages, leave alone regular believers, and should therefore have more reason to feel aggrieved than others. Al-Jīlānī expounds that the reason that they do not feel illtreated nor resort to complaining is because their hearts “…are given intoxicating drinks of intimacy [with God] (banj al-uns), witnessing [Him], and proximity [to Him], so they do not feel the pains and trials [caused by] divine decree, and when the days of affliction are passing by, they do not notice it…trials come upon [all] mystics as they come upon you [regular believers], some of them endure patiently and some of them are removed from it and [even] from [the effort of] enduring it”. 53

The intoxicating and overwhelming experience of being permitted into the presence of God completely mesmerizes them, so much so that they are no longer aware of any affliction. The wayfarers at the previous stages are still enduring trials patiently, but the encounter with the divine at this stage removes or hides the abdāl from such. They are still afflicted by hardship, to be sure, but they no longer notice this, nor even their effort to endure it, being utterly captivated by the countenance of God. The contrast between the sober and anxious frame of mind of Always assuming that one is adjudged a believer and ends up in the paradisiacal garden rather than hellfire. 52 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 38–40; idem, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 60. 53 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 90. 51

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early and middling mystics and the carefree and assured perspective of those who have been admitted into divine proximity is invoked in another paragraph, “Mystics (al-qawm) are worshipping God day and night, fearful and anxious, fearing a bad outcome…they are in sadness, sorrow and weeping day and night, while continuously praying, fasting, performing the hajj and pious deeds and recalling their Lord, with their hearts and tongues. When they arrive in the hereafter and enter the paradisiacal garden (janna) and behold the countenance of God…they praise Him for this, saying: “praise to God who has removed from us sadness”. 54 And God has servants who…say [this verse] in this world before the hereafter…when they enter the abode of proximity [with God] they say “praise to God who has removed from us the sadness of remoteness [from Him], the sadness of the veil [veiling Him],…the sadness of separation from Him, and the sadness of occupation with something other than Him””. 55

For al-Jīlānī, the reason why mystics during the first two stages of the path, and indeed regular believers as well, are afflicted with sadness is their pursuit of other things, and consequently their separation from God. Individuals on this third stage have proven themselves in a dual-development of renouncing all but God as well as channelling all their attention to Him. When they are brought into divine proximity, they are fully focused on His countenance and unaware of anything else, even trials and afflictions that bothered them before. Another aspect that emerges from the last extract, and was indeed already alluded to above, is that through their close experience of the divine, the abdāl attain a form of the hereafter, the paradisiacal garden, already in this world. For this purpose, our author distinguishes between two paradisiacal gardens, 54 55

Quran 35:34. Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 271.

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“the fulfilled paradisiacal garden (al-janna al-manqūda) and the promised paradisiacal garden (al-janna al-mawʿūda); the fulfilled [paradisiacal garden] is [experienced] in this world, it is contentment with divine decree, proximity to God through the heart, and its (the heart’s) secret conversations with Him (munājāt), the lifting of the veil between Him and it (the heart), 56 the owner of such a heart is in solitude with God in all his states,…and the promised paradisiacal garden is what God promised the believers [who will be] beholding His countenance [with their eyes]”. 57

In this sense, mystics at this stage will enjoy practically the same experience as regular believers will in the hereafter. This is not really such an outlandish claim when comparing their privileged position outlined here—being in intimate contact with God, witnessing His countenance, having whispered conversations with Him, and being overcome by spiritual intoxication—with the descriptions of the hereafter in the Islamic tradition. 58 The only difference is that in the paradisiacal garden attained in this world God’s countenance is beheld by the heart, while in the paradisiacal garden of the hereafter it will be beheld by the physical eye. 59 Further details about this are found in a later passage which states that, This could also allude to ‘him’, i.e. the mystic rather than his heart, but given that the text beforehand refers to the heart, it seems more likely that ‘heart’ is what is meant. In any case, there is no real difference in meaning. 57 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 30. 58 This appears to have been a fairly common notion in Sufism at the time. Fritz Meier, ‘The spiritual Man in the Persian Poet ‘Attar’, Papers from the Eranos Yearbooks 4: Spiritual Disciplines, ed. Joseph Campbell, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2017), 273; Firoozeh PapanMatin, The unveiling of secrets Kashf al-Asrār: the visionary autobiography of Rūzbihān al-Baqlī (1128–1209 A.D.), in collaboration with M. Fishbein, (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2006), 50–51. 59 See also Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 72, 142–43, 298. The possibility of beholding God with one’s heart in this world is based on Muhammad’s 56

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BAGHDAD DURING THE TIME OF ʿABD AL-QĀDIR AL-JĪLĀNĪ “this world is a prison…but those endowed with mystical knowledge…are absent from the prison having been given by their Lord the wine of longing for Him, the wine of intimacy with Him…and the wine of being unmindful of creation and constantly conscious of Him, He gives them these wines and they are intoxicated transcending above creation in His presence… their hellfire and their paradisiacal garden has been brought forward to this world, contentment with divine decree is their paradisiacal garden and disagreement [with it] their hellfire, constant consciousness [of God] is their paradisiacal garden and being unmindful [of Him] their hellfire, resurrection day with regard to regular believers will be a final reckoning and with regard to mystical elites [mere] reproach.” 60

Although their continuous unwavering awareness of their divine Friend and their complete surrender to His will ensure their existence in paradisiacal conditions in this world, failing in this, by becoming forgetful of Him or reviving their individual wills, can also result in experiencing the opposite, hellfire, in this world because they are temporarily expelled from divine proximity. The implication in al-Jīlānī’s work is that such a state of hellfire in this world does not tend to last for a badal so that he soon recovers his former position, but the experience of it is still formative. Due to having been subjected to this, such individuals have generally a more intense dislike of hellfire and a keener appreciation of the hereafter than regular believers, which makes them ideal models to emulate. 61 Furthermore, having passed away from themselves and their wills, indeed from anything other than God, and in this way died to themselves, these wayfarers have undergone some heavenly ascension (miʿrāj), in which according to our author he saw God with his physical eye and his heart, so that anybody whose heart is pure can also behold God with it. Ibid., 319. 60 Ibid., 205. 61 Ibid., 93, 110.

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form of resurrection (nashr or qiyāma) to be admitted to the paradisiacal garden experienced in this world, as alluded to here and elsewhere. 62 For this reason, in the actual event of resurrection day when regular people will have to answer for their deeds, and will accordingly end up either in the paradisiacal garden or hellfire, these abdāl will in al-Jīlānī’s words merely be reproved, likely for their rare slip-ups, because they have already been assured the garden in the hereafter after having reached it in this world. Having already died to themselves and this world, their actual physical death in this world thus loses its typical gravity, it becomes but a brief interruption between existing in God’s presence in the paradisiacal garden in this and the next world. It should be noted that even though the heart has received most attention in this discussion for being the means by which the abdāl encounter God, it is in fact the innermost, i.e. the inner part of the heart, that is responsible for this. 63 That this only becomes clear on certain occasions is due in part to the concepts close relation and the author’s somewhat lax attitude regarding terminology; oftentimes using ‘heart’ (qalb) and ‘innermost’ (sirr) interchangeably. 64 On the whole, there is however no doubt that, when used in the proper sense, the innermost is superior to the heart in al-Jīlānī’s thought, and as close as one will get to

Ibid., 77, 90, 92, 137. This is clarified in some places, see, for example, Ibid., 41, 61, 90, 93, 142, 174, 203, 269, 274, 354, 364, 370. In fact, the innermost is at times directly identified with the hereafter, as opposed to this world, see, for example, ibid. 345. Whether this alludes to an angelic nature of the innermost as, for instance, in Rūzbihān Baqlī’s thought is not certain. Carl Ernst, Rūzbihān Baqlī: mysticism and the rhetoric of sainthood in Persian Sufism, (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, 1996), 20. 64 See for example, al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 23, 38, 52, 62, 66, 70, 89, 97, 100, 119, 153, 165, 199, 203, 205, 207, 217, 229, 234, 242, 250, 258, 346. 62 63

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the Creator in this world. 65 It is for this reason that when moving from the previous to the current stage of the path, the heart of the mystic becomes an innermost.

LOVE

Although this study has taken the view that al-Jīlānī’s mysticism is rather sober in character, generally avoiding such themes as spiritual intoxication, ecstasy or passionate love (ʿishq), our author does on occasions illustrate the badal’s relationship with God in terms of love (ḥubb/maḥabba), especially in Fatḥ alrabbānī and Futūḥ al-ghayb. Thus, by reaching this stage, one will delight in divine love and become beloved (maḥbūb) by God, but not beforehand. 66 Even though loving God is stipulated as incumbent and essential for any aspirant and even regular believer, 67 this does not make one’s relationship with God mutually ‘loving’, because all the way to the badal it remains largely onesided. The mystic is the lover (muḥibb) of God, who does however not yet return this feeling. Only once one has proven the sincerity of one’s love, in the sense of surrendering to God everything and loving but Him, does love become mutual and one turns from a mere lover to a beloved. 68 The development from being a lover to becoming a beloved is therefore identical to the one from being a murīd (desiring) to becoming a murād (desired). The murid, i.e. the novice, starts out on the path desiring God, without being yet desired in return, but once he has proven the sincerity of his desire he becomes likewise desired by God, that is a murād. This dynamic is based on verse 2:152 of the Quran that reads “remember Me, I will remember you, and thank me and do not be ungrateful.” To See for example, Ibid., 14, 16, 18, 19, 21, 27, 32, 41, 52, 64, 75, 90, 92, 93, 111, 142, 148, 168, 174, 179, 195, 212, 223, 232, 256, 269, 287, 319, 322, 323, 354, 358–59, 364, 370. 66 Ibid., 57, 167. 67 Ibid., 88. 68 Ibid., 250, 258; idem., Futūḥ al-ghayb, 39, 93. 65

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al-Jīlānī this means that humans have to start remembering God constantly, highlighting the importance of the practice of dhikr, so that they become completely obedient and eventually God starts remembering them too, which in turn inspires humans to become even more focused on Him at the expense of everything else, even at the expense of asking Him for anything, and so demonstrating their gratitude. 69 In order to become beloved by God, or recognized or desired by Him, one has to love but Him at the expense of everything else, including the hereafter. There is no middle ground, according to the author, either one loves God or one loves something else, but they do not go together in the same heart. 70 As for the difference between love for God and love for anything else, we learn that, “All those pleasant faces that you see and love, this is defective love because you remain unstable in it (anta muʿāqab ʿalay-hi), 71 true love that is constant (al-ḥubb al-ṣaḥīḥ alladhī lā yataghayyar) is love for God, it is the one that you see through the two eyes of your heart, it is the love of the most faithful and spiritually endowed who love not through their faith but certainty....” 72

Worldly love, based on exterior beauty, is not the same as love for the Creator, being defective in the sense of creation being unstable in this, in other words, their love is not lasting and subject to change. The only form of love that is constant is one’s love for God, and for this reason, it is the only real love. God is,

Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 250. Once mystics become remembered or loved by God, they naturally also become distinguished by their intimate knowledge of God (maʿrifa), highlighting their proximity to Him, ibid. 96. 70 Ibid., 113. 71 On its own, this could be read as ‘you will be punished for it’, but in context with what follows this reading makes more sense. 72 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 94. 69

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in this way, the only deserving object of one’s love. 73 While regular believers and mystics love through their faith in their hearts, those admitted to God’s presence love through certainty due to their proximity to Him. Attaining a stage of mutual love with God is associated by our author with a number of characteristics such as remembering God (dhikr), reflection (fikr), obedience, contentment, 74 and most of all enduring affliction. 75 In light of the prominence of the latter in his thought this comes as little surprise. Enduring trials without complaining or accusing Him is a particularly forceful means to convince God of the sincerity of one’s love and become closer to Him. 76 As the badal is essentially a representative of divine will, we also find that being beloved by God is closely linked to becoming one with His will. 77 Al-Jīlānī notes, for example, that “The lover [of God] no longer controls anything, but surrenders completely to his Beloved, love [of God] and control do not go together, in his love the faithful lover of God surrenders himself and what pertains to him to Him (God), and its conclusion is when he leaves behind his will with regard to himself and other than himself.” 78

This overlaps with said development, that the mystic proves his love for God by complete surrender, the culmination of which is Ibid., 50, 153, 221, 250. Ibid., 112, 161, 220, 250, 325, 361; idem., Futūḥ al-ghayb, 88. 75 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 16, 123, 164, 171, 191, 268. 76 This does however not mean that afflictions and trials cease once one becomes beloved by God, rather the contrary, hardship increases correspondingly with faith and certainty according to al-Jīlānī, but in the case of advanced mystics it draws them even closer to God. Simultaneously, such periods of hardship are offset by the comfort and blessing such individuals find in the presence of God. Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 39–40, 115–16. 77 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 90, 161, 167, 177, 325. 78 Ibid., 167. 73 74

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giving up his will and hence becoming beloved by God. Thus, becoming one with divine will and becoming beloved by Him happens simultaneously and is closely connected, possibly also because the mystic perfectly embodies God’s ‘religious will’, i.e. what should happen, and so becomes beloved by Him. But the abdāl not only attain divine love, they become likewise loved and revered by creation as a result of this, 79 which foreshadows the badal’s role in society after having completed the path. And yet, despite the increased public attention that comes with becoming beloved by God, our author advocates that one should keep this a strictly private matter. In particular, he dismisses public claims of loving God, which will certainly not bring about a loving relationship with Him. Indeed, the fact that the claim is made publicly exposes it as fake. 80 This coincides with the general emphasis in al-Jīlānī’s thought on keeping mystical matters secret and abstaining from public claims. As alluded to above, when he does refer to love between God and humans, our author relies exclusively on derivations of the Arabic root ḥ-b-b, such as love (ḥubb/maḥabba), lover (muḥibb) and beloved (maḥbūb), the generic root for love, which can also be found in the Quran illustrating God’s relationship with human beings. 81 He does not use ʿishq in this context, another common term with a similar significance, oftentimes translated as either ‘love’, ‘passionate love’ or ‘excessive love’. Though not as widespread as the root ḥ-b-b, the root ʿ-sh-q and derivations thereof appear in the Sufi tradition from the beginning and seem to have become increasingly accepted around alJīlānī’s time. There was however significant opposition to using the term ʿishq in this setting primarily by religious scholars but also by a number of Sufis, resulting in a vigorous debate, in which participated in this period such well-known figures as Abū Ḥamīd alIbid., 226, 232; idem., Futūḥ al-ghayb, 93. Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 32, 90, 167, 194. 81 See, for example, verses 2:165, 3:31, 5:54, 9:108. 79 80

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Ghazālī (d. 505/1111), 82 Aḥmad-e Jām (d. 536/1141), 83 Muẓaffar ʿAbbādī (d. 547/1152) 84 and Ibn al-Jawzī. The latter, representative for the circles opposed to the use of ʿishq in this sense, points to the Quran’s reference to the root ḥ-b-b rather than ʿ-shq, and argues that the term ʿishq, according to philologists, is only germane to a marital setting. He implies, by extension that using ʿishq in this framework is akin to drawing God into the shapes of His creation, which is dangerously close to claims of divine incarnation. 85 Although he was not as outspoken about it, al-Jīlānī’s own viewpoint largely overlaps with that of his fellow Ḥanbalī Ibn al-Jawzī. For one, because he strictly sticks in all of his work to the root ḥ-b-b when referring to the relationship between God and humans, and, for another, on the few occasions that he mentions the root ʿ-sh-q, he does so to designate a baser kind of human love related to this world or the lower soul and evidently incompatible with the kind of love a human being develops for God. 86

Abū Ḥamīd al-Ghazālī rejects divine incarnation (ḥulūl) but asserts the legitimacy of passionate love (ʿishq) between God and the mystic based on Muhammad’s love for God, Abū Ḥāmid Al-Ghazālī, AlMunqidh min al-ḍalāl wa-l-mawṣil ilā dhī al-ʿizza wa-l-jalāl, (Beirut: Dār al-Andalus, 1967), 107–08. 83 Aḥmad-e Jām, Rawḍat al-mudhnibīn wa-jannat al-mushtāqīn, (Tehran, 1387 [2008]), ch. 13. 84 Mohammad Javad Shams and Farzin Negahban, “ʿAbbādī, Muẓaffar”, Enc. Islamica; Ali Asghar Seyed-Gohrab, “The Erotic Spirit: Love, Man and Satan in Ḥāfiẓ’s Poetry”, Hafiz and the religion of love in classical Persian poetry, ed. Leonard Lewisohn, (London; New York, 2015), 108– 10. 85 Ibn al-Jawzī, Talbīs Iblīs, (Cairo: Idāra al-Ṭabāʿa al-Munīriyya, 1928), 169–73. 86 See for example, al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 315, 318, 335; idem., alGhunya, 466. 82

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EXCURSUS: AḤMAD AL-GHAZĀLĪ

One contemporary who played a central role in the development and articulation of love in Sufism is Aḥmad al-Ghazālī. He was born in a village called Ghazalah outside of Ṭūs, Khorasan, in 450/1058–451/1059. 87 Aḥmad al-Ghazālī’s life was closely linked to that of his older brother Abū Ḥamīd al-Ghazālī. After becoming orphaned at an early age, the two brothers seem to have passed into the care of a family friend and were probably raised in rather humble circumstances. They started formal education in a local madrasa, but later Abū Ḥamīd al-Ghazālī went to Jurjān, south-east of the Caspian Sea, for further studies, and it has been suggested that Aḥmad al-Ghazālī went with him. 88 In any case, both brothers are later found in Nishapur, the intellectual centre of Khorasan at the time, where Abū Ḥamīd alGhazālī came under the tutelage of the famous Imam alḤaramayn al-Juwaynī (478/1085). 89 The older Ghazālī’s curriculum appears to have been mainly focused on Shāfiʿī jurisprudence and Ashʿarī theology, and it is based on this and other reasons very likely that Aḥmad al-Ghazālī was also trained in this way. Almost all Sufis coming out of the region of Khorasan around that time adhered to the Shāfiʿī legal school and, more conclusively, some of the teaching positions taken up by Aḥmad

See for a discussion of the possible origins of his nisba, Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-aʿyān, (Paris: Maṭbaʿ al-akhawayn firman Ditwah, 1838), 41; Ḥamd Allāh al-Mustawfī, Tā’rīkh Irbil, ([Baghdad]: Dār al-Rashīd lilNashr: Wizārat al-Thaqāfah wa-l-iʿlām: Tawzīʿ al-Dār al-Waṭanīyah lilTawzīʿ wa-l-Nashr, 1980), 34. 88 Joseph Lumbard, Ahmad Al-Ghazali, Remembrance, and the Metaphysics of Love, (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2016), 55–60. 89 Pourjavady suggest that Aḥmad al-Ghazālī also studied with alJuwaynī. Nasrollah Pourjavadi, Sultān-e ṭarīqat, (Tehran: Muʼassasah-ʼi Intishārāt-e Āgāh, 1358 [1979]), 13. 87

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al-Ghazālī later in his life would have required such a background. 90 However, the younger Ghazālī’s main focus did not lie in either fiqh or theology, but in Sufism. While he had probably been inclined this way since early in his life, 91 it is during his stay in Nishapur that this becomes properly evident for the first time, as he became the disciple of the well-known Sufi al-Nassāj (d. 487/1094). 92 As his master had himself been trained by some of the most illustrious Sufis in the fifth/eleventh century, such as Abū Saʿīd b. Abī Khayr (440/1049) and al-Qushayrī, Aḥmad al-Ghazālī was thus able to draw from a wealth of mystical knowledge and experience. Like his brother, Abū Ḥamīd, Aḥmad al-Ghazālī later moved to Baghdad, where he would initially teach at the Tājiyya madrasa and the Behrūz ribāṭ. 93 Later, when his brother Ibid., 14, 23. Lumbard finds evidence for Aḥmad al-Ghazālī’s adherence to Ashʿarī theology in his Tajrīd fī-kalima al-tawḥīd, but this appears to me inconclusive. Lumbard, Ahmad Al-Ghazali, Remembrance, and the Metaphysics of Love, 60. 91 Pourjavadi, Sultān-e ṭarīqat, 18. The same seems implied by Ibn alJawzī. Ibn al-Jawzī al-Muntaẓam fī tārīkh al-mulūk wa-al-umam, (Beirut: Dār al-kutub al-ʿilmiyya, 1992), vol. 17, 237. 92 He may also have become attached to Abū ʿAlī Fārmaḏī (d. 477/1084), another prominent Sufi in Nishapur, with whom Abū Ḥamīd al-Ghazālī is said to have studied. Nasrollah Pourjavady, Sultān-e ṭarīqat, 13; idem, Ḡazālī, Majd-al-Dīn Abu’l-Fotūḥ Aḥmad, Enc. Iranica; Lumbard, Ahmad Al-Ghazali, Remembrance, and the Metaphysics of Love, 60–65. 93 Ibn al-Jawzī al-Muntaẓam, vol. 17, 237; Makdisi, ‘Muslim institutions of learning in eleventh-century Baghdad’, BSOAS, Vol. 24, No. 1 (1961), 26; Pourjavadi, Sultān-e ṭarīqat, 15. Interestingly, the Tājiyya madrasa was founded by Tāj al-Mulk, a serious rival of the vizier Niẓām al-Mulk, the founder of the Niẓāmiyya madrasa, and benefactor of his brother Abū Ḥamīd, for influence in the Seljuk court. Thus, the two brothers would have been employed at madrasas of rivalling court factions. However, it is not entirely clear when Aḥmad al-Ghazālī arrived in Baghdad, and it may well have been after both Niẓām al-Mulk and 90

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famously abandoned his position at the Niẓāmiyya madrasa due to a personal crisis, Aḥmad al-Ghazālī would stand in for him as substitute (nā’ib). 94 Al-Jīlānī’s arrival in Baghdad and his explicit or tacit rejection to study at the Niẓāmiyya with Aḥmad alGhazālī falls into this period. Nonetheless, the latter appears not to have lacked popularity in some segments of Baghdadi society, his sermons attracted huge crowds and he found favour in the Seljuk court, where he held sessions and became allied with certain influential individuals. 95 Al-Ghazālī was assigned to preach at the funeral of Sultan Malikshāh’s wife Tarkān Khātūn (d. 487/1094) and several powerful members of the court were among his students. 96 At some stage, Aḥmad al-Ghazālī seems to have returned to Ṭūs, accompanying his brother’s family, who had remained in Baghdad after the latter’s departure. In Khorasan they were rejoined by Abū Ḥamīd too. Aḥmad al-Ghazālī seems to have remained there until his brother’s death in 505/1111, whereupon he returned to the area of Iraq and Western Persia, adopting an Tāj al-Mulk had been killed and the intensity of the conflict between the two factions had calmed down somewhat. Nonetheless, Aḥmad alGhazālī appears to have had ties to members in the Seljuk court, who were directly opposed to Niẓām al-Mulk, the benefactor of his brother Abū Ḥamīd, such as Tarkān Khātūn (d. 487/1094), the wife of Sultan Malikshāh. 94 Though it is unclear for how long exactly, Makdisi suggests that this was merely for about a year during 488/1095–489/1096, but others have alluded to a more long-term stint. Makdisi 46; Ibn Khallikān, 40; Al-Subkī, Ṭabaḳāt al-Shāfiʿiyya, (Cairo: Dār iḥyā' al-kutub al-ʿarabiyya, 1997), 61; Lumbard, Ahmad Al-Ghazali, Remembrance, and the Metaphysics of Love, 71. 95 Ibn al-Jawzī al-Muntaẓam, vol. 17, 237; Al-Subkī, 60. Ibn al-Najjār and al-Mustawfī mention that al-Ghazālī also preached in the caliphal palace mosque, Ibn al-Najjār, Dhayl Tā’rīkh Baghdad, (Beirūt: Dār alKitāb al-ʿArabī), 80; al-Mustawfī, 37. 96 Lumbard, Ahmad Al-Ghazali, Remembrance, and the Metaphysics of Love, 72.

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itinerant lifestyle and moving between Baghdad and Isfahan, Hamadan, Qazvin, Tabriz and Maragheh. He continued to preach and attracted a number of outstanding disciples such as ʿAyn al-Qudāt al-Hamadānī and the already discussed Abū Najīb al-Suhrawardī. He passed away in Qazvin in 521/1126 or according to other accounts already in 518/1123. 97 Aḥmad al-Ghazālī has been credited with a number of works, both in Persian and Arabic, but some of the ascriptions are dubious. 98 Of the works in Arabic that are commonly accepted to stem from his hand is a short summary of Abū Ḥamīd alGhazālī’s Iḥyā’ ʿulūm al-dīn 99 and more famously his Tajrīd fīkalima al-tawḥīd, 100 which emphasizes the importance of dhikr of the first part of the Islamic proclamation of faith (there is no god, but God) to reaffirm God’s unicity and move closer to Him. In addition, there is a collection of al-Ghazālī’s sermons given in Baghdad, Majālis Aḥmad al-Ghazālī. Of the Persian works that are held to be genuinely his, there is a letter written to his disciple ʿAyn al-Qudāt al-Hamadānī, risāleh-ye ʿayniyyeh, and a short epistle, Dastān-e murghān, using the flight of birds as a metaphor to explain the Sufi path, reminiscent of ʿAṭṭār’s (d. 618/1221) later Manṭiq al-ṭayr. 101 The work for which Aḥmad al-Ghazālī became primarily known is his Savāneḥ, 102 a markedly elusive examination of love Ibid., 72–75. For a thorough discussion see Joseph Lumbard, Ahmad al-Ghazali (d. 517/1123 or 520/1126) and the metaphysics of love, (PhD diss. Yale University, 2003), 21–39. 99 Ibn Khallikān, 40; Al-Subkī, 60. 100 Aḥmad al-Ghazālī, Tajrīd fī-kalima al-tawḥīd. 101 For an earlier attempt of using birds as a metaphor for advancing on the mystical path, see Ibn Sinā’s Risāla al-tuyur, Peter Heath, ‘Disorientation and Reorientation in Ibn Sina's Epistle of the Bird: A Reading’, Intellectual Studies on Islam. Essays written in honor of Martin B. Dickson, (Salt Lake City, 1990), 163–83. 102 Aḥmad al-Ghazālī, Majmūʻah-i āthār-i Fārsī-i Aḥmad Ghazālī, (Tehran: Intishārāt-i Dānishgāh-i Tehran, 1979), 87–173. 97 98

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in Persian. Its cryptic character is explained by the author in that the topic, love, lies beyond the expression of words. The meaning of love is thus like veiled virgins, naturally out of reach of words. Now, one can of course seek to marry the virgins (meanings) to men (words) in the private chamber of speech, but the resultant expressions are but allusions (ishārāt), just as in reality virgins (meanings) cease to be such once touched by men (words). 103 The ensuing elucidation of love is hence as insightful as it is ambiguous, and due to that it is believed that the work was aimed at advanced Sufis rather than beginners or even outsiders. The viewpoint Savāneḥ takes regarding love between humans and God is commonly believed to be rather innovative. While there is no question that love played a crucial role in the Sufi tradition from the very beginning, often being identified as the most essential element in humans’ relationship with God and as the highest station of the path by individuals like Shaqīq alBalkhī (d. 194/810), Sumnūn al-Muḥībb (d. 298/910–11) and al-Ḥallāj (d. 309/922), it is only in the sixth/twelfth century with Aḥmad al-Ghazālī that the whole Sufi path is viewed from the vantage point of love. 104 In Savāneḥ everything revolves around love, it is not only the basis for existence and the reason for God’s creation, but by extension also designates human and even divine essence, 105 in contrast to earlier works in the Sufi tradition which identified it as merely a divine attribute. 106 AlGhazālī expresses this pointedly in one poem, Ibid., 105. Carl Ernst, The Stages of Love in early Persian Sufism, from Rabi’a to Ruzbihan, The Heritage of Sufism (vol. 1): Classical Persian Sufism from Its Origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn, (Oxford: Oneworld, c 1999), 435–42, 446; Joseph Lumbard, “From Hubb to Ishq: the development of Love in early Sufism”, Journal of Islamic Studies 18:3 (2007), 346, 348– 50, 353–60, 365–71. 105 Ghazālī, Majmūʻah-i āthār-i Fārsī-i Aḥmad Ghazālī, 107–08, 116, 28. 106 Lumbard, “From Hubb to Ishq: the development of Love in early Sufism”, 360–64, 71–77. 103 104

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Humans are therefore likened to specks made visible by the light of the divine sun, 108 a manifestation of the sun. Just like the existence of specks revolves around the sun and sunlight, so our existence revolves around love. We exist but in the light of love, which is the beginning and the end of creation. As many other Sufis from the fifth/eleventh century onwards, al-Ghazālī’s thinking seems to have been related to the hadith qudsī “I was a hidden treasure and loved to be known, therefore I created creation to be known”. 109 God, love being His essence, created humans as a self-disclosure of Himself to reflect His love. The confirmation of this goes according to Savāneḥ back to the primordial covenant (mithāq) when humans, still bodiless, affirmed God’s lordship, as mentioned in Quran 7:172. 110 Love operates in this world in two directions, it descends and it ascends. Firstly, it descends from God, its origin, to humans, from whom it ascends in return back to God, constituting said reflection. 111 Mankind’s raison d'être is to mirror divine love; the clearer a reflection one becomes of this, the more one ascends to God. This path towards Him, symbolized by love ascending, can be divided into a number of steps; the first one is defined by inner Ghazālī, Majmūʻah-i āthār-i Fārsī-i Aḥmad Ghazālī, 112. Though in the same way they enhance the visibility of the sunrays. 109 Lumbard, “From Hubb to Ishq: the development of Love in early Sufism”, 350–52. For a discussion on this hadith see, Armin Eschraghi, “‘I Was a Hidden Treasure’. Some Notes on a Commentary Ascribed to Mullā Ṣadrā Shīrāzī: Sharḥ Ḥadīth: ‘Kuntu Kanzan Makhfiyyan…’”, Islamic thought in the Middle Ages: studies in text, transmission and translation, in honour of Hans Daiber, edited by Anna Akasoy and Wim Raven, (Leiden; Boston: Brill, c2008), 92. 110 Ghazālī, Majmūʻah-i āthār-i Fārsī-i Aḥmad Ghazālī, 140. 111 Ibid., 159–60, 168; Lumbard, “From Hubb to Ishq: the development of Love in early Sufism”, 350–52. 107 108

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sight and entails leaving behind creation to focus on the Beloved, a mere manifestation of God, beholding Him with the eye of one’s heart and becoming a lover of Him. The next step is governed by yearning for the Beloved, so that one all but abandons oneself, awaiting a moment of love with the Beloved out of sheer intoxicated longing. Finally, in the last step, characterized by passing away from oneself (fanā’) and revival (qiyām), one overcomes the duality of lover and Beloved by drowning in the sea of love, i.e., God Himself rather than a manifestation of Him. 112 Al-Ghazālī interweaves this development closely with the word ʿeshq, “The secrets of love (ʿeshq) are hidden in the letters [of the word] ʿeshq…[love] begins with the [internal] eye and seeing, and [the letter] ʿayn, 113 the first of the letters of ʿeshq, is an allusion to this, then begins the drinking of wine (sharāb) full of yearning, and [the letter] shīn 114 is an allusion to this, then [comes] passing away from oneself and returning to life and [the letter] qāf is an allusion to his (the lover’s) revival (qiyām)…” 115

The majority of the path is however characterized by the interplay between the human lover and the divine Beloved. Given that the former’s essence is love, he is naturally inclined to the Latter’s beauty. The lover is hence defined by love and dependency (niyāz) on the Beloved, who is in turn defined by beauty, which attracts the love of the lover, and self-sufficient amorous

Ghazālī, Majmūʻah-i āthār-i Fārsī-i Aḥmad Ghazālī, 112–13, 131, 153. In addition to designating the first letter of the word ʿeshq, ‘ʿayn’ also signifies ‘eye’. 114 The letter shīn is the second letter of the word ʿeshq and the first letter of the word ‘wine’ (sharāb). 115 The letter qāf is the last letter of the word ʿeshq and the first letter of the word ‘revival’ (qiyām). Ghazālī, Majmūʻah-i āthār-i Fārsī-i Aḥmad Ghazālī, 153. 112 113

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glances (nāz). 116 In an arduous journey defined by affliction and unkindness, 117 due to being removed from the Beloved or being treated indifferently by Him, and occasional joy, due to a brief moment with Him, the lover eventually attains union with the Beloved, only to realize that He is merely a manifestation of God. The Latter is essentially but One, and thus the lover overcomes the duality of lover and Beloved to become immersed in love alone. 118 Ibid., 122–25, 142–43. In Persian medieval literature niyāz is generally placed in contrast to nāz, denoting the two reverse sides of love and attraction. The terms are often used to illustrate the relationship between God and man. The former is the Beloved, who is sought and desired by the latter, the lover. God’s coquettish overtures and revelations to man, defining their relationship, is called nāz and man’s desirous yearning for God is called niyāz, literally meaning ‘need’, as an indication for man’s complete dependence on God in this. 117 Ibid., 127–28, 131, 160–61, 168–69, 171–72. 118 Ibid., 112–13, 148. Whether al-Ghazālī means with this that one can attain divine essence, as suggested by Lumbard, remains unclear. I have not found conclusive evidence in al-Ghazālī’s work for this, and there are in fact a number of passages in Savāneḥ that appear to indicate otherwise, see, for example, Ghazālī, Majmūʻah-i āthār-i Fārsī-i Aḥmad Ghazālī, 119–20, 143, 171. Based on that and given the repeated affirmations in Sufism and medieval Islam in general that God’s essence is unknowable and that even speculating about it is forbidden, as shown, for example, in the hadith “Reflect upon everything, but do not reflect upon God’s essence”, and the rather clear distinction in Sufism between divine manifestation (ḥaqq) and divine essence (haqiqa), with only the former of two being conventionally regarded as attainable, I would tentatively assume that divine essence remains out of reach for humans in al-Ghazālī thought. At most, one could say that Savāneḥ occasionally seems to allude to the possibility of union with divine essence in an imaginary realm, which is however merely perceived in that way from the mystic’s viewpoint, not from an objective viewpoint of reality. Lumbard, Ahmad Al-Ghazali, Remembrance, and the Metaphysics of Love, 132–38, 140–47; idem, Lumbard, “From Hubb to Ishq: the development of Love in early Sufism”, 350–52, 371–77. For an informative recent 116

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Related to al-Ghazālī’s radical theory of love are also some controversial features; following al-Ḥallāj, he depicted, for example, Iblīs at times as the model of love and monotheism for refusing to bow down to Adam due to his undying love for God. 119 Al-Ghazālī has also become known as an early torchbearer for a practice called shāhidbāzī, in which, based on the belief that divine beauty is reflected in human beings, one contemplates such a human being—often beardless youths would serve as objects of contemplation—as a witness (shāhid) of divine beauty, that is, a human theophany. 120 Needless to say, alJīlānī disapproves of such practices. 121 Given the ubiquitous nature of love in Savāneḥ, the work has often been seen as the starting point to the so-called ‘religion of Love’ (madhhab-e ʿeshq), 122 a somewhat ill-defined literary movement in medieval Persian mystical literature, based on viewing the mystical path through the prism of love, which would later include such figures as Ḥakim Sanā’ī (d. 525/1130), ʿAṭṭār, Rūmī (d. 672/1273) and Ḥāfeẓ (d. 1389–90). 123 As the discussion from the viewpoint of Rūzbihān Baqlī see Kazuyo Murata, Beauty in Sufism: The Teachings of Rūzbihān Baqlī, (Albany: SUNY Press, 2017), 57–64. 119 Lumbard, Ahmad Al-Ghazali, Remembrance, and the Metaphysics of Love, 109–12. Although on many other occasions he paints Iblīs in his conventional image as force of evil. 120 For early links of al-Ghazālī with this practice, see, for example alMustawfī, 36; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam 239–40. For a detailed discussion see Nasrollah Pourjavady, Stories of Ahmad Ghazali ‘playing the Witness’ in Tabriz (Shams-I Din Tarbizi’s interest in shahid-bazi), Reason and inspiration in Islam: theology, philosophy and mysticism in Muslim thought: essays in honour of Hermann Landolt, edited by Todd Lawson, (London, 2005). 121 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 112, 231; idem., al-Ghunya, 465. 122 Sometimes also translated as the ‘school of love’. 123 See for example, Leonard Lewisohn, “Prolegomenon to the Study of Ḥāfiẓ”, Hafiz and the religion of love in classical Persian poetry, ed. Leonard Lewisohn, (London; New York, 2015), 43–49; Leili Anvar, “The Radiance of Epiphany: The Vision of Beauty and Love in Ḥāfiẓ’s Poem

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name of the movement suggests, and as indicated in the extract cited above, al-Ghazālī primarily refers to the Persian term ʿeshq, or ʿishq in Arabic, when discussing ‘love’ between God and man, a choice that had been much disputed in the previous centuries, but which, probably in no small part to al-Ghazālī’s work, became increasingly established in Sufism. 124 As seen above, this clashes with al-Jīlānī, who sticks to the root ḥ-b-b, as found in the Quran, in this matter. That being said, al-Ghazālī primarily seems to use the root ʿ-sh-q in his Persian work, while in his Arabic work, such as tajrīd fī kalima al-tawḥīd, he seems more conscious of the problems attached to it. 125 In medieval Persian the word ʿeshq appears to have referred to love more generally, in the same way of Pre-Eternity”, Hafiz and the religion of love in classical Persian poetry, ed. Leonard Lewisohn, (London; New York, 2015), 124–25; SeyedGohrab, 108–10; Fakhruddin ʻIraqi, Lamaʻāt, (Divine flashes), trans. and intro. by William C. Chittick and Peter Lamborn Wilson, (New York, c1982), 45–46; Lumbard, “From Hubb to Ishq: the development of Love in early Sufism”, 345–46. Some scholars argue that this ‘religion of love’ is not limited to Persian poetry or religious literature, but also includes eighth and ninth-century profane Arabic poetry and ninth and tenth-century profane Persian poetry. See for a discussion, J. Christoph Bürgel, “Ambiguity, a Study of in the use of religious Terminology in the poetry of Hafez”, Intoxication, earthly and heavenly: seven studies on the poet Hafiz of Shiraz, (Bern, 1991), 13–16; Husayn Ilahi-Ghomshei, “The Principles of the Religion of Love in Classical Persian Poetry”, Hafiz and the religion of love in classical Persian poetry, ed. Leonard Lewisohn, (London; New York, 2015), 77–81. 124 Abū Ḥamīd al-Ghazālī also recognized the validity of ʿishq and argued for its superiority to ḥubb/maḥabba, Lumbard, Ahmad Al-Ghazali, Remembrance, and the Metaphysics of Love, 140–47; idem, “From Hubb to Ishq: the development of Love in early Sufism”, 377–85; Binyamin Abrahamov, Divine love in Islamic mysticism: the teachings of al-Ghazali and al-Dabbagh, (New York, 2003), 43–46. 125 He uses it to my knowledge only once in this work, but even there in combination with maḥabba, al-Ghazālī, Tajrīd fī-kalima al-tawḥīd, 11.

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that ḥubb or maḥabba were used in Arabic, and without the specific implications that individuals like Ibn al-Jawzī attributed to ʿishq in Arabic. 126 Nonetheless, given that the Persian ʿeshq derives directly from the Arabic ʿishq, its application in this context is still likely to have encountered the disapproval of individuals like al-Jīlānī.

It is thus also possible that the debate about the use of ʿishq in the context of God and humans may have been in part down to different cultural backgrounds, i.e. that Sufis from a predominantly Persian background did not find this as offensive as people coming from a predominately Arab cultural background, like Ibn al-Jawzī.

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CHAPTER 5. RETURN Undergoing major annihilation and subsequent spiritual revival, and having consequently surrendered one’s will to become a vessel of divine will, is the conclusion of al-Jīlānī’s path as such. What remains is the badal’s return to society, or his acceptance of ‘his worldly allotments’, as our author tends to call it. He elucidates that “the mystic who is intimately aware of God (al-ʿārif) and loves (Him), [viz.] he loves neither this [world] nor that [world] 1 nor anything else but God, when his love has become complete and proven, he will be given his worldly allotments…” 2 Following the completion of the path, after having succeeded in renouncing any aspect of this and the next world, including creation, attachment to himself, and his will, a badal receives back his worldly allotments (aqsām or ḥuẓūẓ), in other words, he accepts a certain level of material possession and comfort; a semblance of outward normalcy and conformance with society. In fact, he is all but obliged to do so, al-Jīlānī clarifies that “…he is commanded to ask for his worldly allotments after having been commanded to abandon and renounce it…once his inside is devoid of anything material (ḥuẓūẓ) and That is, the hereafter. ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, al-Fatḥ al-rabbānī, (Giza: Dār al-Rayān li-turāth), 80–81.

1 2

201

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nothing remains in it except for the Lord acting freely and [in] unrestrained [manner]….” 3 As the badal is no longer in control of his own will, but simply an extension of divine will, this step is a mere formality. And yet, while the re-adoption of a worldly lifestyle would appear rather straightforward, and is in fact oftentimes depicted as a rather celebratory step following the conclusion of the path, by no means everybody who got this far will be able, or allowed, to perform it. We learn that, “this world will be kept from you, then [after completing the path] it will be offered [to you] until the end [of your existence in this world], but this is [only] for some individuals among the friends of God and the most faithful, because of His (God’s) knowledge of their piety, that they will not be turned away from Him by anything, but for the majority of them (His friends) this world remains kept from them, because He (God) loves their devotion to Him…and their seeking him, and if He gave them [their allotments of] this world perhaps they would be turned away from serving Him because of it.” 4

Returning physically to this world is accordingly a serious challenge, even for very advanced mystics. The majority of them will never be given their worldly allotments, because they may not be firm enough to remain undistracted by it. Therefore, God prefers to keep them entirely to Himself and sends back to society only those in whom He has the confidence that they will not be distracted by it. The significance of this step lies in eliminating one’s ascetic lifestyle as a potential obstacle between oneself and God. Having lived in this way since the beginning of the path, asceticism itʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, (Cairo: al-Maktaba alAzhariyya li-l-Turāth, 2004), 94. 4 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 125. Such notions are also referred to in other places, see, for example, ibid. 35, 89. 3

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self has become a means to control one’s life, and, by extension, a veil between the Sufi and God, which has to be removed. At the outset, embracing a renunciant lifestyle is central to overcoming the lower soul and creation, and the mystic gradually internalizes such conduct while simultaneously surrendering his will to God. Yet, once he has passed away from himself and his heart has been completely taken over by God, an ascetic lifestyle is no longer necessary, and indeed becomes a deterrent to faithfully performing the task of a representative of divine will, a last vestige of self-control that has to go. Al-Jīlānī describes it, for this reason, as a final but inevitable step to seal a mystic’s nobility and esteemed standing with his divine Friend, marked by his acceptance of God’s gracious favour, in form of worldly allotments. 5 A considerable number of Sufi authorities of this period, but by no means all of them, agreed that renunciation is not a lifelong endeavour and ends with the conclusion of the path. 6 Yet such drastic turns to outwardly conform with this world appear to have provoked criticism from regular believers as well as certain fellow Sufis. 7 Our author defends such a decision by pointing to Muhammad’s own experience, in particular as highlighted in the widely known tradition ‘in your world, perfume and women have become dear to me and my delight was in prayers’. 8 Accordingly, he notes that

Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 95. Though individual viewpoints differed; Rūzbihān Baqlī apparently already left behind his renunciant lifestyle at the age of thirty-five. Carl Ernst, Rūzbihān Baqlī: mysticism and the rhetoric of sainthood in Persian Sufism, (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, 1996), 43–44. 7 See for example, Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 114; idem., Futūḥ al-ghayb, 86. 8 Note, there are different transmissions of this hadith, see Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal, al-Musnad, (Cairo: Dār al-ḥadīth, 1995), 12233, 12234, 12991; al-Nasāʼī, Sunan al-Nasāʼī, (Riyād: Maktab al-Maʻārif lil-Nashr, 1996), 3939, 3940. 5 6

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BAGHDAD DURING THE TIME OF ʿABD AL-QĀDIR AL-JĪLĀNĪ “when the Prophet had passed away from this world (fanā), his worldly allotments, which had been kept from him during the state of his procession towards his Lord (sairu-hu ilārabbi-hi), were returned to him,…as His (God’s) favour embraces both his friends and messengers…thus will the friend of God at this gate in the same way be given back his worldly allotments…this is the return from the end to the beginning.” 9

Divine favour (faḍl) not only looks after the abdāl on the inside providing them with a feeling of contentment, it now also extends to fulfilling their worldly needs. The reference to the ‘return from the end to the beginning’ points to said abandonment of the ascetic way of life, after the completion of the mystical path, reverting to a more lenient outlook regarding material possession and comforts. It thus alludes to a physical, outward return, complementing the previously mentioned inner return, after undergoing major annihilation and becoming one with divine will. Taken together, the mystic returns outwardly to a more conventional lifestyle, while inwardly being in complete conformance with divine will. Needless to say, giving up one’s ascetic outlook in this way does not mean accumulation of extensive wealth and a life in luxury. 10 Instead the point is to accept material wealth in moderation, so as to blend in with others. Specifically, it means adopting a ‘lenient code of conduct’ (rukhṣa) in favour of a ‘strict code of conduct’ (ʿazīma). In any case, there is no real danger of the abdāl overindulging; they remain flawless due to divine protection. 11 They do not receive their worldly allotments through the inclinations of their lower souls, which have been pacified and from which they remain henceforth protected, but

Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 101. See also, for example, idem, Fatḥ alrabbānī, 44, 114. 10 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 121. 11 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 35, 48; idem., Futūḥ al-ghayb, 100. 9

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through being extensions of divine will. 12 They no longer desire material wealth or comfort in any way, in fact the opposite, they find living outwardly regular lives among their fellow human beings burdensome, 13 but they accept all of this simply because divine command instructs them to do so, as an act of worship and obedience. 14 Receiving the worldly allotments is hence merely an outward adjustment that has no influence on the inner dimension. There the abdāl remain in God’s presence and detached from any of this. 15 It is for this reason that al-Jīlānī likes to depict the adoption of this new lifestyle as ‘being dressed (talabbasa bi- or talabbus bi-) in one’s worldly lot’ or alternatively as ‘being dressed in God’s favour and blessings’. 16 Although the worldly allotments are in this sense likened to a rope of honour that the mystics receive as part of having successfully navigated the path, another purpose of this new dress is to cover the inner realm of the mystic, as implied by our author’s statement “he (the badal) is dressed in God’s special favour (talabbasa bi-lfaḍl)…but at the exterior (min qubul) it appears as if he is dressed by his (human) passion and lower soul.” 17 The mystic ceases to stand out physically when receiving his worldly allotment, merging with his fellow human beings, and in this way conceals his inner dimension, where he remains devoted to God alone and aloof from this world. 18

GOD’S REPRESENTATIVE IN SOCIETY

Participating physically in society, while remaining spiritually connected to God, creates the basis for the abdāl to act as repreAl-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 48, 66, 70. Ibid., 114. 14 Ibid., 97. 15 Ibid., 70, 81, 109, 114–15. 16 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 85, 86, 91, 92, 99, 100, 102. 17 Ibid., 92. 18 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 114. 12 13

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sentatives of God among their fellow human beings. Al-Jīlānī defines them as “the representatives (nuwwāb) of God among His creation, and His deputies appointed over them (khulafā’uhu ʿalay-him), [they are] a façade to Himself (wajhan bi-dhāti-hi) and His envoys (shaḥan) in His world.” 19 The abdāl’s mission is facilitated in two ways; first of all, as alluded to above, when God sends His friends back to creation, He makes sure that their fellow human beings are well-inclined towards them. 20 He makes the hearts of creation become attached to the abdāl, full of affection and reverence. 21 Secondly, God prepares them spiritually and physically to succeed in performing their duty. He equips them with firmness with regard to their mission, affability, and tolerance towards people. 22 More specifically, God ‘loosens their tongues’ as outlined in Fatḥ alrabbānī, “whoever has intimate knowledge of God, his tongue becomes inactive (kala lisānu-hu), [because] the intimate knower of God remains tongue-tied in the presence of God until He sends him on behalf of creation, when He sends him to them (creation), He removes the inactivity (kalāl) and speech impediment (ʿujmah) from the tongue.” 23

Being silent in divine proximity is an often-treated attribute of intermediate and advanced Sufis in al-Jīlānī’s work. 24 There is Ibid., 201. Al-Jīlānī also relies on other terms to refer to such individuals such as ‘spiritual pole’ (quṭb or watad) or ‘trustee’ (amīn), alJīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 27, 34; idem, al-Ghunya li-ṭālibī ṭarīq al-ḥaqq, (Beirut: Dār Iḥyā’ al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 1996), 440–45. 20 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 101, 201, 232. 21 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 10, 86. For the same import, see, idem., Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 101, 231, 226. 22 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 222. See also, ibid., 95. 23 Ibid., 78. 24 See, for example, Ibid., 28, 38, 123, 223, 229, 237, 245, 247. See also the corresponding descriptions of al-Jīlānī in the later biographical tradition in the first chapter above. Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī also stresses the 19

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no talk, invocation, or dhikr in this setting, just silence witnessing divine countenance in delight and bafflement. 25 One only responds when being addressed by Him and otherwise keeps quiet, because talk is tantamount to remoteness from God and silence tantamount to proximity to Him. 26 While physical speech has no role in this setting, our author implies that ‘the tongue of the heart and the innermost’ cannot but utter things due to the overwhelming experiences. 27 Be that as it may, once the mystic returns outwardly to society, his physical tongue becomes re-activated and any inhibitions to speech are removed. The emphasis on restoring, and in fact even enhancing, the faculty of speech suggests that the badal’s role in society is connected to preaching, just as in the case of our author and many other major Sufis around the time. Beyond this clue, al-Jīlānī only provides rather general insights as to the duties of the abdāl in society. They act primarily as receptacles of divine mercy and blessing to ease the burdens of regular believers by dispensing divine relief, repelling trials and alleviating worries. 28 In a notable passage, Futūḥ al-ghayb depicts a badal’s crossing the market, “his heart, which is with God, fills with mercy for them (people there) (imtalā’ qalbu-hu bi-llāhi raḥmatan la-hum), which occupies him to the degree that he has no regard for what [goods] they offer, for he is from the moment of his entry to the moment of his exit [of the market] engaged in invocations, asking for forgiveness and interceding on behalf of his people (fī-l-duʿā wa-l-istighfār wa-l-shafāʿa li-ahli-hi) and has compassion and mercy for them.” 29 importance of silence, Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-Qulūb, (Cairo: Maktaba Dār al-Turāth, 2001), 273–86. 25 Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 123, 223. 26 Ibid., 123, 237, 245. 27 Ibid., 229. 28 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 10; idem, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 95, 143, 187. 29 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 118.

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Dwelling in God’s presence inside while living physically with their fellow human beings, the abdāl become conveyors of divine love and grace, as God blesses others through them. 30 In this way, they are also able to ask for forgiveness and intercede with God on behalf of people, becoming the ideal mediators between God and humans. 31 Unsurprisingly, this is also the role in which al-Jīlānī sees himself, and occasionally, in Fatḥ al-rabbānī, he urges his audience to accept him as intercessor with God and as their guide to divine proximity and the paradisiacal garden in the hereafter. 32

EXCURSUS: YŪSUF ABŪ YAʿQŪB AL-HAMADĀNĪ

The man occasionally credited with being responsible for alJīlānī’s assumption of a more public role in society is Yūsuf Abū Yaʿqūb al-Hamadānī, who reportedly inspired our author to become a public preacher. 33 Al-Hamadānī’s life gave way to two diverging biographical traditions; one can be traced back to the famous biographer Abū Saʿd al-Samʿānī (d. 562/1161) and is later relied upon by many medieval chronicles and biographical dictionaries, and the other goes seemingly back to ʿAbd alKhāliq Ghijduvānī, 34 the first master of the Khwājagān line, a precursor to the Naqshbandiyya order, and a self-professed disciple and successor (khalīfa) of al-Hamadānī. Wilferd Madelung has convincingly demonstrated that the latter biographical tradition should be regarded as hagiographical, having little in com-

Ibid., 118. Ibid., 10, 118. Idem, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 13. 32 See, for example, al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 38, 150, 202, 272. 33 For a detailed analysis of this tradition, see chapter 1. 34 Ghijduvānī is commonly believed to have died in 575/1179, but a death date in the early thirteenth-century is more likely. Wilferd Madelung, “Yūsuf al-Hamaḏānī and the Naqšbandiyya”, Quaderni di Studi Arabi, 1987–1988, vol. 5/6, 506; Jürgen Paul, “ʿAbd al-Khāliq alGhijduwānī”, Enc. Islam III. 30 31

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mon with fact and event-based historical literature. 35 It will therefore not be taken into consideration here; the following sketch of al-Hamadānī will rely entirely on the first biographical tradition starting with al-Samʿānī. Accordingly, al-Hamadānī was born in Būzangird, a village to the northeast of Hamadān, either in the year 440 or 441 in the hijrī calendar (1048–1050). 36 He moved to Baghdad after 460/1067–68 to continue his education, just like al-Jīlānī and Abū al-Najīb and Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī would do later. Among others, he chiefly studied hadith and Shāfiʿī jurisprudence with Abū Isḥāq al-Shīrāzī (d. 476/1083) at the Niẓāmiyya madrasa. Al-Hamadānī reportedly excelled in Shāfiʿī jurisprudence (madhhab), legal theory (ʿusūl), disputed legal points (khilāf), and legal reasoning (ʿilm al-naẓar). 37 After some years, he is believed to have left Baghdad to hear hadith in other towns such as Isfahan, Samarqand and Bukhara. 38 Already during his early years in Baghdad did al-Hamadānī adhere to an ascetic lifestyle, but at some stage he seems to have foresworn scholarly pursuits to embark on the Sufi path. Medieval sources generally suggest that this happened after he left Baghdad for the east, but the seeds for this may well have been

Madelung, “Yūsuf al-Hamaḏānī and the Naqšbandiyya”, 503–09. See also Paul, “ʿAbd al-Khāliq al-Ghijduwānī”. For an attempt to combine the two biographical traditions, see H. Algar, “Abu Yaʿqub Hamadāni”, Enc. Iranica. 36 Abū Saʿd al-Samʿānī, Kitāb al-ansāb, (Beirut: Dar al-Janān, 1988), vol. 1, 412; Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-aʿyān, (Beirut: Dār ṣādir, 1978), vol. 7, 80. 37 Al-Samʿānī, vol. 1, 412; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam fī tārīkh al-mulūk wa-al-umam, (Beirut: Dār al-kutub al-ʿilmiyya, 1992), vol. 18, 16; idem., Ṣifāt al-ṣafwa, (Beirut: Dār al-kitāb al-ʿarabī, 2012), 737; Ibn Khallikān, vol. 7, 78; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām wa-wafayāt al-mashāhīr wa-laʿlām, (Beirut: Dār al-kutub al-ʿarabī, 1990), vol. 36, 397. 38 Ibn Khallikān, vol. 7, 78; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 36, 397. 35

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sown in Baghdad. 39 Al-Hamadānī thus withdrew from society on a few occasions for a number of years to devote to strict asceticism, continuous worship, inner jihad and spiritual exercises. As part of this he also attached himself to two shaykhs by the names of al-Semnanī and ʿAbd Allāh al-Jūnī for periods of time. 40 Eventually when he himself had reached the level of a Sufi shaykh, al-Hamadānī started to invite others to the Sufi path. He established what became a well-frequented ribāṭ in Marw, perhaps in the late fifth/eleventh-century, where he would preach, transmit hadith and train disciples. 41 His missionary activities in Khorasan are believed to have given rise to the Khwājagān line, which would later morph into the Naqshbandiyya order; the two first successors of the line, ʿAbdallāh al-Baraqī (d. 555/1160) and al-Ḥusayn al-Andaqī (d. 552/1157) are counted among his disciples. 42 Among his foremost students in hadith were said Abū Saʿd al-Samʿānī, who stands at the beginning of the first biographical tradition, and the famous Damascene historian Ibn Madelung suggests that al-Hamadānī’s turn to Sufism may have been influenced by his teacher Abū Isḥāq al-Shīrāzī, who himself is said to have lived ascetically and to have had links to Sufism. Al-Hamadānī is also reported to have studied hadith with the Sufi Shaykh Abū Qāsim Yūsuf al-Mihrawānī al-Hamadānī (d. 468/1076), which may have influenced him in this matter. Madelung, “Yūsuf al-Hamaḏānī and the Naqšbandiyya”, 500. 40 There is no background information on either of the two shaykhs; alJūnī is also identified as ‘al-Jawī’, ‘al-Juwayy’ or ‘al-Khūnī’ in certain medieval sources, Ibn al-Jawzī al-Muntaẓam, vol. 18, 16; idem., Ṣifāt alṣafwa, 737; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 36, 399. 41 Jürgen Paul, “Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf al-Hamadānī”, Enc. Islam III; AlSamʿānī, Kitāb al-ansāb, vol. 1, 412; Ibn al-Jawzī al-Muntaẓam, vol. 18, 16; idem., Ṣifāt al-ṣafwa, 738; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 36, 399. 42 Paul, “Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf al-Hamadānī”. Madelung expresses his doubts about al-Baraqī, but accepts al-Andaqī’s close relationship with al-Hamadānī, Madelung, “Yūsuf al-Hamaḏānī and the Naqšbandiyya”, 502, 507. 39

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ʿAsākir (d. 571/1176), both of which also studied with Abū alNajīb al-Suhrawardī (563/1168). 43 In 506/1112–13 al-Hamadānī returned to Baghdad, where he preached and related hadith at the Niẓāmiyya madrasa to great acclaim. While being generally highly regarded as hadith scholar, preacher and Sufi, even Ibn al-Jawzī otherwise rather sparing with compliments for contemporaries in particular when inclined to Sufism is full of praise for him, al-Hamadānī was apparently verbally abused during one of his sermons by two sons of the leading Shāfiʿī-Ashʿarī scholar Muḥammad Abū Bakr alShāshī (d. 507/1114). 44 It is reported that they asked him to either speak in accordance with the Ashʿarī school or abstain from it altogether. Al-Hamadānī stood his ground and in response predicted their untimely deaths. 45 The report is well attested in contemporary sources, but even if one has to take the details of it with a pinch of salt, the gist of it reinforces the notion that al-Hamadānī was opposed to speculative theology, as represented by the Ashʿarī school, similar to al-Jīlānī and Abū al-Najīb and Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī. 46 In another episode either during this or his previous stay in Baghdad, al-Hamadānī is said to have attended a session of al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 36, 400. Interestingly, al-Shāshī lost his own position at the Niẓāmiyya madrasa in the same year. Ibn al-Jawzī records his dismissal from the Niẓāmiyya in the month of al-Jumādā al-akhira, though it is not clear whether his dismissal happened before or after this incident. Ibn alJawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 17, 128, 138; George Makdisi, Ibn ʻAqīl et la résurgence de l'islam traditionaliste au XIe siècle (Ve siècle de l'Hégire), (Damacus: Institut français de Damas, 1963), 197. 45 Which then reportedly also came to happen. Ibn al-Jawzī, alMuntaẓam, vol. 17, 128; idem., Ṣifāt al-ṣafwa, 738; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 36, 398. 46 Elsewhere al-Hamadānī also alludes that he shares al-Jīlānī’s approach to the predestination of human acts, that is, differentiating between the religious and existential will of God, Yūsuf al-Hamadānī, Rutbat al-ḥayāt, ([Tehran]: Intishārāt-i Tūs, 1362 [1983]), 66. 43 44

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Aḥmad al-Ghazālī (d. 521/1126), in which the latter elaborated on his controversial interpretation of Iblīs as model of love and monotheism for refusing to bow down to Adam. Al-Hamadānī reportedly severely condemned this, saying “such talk [is based on] satanic rather than divine inspiration (madad),” and considering al-Ghazālī as being left without faith. 47 Accordingly, he appears to have markedly disagreed with al-Ghazālī in this context, which has been rightly taken as an indication that alHamadānī stood for a sober kind of Sufism in line with alJīlānī’s. 48 Upon returning to Khorasan, he resumed his previous activities, preaching, relating hadith and training disciples, before eventually passing away in 535/1140 on the way from Herat to Marw. 49 Al-Hamadānī is said to have composed several short treatises, 50 but I have only come across one work that can be positively identified as his, Rutbat al-ḥayāt. 51 A relatively short Sufi manual in Persian, Rutbat al-ḥayāt in the current edition divides into fourteen chapters. It appears to have been aimed at an audience with little or no background in Sufism; in particular the first few chapters are repetitive and long-winded in style, which seems to reinforce this impression. 52 Such an approach likewise fits with al-Hamadānī’s reputation as someone who spread Sufism among all walks of life. That being said, the last few chapIbn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 17, 239. Madelung, “Yūsuf al-Hamaḏānī and the Naqšbandiyya”, 502. 49 Al-Samʿānī, vol. 1, 412; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 18, 16; Ibn Khallikān, vol. 7, 80; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 36, 399. 50 Paul, “Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf al-Hamadānī”. 51 Al-Hamadānī, Rutbat al-ḥayāt. 52 Al-Hamadānī actually states this rather unambiguously in the beginning of the work when alluding to the most advanced stages of the path. He says that there is no point in explaining this, because regular people (ʿāmme) would not understand this and would be in danger of falling into temptation. This would imply that his audience was at least partially made up of regular people. He does, nonetheless, explain those advanced stages later on. Ibid., 44. 47 48

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ters of the work exhibit notably more complex content and more concise writing. Rutbat al-ḥayāt presents a rather conventional division of the mystical path by the three stages islām, imān and iḥsān, based on the well-known hadith, in which Muḥammad, prompted by archangel Gabriel, defines these three terms. 53 The basic notion, outlined in the first chapter, is that everybody lives for something, “Know that in the opinion of the people of mystical discernment and certainty, being alive (zende) is being tranquil (āsūde), and life (zendegānī) is to be tranquil (āsūdan). People…[generally] agree that everybody becomes tranquil because of something, becomes calm because of something, but refuges of tranquillity (asāyeshgāh) differ. Everybody has a refuge of tranquillity befitting their station and rank, in the presence of this thing one becomes tranquil, at ease and calm, and in its absence one becomes agitated and uneasy. As one becomes calm and at ease because of this thing, finding tranquillity out of irritation and restlessness, the wayfarers…say: such a person is [therefore] living for such a thing.” 54

Thus, al-Hamadānī notes that every human being has a refuge of tranquillity, where one finds peace of mind and inner strength away from all the stress and worry of everyday life, be that physical or mental satisfactions in this world, or spiritual fulfilment. It is for these refuges of tranquillity, whatever they may be, that we live. One who finds peace in eating a savoury meal lives for that, one who becomes calm by reading a book lives for that, and one who finds tranquillity when being admitted to divine presence lives for that. This is the basic assumption at work in Rutbat al-ḥayāt. This hadith is found in Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī, al-Bukhārī, Ṣaḥīḥ al-Imām alBukhārī, (Beirut: Dār ṭawq al-najā, 1422 [2001 or 2002]), vol. 1, 19. 54 Al-Hamadānī, 27–28. 53

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It starts with those who live for things in this world, which is the lowest stage (daraja) of mankind and the lowest station of life, for one, because it shares its outlook with all animals and insects. God set humans by nature above animals by virtue of their understanding, reason and assumption of ‘the trust’, 55 so that dropping to the animal level is acting below one’s natural capacity and ignoring one’s God given duty. In addition, focusing on this world is misplaced because it is but an illusion, and as such non-existent, which al-Hamadānī underlines with numerous references to the Quran. That does however not mean that one should abstain from involvement in this world altogether. He agrees with al-Jīlānī that one should, at a lower stage, earn a livelihood to cover basic necessities like nourishment, clothing and even marriage, but the point is not to overdo things with regard to this world, i.e. to limit one’s commitment to it to a minimum. 56 The expectation for humans is that their refuge of tranquillity is not this world but God, in other words, that they live for Him, which starts with the next stage, in fact, the first actual stage of al-Hamadānī’s path (islām). Attaining this stage entails a process of inner purification by suppressing the lower soul’s drive for sensual gratification (mujāhada) and establishing selfdiscipline. The means designated to fulfil this task is dhikr, that is constant recalling God. The stage of islām is therefore principally associated with dhikr; by ceaselessly remembering God, one becomes gradually focused on Him, leaving behind this world, and He becomes so one’s refuge of tranquillity. According to al-Hamadānī, this is not only the outset of the Sufi path, but the very foundation of the Islamic faith in a broader sense; as long as one has not left behind this world, one has not fully completed the duties of Islam, and is by extension probably not considered a Muslim in a true sense. 57 Al-amāna, a reference to Quran 33:72. Al-Hamadānī, 28–30. 57 Ibid., 31–32. 55 56

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While the stage of islām revolves chiefly around the physical and exterior realm, in the sense of controlling one’s acts, and thoughts 58 and conforming with religious duties, the subsequent stage faith (imān) is concerned with the inner dimension, or the heart. It stands for the internalization of one’s devotion. Dhikr in this way turns into fikr, the main characteristic of this stage, constant contemplation of God. Rutbat al-ḥayāt clarifies that initial dhikr at the stage of islām is spoken with the aim to involve all bodily parts in this. Eventually the heart becomes aware of this and, excited by it, joins in as well. That is when dhikr becomes silently conducted by the heart, i.e. becomes internal, while physically the mystic withdraws from society. 59 At the conclusion of this, when this world has been abandoned, continuous interior recalling God leads to fikr, constant contemplation of Him, though this is a divine gift and not in the hands of humans. Instead of living for exoteric conduct and in particular dhikr, individuals at this stage are defined by the insight they gain into the hidden realm, they discern divine signs, become aware of angelic inspirations or perceive the wisdom and exhortations in the heavenly books. 60 Finally, one enters the stage of iḥsān, literally ‘doing what is beautiful’ but in this context more aptly rendered ‘perfection’. Rutbat al-ḥayāt closely relates this to said hadith, in which Muhammad defines iḥsān as “to worship God as if you see Him, and

Regular thoughts, though arguably immaterial and internal, are here counted among external aspects. The author appears to distinguish between normal ‘thoughts’ (afkār) and ‘contemplation of God’ (fikr), see what follows. 59 Al-Hamadānī, 40–41. Al-Hamadānī states that this hidden dhikr should happen for a period of forty days, in other words, the length of the traditional retreat in the early stages of the Sufi path. That said, the number forty here seems merely symbolic, signifying an appropriate time period, because only a few lines later al-Hamadānī explains that this stage of hidden dhikr may last many years. 60 Ibid., 38–39. 58

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even if you do not see Him, He sees you.” Accordingly, this is the stage of witnessing God and His deeds in all things, “Living for iḥsān…[entails] recognizing in angels bearing witness [to God], recognizing in the book (the Quran) divine authority (mamlikat), recognizing in the prophets divine wisdom, recognizing in the resurrection divine majesty, recognizing in divine decree and ordainment divine omnipotence, recognizing in oneself divine will, recognizing in creation divine omnipotence, recognizing wherever one looks divine sublimity and might, recognizing in the [proper] acts of the body divine grace, and recognizing in contemplation divine favour…” 61

Al-Hamadānī highlights some similar characteristics related to very advanced mystics like al-Jīlānī. They become aware of the different manifestations and dimensions of divine acts and they recognize themselves as extensions of divine volition. The subtle distinction between the advanced mystics who, aware of the magnitude of divine acts, see themselves as part of divine will and the rest of creation who unaware of this remain directed by divine omnipotence also attests to this. That being said, al-Jīlānī provides a significantly more detailed picture about the aspects involved in this. This final stage of al-Hamadānī’s path is however further subdivided into two levels, likewise illustrated through Muhammad’s definition of iḥsān. At the first level of this stage, Sufis worship God without seeing Him, but knowing that He sees them, and at the second level they worship Him as if they see Him. 62 The lower level suggests a constant and all-consuming awareness of God (murāqaba), as one at this stage has become empty of this

61 62

Ibid., 54–55. Ibid., 55.

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world and oneself, 63 and the higher level alludes to witnessing God’s countenance inside as if one sees it physically. Just like islām is linked to the body and imān to the heart, so is iḥsān associated with the innermost (sirr), at the initial level, and the spirit (jān), at the more advanced level. The difference between the innermost and the spirit is that while both are aware that God is seeing them, the spirit acts in complete accordance with this, not paying any attention nor finding tranquillity with anything else. Its focus is solely directed towards encountering the divine, as illustrated in Quran 6:79, when Abraham after having turned to the stars, the moon and the sun announces ‘I turned my face [solely] towards the One who created the heavens and the earth’. The stars stand hence for islām, the moon for imān, and the sun for iḥsān at the level of the innermost; only upon attaining the level of the spirit at the end of iḥsān, and the end of the path, does the mystic truly turn to God. 64 Encountering God, is naturally at the expense of the mystic himself; he “drowns in divine unicity, perishes in divine singularity and is consumed in divinity.” 65 While body, heart and even innermost remain to some degree rooted in the physical realm, jān is unadulterated spirit. It is for this reason noble, majestic, pure and holy, and so permitted entrance to the realm of divine favour, proximity, intimacy, sanctity and love. The spirit distinguishes itself through certainty in knowledge, perspicacity in sight and wisdom in hearing. It provides the physical elements such as flesh, bone, and skin with life and protection from corruption, without which they are but lifeless and spoilt. For al-Hamadānī its elevated status can also be recognized by the fact that the angels were asked to prostrate before Adam after God had created and breathed His Linking iḥsān with such an awareness appears to have been rather common, see, for example, al-Qushayrī, Al-Risāla al-qushayriyya, (Beirut: Dār al-Kutūb al-ʿIlmiyya, 2001), 224–25. 64 Al-Hamadānī, 56–57. 65 Ibid., 54. 63

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spirit into him. 66 Angels themselves are pure and uncorrupted, but their prostration before the spirit means that it is above them. 67 Yet since every human being is believed to have a spirit, even people at the lowest stage living for this world, what is the difference between the spirits of those who have found a refuge of tranquillity in it and live for it, representative of the highest stage of al-Hamadānī’s path, and the spirits of the rest of human beings? Rutbat al-ḥayāt tackles this problem in the following passage, “This special spirit by which the people of specialness, to [which] belong prophets, messengers of God and the most privileged of the friends of God, are distinguished is [in a way] similar to the spirit of the regular people, [because the latter’s’] bodies are alive from head to toe because of it (the spirit), the eyes see because of it and the ears hear because of it…every particle of their inner and outer organs becomes luminous and renewed (tāze) because of it. The spirit of the people of specialness is for the survival of this world, what the spirit of the regular people is for the survival of their bodies. The sky and the earth last because of it, the sun, the moon and the stars shine because of it, and the clouds rain because of it.” 68

While the spirit of regular people is responsible for the continuity of their bodies, individuals who have completed the path and reached the level of the spirit, to which evidently also belong prophets and messengers of God, acquire a special spirit, seemingly connected to the universal spirit, responsible for the continuity of this world. The bodies of regular individuals are alive because of their spirits, just as the universe is alive because of the spirits of ‘the people of specialness’. Having the same influQuran 15:29–30. Al-Hamadānī, 57–59. 68 Ibid., 59. 66 67

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ence in the universe as regular people have in the sphere of their bodies; one would imagine that this also prepares the ground for saintly miracles (karāma). Al-Hamadānī identifies such individuals, on occasions, as badal, similar to al-Jīlānī. 69 As the spirit constitutes the essence and origin of a human being, created, according to some hadiths, thousands of years before the body, Rutbat al-ḥayāt suggests in the last pages that it is also the basis for how human beings in this world associate or disassociate. Before the creation of bodies, the spirits are originally split into different groups and categories, depending on capacity and inclination. After the embodiment of the spirits, human beings, whether mystically inclined or not, recognize and are drawn to others of the same group of spirit. Thus, messengers of God tend to identify and associate with other messengers of God, friends of God tend to find other friends of God, and unbelievers tend to connect with others of the same kind. It all goes back to humans’ spirits, but finds manifestation in their hearts and bodies in this world. 70

CONTEMPORARY SUFISM

On one occasion al-Hamadānī expresses his dismay at certain Sufi trends at the time, when dismissing individuals who consider themselves intermediate or even advanced Sufis without having completed the basic stages. 71 On the whole, however, this is an exception, and one finds al-Jīlānī, in comparison, more critical in these aspects, in particular in Fatḥ al-rabbānī, but also in the Ghunya and Futūḥ al-ghayb. The main problem that he per-

Ibid., 59. Ibid., 63–68. Similar to al-Jīlānī, al-Hamadānī relies heavily on hadith and the Quran to illustrate his points. In particular, the way in which Rutbat al-ḥayāt is capably supported by relevant hadiths, at times even listing the ṣaḥīḥ collections where the specific hadiths are found, shows that al-Hamadānī was an accomplished hadith scholar. 71 Ibid., 50. 69 70

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ceives in contemporary Sufism is a lack of sincerity, to which he points time and again, thus he reprimands his audience “people of this city, hypocrisy is widespread among you, and sincere devotion to God (ikhlāṣ) is rare, talk without deeds has become widespread, talk without deeds is worth nothing…[it is] form without spirit, an idol without hands and feet and power, most of your deeds are like a body without a spirit, the spirit is sincere devotion to God, affirming His absolute oneness and adherence to the book of God (the Quran) and the Sunna of His messenger…” 72

One comes across many examples with roughly the same import in Fatḥ al-rabbānī. 73 Some of it may be down to al-Jīlānī’s style of preaching, perhaps to get the listeners’ attention or to stir their emotions and hence make them more receptive to his message, still his critical outlook on the contemporary practice of Sufism is beyond doubt. Although this extract could be read in the sense of applying not just to the practice of Sufism, but to the observance of Islam more broadly, al-Jīlānī frequently condemns more distinct Sufi aspects. He warns, “…Sufism derives from purity (ṣafā’), [beware] he who dresses in the woollen cloak (ṣūf) of the genuine Sufi, whose heart has become purified (yaṣfū) because of his practice of Sufism from anything other than its (the heart’s) Lord, this thing does not happen by replacing the khirqa, making the face look pale, tightening the shoulders, prattling about the stories of the pious, moving with the fingers [to count] tasbīḥ 74 and tahlīl, 75 but rather it happens through sincerely Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 90. See for example, ibid., 17, 24, 44, 46, 56, 65, 84, 97, 104, 114, 127, 189, 201, 216, 233, 243, 262, 265, 271, 299, 301–02, 335, 341, 372. 74 Uttering the formula ‘subḥāna allāh’, i.e. ‘praise to God’. People would apparently count their eulogies with their fingers, similar to the use of rosaries, A.J. Wensinck, “Subḥa”, Enc. of Islam II. 75 Uttering the formula ‘lā ilāha illā allāh’, i.e. ‘there is no god but God’. 72 73

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seeking God, renouncing this world, removing creation from the heart and divesting it (the heart) from all but its Lord.” 76

As already in the first extract, our author seems to feel that many people who associated with Sufi circles at the time, only did so on the outside. They exhibited their supposed adoption of this way of life publicly by proudly wearing khirqas, making their faces look pale to imply fasting, tightening their shoulders as if they had sat up all night in vigil, talking grandiosely about the accounts of pious ancestors and pretending to count eulogies with their hands, all the while lacking the inner conviction and sincerity, which makes them in al-Jīlānī’s eyes mere hypocrites. As he likes to remind his audience, genuine renunciation does not happen primarily through external acts, but rather starts with inner acts and then finds manifestation on the outside. 77 There is no point in putting on a khirqa or woollen cloak or to withdraw to a cell for solitude, if one is not prepared inside; “[beware] he who has put on a woollen cloak (ṣūf), first cloth your innermost in a woollen cloak, then your heart, then your lower soul and [only] then your body.” 78 As Sufism, and by extension wearing a woollen cloak, stands for inner purity in alJīlānī’s opinion, one is thus urged to first purify one’s inner sphere completely before adopting a woollen cloak, or in fact any other outward distinguishing mark. In a more metaphorical manner, he elucidates “This matter requires a foundation, [only] then comes after this the building, dig the ground of your heart until there flows from it the water of wisdom, then build with sincere devotion to God (ikhlāṣ), inner purification (mujāhada) and sound work until your castle arises…give life to the body of your deeds through the spirit of sincere devotion to God

Al-Jīlānī, Fatḥ al-rabbānī, 115. Ibid., 262, 299. 78 Ibid., 111, see for similar examples, ibid., 19, 114, 310. 76 77

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Again, it seems that al-Jīlānī found the levels of inner purity and commitment of many contemporaries who joined Sufi circles and counted themselves Sufis wanting. 80 It is no doubt for the same reason, that our author places such values as ‘sincere devotion to God’ (ikhlāṣ) and ‘fidelity to God’ (ṣidq), at the centre of his ideas. Even his interpretation of the term ‘Sufi’ reflects this concern. As alluded to above, he aligns it with purity, and elaborates in the Ghunya that it “originally [refers to] ṣūfiya in accordance with the verb pattern fūʿila, taken from [the verbal noun] muṣāfā, it denotes a believer whom God treats with equally pure affection (ʿabdan ṣāfā-hu al-ḥaqq). It is for this reason said that ‘a ṣūfī is whoever is unblemished (ṣāfiyan) by the shortcomings of the lower soul, devoid of its blameworthy aspects and travelling along the mystical path due to the praiseworthy nature of his religious orientation and constant adherence to divine reality [while] not relying with his heart on any human being.’” 81

Al-Jīlānī is at odds with the traditional and today predominant theory, which proposes that the term Sufi (ṣūfī) comes originally from wool (ṣūf) and the Arabic root ṣ-ā-f. 82 Rather he suggests Ibid., 189, see for similar examples, ibid., 97, 265. Though it has to be noted that it was rather common in medieval Islam for Sufis to criticise other Sufis’ practice and lament the level of Sufism in their time. 81 Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya 442. 82 Nonetheless, al-Jīlānī was certainly not the only one averse to ascribing the origins of the term ‘Sufi’ to wool (ṣūf), a view espoused by a number of distinguished medieval Sufis already before his time, see, for example, Abū Bakr al-Kalābādhī, al-Taʿarruf li-madhhab ahl al-taṣawwuf, (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 2001), 5–9, Abū al-Qāsim al-Qushayrī, 311–15, ʿAlī b. ʿUthmān Al-Hūjwirī, The Kashf al-Maḥjúb; the Oldest Persian Treatise on Súfiism, by ʻAli B. ʻUthmán al-Jullábí al-Hujwírí, trans. Reynold A. 79 80

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that it derives from another root ṣ-f-ā, which in its third form passive is rendered ṣūfiya. The assumption at work seems to be that ṣūfiya over time transformed into ṣūfī, even though no further details are given regarding this. In written Arabic, the only difference between the two words is the sign for the doubling of the last consonant (shadda) of ‘ṣūfī’, which is at any rate frequently dropped. Consequently, ṣūfiya could conceivably have morphed into ṣūfī. Whether or not this theory can be linguistically and historically proven is another question, but it does provide revealing insight into our author’s outlook. A Sufi is, based on this interpretation, someone whom God treats with equally sincere love. Someone who has proven his purity and sincere devotion to God to the point that this is reciprocated. In the subsequent paragraphs, al-Jīlānī reaffirms this notion linking the Sufi with purity and sincerity, and in particular the root ṣ-f-ā, from which ṣūfiya derives. We learn that, one becomes a Sufi by ‘becoming unblemished by impurity’ (yuṣfā min aḥdāth or yuṣfā min al-takaddur) and ‘one’s interior becoming purified’ (taṣfīya bāṭini-hi). A true Sufi is characterized as ‘unblemished by the shortcomings of the lower soul’ (ṣāfiyan min āfāt al-nafs) or likened to ‘a crystal glass vessel filled with trans-

Nicholson, (Leiden: Brill, 1911), 30–35. Although they mostly admit that strictly speaking with reference to etymology, ‘Sufi’ most probably derived from wool (ṣūf), those authors try to downplay this, like alJīlānī, as it appears out of fear that certain people would be induced to reduce Sufism to wearing wool, without any inner implications. Thus, most of those authors attempt to link Sufism to purity (ṣafā’) or other putative origins, such as ‘the first line’ (al-ṣaff al-awwal) or ‘the people of the vestibule’ (ahl al-ṣuffa). In any case, al-Jīlānī seems to have been the only one who sought to attribute the term ‘Sufi’ etymologically to the root ṣ-f-ā, and moreover to relate it to its third form passive (ṣūfiya). On the other hand, a considerable section of medieval scholars and Sufis, such al-Sarrāj (d. 378/988), Ibn al-Jawzī (d. 597/1201) and Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328) agreed with the notion that ‘Sufi’ derived from wool (ṣūf).

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lucent water’ (inā’ ballūr mamlū’ mā’an ṣāfiyan). 83 Being a Sufi is accordingly a sign of inner accomplishment and has nothing to do with any external aspect, be that donning a khirqa or a woollen cloak, joining a Sufi circle or practicing withdrawal. 84 And yet, despite these efforts to define Sufism in a way that is both reflective of his own ideas and corrective to wayward expressions of Sufism during his time, one never gets the impression that al-Jīlānī is entirely comfortable with the terms ‘Sufi’ or ‘Sufism’ (taṣawwuf). He hardly uses those terms in any of his works. On the rare occasions that he does refer to them in Fatḥ al-rabbānī, the implications are, as alluded to above, oftentimes either negative or cautioning. One does not come across ‘Sufi’, or variations thereof, in Futūḥ al-ghayb except in a very short chapter with the title ‘Regarding Sufism and what it is based on’. 85 This chapter is rather inconsequential with regard to content, but two aspects stand out; the author shows himself again critical of certain manifestations of Sufism, 86 all the while, actually barely using the word ‘Sufism’, or variations thereof, instead being more comfortable with the term ‘faqr’. 87 Finally, the Ghunya exhibits the same general preference to draw on the terms ‘faqr’ and ‘faqīr’ rather than ‘Sufism’ and ‘Sufi’. Al-Jīlānī mentions the word ‘Sufi’, in the cited extract above, which is part of a section seeking to expound the term in the context of his mystical path. He likens the Sufi, for example, to Al-Jīlānī, al-Ghunya, 442. Elsewhere in the Ghunya, we find that al-Jīlānī does not downright condemn wearing wool, but he is also not supportive of it, in particular during the early stages of the path. At best, he seems to tolerate it during the second stage with its emphasis on renunciation, ibid., 337–38. 85 Al-Jīlānī, Futūḥ al-ghayb, 121–22. 86 He states “Sufism is not embracing idle chatter, but embracing hunger and being cut off from what one is used to and what one finds agreeable.” Ibid., 121. 87 The term ‘faqr’ is in the context of Islamic mysticism probably best translated as ‘voluntary poverty’, but, as mentioned above, our author tends to use it as a synonym for ‘Sufism’, see, chapter 3 above. 83 84

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the badal, but it becomes evident to the careful reader that the concept is not innate to his thinking. His treatment of it is, similar to the mentioned chapter in Futūḥ al-ghayb, merely an attempt to explain a somewhat awkward term by placing it into the familiar framework of his path.

EXCURSUS: IBN AL-JAWZĪ

While al-Jīlānī feels ill at ease using terms like ‘Sufi’ and ‘Sufism’ and occasionally condemns what he perceives as aberrant tendencies in Sufism, this is not a major feature of his thought. His fellow Ḥanbalī Ibn al-Jawzī, on the other hand, was rather more outspoken in these matters. Ibn al-Jawzī was born around 1115, 88 into an affluent Baghdadi family involved in brass trade, which traced its lineage back to the first Caliph Abū Bakr (d. 13/634). His nisba al-Jawzī probably derives from a river port near or in Basra called Jawza, where his grandfather originally came from. 89 He lost his father early in his life, whereupon he was initially looked after by a paternal aunt and later was left under the care of the local Ḥanbalī scholar Abū al-Faḍl Ibn Nāṣir (d. 550/1155). 90 Sources generally hold that he was born between 508 and 510 in the Islamic calendar (1114–1117), but even slightly later dates are reported. Ibn Rajab, al-Dhayl ʿalā tabaqāt al-ḥanābila, (Cairo: maṭbaʿa al-sunna al-muḥammadiyya, 1952), vol. 1, 400; Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-aʿyān, (Paris: Maṭbaʿ al-akhawayn firman Ditwah, 1838), vol. 1, 392; alDhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām wa-wafayāt, vol. 42, 288; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, Mir'āt al-zamān fī tawārīkh al-ʿayān, (Beirut: Dār al-risāla al-ʿālamiyya, 2013), vol. 22, 94. 89 Another widespread theory claims that his grandfather became known by this nisba, because he had a huge walnut tree (jawza) in his courtyard (dār). Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 400; Ibn Khallikān, vol. 1, 392; alDhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 42, 288; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 22, 94. 90 Swartz mentions that Abū al-Faḍl Ibn Nāṣir was also Ibn al-Jawzī’s paternal uncle, Ibn al-Jawzī, Ibn al-Jawzī's Kitāb al-Quṣṣāṣ wa-lMudhakkirīn, trans. and intro. Merlin Swartz, (Beirut, Dār El-Machreq Éditeurs, 1971), 16. 88

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It was then that Ibn al-Jawzī’s formal education appears to have commenced. He received broad training in the religious sciences as well as belles lettres. Among many others, he studied with Abū al-Ḥasan b. al-Zāghūnī (d. 527/1132), who is considered his main teacher, ʿAlī Abū Bakr al-Dīnawarī (d. 532/1138), Abū Ḥakīm al-Nahrawānī (d. 556/1161), Abū Yaʿlā Ibn al-Farrāʾ (d. 560/1165), and said Abū al-Faḍl Ibn Nāṣir. 91 Although he was not his immediate teacher, Ibn ʿAqīl (d. 513/1119) had substantial influence on Ibn al-Jawzī’s thought. 92 Ibn al-Jawzī became firmly attached to the Ḥanbalī school, but his formation was not limited to this and he would later draw from the work of scholars of other Sunni law schools, most notably from the Shāfi‘ī scholars Abu Nuʿaym al-Iṣfahānī (d. 430/1038) and alKhatīb al-Baghdadī (d. 463/1071). We are told that Ibn al-Jawzī started preaching very early in his life, soon becoming an outstanding and much-revered public preacher. His sermons are reported to have been extremely popular, attracting tens of thousands, or even more, Baghdadis. Many are said to have converted to Islam at his hands and his sermons were also attended by Abbasid Caliphs, caliphal ministers and other important individuals. In time, Ibn al-Jawzī would be invited to give sermons in the major congregational mosques of Baghdad, that is, the caliphal palace mosque, and the congregational mosques of Ruṣāfa and al-Manṣūr. 93 He was additionally made the official caliphal preacher at Badr al-Sharīf Gate, oftentimes with the Caliph in attendance. 94 Soon after Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 401–02; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 42, 288; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 22, 94. 92 Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 414. 93 Makdisi identifies these three as the main congregational mosques in Baghdad in the fifth/eleventh century. George Makdisi, ‘Muslim institutions of learning in eleventh-century Baghdad’, BSOAS, Vol. 24, No. 1 (1961), 404–07. 94 al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām vol. 42, 288–291; Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 22, 94; Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 402–04; Guy Le Strange, Baghdad during the Abbasid caliphate from contemporary Arabic and Persian sources, (Oxford: 91

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completing his studies, Ibn al-Jawzī was able to take over the two madrasas of his former teacher al-Nahrawānī at the Azaj gate and in the Ma’mūniyya quarter. 95 Later he would be moreover put in charge of several other madrasas, where he taught many students, among the most outstanding were Ibn Qudāma (d. 620/1223), ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Maqdisī (d. 600/1204), Ibn Dubaythī (d. 637/1239) and Ibn al-Najjār (d. 643/1246). 96 At the same time, Ibn al-Jawzī became one of the most eminent scholars of his time, and contributed to a range of scholarly fields such as Quranic commentary, hadith, Islamic jurisprudence, public preaching, asceticism, history and medicine, all the while also being noted for his poetry. His work in Quranic commentary, public preaching and history was particularly highly regarded, some of his hadith scholarship, however, was criticized in certain circles, even within the Ḥanbalī school, for its deficient reliability. 97 His early success as public preacher and teacher was, to some degree at least, facilitated by his close links to the Abbasid court of caliph al-Muqtafī (r. 530–55/1136–60), and in particular to the Ḥanbalī vizier Ibn Hubayra (d. 561/1165). The latter sought to re-establish the Abbasid caliphate as a major political player, independent of its Seljuk overlords. As Ibn Hubayra identified public support and a revival of Sunni traditionalism as the means to achieve this, public preachers of Sunni traditionalist inclination, like Ibn al-Jawzī, became patronized and closely allied with the caliphate. Ibn al-Jawzī would even give sermons in Ibn Hubayra’s house on Fridays. The policy largely succeeded, and ushered in the revival of the Abbasid caliphate, which The Clarendon Press, 1900), 270–71; Erik Ohlander, Sufism in an age of transition: ‘Umar al-Suhrawardī and the rise of the Islamic mystical brotherhoods, (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 93. 95 H. Laoust, “Ibn al-D̲ ja̲ wzī”, Enc. of Islam II. 96 al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 42, 296. 97 Ibid., vol. 42, 300–03; Ibn Khallikān, vol. 1, 391; Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 414–16.

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would last through al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh’s (r. 575/1180– 622/1225) rule. 98 Under al-Muqtafī’s successor Caliph al-Mustanjid (555/1160–566/1170), who continued the drive for reasserting the Abbasids as an autonomous political power, Ibn al-Jawzī initially retained his influence and was reportedly even bestowed with a robe of honour together with al-Jīlānī, 99 but with the death of his patron Ibn Hubayra in 561/1165, he fell out of favour. It was only the ascension of Caliph al-Mustaḍī’ (566/1170–575/1180), which saw Ibn al-Jawzī restored to his previous position. It was in this period that he had most influence, enjoying ready access to the Caliph, being in charge of several madrasas 100 and playing an integral role in the caliphal policy of upholding the Sunna and denouncing Shi’ism. 101 Merlin Swartz has suggested that the composition of Talbīs Iblīs falls into this period, more precisely the second half of the 1170s (the early 570s in the hijrī calendar), constituting a kind of road map and rationale for the caliphal campaign against elements opposed to Sunni traditionalism. 102 Ibn Rajab, al-Dhayl ʿalā tabaqāt al-ḥanābila, vol. 1, 403; Laoust, “Ibn al-D̲ ja̲ wzī”; Ibn al-Jawzī, Ibn al-Jawzī's Kitāb al-Quṣṣāṣ wa-l-Mudhakkirīn, trans. and intro. Merlin Swartz, 27–34; Herbert Mason, Two statesmen of mediaeval Islam: Vizir Ibn Hubayra (499–560AH/1105–1165AD) and Caliph an-Nâsịr li Dîn Allâh (553–622 AH/1158–1225 AD), (The Hague: Mouton, c1972), 86, 93–106, 116, 118–20; Angelika Hartmann, AnNāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180–1225): Politik, Religion, Kultur in der späten 'Abbasidenzeit, (New York; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1975), 15, 34–35, 42–43. 99 Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 402. 100 Possibly as many as five madrasas, al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 42, 296; Ibn al-Jawzī, Ibn al-Jawzī's Kitāb al-Quṣṣāṣ wa-l-Mudhakkirīn, trans. and intro. Merlin Swartz, 13–16. 101 Ibn Rajab suggests that Ibn al-Jawzī composed two works for alMustaḍī’, was invited by the caliph to give sermons at Badr al-Sharīf Gate and was materially compensated by him. Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 404. 102 Ibn al-Jawzī, Ibn al-Jawzī's Kitāb al-Quṣṣāṣ wa-l-Mudhakkirīn, trans. and intro. Merlin Swartz, 29–34. 98

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Ibn al-Jawzī’s influence gradually declined under the subsequent reign of al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh, who was not as devoted to the Ḥanbalī school as some of his predecessors. The caliph’s influential mother, Zumurrud Khātūn (d. 599/1203), had very close ties to the Ḥanbalīs, and the Ḥanbalī scholar Ibn Yūnus (d. 593/1197) served al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh in several important positions until 590/1194, but the caliph’s inclinations and political ambitions went beyond Sunni traditionalism. Al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh seems to have been most attached to Sufism, patronizing many Sufis as in the case of the previously mentioned Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī (d. 632/1234), and sought to unify Sufism and the futuwwa associations under the leadership of the caliphate. He also made efforts to improve relations between the four Sunni law schools as well as between the Caliphate and Twelver and Ismaili Shi’ism, in an attempt to reunite Muslims. Ibn al-Jawzī initially retained his positions, but when Ibn Yūnus was brought down and imprisoned in 590/1194, he was arrested and sent into exile to Wāsiṭ for five years because he had been a close associate of Ibn Yūnus. 103 In the background of Ibn al-Jawzī’s fall from favour was his longstanding feud with the family of al-Jīlānī. 104 Even when the Ibn al-Jawzī reportedly even composed a work condemning al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh, called dhamm al-khalifat al-Nāṣir, Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 420, 426–27; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 42, 295–96; Mason, Two statesmen of mediaeval Islam, 86, 93–106, 116, 118–20; Angelika Hartmann, An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180–1225), 111–18, 181–86, 240–43, 246–50, 256–60; Ohlander, 15–27, 249–57, 271–91. 104 Although the reasons for Ibn al-Jawzī’s exile remain disputed. AlDhahabī says that the conflict was not actually between Ibn al-Jawzī and al-Jīlānī’s family but between Ibn Yūnus and al-Jīlānī’s family, and that Ibn al-Jawzī was only dragged into this and exiled due to being associated with Ibn Yūnus. On the other hand, Angelika Hartmann suggests that the main reason for being exiled was that Ibn al-Jawzī was critical of al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh’s religious policy, but that the conflict with al-Jīlānī’s family also contributed to it. Al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh alIslām, vol. 42, 295–96; Angelika Hartmann, “Islamisches Predigtwesen 103

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latter was still alive, there appears to have been conflict between Ibn al-Jawzī and al-Jīlānī, at least from the side of the former. 105 Al-Dhahabī would later explain the very short entry Ibn al-Jawzī allotted to al-Jīlānī in his al-Muntaẓam, in that the former’s bitterness did not allow him to write more about alJīlānī because he hated him in his heart. 106 Ibn al-Jawzī even wrote a refutation of al-Jīlānī according to some sources. 107 im Mittelalter: Ibn al-Gauzi und sein “Buch der Schlussreden” (1186 n. Chr.)”, Saeculum 38, (1987), 347–48; Lutz Richter-Bernburg, ‘Ibn alMāristānīya: The Career of a Ḥanbalite Intellectual in Sixth/Twelfth Century Baghdad’, Journal of the American Oriental Society, Vol. 102, No. 2, 273. For an in-depth analysis of the episode, see Merlin Swartz, “Ibn al-Jawzī; a Study of his Life and Work as Preacher”, (PhD diss., Harvard University, 1967), 166–69. 105 There is to my knowledge no evidence indicating any ill-feeling of al-Jīlānī towards Ibn al-Jawzī. See for a discussion, Hamza Malik, The grey falcon: the life and teaching of Shaykh 'Abd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2019). 211–13. 106 al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 39, 89. 107 Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 420. Although it has to be said, that it is doubtful whether such a work ever existed. First of all, is such a refutation, to the best of my knowledge, only mentioned in Ibn Rajab’s list of Ibn alJawzī’s works, but not in other comparable sources, such as Sibṭ Ibn alJawzī, which offers the most complete list of Ibn al-Jawzī’s works. Furthermore, Ibn al-Jawzī included al-Jīlānī among the foremost Ḥanbalīs in his Manāqib al-imām Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, which he arguably would not have done, had he had any serious ideological disagreements with him. Finally, and most importantly, in both entries in Manāqib al-Imām Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal and al-Muntaẓam fī tārīkh al-mulūk wa-l-umam, Ibn alJawzī does not actually write anything obviously negative about alJīlānī. Indeed, he concedes that ‘he followed the right path’. This suggests that there was no serious ideological disagreement between the two, which one imagines would have been necessary for a work of refutation. That is not to say, that Ibn al-Jawzī did not dislike al-Jīlānī, he most likely did, but probably rather for personal than other reasons. Angelika Hartmann also comes to similar conclusions, Angelika Hartmann, “Islamisches Predigtwesen im Mittelalter”, 351; Ibn al-

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The reason for the conflict is not clear, it has been attributed to their apparent clash about Sufism, with al-Jīlānī supposedly embracing it, while also being a Ḥanbalī, and Ibn al-Jawzī supposedly being at odds with it, 108 but this can be dismissed when considering Ibn al-Jawzī’s own mystical inclinations. 109 Another possibility are tensions in the Ḥanbalī school; Ibn alJawzī’s relationship with some elements of the school deteriorated in the later part of his life; he was frequently criticized for his approach and erroneous use of hadith, and his view on speculative theology, also by people associated with al-Jīlānī, 110 but the conflict between Ibn al-Jawzī and al-Jīlānī and his family seems a little bit too personal for this. There were, after all other Ḥanbalīs more outspoken in their criticism of Ibn al-Jawzī, 111 with whom no such feud is reported. More likely, the problem may have arisen from personal issues, Ibn al-Jawzī likely saw alJīlānī as a direct rival for public influence. Given that the latter Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 18, 173; idem., Manāqib al-Imām Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, (Jīzah: Hajar lil-Ṭibāʿah wa-l-Nashr wa-al-Tawzīʿ wa-l-Iʿlān, 1988), 707. 108 Merlin Swartz suggests that this played a role, though not exclusively so, Merlin Swartz, “Ibn al-Jawzī; a Study of his Life and Work as Preacher”, 169–70; Hartmann, An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180–1225), 193– 94. 109 In addition, Ibn al-Jawzī does not even describe al-Jīlānī as ‘Sufi’ in Manāqib al-Imām Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal and al-Muntaẓam fī tārīkh al-mulūk wa-l-umam, but merely refers to his ‘ascetic’ lifestyle (zuhd) in the latter. Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 18, 173; idem, Manāqib al-Imām Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, 707. 110 Such as al-Jīlānī’s student Ibn Qudāma. Yet, the reasons for Ibn alJawzī’s declining relationship with certain Ḥanbalī circles is not wellunderstood, Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 414–16; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 42, 300–03. For an informative discussion, see, Merlin Swartz, A Medieval Critique of Anthropomorphism: Ibn al-Jawzī's Kitāb Akhbār aṣṣifāt: a critical edition of the Arabic text with translation, introduction and notes, (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 3–4, 11–12, 23–32. 111 As already mentioned, there is no evidence indicating any ill-feeling of al-Jīlānī towards Ibn al-Jawzī.

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was older, the former may have resented having to wait for his turn for advancement and recognition. 112 Be that as it may, after al-Jīlānī’s death, his ribāṭ 113 and madrasa having passed to his son ʿAbd al-Wahhāb (d. 593/1197), Ibn al-Jawzī is believed to have used his political connections to Ibn Yunūs to harass the offspring of al-Jīlānī. 114 When ʿAbd al-Wahhāb’s son Rukn al-Dīn (d. 588/1192) was eventually prosecuted for delving into philosophy, Ibn al-Jawzī was naturally part of the committee that condemned him and decreed the burning of his books. 115 The decree resulted also in the burning of the house of al-Jīlānī’s offspring and the desecration of his tomb. 116 Ibn al-Jawzī then took over al-Jīlānī’s madrasa at the Azaj gate, now called madrasa jīliyya, which is said to have been the most prestigious Ḥanbalī madrasa in Baghdad. Yet the downfall of Ibn Yunūs reversed the picture. Rukn al-Dīn was rehabilitated and ʿAbd al-Wahhāb re-installed as head of the Swartz, “Ibn al-Jawzī; a Study of his Life and Work as Preacher”, 166– 69; Hartmann, “Islamisches Predigtwesen im Mittelalter”, 354. 113 See for the ambiguities connected to al-Jīlānī’s ribāṭ chapter 1 above. 114 Though, as mentioned above, al-Dhahabī reports that the bad blood was not between Ibn al-Jawzī and al-Jīlānī’s family but between Ibn Yūnus and al-Jīlānī’s family, and that Ibn al-Jawzī only became involved in this by being associated with Ibn Yūnus. That being said, Rukn al-Dīn’s reported role in urging the vizier Ibn al-Qaṣṣāb, who was in charge of the later drive against Ibn Yūnus and his circle, to move against Ibn al-Jawzī, as well as Rukn al-Dīn’s interaction with Ibn alJawzī when personally taking him to his exile in Wāsiṭ after he had been arrested, would suggest that indeed there was deep hostility between Ibn al-Jawzī and al-Jīlānī’s family, Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 426–27; alDhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām vol. 42, 295–96; Hartmann, “Islamisches Predigtwesen im Mittelalter”, 355. al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 42, 295–96. 115 Rukn al-Dīn apparently had a large library, entailing works of philosophical and scientific content, which made him an easy target. Hartmann, An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180–1225), 86, 256–60; RichterBernburg, 272–74. 116 Hartmann, An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180–1225), 86. 112

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madrasa as well as given another ribāṭ, and Ibn al-Jawzī was sent into exile to Wāsiṭ, being watched over by guardians of Shia background. 117 Eventually, he was allowed to return by the intercession of his son Muḥyi al-Dīn and the caliph’s mother. Soon after returning to Baghdad, Ibn al-Jawzī passed away in 1201; his funeral was reportedly very widely attended. 118 Ibn al-Jawzī was unlike al-Jīlānī, but similar to Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī, heavily involved in politics. But beyond the public image of the eminent religious scholar, famous preacher and political player, there is also another dimension to the man. In medieval sources, Ibn al-Jawzī is often described as ascetically inclined. He would recite the Quran every day, only leave his house for Friday prayer and sermons, never joke or play around, and only eat food he was certain was sound. 119 Some features of this, like his sternness, would obviously show in public, but Ibn al-Jawzī paid great attention to keep his piety private as much as possible. A couple of reports in Ibn Rajab’s work, one by al-Qādisī (d. 632/1234), who wrote a continuation of al-Muntaẓam, 120 and another by Ibn al-Najjār a famous historian who had studied with Ibn al-Jawzī, reinforce this impression. Al-Qādisī relates that Ibn al-Jawzī “would practice vigil during nights (yaqūmu al-layl) and fast during daytime…he would visit the pious in the darkness of the night, he would barely relax when night descended, and would barely let up dhikr [at any time], and would recite the whole Quran every day See for this episode, Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 426–27; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh alIslām, vol. 42, 295–96; Mason, Two statesmen of mediaeval Islam, 30–32; Swartz, “Ibn al-Jawzī; a Study of his Life and Work as Preacher”, 172–80; Ibn al-Jawzī, Ibn al-Jawzī's Kitāb al-Quṣṣāṣ wa-l-Mudhakkirīn, 34–36; Hartmann, An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180–1225), 93–94, 181–89, 256–60. 118 Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 428–29; al-Dhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām, vol. 42, 297– 98. 119 Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 22, 94; Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 410, 415. 120 Makdisi, Ibn ʻAqīl et la résurgence de l'islam traditionaliste au XIe siècle (Ve siècle de l'Hégire), 21. 117

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and night”. 121 While the details of such a report may be debatable, 122 the gist of it depicts an ascetically inclined and pious individual who likes to conceal these activities. Ibn al-Najjār’s report reveals still other sides of Ibn al-Jawzī’s piety, he explains that “despite [his] excellence and wide-ranging learning [in regular religious sciences], he was a master of personal devotions to God and acts of devotion (dhā awrād wa-ta’lluh), and was blessed to have genuine mystical experiences, and to drink from the sweetness of secret conversations with God (walahu naṣīb min al-adhwāq al-ṣaḥīḥ wa-ḥaẓẓ min shurb ḥalāwa al-munājāt), and he referred to this [in his public speech, because] there is no doubt that his words in sermons and instruction (maʿārif) were not distant words devoid of [personal] mystical experience (dhawq) he [merely] conveyed, but words that he could identify with (mushārik fī-hi). 123

We find Ibn al-Jawzī here described as committed mystic, whose success as preacher and teacher lay in those very mystical experiences, which he then used as a basis for his sermons and teaching. Considering his biography above and in particular his reputation as a fierce critic of Sufism, this is a rather surprising turn of events. On its own, one may be inclined to ignore this report, but it does broadly overlap with other reports that depict him in similar fashion, and that additionally point to his rather close connections to various Sufis throughout his life. 124 Moreover, Ibn

Ibn Rajab, vol. 1, 413–14. See, for example, Ibn Rajab’s dismissive comment concerning it, Ibid., vol. 1, 414. 123 Ibid., vol. 1, 413. 124 Be that as his teachers, such as Abū al-Qāsim al-ʿAlawī (d. 527/1133) or Abū al-Waqt al-Sijzī (d. 553/1158), or later acquaintances like Ibn Sukayna (d. 607/1210–11) who was in charge of washing Ibn al-Jawzī’s body for his funeral. Ibid., vol. 1, 401–02, 428; alDhahabī, Tārīkh al-Islām vol. 42, 288, 297; Ibn al-Jawzī, Ibn al-Jawzī's 121 122

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al-Jawzī’s sermons are known to have included parts aiming at eliciting emotions and even ecstatic states in his audience, 125 oftentimes through mystical poetry, which coincides with Ibn alNajjār’s claim that he based his sermons on his own mystical experiences. Finally, this description of Ibn al-Jawzī’s piety likewise overlaps with certain contents of his work. Ibn al-Jawzī is regarded as one of the most productive writers in medieval Islam contributing to a variety of fields such as Quranic commentary, hadith, Islamic jurisprudence, public preaching, asceticism and piety, history, medicine and poetry. His grandson Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, who compiled what is considered the most complete list of his works, lists over two-hundred and thirty works, but reckons that this is still incomplete. 126 Other estimates range between two hundred and a thousand works. Modern scholarship has mostly focused on his historical works, like al-Muntaẓam 127 and Ṣifāt al-ṣafwa, 128 and collections of his sermons, such as al-Mudhish. 129 More relevant here is another well-known work of his, Talbīs Iblīs, 130 literally ‘the deception of the devil’, which has commonly been interpreted as a polemical condemnation of Sufism. As such Talbīs Iblīs does indeed reinforce this image. Ibn alJawzī’s treatment of the shortcomings of Sufism in the work can Kitāb al-Quṣṣāṣ wa-l-Mudhakkirīn, trans. and intro. Merlin Swartz, 17– 21; Hartmann, “Islamisches Predigtwesen im Mittelalter”, 347. 125 It is reported that at times this even affected Ibn al-Jawzī himself during his sermons, Hartmann, “Islamisches Predigtwesen im Mittelalter”, 355–57, 364–66; Merlin Swartz, “Arabic Rhetoric and the Art of Homily in Medieval Islam”, in Religion and Culture in Medieval Islam, ed. Richard G. Hovannisian and Georges Sabagh, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 44–47, 49. 126 Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī, vol. 22, 96–99. 127 Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam. 128 Ibn al-Jawzī, Ṣifāt al-ṣafwa. 129 Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Mudhish, (Damascus: Dār al-Qalam; Beirut: al-Dār alShāmīyah, 2004). 130 Ibn al-Jawzī, Talbīs Iblīs, (Cairo: Idāra al-Ṭabāʿa al-Munīriyya, 1928).

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be broken up into three parts. 131 In the beginning the author attempts to define ‘Sufism’ and trace its origins, in the subsequent part he follows the development of the Sufi tradition to his own time, and in the last and longest part he calls attention to specific problems in contemporary Sufism. Diverging from alJīlānī’s view, Ibn al-Jawzī explains that Sufism derives from ‘wool’ (ṣūf), being worn for ascetic purposes, so that by the end of the second Islamic century 132 people standing out in this way became known as ‘ṣūfīs’, i.e., those wearing wool, and their style became known as ‘Sufism’ (taṣawwuf), i.e. wearing wool. 133 This first generations of Sufis are still appraised in rather favourable terms in Talbīs Iblīs, being associated with such worthy qualities as asceticism (zuhd), gentleness, forbearance, sincerity and truthfulness. 134 Yet it was already at this stage that things started to go wrong, as Sufis, in spite of their sound intentions, gradually came to prioritize their practices at the expense of knowledge of the Sunna, which eventually resulted in seriously exaggerated forms of asceticism and practices without proper basis in the prophetic traditions. In the following generations, such distortions grew exponentially. 135 Among the first generations, Ibn al-Jawzī identifies al-Ḥārith al-Muḥāsibī (d. 243/857) as being responsible for initiating corrupted ideas of extreme poverty and starvation, which would among later Sufis lead to distorted fantasies and wrongful claims of passionate love with God (ʿishq). 136 In subsequent Sufi generations, Ibn al-Jawzī particularly laments the establishment of Sufism as a distinctive movement grounded on its own set of principles (madhhab), in other words, the creation of distinctive rules and norms obtained from particular Sufi Quranic interpretations and ḥadīth collections, as a cruIbid., 160–377. That is the early ninth-century AD. 133 Ibn al-Jawzī, Talbīs Iblīs, 162. 134 Ibid., 162 135 Ibid., 163, 320–25. 136 Ibid., 163. 131 132

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cial stage in ruining genuine mysticism. It set, in his opinion, the premise for inventing still more abhorrent customs and norms, which Sufis claimed as their own realities. In the same way, Sufis began misguidedly to elevate what they claimed to be interior knowledge (al-ʿilm al-bāṭin) above external knowledge (al-ʿilm al-ẓāhir) including the sharīʿa, which separated them from religious scholars. 137 In connection with this, Talbīs Iblīs blames namely individuals such as al-Sarrāj (d. 378/988), Abū Ṭālib alMakkī (d. 386/996), and al-Sulamī (d. 412/1021) for writing works of Sufi tafsīr and Sufi norms, based on invented reports devoid of proper chains of transmission. 138 Closer to his time, Ibn al-Jawzī singles out Abū Nuʿaym alIṣfahānī’s (d. 430/1038) Ḥilyat al-awliyā’ wa-ṭabaqāt al-aṣfiyā’, al-Qushayrī’s (d. 465/1072) Risāla al-qushayriyya, and Abū Ḥamīd al-Ghazālī’s (d. 505/1111) Ihyā’ ʿulūm al-dīn, for criticism. Accordingly, they either wrongfully included early Muslims like companions and pious ancestors among the ranks of the Sufis, as in the case of al-Iṣfahānī, or misunderstood and misrepresented such concepts as ‘passing away from oneself’ and ‘subsistence in God’ (fanā’, baqā’), or ‘expansion’ and ‘contraction of the heart’ (basṭ, qabḍ), as in the case of al-Qushayrī, or unknowingly used invented hadiths, like in the case of alGhazālī. Their mistakes were due to insufficient knowledge of prophetic and companion traditions and blindly accepting baseless ideas and reports of the previous generations of Sufis. The bulk of these Sufi works is therefore nothing but a bunch of experiences without any basis in the Sunna. 139 The main focus of Talbīs Iblīs with regard to Sufism are however contemporary problems. One theme frequently alluded to in this context is privacy. Ibn al-Jawzī condemns Sufis who publicise their ascetic and mystical achievements, such as ecstatic states or fasting, instead of keeping this private. He advocates Ibid., 163–64. Ibid., 163–64. 139 Ibid., 164–66. 137 138

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for a mystical piety that is kept secret as much as possible, in Talbīs Iblīs and elsewhere, which clearly coincides with alJīlānī’s thinking. In contrast to ritual observance (ʿibādāt), like ritual prayers, the performance of which is preferred in public, supererogatory acts of worship, to which belong ascetical and mystical practices, have to be concealed from other human beings and revealed to God alone. To some degree, like al-Jīlānī, Ibn al-Jawzī links privacy to genuineness; a lack of secrecy in these matters reveals that they are not intended for God but for other humans, and therefore necessarily fake and hypocritic. Talbīs Iblīs distinguishes between ‘outward hypocrisy’, attempting to deceive other human beings by showing off one’s emaciation or paleness in public, and ‘inner hypocrisy’ (khafīy al-riyā’), attempting to deceive God by not intending an act of worship for Him. 140 In line with al-Jīlānī’s attitude, Ibn al-Jawzī also dismisses references to passionate love (ʿishq) between God and humans. He argues that, based on the opinions of philologists, ‘passionate love’ is solely germane to the marital setting, that the relationship between God and man in the Quran is defined as ‘loving’ (ḥubb, maḥabba) rather than ‘passionately loving’ (ʿishq), 141 and that finally, one has in any case no right to assert God’s love for oneself. 142 As passionate love is only applicable to the marital, i.e., human, context, associating it with the Creator therefore draws the Latter into the shapes of His creation, which is in a sense treacherously close to notions of divine incarnation. 143 The

Ibid., 152–54, 250–64. For example, sūrā 5:54 “God loves them and they love God” (yuḥibbu-hum wa-yuḥibbūna-hu). 142 Joseph Bell proposes that for Ibn al-Jawzī ʿishq signifies an excess of love and hence a malady, misleading humans to act unreasonably and sinfully, Joseph Bell, Love Theory in later Hanbalite Islam, (Albany, State University of New York Press, 1979), 34–37, 42. 143 Ibn al-Jawzī, Talbīs Iblīs, 169–77. 140 141

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controversial Sufi practice of beholding beardless youths is for this and other reasons likewise denounced. 144 Talbīs Iblīs devotes considerable space to a critique of Sufi habits of clothing. In general, wearing patched clothing (khirqa) is only acceptable if one is forced to do so by one’s material circumstances. The Prophet and his companions reportedly did so due to necessity, but later the first generations of Sufis adopted this without being compelled to do so by poverty. This was unnatural and gave way to far more deplorable contemporary trends. Ibn al-Jawzī observes that Sufis in his time aim for both distinction (shuhra), being recognizable ascetics, but also appeal (shahwa) with their dresses. To this end, they insist on having three different pieces of clothing, in diverse and oftentimes even conspicuous colours, which they tear apart and then re-patch to create patched garments (khirqa). Some even put on a silk brocades (dībāj) or silken waist wrappers (fuwaṭ) to make their garments more appealing. Talbīs Iblīs unsurprisingly disparages such attempts to stand out unnaturally from the masses. In accordance with his emphasis on privacy in these matters, Ibn alJawzī suggests that one dresses in moderate and inconspicuous manner to fit in with the rest. 145 In addition to other aspects of twelfth-century Sufism, such as the Sufis’ dealing with wealth, their eating and housing habits, or their approaches to travelling and medical treatment, Talbīs Iblīs criticizes certain tendencies in connection with the practice of audition (samāʿ). Openly or pretentiously displaying ecstatic states is deemed unacceptable in this context, as is rending or removing one’s clothes, which overlaps with al-Jīlānī’s view. Ibn al-Jawzī also finds fault with dancing and, especially, with singing (al-ghinā’) in connection with this. He argues, like Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī, that singing has a similar effect on humans like alcohol, upsetting the balance of natural temperance by suppressing reason, which makes people disposed to 144 145

Ibid., 264–77. Ibid., 186–206.

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things they would otherwise regard inappropriate, such as worldly and sensual pleasures and even sexual immoralities (zinā’). 146 In congruence with al-Jīlānī, Ibn al-Jawzī laments that audition based on singing has become widely popular among later generations of Sufis. “Attachment to audition [based on singing] has become established in the hearts of people of their like and they prefer it over [audition based on] recitation of the Quran, as their hearts become tender in its (audition based on singing) presence in a way they do not become tender in the presence of the Quran.” 147

Ibn al-Jawzī alludes here, and elsewhere, that he is not per se opposed to audition, yet under the condition that it is based on the Quran. 148 Like al-Jīlānī, he regards any other way of practicing audition inappropriate. There is little doubt that Talbīs Iblīs is indeed a scathing critique not only of contemporary Sufism, but to some degree of the Sufi tradition as a whole, which however requires certain clarifications and specifications. 149 First of all, as pointed out by George Makdisi and Merlin Swartz, the work is not solely aimed at criticizing Sufism, but a number of other groups in medieval Islam like certain philosophers, legal scholars, hadith scholars, public preachers, poets, sectarians and pagans. The chapter on Ibid., 222–50; especially 231–37. Ibid., 247. The extract simply distinguishes between audition (samāʿ) and Quranic recitation (qirā’a al-qur’ān), but one can infer from the context that it actually means to distinguish between audition based on singing and audition based on Quranic recitation. 148 See the positive illustrations of audition in Baḥr al-dumūʿ and Ṣaid alkhāṭir. Ibn al-Jawzī, Ṣaid al-khāṭir, (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1992), 425–26; idem, Baḥr al-dumūʿ, 107, 116, 121, 136–37; idem, Talbīs Iblīs, 204. See for further discussion below. 149 For a detailed analysis of this, see, Pascal Held, “Ibn al-Jawzi’s critique of Sufism in Talbis iblis: a re-examination”, Studia Islamica, (forthcoming). 146 147

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Sufism is the longest and the most elaborate but interpreting this as proof for the author’s outright hostility to Sufism is risky, because Ibn al-Jawzī similarly criticizes groups such as legal and hadith scholars and public preachers, to whom he clearly belonged himself. 150 Furthermore, the condemnation of Sufism in Talbīs Iblīs is first and foremost concerned with conduct, in particular in relation to the public domain. Even though Ibn al-Jawzī was undoubtedly familiar with a good number of the main works of the Sufi tradition, he does, for the most part, not engage with their ideas, theories and experiences. On the few occasions that his criticism extends to well-known Sufi works, as the Ḥilyat alawliyā’ or Risāla al-qushayriyya, it tends to be superficial and brief. I have argued elsewhere that the reason for the scarce treatment of actual Sufi beliefs and ideas is likely that he did not in essence disagree with them. 151 As other works of his reveal, Ibn al-Jawzī held mystical inclinations himself, 152 which does not mean that he wholeheartedly agreed with ideas put forward in those Sufi works, but that he shared with them a broad outlook, holding mystical encounters with the divine possible. Obviously, his views differed concerning appropriate conduct in

George Makdisi, “Hanbalite Islam”, Studies on Islam, trans. and ed. Merlin L. Swartz, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1981), 249; Swartz, A Medieval Critique of Anthropomorphism: Ibn al-Jawzī's Kitāb Akhbār aṣ-ṣifāt, 34n. Swartz defines the work suitably as ‘a critique of medieval Islamic culture, more generally, by a contemporary observer’ rather than an unequivocal denunciation of Sufism. 151 Held, “Ibn al-Jawzi’s critique of Sufism in Talbis iblis: a reexamination”. 152 See, for example, his Ṣaid al-khāṭir, Ṣifāt al-ṣafwa, and Salwāt alazḥān, Ibn al-Jawzī, Salwāt al-aḥzān bi-mā ruwiya ʻan dhawī al-ʻirfān (Alexandria: Manshaʾat al-Maʻārif, 1970). See also what follows below. For a discussion on this, see, Pascal Held, “Traces of mysticism in Ibn al-Jawzī’s thought; an examination of his Baḥr al-dumūʿ”, Journal of Islamic Studies, vol. 31 (2020), 141–72. 150

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relation to this, which explains the nature of his critique in Talbīs Iblīs. The kind of mysticism that Ibn al-Jawzī espouses is however disassociated from the Sufi tradition as a whole. In Talbīs Iblīs, he tends to somewhat ambiguously refer to pristine mystics and ascetics (al-salaf, qudamā’), by which he seems to mean the first generations of Muslim to the late third/ninth and early forth/tenth century, including in the later generations individuals like Ibrāhīm b. Adham (d. 161/777), Sufyān al-Thawrī (d. 161/778), ʿAbd Allāh b. al-Mubārak (d. 181/797), Fuḍayl b. ʿIyāḍ (d. 187/803), Maʿrūf al-Karkhī (d. 200/815), Abū Sulaymān al-Dārānī (d. c.215/830), Bishr b. al-Ḥārith (d. 227/841) and possibly even the likes of Sarī al-Saqaṭī (d. 253/867), alJunayd (d. 298/910) and al-Ruwaym (d. 303/915). The term ‘salaf’ seems to apply to members of the original community, and later Muslims who in the author’s opinion still represented the values of the original community. While many of the here listed individuals are habitually connected to the early Sufi tradition, Ibn al-Jawzī defines them primarily as ‘salaf’, that is, the original mystical piety in Islam, in stark contrast to the later Sufi movement. 153 As seen in his biographical sketch above, Ibn al-Jawzī was a man of different facets, on the one hand the public figure prone to polemics and political meddling and on the other hand the private individual with an inclination for asceticism and mysticism. Talbīs Iblīs is chiefly representative of the former, whereas a better indication of the latter is found in his Baḥr aldumūʿ (the sea of tears). 154 Baḥr al-dumūʿ is a mixture of different See for a detailed analysis, Held, “Ibn al-Jawzi’s critique of Sufism in Talbis iblis: a re-examination” 154 Ibn al-Jawzī, Baḥr al-dumūʿ (Tanta: Dār al-Ṣahāba li-l-Turāth, 1992). Although one could additionally point to other examples for his ascetical and mystical inclinations such as Ṣifāt al-ṣafwa, Salwāt al-azḥān, or Ṣayd al-khāṭir. Regarding the authenticity and dating of Baḥr al-dumūʿ, see Held, “Traces of mysticism in Ibn al-Jawzī’s thought; an examination of his Baḥr al-dumūʿ”, 142–46. 153

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forms of content; there are exhortations not to waste one’s life in disobedience, negligence and seeking worldly delights, but instead to return to God (tawba), there are religious poems of the author himself and others, there are pious stories of earlier prophets and more often of ascetics and mystics up to the early forth/tenth century, and, for our purposes most significant, there are sections in which the author lays out his own mystical ideas. 155 While those sections are not presented in a structured and coherent manner, it is nonetheless possible to make out a rather comprehensive notion of mysticism. Ibn al-Jawzī sets out the principles of his path in the very beginning of the book; God acts in both subtle spiritual (laṭīf) and transparent corporeal (kathīf) ways. 156 Although the vast majority of humans only perInterestingly, the first three of these four forms of content made up the basic elements of Ibn al-Jawzī’s homily, which included pious stories (qiṣṣa), admonition or exhortation (waʿẓ) and concluding poetry (khawātīm), in addition to the introductory hymns of praise (khuṭba). Swartz, “Arabic Rhetoric and the Art of Homily in Medieval Islam”, 40– 43. 156 A division between subtle spiritual and transparent physical aspects is found frequently in Baḥr al-dumūʿ. It describes God’s wisdom as entailing spiritual subtleties (laṭā’if al-arwāh) and physical steadfastness (katā’if al-ashbāh) (p. 116) and elucidates that God bestows spiritual subtleties upon the mystics through their intimacy with Him (lāṭafahum bi-unsi-hi) (p. 125). That being said, distinguishing between these two realms by using the roots k-th-f, as in kathīf, and l-ṭ-f, as in laṭīf, was relatively common in medieval mystical Islam. Aḥmad al-Ghazālī similarly relates kathāfa, the noun to the adjective kathīf, to the human body or the physical domain, in contrast to the heart which is represented by subtlety (laṭāfa), Aḥmad al-Ghazālī, Tajrīd fī-kalimat al-tawḥīd (Tehrān: Intishārāt-e Dānishgāh-e Tehrān, 2005 or 2006), 21. In the same way, al-Qushayrī in his Quranic commentary Laṭā'if al-ishārāt bitafsīr al-qur'ān claims that the subtleties in the text of the Quran are beyond normal human capacity and the prerogative of Sufi masters, because they have the necessary mystical understanding to perceive them. In addition, it should be noted that one of God’s names in Islam 155

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ceive the latter, there is a spiritual elite which is given understanding of both ways of divine acting due to a mutual bond of love (maḥabba) with God. This has always been the state of things since the beginning of creation and throughout the prophetic period all the way to Muhammad, “….Adam drank from it [the love of God], Noah wailed loudly in the state of it, Zechariah was resurrected [because of it], Khalīl 157 was exposed to fire and did not feel this [because of it], Moses’ desire for God (shawq) hastened him to say ‘show Yourself to me’ 158 so that I may see what is Seen (al-manẓūr), how much David was intoxicated by his desires for God (ashwāq) and by the melodies of the mizmār, Jesus wandered in his ecstatic love for God (hāma) in the desert not taking refuge with a Bedouin or a settled dweller, and our Prophet Muḥammad drank it as a wine (sharaba-hā sharb) uttering ‘am I not now!’ (a-lastu).” 159

Yet despite the fact that this ‘delicious wine’ of mutual love with the divine Friend was passed on by Muhammad to some of the companions, such as Abū Bakr and ʿUmar b. al-Khaṭṭāb (d. 23/644), and was thereafter preserved in the hands of ‘people of distinction’ (ahl al-ṣifa), by which the author appears to mean the already identified mystically inclined individuals in the second/eighth and third/ninth century, 160 in Ibn al-Jawzī’s own is al-laṭīf. Abū al-Qāsim al-Qushayrī, Tafsīr al-Qushayrī, (al-Riyāḍ: Markaz al-Turāth lil-Barmajīyāt, 2013). 157 That is Abraham, whose Quranic appellation is ‘Khalīl’ (Quran 4:125). 158 Quran 7:143. 159 Quran 7:172. 160 Given the many pious stories in Baḥr al-dumūʿ, depicting ascetical and often mystical experiences and deeds of individuals like Ḥasan alBaṣrī (d. 110/728), Ibrāhīm b. Adham (d. 161/777), Maʿrūf al-Karkhī (d. 200/815), Dhū al-Nūn al-Miṣrī (d. 246/861), Abū Sarī al-Saqaṭī (d. 253/867), Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī (d. 261/874), Abū Bakr al-Warrāq (d. 280/893) and al-Junayd (d. 298/910), one would assume that they

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time, we are told, true lovers of God have unfortunately become very rare. 161 Baḥr al-dumūʿs mysticism accordingly revolves around God’s love; it refers to the generic terms maḥabba and ḥubb, or more frequently draws on the metaphor of wine (sharāb) to describe this. In keeping with his view conveyed in Talbīs Iblīs, the author naturally refrains from alluding to ‘passionate love’ (ʿishq). God as the “the Giver of desire (wāhib al-shawq)” creates in human beings longing and desire to draw them to Him. Once the mystics have reached His presence, they are given ‘the wine of love’, which initiates their loving relationship with God. Indeed, as Ibn al-Jawzī explains, it is “…the Beloved (God) who pours them (the mystics) their wine….” 162 The effect of this wine is spiritual intoxication (sakrān wa-nashwān) and ecstasy (wajd). 163 The setting in which this loving relationship with God is born and perpetuated is often portrayed symbolically as ‘monastery’ (dayr), or, by extension, as ‘monastery of love’ (dayr almaḥabba), in Baḥr al-dumūʿ. 164 In this sense, for example, it enconstitute the ‘people of distinction’, which would also be in line with what is conveyed in Talbīs Iblīs, outlined above. 161 Ibn al-Jawzī, Baḥr al-dumūʿ, 23, 107. 162 Ibid., 107. 163 Ibid., 107, 116, 121, 125, 136–37. 164 Using illustrations of monasteries in this context is obviously not something new, Ibn ʿArabī (d. 638/1240), for example, likewise draws on such images in his mystical poetry. Martin Lings, ‘Mystical poetry’, in ʿAbbāsid Belles Lettres, ed. Julia Ashtiany (et. al) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 251. In medieval Arabic and Persian poetry, the use of Christian or Zoroastrian symbolisms was very common, see for a discussion, Johann Christoph Bürgel, “Ambiguity: A Study in the Use of Religious Terminology in the Poetry of Hafiz,” in M. Glunz and J. C. Bürgel, eds., Intoxication, Earthly and Heavenly, Bern, 1991, 16–20; Franklin Lewis, “Sexual Occidentation: The Politics of Conversion, Christian-love and Boy-love in ʿAttār”, Iranian Studies 42, no. 5 (2009), 703.

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courages its audience, “my brothers, [turn] towards the monastery of love from [all] places of arrival and departure...”. 165 The figurative reference to a monastery invokes the kind of sacred, and secluded refuge, where one is able to devote to God alone. 166 This is also borne out by Baḥr al-dumūʿ’s emphasis on nighttime as the time when one ventures to the monastery. Mystical endeavours are closely related to night-time. It is the time that mystics dedicate to God alone, performing supererogatory worship until dawn breaks. 167 It is implied that the culmination of one’s nightly activities and encounter with the divine is just before or around dawn, when mystics behold God’s countenance with their hearts, or are given their morning drafts of the spiritual wine (iṣṭabāḥa, ṣubūḥ). 168 Highlighting night as the time for mystical encounters is very common in Sufism, but in Ibn alJawzī’s case it reinforces his emphasis on secrecy in these endeavours, done under the protection of darkness and undistracted by other things. Forgoing the comfort of sleep and rest also speaks for the sacrifice the mystic makes. Given the importance of love, night-time adds a heightened sense of intimacy between the lovers and the Beloved. 169 As for the activities that the mystics perform during those night hours, Baḥr al-dumūʿ specifies supererogatory prayers as an important means to become closer to God, noting poetically that “…[incessant] prostrations have engraved (kataba) their (the mystics) foreheads with lines of spiritual cognizance of God

Ibn al-Jawzī, Baḥr al-dumūʿ, 107. See also, for example, the same page for another mention or, ibid., 136–37. 166 Given the importance of wine as a symbol of love in Baḥr al-dumūʿ, in the minds of medieval Muslims, a monastery would also be a place where one would find wine. 167 Ibid., 125–26. 168 Ibid., 136–37. 169 Ibid., 116, 121, 125–26, 136–37. 165

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(khuṭūṭ al-ʿirfān)”. 170 In addition, dhikr and personal devotions (wird/awrād) receive much attention, not only during one’s vigilant activities but also during daytime. 171 The mystics, according to Baḥr al-dumūʿ, “are constantly and at all times absorbed in obedience to God through personal prayers (awrād) and remembering Him (adhkār)”. 172 The activity that appears most prominent in this context is however audition (samāʿ), which generally finds the author’s endorsement, as long as it is based on the Quran and genuine behaviour. 173 As God Himself sings to the mystics in their intimate encounters, evoking ecstasy among them, or pleases them (ṭāba la-hum) through recitation, 174 one cannot but “…delight in samāʿ and become emotionally enraptured (tawājadū) because of these melodies (alḥān)…”. 175 The sense of intimacy that arises from this ambiance of love and ecstasy in the presence of God, only intensified by the nightly and private setting, leads then to the unveiling of the divine countenance, contemplated (mushāhada) by the mystics. This enables them to understand God’s subtle talk (lāṭafa), which endows them with an awareness of the subtle spiritual dimension of divine acts. They become therefore cognizant of both God’s subtle spiritual (laṭīf) and transparent corporeal (kathīf) ways of acting. In proximity to God, the mystics are now recognized as friends of God (awliyā’). 176 Given that they solely contemplate God’s countenance, they acquire a new perspective and mystical knowledge of God (maʿrifa, ʿirfān). 177 Eventually, the mystics recognize God as true Being, as “…they look at being (al-kawn) Ibid., 136–37; this may be an allusion to Quran 48:29 (“…you see them bowing and prostrating [in prayer]…their mark is on their faces from the trace of prostration…”). 171 Ibid., 76–77, 80, 81, 84, 86, 116. 172 Ibid., 126. 173 Ibid., 108, 116, 136–37. 174 Ibid., 116, 121. 175 Ibid., 137. 176 Ibid., 107, 116, 125, 136–37. 177 Ibid., 107, 116, 125, 136–37. 170

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without seeing anything other than Him…”, and pass away from their created existence. 178

178

Ibid., 116, 130, 137.

CONCLUSION It is commonly believed that Sufism originated in third/ninth and early forth/tenth-century Baghdad among the likes of Maʿrūf al-Karkhī (d. 200/815), Bishr b. al-Ḥārith (d. 227/841), al-Ḥārith al-Muḥāsibī (d. 243/857), Sarī al-Saqaṭī (d. 253/867), al-Junayd (d. 298/910), al-Ruwaym (d. 303/915), Abū alḤusayn al-Nūrī (d. 295/907) and Abū Bakr al-Shiblī (d. 334/945). From Baghdad, Sufism would then spread all over the Islamic civilization, and become the predominant form of mystical piety in Islam. In particular, it would spread to Khorasan, which would become the next hub for the movement in the late forth/tenth and fifth/eleventh-century. 1 Despite being its birthplace, Baghdad lost its central importance in Sufism after the mid-forth/tenth century, with few major Sufis being associated with the city in this time period. 2 Interestingly, Baghdad recovered its prominence in the sixth/twelve century, when it was home to a number of major Producing, among many others, individuals like Abū Naṣr al-Sarrāj (d. 378/988), ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Sulamī (d. 412/1021), Abū Saʿīd b. Abī Khayr (d. 440/1049), or Abū al-Qāsim al-Qushayrī (d. 465/1072). 2 That is obviously not to say that there were no more major Sufis at all in Baghdad in this period, for example, Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī spent some years there in the late forth/tenth century, but rather that the city was no longer the nucleus it had been in previous times, which may also have been connected to the arrival of the Shia inclined Būyids in Baghdad in 333/945. 1

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figures, treated in this study, who would have a considerable impact on the subsequent development of Sufism. Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī (d. 563/1168) and Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar alSuhrawardī’s (d. 632/1234) teaching would bring about the widespread Suhrawardiyya order, Abū Yaʿqūb al-Hamadānī (d. 535/1140) would have extensive influence in the development of Eastern Iranian and Central Asian Sufism and his missionary activities would eventually result in the Naqshbandiyya order, 3 and ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī would be followed by the Qādiriyya order. To be sure, none of these figures had a direct hand in the creation of these orders, and they should be seen as mere eponymous founders, but they nonetheless laid down the principles that would allow subsequent generations to do this. While the emergence of the Sufi orders is commonly connected to the popularization of Sufism, and so those four individuals’ influence is more perceivable on the popular level, Aḥmad al-Ghazālī’s (d. 520/1126) impact can be detected in other spheres. His insights into love as outlined in Savāneḥ had lasting effect on medieval Persian mystical literature, specifically figures like Ḥakim Sanā’ī (d. 525/1130), ʿAṭṭār (d. 618/1221), Rūmī (d. 672/1273) and Ḥāfeẓ (d. 792/1390), launching, according to some, a literary movement designated as the ‘religion of Love’ (madhhab-e ʿeshq). Ibn al-Jawzī (d. 597/1201), on the other hand, despite privately holding mystical inclinations himself, would become known in posteriority for his criticism of Sufism in Talbīs Iblīs.

Whether ʿAbd al-Khāliq Ghijduvānī, the first master of the Khwājagān line, which would eventually lead to the Naqshbandiyya order, was alHamadānī’s actual disciple or rather a spiritual heir, as is more likely, is not really of relevance, because even if we assume the latter option, meaning that he never associated with al-Hamadānī, Ghijduvānī still must have been sufficiently inspired by al-Hamadānī’s work and thought to claim his legacy. 3

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Baghdad hence reclaimed a centre-stage in sixth/twelfthcentury Sufism, 4 and this study has attempted to identify the predominant trends of this Baghdadi Sufism, through the prism of al-Jīlānī’s thought. The latter’s mystical path can be divided into four stages; the first stage is preceded by certain basic requirements, which entail the adoption of a particular lifestyle and theological outlook, as well as submission to divine command and divine decree by gaining control over one’s lower soul. The actual first stage sees an individual pass away from creation, which means detaching oneself physically and mentally from one’s fellow human beings and from a worldly way of life, that is, material possession and worldly aspirations. Instead one tries to constantly focus on God. It also anticipates the pacification of the lower soul through the adoption of this ascetical lifestyle. All of this allows the mystic’s desire for God to rise up and prevail, filling his heart, so that he becomes a murīd ‘one who desires God’. The adoption of the mystical path is also based on a ‘return to God’ (tawba), a pivotal event that stands for a ‘radical reorientation’ towards God. Another form of tawba, specified as ‘pure tawba’ (tawba mujarrada) designates a kind of ritualized inner ablution before any kind of supererogatory practice. In this context, we also learned about the importance of the master-disciple relationship, built on a strong bond between the two, so as to enable the advancement of the latter. The shaykh is, in addition, to facilitate the murīd’s adoption of a ‘strict code of conduct’ (ʿazīma), to which one has to adhere until the end of the path. In comparison, Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī is more accommodating in this aspect, allowing his disciples to adhere to a ‘lenient code of conduct’ (rukhṣa) for longer, even into intermediate levels of the path. Though by no means the only one; Khorasan, and the Persian world in general, remained central to the development of Sufism, and the western Islamic civilization, al-Andalus and the western Maghreb, would also make crucial contributions.

4

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At the second stage, the wayfarer is expected to pass away from self-attachment, in the sense of becoming devoid of selfinitiative and no longer seeking a livelihood or improvements to his situation. One becomes fully reliant on God, which is reflected in the growing awareness of individual divine command (amr), to which the mystic adheres and eventually becomes a manifestation thereof. This stage of al-Jīlānī’s path is characterized by mystical states, chiefly ‘fear’ (khawf), ‘hope’ (rajā’), and ‘contraction of the heart’ (qabḍ). The sober depiction of the path thus far can similarly be seen through the significance of trials and afflictions, which however help people to discover their mystical potential and, in the long run, advance on the path. Al-Jīlānī establishes a comprehensive code of conduct for the regular mystic (faqīr), which stresses such values as altruism (ithār), serving others (khidma) and amenability (takhalluq). Although seclusion is essential during this stage in order to become closer to God, this additionally requires the right attitude and preparation. Audition (samāʿ) is significant for the duration of the path, but should be based on the Quran, and, above all, fidelity to God and genuineness in one’s behaviour. These principles regarding audition are largely shared by Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar alSuhrawardī. On the third stage one undergoes the major annihilation, passing away from one’s will and becoming one with divine will. The subsequent spiritual revival reinforces the mystic’s alienation from his acts and physical functions, remaining in spirit alone in the presence of God, while physically becoming a representation, or ‘one standing in lieu’, of divine will (badal). The badal becomes hence a manifestation of divine will, or more specifically a manifestation of a permanent fusion of God’s religious and existential will. At this stage, the mystic’s heart is no longer affected by mystical states but only by stations, and is hence constantly expanded (basṭ), because it has returned to its natural condition. In such circumstances the mystics are afforded with different encounters with the divine. They hence attain a form of the paradisiacal garden already in this world, the emotional effect of which is so intense that they are no longer aware of anything

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else, even afflictions. On occasions, al-Jīlānī characterizes the relationship between God and such individuals in terms of love (ḥubb/maḥabba), as love for God is the only lasting and real love, but remains opposed to the use of the term ʿishq in this context. Aḥmad al-Ghazālī, on the other hand, places the whole mystical path and, in fact, existence as such in the framework of love, based on the concept of ʿishq. Having successfully renounced everything but God, the last stage entails the return to society and receiving back the worldly allotments, i.e. accepting a certain measure of material comfort. While, the badal hence assumes a more conventional lifestyle at the exterior, he remains inside completely focused on God and detached from this world. This makes him the ideal representative of God among his fellow human beings, whereby al-Jīlānī lays emphasis on the duty of preaching. Yūsuf Abū Yaʿqūb alHamadānī, leaving himself a lasting mark as preacher and missionary, suitably describes the incumbents of this ultimate level of the mystical path as being responsible for keeping the universe alive. Al-Jīlānī shows himself at times critical of the Sufi trends of his time, in particular the perceived lack of commitment and sincerity, and remains throughout somewhat aloof from the term ‘Sufism’, and variations thereof. Ibn al-Jawzī, on the other hand, was still more outspoken in this aspect, pointing to errancy and corruption in the historical development and the contemporary tendencies of Sufism. Simultaneously, he implies in both Talbīs Iblīs and even more so in Baḥr al-dumūʿ that he espoused a kind of mystical piety, that he sees in line with the first generations of Islam but separate from Sufism. So, what does this tell us about the predominant features of sixth/twelfth-century Baghdadi Sufism? As for the background of the individuals looked at here, it turns out that, with the exception of Ibn al-Jawzī, none was of Baghdadi origin. Indeed, alJīlānī, Abū al-Najīb and Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī and alHamadānī all came from western Persia and moved to Baghdad

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in their late teens to further their studies. In this sense, Baghdad’s Sufi revival relied mainly on outsiders. Save for Aḥmad alGhazālī, all were evidently opposed to speculative theology, 5 being associated with either the Ḥanbalī school or the section of the Shāfiʿī school not inclined to such endeavours. After completing their studies in the regular religious sciences, al-Jīlānī, Abū al-Najīb and Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī and alHamadānī are all reported to have spent prolonged periods in withdrawal. Last but not least, every single one of those individuals was an acclaimed public preacher. As for the mystical piety that those figures stood for; being trained in Islamic law, they all stipulate the adherence to such as a basic requirement for embarking on the mystical path. It may be due to the same background that al-Jīlānī, Abū al-Najīb and Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī offer very detailed codes of conduct for the wayfarers. They all advocate a sober form of Sufism, which downplays or completely ignores ecstatic states and feelings of spiritual intoxication and passionate love. While, al-Jīlānī and the others do occasionally characterize the relationship between God and the mystic in terms of love (ḥubb/maḥabba), it is not central to their thinking. As a rule, they also steer clear of elaborate intellectual or philosophical elements in their Sufism, which were becoming increasingly common during these times, and culminated with Ibn ʿArabī (d. 638/1240). 6 Instead, the individuals looked at here repeatedly point to sincerity, fidelity to God, and inner purity as fundamental principles of the mystical path, which becomes especially obvious in their treatment of the practice of audition. One would assume that the simplicity of their message contributed to their appeal, Ibn al-Jawzī may have been seen as more rationally inclined by Ḥanbalī standards, but on the whole cannot be said to have been inclined to speculative theology in a proper sense. 6 The exception being Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī in his rather uncharacteristic interpretation of the lower soul. 5

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especially because they were able to spread this message orally, all being prominent public preachers. In al-Jīlānī’s case, for example, one can perceive a clear preference for oral over written delivery, which obviously reached a broader audience. The exception to much of this is obviously Aḥmad alGhazālī, whose ideas differed markedly and found admiration in other circles. On the whole, how much influence al-Ghazālī enjoyed in Baghdad specifically is difficult to say, because he benefitted from Seljuk, i.e., non-local, patronage, and only stayed in Baghdad intermittently. It is very unlikely that he had anything close to the following of al-Jīlānī, Ibn al-Jawzī, or Abū al-Najīb and Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī in the city. Nonetheless, his ideas and presence here are important, not least because it alludes to the differences between the prevalent viewpoints in Baghdad and other regions, specifically Khorasan, where Aḥmad al-Ghazālī hailed from. Notwithstanding these similarities, there were of course also aspects in which al-Jīlānī diverged from people like Ibn al-Jawzī, and Abū al-Najīb and Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī; some of the most evident points of variance are involvement with political elites, the definition of rukhṣa and ʿazīma, and the understanding of mystical states and stations.

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INDEX ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlī Kāshānī 30–32, 34–36, 39n ʿAbd Allāh b. al-Mubārak 242 ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Maqdisī 63, 227 ʿAbd al-Khāliq Ghijduvānī 208, 250n ʿAbd al-Razzāq b. ʿAbd alQādir al-Jīlānī 3, 64 ʿAbd al-Wahhāb b. ʿAbd alQādir al-Jīlānī 3, 64, 65n, 232 Abū Bakr 97, 225, 244 Abū Bakr al-Shiblī 249 Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar alSuhrawardī 5, 11, 12n, 24, 26, 73, 99, 101, 129, 142–61, 209, 211, 229, 233, 239, 250–55 Abū Ḥamīd al-Ghazālī 43, 133n, 137, 140, 151, 163, 188, 189–92, 198, 237 Abū al-Ḥasan b. al-Zāghūnī 72n, 226 271

Abū al-Ḥusayn b. Abī Yaʿlā al-Farrāʼ 35, 47 Abū Isḥāq al-Shīrāzī 209, 210n Abū Jaʿfar al-Thūmī alTamīmī 35 Abū al-Khaṭṭāb alKhalwadhānī 46 Abū Muḥammad Jaʿfar alSarrāj 47 Abū al-Najīb al-Suhrawardī 5, 11, 12n, 24–25, 50– 51, 94n, 96–108, 114, 116n, 129n, 140, 142– 52, 156, 157n, 159, 160n, 209, 211 Abu Nuʿaym al-Iṣfahānī 226, 237 Abū Saʿd al-Mukharrimī 2, 44–46, 59, 60n, 72 Abū Saʿd al-Samʿānī 27n, 64–65, 99, 208–10, 212n Abū Saʿīd b. Abī Khayr 190, 249n Abū Ṣāliḥ b. ʿAbd al-Razzāq b. ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī 3, 65

272

BAGHDAD DURING THE TIME OF ʿABD AL-QĀDIR AL-JĪLĀNĪ

Abū Sulaymān al-Dārānī 242 Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī 70, 82n, 92n, 151, 154, 166, 167n, 171, 206n, 207n, 249 Abū Yaʿqūb al-Hamadānī 4, 11, 24, 26, 56–58, 208–19, 250–55 Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī 152n, 161, 244n ʿAdī b. Musāfir 63, 64n Aḥmad al-Ghazālī 4, 11, 12n, 24, 26, 43, 98–99, 158n, 161, 164, 189–99, 212, 243n, 250–55 Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal 44, 66n, 72, 203n Aḥmad-e Jām 188 Aḥmad Rifāʿī 14 ʿAlī b. Buzgush 150–51 ʿAlī b. Idrīs al-Baʿqūbī 63 ʿAmmār al-Bidlīsī 99 amr (divine command) 80, 90, 110, 124, 133, 174, 176, 252 Ashʿarī school 43, 101, 171, 174, 176, 189, 190n, 211 ʿAṭṭār Farīd al-Dīn 192, 197, 250 ʿazīma (strict code of conduct) 21, 25, 88, 94– 97, 103–08, 114, 123, 130, 138n, 204, 251, 255 Bāb al-Azaj 1, 45–46, 60– 62

badal/abdāl/badaliyya (standing in lieu of divine will) 26, 82n, 85, 132, 166–87, 201–208, 219, 252–53 Bahā’ al-Dīn Zakarīyā alMultānī 150–51 basṭ (expansion of the heart) 115, 117, 168– 70, 237, 252 Bishr b. al-Ḥārith 152n, 242, 249 Deylam/Deylamites 32–36 al-Dhahabī 1n, 2n, 6–7, 14, 15n, 37n, 38n, 44n, 46–55, 57–60, 63n, 64n, 66n, 67n, 71n, 74n, 97n, 98n, 143, 144n, 146–49, 209–12, 224–34 dhikr (continuously remembering God) 67, 82n, 91–93, 124, 127, 149, 185–86, 192, 207, 214– 15, 233, 247 fanā’ (annihilation of the self/passing away from the self) 26, 78, 109, 124, 163–70, 174, 195, 201, 204, 237, 248, 251–52 faqīr (regular mystic)/faqr (voluntary poverty) 18, 96, 113–14, 123, 128–31, 139–41, 154, 224, 252 fikr (reflection) 61, 186, 215 Fuḍayl b. ʿIyāḍ 242

INDEX Gīlān 2, 25, 27–39, 42, 44 Ḥāfeẓ 197, 250 Ḥakim Sanā’ī 197, 250 ḥāl (mystical state) 2, 14, 20, 50, 52, 54–56, 67, 93, 103, 114–19, 130– 31, 135–36, 140, 143, 155–58, 168–70, 174, 252, 255 al-Ḥallāj 111, 193, 197 Ḥamd Allāh Mustawfī 32n, 34, 36n, 37n, 39n, 189n, 191n, 197n Hammād al-Dabbās 7–8, 49–52, 57, 98–99, 145 Ḥanbalī school 2–3, 8, 19, 34–37, 39n, 42–47, 59, 61–65, 67, 70–73, 120, 149, 188, 225–27, 229, 231–32, 254 al-Ḥārith al-Muḥāsibī 152, 236, 249 Ḥasan al-Baṣrī 8, 46n, 244n hawā (self-attachment) 90, 92, 109, 111, 124, 163, 175n, 252 ḥubb/maḥabba (love) 108, 184–88, 199, 238, 245, 253–54 Ḥudūd al-ʿālam 30–34, 37n Ḥusayn al-Nūrī 249 Ibn ʿAqīl 45, 48, 62, 71– 72, 226 Ibn ʿArabī 167, 245, 254 Ibn ʿAsākir 99 Ibn al-Athīr 6

273 Ibn Dubaythī 64, 148n, 150, 227 Ibn Ḥāmid 71–72 Ibn Ḥawqal 30–33 Ibn Hubayra 10, 11n, 227–228 Ibn al-Jawzī 1n, 2n, 4n, 5, 11–13, 15n, 24, 26, 41, 44n, 45n, 48–51, 57–61, 64n, 66n, 71, 73, 95, 98, 107, 129n, 136, 154, 159n, 164, 188, 190n, 191n, 197n, 199, 209– 12, 223n, 225–42, 250– 55 Ibn Jubayr 40–41 Ibn al-Kathīr 19, 46n, 59n, 66n, 67n Ibn Khallikān 64n, 97n, 98n, 99n, 142n, 143n, 148, 189n, 191n, 192n, 209n, 212n, 225n, 227n Ibn al-Najjār 51n, 53, 143, 147–48, 150, 191n, 227, 233–35 Ibn Qudāma al-Maqdīsī 62–63, 145, 227, 231n Ibn Rajab 2n, 3n, 6, 35, 37n, 39n, 44–49, 52–55, 59–67, 74n, 143–48, 225–30, 232–34 Ibn Sukayna 99, 234n Ibn Taymiyya 19, 144–47, 171, 176, 223 Ibn al-Wardī 44n, 45n, 48n, 51n, 67n, 142n, 143n, 148 Ibn Yūnus 67n, 229, 232

274

BAGHDAD DURING THE TIME OF ʿABD AL-QĀDIR AL-JĪLĀNĪ

Ibrāhīm b. Adham 152n, 242, 244n ikhlāṣ or khāliṣ li-llāh (sincere devotion to God) 70, 92, 108, 157, 167, 220–22 irāda (desire for God) 81– 82, 84, 96, 163, 164 ʿishq (passionate love) 108, 117, 184, 187–88, 192–99, 236, 238, 245, 253 al-Iṣṭakhrī 30–33 Jabriyya 173 jān (spirit) 217–19 al-Junayd 8, 45n, 81n, 87, 92, 136, 152, 167, 170n, 242, 244n, 249 kalām (speculative theology) 62n, 71n, 73, 101, 146, 148, 151 karāma (saintly miracle or saintly marvel) 66, 85, 219 kashf (unveiling) 177 khalwa (seclusion, withdrawal) 20, 23, 25–26, 52–57, 66, 90, 92, 98, 124–28, 149, 221–22, 224, 252, 254 al-Khatīb al-Baghdadī 226 khirqa (patched cloak) 14, 45–47, 97, 135, 141, 143, 157, 220n, 221, 224, 239 Madā’in 27–28 Madrasa 2–3, 7–8, 21–22, 25, 42, 45–46, 58–66,

97–99, 189–91, 209, 211, 232–33 maqāma (mystical station) 20, 96n, 103, 114–19, 155, 193, 252, 255 Maʿrūf al-Karkhī 152n, 242, 244, 249 mubtadī (beginner) 81, 86, 107 Muḥammad Abū Bakr alShāshī 211 Muḥammad b. Yaḥya alTādifī 6, 13 munājāt/muḥādatha (secret conversations) 120n, 124, 177, 181, 234 al-Muqaddasī 30–34, 37n al-Muqtafī 42, 227–28 murād (desired by God) 134, 154, 168, 175, 184 murīd (desiring God) 12, 17, 81–108, 114, 131, 133, 139–40, 146, 154, 156n, 157n, 159n, 160n, 168n, 184, 251 mushahāda (witnessing) 177, 247 al-Mustaḍī’ 228 al-Mustanjid 228 al-Mustarshid 42 Muʿtazila school 74, 100n, 101, 171, 173 Muẓaffar ʿAbbādī 188 nafs (lower soul) 18, 21, 25, 69, 76–81, 87, 109, 112, 122–28, 135, 136n, 154, 156–57, 163, 165,

INDEX 174, 188, 203–05, 214, 221–23, 251, 254n Najm al-Dīn al-Kubrā 99 Naqshbandiyya order 208, 210, 250 al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh 11, 42, 149–50, 222, 229 Niẓāmiyya madrasa 42– 43, 61, 97–98, 190n, 191, 209, 211 Nūr al-Dīn al-Shaṭṭanawfī 6–7, 13–15, 28n, 29 qabḍ (contraction of the heart) 115–17, 168– 69, 178, 239, 252 Qadarī school (Qadariyya) 171, 173, 176 Qāḍī Abū Yaʿlā 45, 47, 71–72 Qādiriyya order 3–5, 7–8, 13, 24, 46n, 90, 113n, 250 qalb (heart) 18, 21, 58, 76–81, 82n, 83, 86, 93, 97, 99, 110–12, 115–17, 120, 125–26, 129–30, 132, 137, 156, 160–61, 163–66, 168–71, 174, 177, 183, 186, 195, 203, 206–07, 215, 217, 219– 22, 230, 237, 240, 243n, 246, 251–52 Al-Qushayrī 84n, 86n, 115n, 117n, 140, 151, 169n, 177, 190, 217n, 222n, 237, 243n, 244n, 249n

275 ribāṭ (Sufi convent) 2–3, 11, 21–22, 25, 56, 60, 65–66, 98–99, 127, 129, 138, 139n, 143, 149–50, 190, 210, 232–33 riyā’ (hypocrisy) 21, 84– 85, 93, 126, 220, 238 Rizq Allāh al-Tamīmī 39 rukhṣa (lenient code of conduct) 21, 25, 88, 94– 97, 103–08, 131, 138n, 204, 251, 255 Rukn al-Dīn b. ʿAbd alWahhāb b. ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī 64–65, 232 Rūmī Jalāl al-Dīn 197, 250 al-Ruwaym 152n, 242, 249 Rūzbehān Baqlī 161, 181n, 183n, 197n, 203n ṣafā’ (purity) 220–23 Sahl al-Tūstarī 8, 151, 152n samāʿ (audition) 90, 101– 03, 131–42, 155–61, 239–40, 247, 252 Sarī al-Saqaṭī 46n, 87, 152n, 242, 244n, 249 Shāfiʿī legal school 13, 35, 43, 50n, 61, 97, 101, 142, 147–49, 189, 209, 211, 254 Shaqīq al-Balkhī 193 al-Sharif Abū Jaʿfar 45, 72n Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī 1n, 2n, 37–39, 45n, 49, 53n,

276

BAGHDAD DURING THE TIME OF ʿABD AL-QĀDIR AL-JĪLĀNĪ

54n, 58–60, 64n, 66n, 67n, 71n, 148n, 225n, 226n, 235n ṣidq (fidelity) 85, 92n, 102, 108, 130, 135–36, 138–39, 156–57, 167, 222, 254 sirr (innermost) 88, 91, 111–12, 120, 163, 177– 78, 181, 183–84, 207, 217, 221 al-Subkī 98n, 99n, 142n, 143n, 147n, 148, 191n, 192n ṣūf (wool, woollen cloak) 220–23, 236 ṣūfī/Sufism 82–83, 113– 14, 151–154, 219–225, 235–42 ṣūfiya (being treated by God with equally pure affection) 222–23 Sufyān al-Thawrī 242 Al-Sulamī 151, 237, 249n Sumnūn al-Muḥībb 193 Ṭabarestān 31, 33–34 tawakkul (trust in God) 70, 94, 101–02, 115, 129

tawba (return to God) 18, 25, 70, 83–85, 92–94, 116, 122, 151, 237, 251 trials and affliction (āfat/balā’/muṣība) 23, 75–76, 119–23, 128, 178–80, 186, 207, 252 ʿUmar b. al-Khaṭṭāb 244 wajd (ecstasy) 117, 131, 135, 137–38, 155–61, 165, 235, 245, 255 Wāsiṭ 27–28, 229, 232, 233 wilāya/muwālāt (friendship with God) walī (pl. awliyā’) (God’s friend) 26, 79, 82n, 112, 113n, 132, 158, 237, 241, 247 wird (personal devotions to God) 90, 247 witr (nightly prayers) 90 Yāqūt al-Rūmī 27n, 29–30 zuhd (asceticism) 26, 38– 39, 48, 63, 65–66, 98, 110, 123–25, 202, 227, 231n, 235–36, 242 Zumurrud Khātūn 149, 229