Sufism and Theology 9780748631346

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Sufism and Theology Edited by AYMAN SHIHADEH

EDINBURGH UNIVERSITY PRESS

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© editorial matter and organisation, Ayman Shihadeh, 2007 © the chapters their several authors Edinburgh University Press Ltd 22 George Square, Edinburgh Typeset in Goudy by Koinonia, Bury, and printed and bound in Great Britain by ABiddles Ltd, King’s Lynn, Norfolk A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 0 7486 2605 2 (hardback)

The right of the contributors to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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Contents

Contributors Acknowledgements

v vi

Introduction Ayman Shihadeh

1 Part I Mystical Theologies

1 Mystical Theology and the Traditionalist Hermeneutics of MaybudÈ’s Kashf al-AsrÅr Annabel Keeler

15

2 The All-Comprehensive Circle (al-I˙ņa): Soul, Intellect, and the Oneness of Existence in the Doctrine of Ibn SabÆÈn Vincent J. Cornell

31

3 One Aspect of the Akbarian Turn in ShÈÆÈ Theology Robert Wisnovsky

49

4 Sufism and Theology in the Confessions of ÍÅ’in al-DÈn Turka IßfahÅnÈ (d. 830/1437) Leonard Lewisohn

63

5 A Sufi Theology Fit for a ShÈÆÈ King: The Gawhar-i MurÅd of ÆAbd al-RazzÅq LÅhÈjÈ (d. 1072/1661–2) Sajjad Rizvi

83

Part II Theological Approaches to Sufism 6 The Mystic and the Sceptic in Fakhr al-DÈn al-RÅzÈ Ayman Shihadeh

101

7 Ibn Taymiyya’s Commentary on the Creed of al-ÓallÅj Yahya Michot

123

8 Ibn KemÅl (d. 940/1534) on Ibn ÆArabÈ’s Hagiology Tim Winter

137

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contents 9 Scriptural Sufism and Scriptural Anti-Sufism: Theology and Mysticism amongst the ShÈÆÈ AkhbÅriyya Robert Gleave

158

10 Reconciling Sufism with Theology: AbË l-WafÅ al-TaftÅzÅnÈ and the Construct of ‘al-Taßawwuf al-IslÅmÈ’ in Modern Egypt Andreas Christmann

177

Index

199

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Contributors

Andreas Christmann, University of Manchester. Vincent J. Cornell, Emory University. Robert Gleave, University of Exeter. Annabel Keeler, University of Cambridge. Leonard Lewisohn, University of Exeter. Yahya Michot, University of Oxford. Sajjad Rizvi, University of Exeter. Ayman Shihadeh, University of Edinburgh. Tim Winter, University of Cambridge. Robert Wisnovsky, McGill University.

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Acknowledgements

The present volume was envisaged while I was at the Department of Theology and Religious Studies at the University of Glasgow. I would, first of all, like to thank both the University and the Department, particularly Professor Mona Siddiqui, for the support I received in 2005 towards organising a conference on the subject of Sufism and Theology, which formed the starting point for this book. I am indebted to Dr Annabel Keeler, who read, and commented on, both the introduction and my own chapter (for both of which I alone am responsible, of course), and who was most helpful and generous with her time. I would like to express my gratitude to the Chester Beatty Library, particularly Dr Michael Ryan and Dr Elaine Wright, for the permission to use the cover image, which reproduces one of the many treasures of Islamic heritage housed at the Library. Last, but not least, I take this opportunity of heartily thanking all those who have been involved in the publication process at Edinburgh University Press, in particular Nicola Ramsey, James Dale, Esmé Watson, Eddie Clark, Ian Davidson, Wendy Gardiner and Judith Oppenheimer.

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1

Introduction Ayman Shihadeh The present volume offers an exploration into various aspects of the interface between Sufism and theology, two major currents in the religious and intellectual history of Islam. In comparison to the relation and interaction between Sufism and jurisprudence, between the Sufi and philosophical currents, and between the theological and philosophical currents in Islam, this subject has received relatively little scholarly attention, certainly much less than it merits. Not only does any examination of the complex and diverse historical manifestations of this multifarious relationship expose major gaps in our knowledge, it also highlights the need to question some widely accepted notions still current. It is in these two respects, rather than in providing a comprehensive survey of the subject, that the overall contribution of this volume lies. The ten chapters that follow are essentially studies in intellectual history, which, needless to say, also account for relevant elements in their appropriate socio-political contexts. The volume begins with the early 6th/12th century and continues up to the modern period, avoiding the question of the relation of Sufism to theology in the earliest, formative period, up to and including the 4th/10th century.1 By the late 5th/11th century Sufism had emerged from a complex earlier ascetico-mystical milieu, having consolidated its generally identifiable classical characteristics, orientation and distinct identity as a movement. Sufism came to understand itself as a systematic and well structured path to knowing God (maÆrifa) through a process of internal transformation, which attempts to transcend the ordinary human condition, usually by means of ethico-spiritual discipline. It is mainly this transformative and noetic orientation which allows us to refer to Sufism as ‘mysticism’. Theology, by contrast, is that form of enquiry which attempts to know God, or to defend certain conceptions of God, through an exposition which reasons from evidence, whether rational or scriptural. Both the evidence and the method of enquiry will be known either ordinarily or through instruction. The cognitive orientation in Sufism found expression in a growing body of mystical terminology, mostly pertaining to, and explaining, the individual’s experience, and in discussions of stations and states through which one progresses. Some themes discussed by early Sufis are of theological import, such as the affirmation of the oneness and divinity of God (taw˙Èd) and of His —1—

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ayman shihadeh absolute determination of all that happens; but these too are made mostly with an emphasis on the individual perspective, and express ethico-spiritual notions and attitudes.2 Even by the 5th/11th century, Sufis, qua Sufis, had relatively little of their own to offer by way of formal and systematic theology or theosophy. The learned, formal and reasoned exposition of the nature and acts of God continued to be the mainstay of the theologians. Jurists dealt with practice; theologians took care of creed. And in theology, as in jurisprudence, dialectical fault-lines were defined purely in relation to the epistemological dichotomy of scripture and reason, mystical intuition (ilhÅm) or vision (kashf) almost never making an appearance. Two qualifications are nonetheless necessary here. First, although Sufism and theology developed as separate and distinct disciplines, exhibiting little interdisciplinarity, their constituencies overlapped at numerous and significant points.3 While the early Sufi and anti-MuÆtazilÈ mutakallim al-Mu˙ÅsibÈ (d. 243/857), the AshÆarÈ Sufi al-QushayrÈ (d. 465/1072) and the traditionalist Sufi ÆAbdullÅh al-AnßÅrÈ (d. 481/1089) are some of the best-known cases, they are not exceptional.4 Another and no less interesting example can be found in Ibn KhafÈf al-ShÈrÅzÈ (d. 371/982), an important early Sufi and apparently student of the eponymous school founder, AbË l-Óasan al-AshÆarÈ (d. 324/936).5 Second, early Sufi texts often do contain some formal theological content. With the intention of illustrating that they adhered to orthodox Sunni creeds and belonged squarely to the orthodox community, Sufis partook in the common practice of writing creeds (ÆaqÈda), which they did in Sufi manuals (as in the manuals of the MÅturÈdian al-KalÅbÅdhÈ (d. c. 384/994) and al-QushayrÈ), or sometimes in separate epistles, incorporating the abovementioned informal theological views of early Sufis. This apologetic task became crucial following the well-known episode of al-ÓallÅj (d. 306/922), which aroused controversy and suspicion around Sufism in general.6 Once affirmed, this orthodox creed will act as a yardstick in assessing the conformity of Sufism with orthodoxy; al-SarrÅj (d. 378/988), for instance, discusses the problematic aspects (mushkilÅt) of Sufism, providing an apologia for the problematic statements (sha†˙iyyÅt) attributed to the chief Sufis, and rejecting the errors (ghala†) in ‘fundamentals’ (ußËl), including fundamentals of creed, committed, as he writes, by some who claim to be Sufis.7 These theological discussions harmonise Sufism with orthodox theology, but are not signs of interdisciplinarity as such. The separation between theology and mysticism at this early stage is due in part to the fact that, notwithstanding their significant overlap and interaction, the two currents developed as distinct disciplines and traditions, and also to disciplinary compartmentalisation in Islamic religio-intellectual culture (a feature highlighted in Chapter 9). Sufis and theologians generally worked within very dissimilar ideational frameworks with little common ground, despite

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introduction their sharing what, prima facie, appears to be the same ultimate goal, namely knowing God. Additionally, they employed different modes of discourse: kalÅm theologians, for instance, engaged in tireless hair-splitting debate and analysis, while Sufis often expressed themselves enigmatically and typically recommended recollection (dhikr) and silence, rather than debate. The contrast is apparent when the young Fakhr al-DÈn al-RÅzÈ (d. 606/1210) and a MuÆtazilÈ, a fellow mutakallim, visit the famous Sufi Najm al-DÈn al-KubrÅ (d. 618/1221) with a view to having a discussion, but instead encounter a formidable gulf separating the two sides (Chapter 6).8 As Sufism consolidated its position as a distinct and increasingly learned and intellectual tradition, and given both the shared noetic concerns of both the Sufi and theological traditions, and the significant overlap in their constituencies, it was inevitable that tension and interaction between the two currents would increase. Political circumstances were, furthermore, often contributing factors, subtly or overtly intertwined with religious and intellectual concerns. The late 5th/11th–6th/12th centuries witnessed the emergence of various eclectic mystical theologies, or theosophies, drawing on the philosophical tradition, as for instance in the case of ÆAyn al-Qu∂Åt al-HamadhÅnÈ (d. 525/1131) and ShihÅb al-DÈn Ya˙yÅ al-SuhrawardÈ (d. 587/1191). One wonders whether Ibn SÈnÅ’s (d. 428/1037) section on the ‘stations of knowers’ in his IshÅrÅt, which later came to be treated as an excellent systematic summary of the Sufi path (see, for instance, Chapter 6), was instrumental at this early stage in the rise of theosophical Sufism. The fact that this section appears in a hugely important philosophical work, and was written by this most influential philosopher, might have motivated some mystics to delve into philosophy.9 In this period also, al-GhazÅlÈ (d. 505/1111) develops his pioneering and hugely influential synthesis contextualising and, to an extent, combining Sufism and theology at the soteriological, epistemological and metaphysical levels. Within this synthesis, AshÆarÈ kalÅm is accommodated as an intellectual system that is ultimately inferior to a higher mystical theology relating to the Sufi path, which he discusses, for instance, in MishkÅt al-anwÅr and al-kutub al-ma∂nËn bi-hÅ ÆalÅ ghayr ahlihÅ.10 Another synthesis from the same period, this time between traditionalist theology and mystical theology, can be seen in the intriguing Qur’Ånic commentary of MaybudÈ (fl. 520/1126), a ShÅfiÆÈ traditionalist theologian and Sufi, which Annabel Keeler examines in Chapter 1. Thoroughly influenced by the celebrated Sufi ÆAbdullÅh al-AnßÅrÈ, a ÓanbalÈ and staunch opponent of AshÆarism, MaybudÈ represents the close association that sections within the traditionalist theological current had with Sufism, which, though undergoing the major developments alluded to, continued to exhibit apathy, often antipathy, towards metaphysical theorisation.

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ayman shihadeh MaybudÈ’s commentary on the Qur’Ån comprises two separate contrasting commentaries juxtaposed in the same work: a traditionalist commentary containing a literalist interpretation of the text, and a Sufi commentary which often interprets the text allegorically. Although it might be supposed that two such different approaches would be irreconcilable, Keeler demonstrates their harmony within MaybudÈ’s double-layered theological outlook accentuating the absolute omnipotence and ineffability of God. To a certain extent, this juxtaposition underlines the complimentarity and compatibility between traditionalist theology and Sufism, claiming the latter for the former in the face of rival AshÆarism. According to this outlook, while adherence to scriptural creed (ÆaqÈda) is essential to the process of accessing, and progressing through, the mystical path, one who has attained an advanced stage in this path will attain further knowledge of God through the grace of divine inspiration. Rational theology, in this outlook, will not only be futile, since divine nature is inaccessible to the processes of reason, it will undermine, and detract from, the correct and efficacious method of knowing and loving God. In the same period, however, Sufism and earlier generations of Sufis were equally claimed by at least a section within the AshÆarÈ school. This is intimated, for instance, in the fact that al-QushayrÈ begins his manual of Sufism with a section ‘On elucidating the belief (iÆtiqÅd) of this community [i.e. Sufis] in matters of theology (al-ußËl)’, where he quotes theological statements by earlier Sufis, followed by a short section which orders and summarises these statements in the form of a succinct systematic creed.11 In addition to both demonstrating that Sufis have sound theological belief, and perhaps promoting Sufism within AshÆarism, al-QushayrÈ here illustrates that, whether or not these illustrious figures are known to be AshÆarÈ as such (some in fact predate the AshÆarÈ school), they nonetheless actually accept the same creeds defended by AshÆarÈs.12 Al-QushayrÈ was certainly a devoted proponent of the discursive method of kalÅm. Yet he considers mystical knowledge gained through unveiling (mukÅshafa) and vision (mushÅhada) to be superior, since it provides a higher level of certainty and direct knowledge, independently of evidence.13 It seems that, for him, the knowledge gained by Sufis, which finds expression in some of the creedal snippets he quotes, confirms the kalÅm doctrines of AshÆarism. Sufism and kalÅm are here presented as being in total harmony. In Chapter 7, Yahya Michot examines a work by the traditionalist theologian Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328), Al-IstiqÅma, in which he comments on al-QushayrÈ’s work, including this particular part on creed. He shows how, in this work, Ibn Taymiyya comments on the creed of al-ÓallÅj, quoted by al-QushayrÈ, and presents him with a remarkably sanitised profile as a critic of the doctrines of incarnation (˙ulËl) and union (itti˙Åd) with God, heresies to which he is normally associated as the arch-offender. It appears to me that Ibn

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introduction Taymiyya does this within a broader agenda in this part of his work, namely to undermine al-QushayrÈ’s claim, for AshÆarism, of the early generations of Sufis, and to reclaim them for traditionalism. He writes: Section on what the shaykh AbË l-QÅsim al-QushayrÈ provides in his famous RisÅla concerning the belief of the shaykhs of Sufism. He cites a miscellany of their statements, which indicate that they agree with the belief of many AshÆarÈ mutakallimËn. That is the belief of AbË l-QÅsim himself, which he received from AbË Bakr ibn FËrak [d. 404/1015] and AbË Is˙Åq al-IsfarÅ’ÈnÈ [d. 418/1027]. Most of this belief agrees with the creed of the Predecessors (al-salaf) and the Sunnis (ahl al-sunna wa-l-jamÅÆa). However, it falls short of it. It includes omissions of some of what they upheld, and additions of things that contradict what they upheld. What is proven to have been said by the chief [Sufi] shaykhs in fact agrees with what the Predecessors upheld.14

He then goes on to show in detail how this is the case, discussing the universally respected figures, such as al-Junayd and Sahl al-TustarÈ, but likewise the controversial al-ÓallÅj. It is clear that Ibn Taymiyya represents a later episode in the long debate in which al-AnßÅrÈ, MaybudÈ and al-QushayrÈ engaged earlier. He was, of course, followed by TÅj al-DÈn al-SubkÈ (d. 771/1370), who reasserts the connection between AshÆarism and Sufism in his biographical work on ShÅfiÆÈs. Notwithstanding figures like al-QushayrÈ, who are at once Sufi and AshÆarÈ, the mainstream of 5th/11th-century AshÆarism (both the theology and the theologians) betrays little interest in things mystical.15 Although its key exponents, such as al-BÅqillÅnÈ (d. 403/1013) and al-JuwaynÈ (d. 478/1085), are not anti-Sufi, they leave no room for Sufism in the epistemological and soteriological components of their kalÅm theology. This stance is also implied in the overwhelming thrust of the textual, biographical and historical evidence, including, as an obvious example, the picture painted by al-GhazÅlÈ, in various works, of the character of the kalÅm tradition then. This disinterest is to be expected; Sufism, after all, had by that stage barely articulated any metaphysical ideas, and, from the perspective of the discipline of kalÅm, will have seemed more of an irrelevance than a serious intellectual challenge worthy of being accounted for or responded to. One major 6th/12th-century figure who starts his intellectual career within this strand of AshÆarism, unaffected by al-GhazÅlÈ’s synthesis, and whose early works bespeak complete apathy towards Sufism, is Fakhr al-DÈn al-RÅzÈ. In Chapter 6, I argue that having spent most of his life as a highly confident and ambitious classical AshÆarÈ theologian, then as an equally confident Avicennised philosophical theologian, al-RÅzÈ arrives at scepticism towards the end of his life, primarily as a consequence of his method of enquiry. This prompts him to turn to the superior alternative of Sufism, which, he will maintain, allows

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ayman shihadeh the attainment of direct and certain knowledge of God. His later view on the relation of kalÅm to Sufism is broadly comparable to that of al-GhazÅlÈ (and also resonant with al-QushayrÈ): although kalÅm provides little certain knowledge of God, it is still valuable in some respects and should not be forsaken. Indeed, in some cases, mystical experience ought to be assessed and interpreted through the critical tool of reason to avoid what were deemed to be misguided metaphysical interpretations. Al-RÅzÈ arrives at the view that rational theological reflection is of much more limited noetic and soteriological value than it is credited with by most mutakallimËn, and that in some ways it acts as a possible distraction from the higher path of spiritual discipline; however, in contrast to traditionalists like MaybudÈ and Ibn Taymiyya, he does not treat it as intrinsically opposed to spiritual progress. The aforementioned venture of Muslim mystics into eclectic metaphysical theorisation from the 6th/12th century onwards reaches an apogee in the most important Sufi metaphysicist of all, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ (d. 638/1240).16 Earlier Sufism had developed ethico-spiritual maps for the Sufi path, detailing various stages therein. Sufism in this period begins to ground these in both theories of the human psyche (in which earlier Sufis had already shown considerable interest) and metaphysical theories, or theosophies. These microcosmic and macrocosmic maps correspond to the map of the spiritual path, along which they serve to contextualise and to interpret mystical experience and development. In addition to appealing to esoteric epistemologies accessible only to the mystical elite, the new mystical theologies were often eclectic, presented in arcane and mythical forms, and condescending towards, if not disdainful of, classical theologies, as well as frequently being in conflict with them. They promptly became targets for severe criticism by a large section of theologians, who perceived these new developments as comprising some of the worst heresies in Islamic history. Such strands of theosophical mysticism were found threatening and beyond the pale from the perspective of orthodoxy, whether they took the form of ‘high’ mystical philosophies, or more acutely when they manifested in popular, often antinomian varieties of mysticism. One of the best examples of the former type is the Andalusian mystical philosopher Ibn SabÆÈn (d. 669/1270), examined by Vincent Cornell in Chapter 2. Ibn al-ArabÈ is normally associated with what is, theologically, the most controversial doctrine to appear in theosophical Sufism, namely the Oneness of Being (wa˙dat al-wujËd), although, as is well-known, he never uses the term. It seems likely, as Cornell argues, that Ibn SabÆÈn was ‘the first Muslim thinker to speak of wa˙dat al-wujËd as a major concept.’ Displaying highly eclectic influences, particularly Sufi and philosophical ones, Ibn SabÆÈn represents an elitist, primarily Hermetic mystical tradition, which exhibits little regard for orthodoxy and confessional boundaries. In his study of the nature of Ibn SabÆÈn’s intellec-

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introduction tual mysticism, and of aspects of the relation between his metaphysics, epistemology and psychology, Cornell observes that in comparison to Ibn al-ÆArabÈ, he shows much less interest in Islamising his intellectual mysticism, particularly his doctrine of the Oneness of Being, of which he presents an uncompromising version, which denies the ontic status of this world of multiplicity in absolute and unqualified terms. Notwithstanding such cases of unambiguous dissonance, the interaction between later theology and theosophical Sufism is extremely complex.17 As some chapters in the present volume will illustrate, theosophical Sufism was often assimilated, in various ways, into more traditional theological contexts. It has to be said, however, that since our knowledge of the late period in Islamic theology remains exiguous, so too is our knowledge of its relation to mysticism. In Chapter 3, Robert Wisnovsky examines the way that elements from theosophical Sufism were modified and integrated into 8th/14th-century ShÈÆÈ theology. The elements in question relate to the nature of divine attributes, especially the distinction between God’s ‘attributes of majesty’ (ßifÅt al-jalÅl) and ‘attributes of beauty’ (ßifÅt al-jamÅl). Najm al-DÈn al-KubrÅ links this distinction to the twin effects felt by the believer when contemplating God, namely awe and intimacy. Ibn al-ÆArabÈ links it to the difference between God’s transcendence and His immanence, respectively. Wisnovsky argues that Óaydar åmulÈ (d. 787/1385) offers a synthesis between the two models, which serves to address two challenges in contemporary ShÈÆÈ kalÅm. First, he takes advantage of Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s monism and the related doctrine of the Perfect Man (al-insÅn al-kÅmil), which he applies to the ShÈÆÈ Imams, such that their superiority becomes explainable as resulting from the high degree to which divine attributes are instantiated in them. Second, he attempts to re-establish in ShÈÆÈ theology the idea that God is intimately involved in governing His creation, a problem that resulted from aspects of earlier Avicennisation by al-ÊËsÈ (d. 672/1274) and al-ÓillÈ (d. 726/1325). In Chapter 8, Tim Winter examines the impact of Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s ideas in 8th/14th–10th/16th-century Anatolia, where they spread mainly from the circle of his student Íadr al-DÈn al-QËnawÈ (d. 673/1274) in Konya. His strand of metaphysical Sufism was quite in vogue among both the Sunni religious establishment of the new Ottoman state and QizilbÅsh Turkoman tribes in central and eastern Anatolia and Azerbaijan, into whose subversive, charismatically and messianically oriented popular ShÈÆism this influence was amalgamated. Winter shows how the early Ottoman commentators on Ibn al-ÆArabÈ counter the challenge of these antinomian and charismatic trends in favour of traditional authority and religiosity. Taking their lead from al-QËnawÈ’s systematisation of his master’s thought and his recourse in doing so to philosophy and kalÅm, they present an interpretation that emphasises divine transcendence with

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ayman shihadeh regard to Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s ontology, and downplays the status of the saint (walÈ) as an extraordinarily potent agent channelling divine power, with regard to his doctrine of the Perfect Man. By the time of Ibn KemÅl (d. 940/1534), one of the most important Ottoman theologians, the task of addressing popular charismatic Sufism will have acquired greater urgency, given the emergence of the ShÈÆÈ Safavids in Persia from within such a milieu, and since, as an added threat, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ-inspired doctrines were at this stage being syncretised with Christian influences within the empire. Winter shows how Ibn KemÅl approaches Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s theosophy primarily from the standpoint of a MÅturÈdian mutakallim, further downplaying the potentially hazardous elements therein, especially his ontology and the doctrine of the Perfect Man. Ibn KemÅl’s treatment of his ideas, and furthermore his appeal to al-GhazÅlÈ’s criteria for distinguishing acceptable belief from heresy, aim at setting definite, though fairly wide, boundaries for theological normalcy within the Ottoman state, accommodating both orthodox theology and traditional Sufism, while excluding dangerous popular adaptations of Ibn al-ÆArabÈ. To the east of Anatolia, in 9th/15th-century Persia, the ruling TÈmËrids were facing analogous challenges. Still then predominantly Sunni, Persia was interspersed with a complex array of competing trends, mostly ShÈÆÈ and esoteric, which often had subversive, charismatically-motivated proclivities. These included the QizilbÅsh, the NËrbakhshÈ and NiÆmatullÅhÈ Sufi orders, NizÅrÈ IsmÅÆÈlÈs, and the cabbalistic ÓurËfÈs who, at one point, attempted to assassinate the TÈmËrid ruler ShÅh Rukh (d. 850/1409). In the face of these politically motivated religious movements, this ruler embarked on a revival of Sunni orthodoxy, championing forms of Sufism that were deemed orthodox, while implementing a generally (though not completely) anti-esoteric policy.18 In Chapter 4, Leonard Lewisohn examines aspects of the theological and Sufi thought of ÍÅ’in al-DÈn Turka (d. 830/1437), one of the most important Sufis in 9th/15th-century Persia. Having become the target of accusations of esoteric heterodoxy, he writes an apologia, which he dedicates to ShÅh Rukh, taking full account of the latter’s theological views. Turka proclaims his theological orthodoxy and his adherence to a type of Sufism that conforms with, and depends on, orthodox Sunni theology, but also represents the indispensable spiritual part of Islam. Elsewhere, Turka presents a sevenfold hierarchical taxonomy of some of the main theological, metaphysical and esoteric traditions in Islam, which he represents by reference to their hermeneutic approach to the Qur’Ån. The bottom stratum is occupied by ‘exoteric’ scholars, who interpret the text literally; the second by the mutakallimËn, who go beyond the literal text, but are nonetheless restricted severely by the narrow nature of their thinking and worldview; the third by Peripatetic philosophers; and the fourth by Illuminationist philoso-

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introduction phers. Sufis, who interpret the Qur’Ån allegorically in a manner commensurate with their worldview, occupy the fifth stratum, while those who follow a type of elite mysticism that seems to be inspired by ÓurËfism occupy the sixth. The contrast that arises here between this assessment and that of early traditionalist Sufis is unmistakable. For those traditionalist theologians, the mystical interpretation of the Qur’Ån, which depends on divine grace, goes hand in hand with the literalist style of interpretation and traditionalist theology in general. By contrast, the current of eclectic, philosophically and Hermetically-influenced intellectual mysticism to which Turka belongs has more in common with its counterpart current in the Muslim West from which Ibn SabÆÈn emerges. The religio-political landscape of Persia in the 11th/17th century is radically different from it in the 9th/15th century. Out of the same milieu of popular Sufism and ShÈÆism by which the TÈmËrids felt so threatened, the Safavid movement rose to power in 907/1501, originally as a Sufi order propelled by charismatic, devotional leadership. The Safavids established themselves as the champions of Twelver ShÈÆism and commenced a process of ShÈÆification in Persia, which included the suppression of Sufi orders, especially, though not exclusively, Sunni ones like the Naqshbandiyya (which had a sober and distinctly anticharismatic and anti-ShÈÆÈ predilection). These orders were perceived as a threat not only to ShÈÆism in various ways, but likewise to the ascendancy of the Safavid dynasty. The QizilbÅsh, whose support proved crucial to the Safavid conquest of Persia, were next in line, as the rule of the state became established and tied to mainstream Twelver ShÈÆism, moving away from their style of antinomian, charismatic and militant culture and religiosity. The fortunes of Sufism and the different forms of criticism to which it was subjected in the Safavid period are examined in Chapter 5 by Sajjad Rizvi, who then focuses on one theologian, LÅhÈjÈ (d. 1072/1661–2), who wrote in the middle of the Safavid period during the reign of ShÅh ÆAbbÅs II. While this monarch was no less inimical to Sufi orders than other Safavid monarchs, he was nonetheless exceptionally inclined to non-institutional Sufism. Focusing on one work by LÅhÈjÈ, Rizvi shows how, by eclectically amalgamating theological, mystical and philosophical influences, he presents the ruler with a synthetic Sufi-ShÈÆÈ theology, which both appeals to his mystical penchant and incorporates the theology to which he subscribed. In the Safavid period also, Robert Gleave, in Chapter 9, examines attitudes towards Sufism within the scripturalist AkhbÅrÈ school in Twelver ShÈÆism, questioning its widespread portrayal as being thoroughly anti-Sufi. AkhbÅrism is fundamentally a school of jurisprudence, and, as such, inevitably based on some core theological assumptions. As the school founder, AstarÅbÅdÈ (d. 1036/1626–7) does not seem to offer a clear verdict on Sufism, school members were, as a consequence, able to adopt a range of contrasting views on the

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ayman shihadeh subject. Some AkhbÅrÈs extended their scripturalist juristic approach, applying it to non-juristic subjects, including Sufism, which, as a result, was rejected on account of being deemed to conflict in various ways with the principles of AkhbÅrism. Other AkhbÅrÈs opted for a restricted brand of AkhbÅrism which applied purely to jurisprudence, allowing them to engage in the tradition of philosophical Sufism current in Safavid times. This is yet another case where literalism does not automatically imply anti-Sufism, though what is espoused here is a highly philosophising strand of Sufism, of which, by contrast, the foregoing earlier Sunni Sufi traditionalists would have disapproved. From late medieval Iran we move to modern Egypt, one of the main centres of religious thought in the Arab and Muslim worlds. The Muslim experience of modernity has been one in which Sufism generally underwent overall decline in mainstream culture and severe criticism by the reformist currents dominant in contemporary Muslim societies. While the revivalist and modernist criticisms of Sufism have received considerable scholarly attention, 20th-century Sufi responses, at least those that emerged in the Arab world, remain understudied.19 Andreas Christmann’s study, in Chapter 10, of the modern concept of ‘Islamic mysticism’ (al-taßawwuf al-IslÅmÈ) through the writings of the Egyptian Sufi, thinker and academic AbË l-WafÅ al-TaftÅzÅnÈ (d. 1994), thus fills a significant gap in the available scholarly literature. Sufism was criticised on a range of interrelated counts – theological, juristic, moral and socio-political – and was variously accused of conflicting with both the letter and spirit of an authentic Islamic worldview. As Christmann shows, a movement appeared within educated Sufi circles in Egypt with a commitment to the notion of ‘Islamic mysticism’, seeking both to offer an apologia for Sufism and to reform it in various ways. This notion was developed to indicate that Sufism, in contrast to other forms of mysticism, is authentically and essentially Islamic, and consequently to present a form of Sufism that is purged of all elements perceived as extraneous and un-Islamic. Within this movement, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ offers an apologia for Sufism, which attempts to reconcile it with contemporary Muslim theological and religious outlooks. He does so by interpreting Sufism through the modern science of psychology, thus detracting from the contentious ontological aspects of theosophical Sufism. Taking us, to an extent, full circle to our starting point, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ expresses his admiration, somewhat in the manner of revivalism, for the early generations of Sufis from the 3rd/9th–4th/10th centuries, which he considers to represent the unsurpassed and purest form of Sufism. There are many more episodes in the historical relationship between mysticism and theology in Islam, which still await exploration. Major questions still remain unanswered, if at all posited. This is not due to the lack of primary material, of which there is in fact an abundance to work with. If anything,

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introduction therefore, the lacunary nature of our current state of knowledge should come as good news to those who work in the field. For, without doubt, the intellectual history of Islam still remains a tremendously rich and exciting field of scholarship, for our generation and for generations to come.

notes 1. On the early development of Sufism, see, for instance: Richard Gramlich, Alte Vorbilder des Sufitums (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1996); Paul Nwiya, Exégése coranique et language mystique (Beirut: DÅr al-Mashriq, 1970); Louis Massignon, Essay on the Origins of the Technical Language of Islamic Mysticism, trans. B. Clark (Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), originally published in French in 1954; Reynold Nicholson, ‘An Historical Enquiry Concerning the Origin and Development of Sufism’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 38 (1906), 303–48; Jacqueline Chabbi, ‘Remarques sur le développement historique des mouvements ascétiques et mystiques au Khurâsân’, Studia Islamica 46 (1977), 5–72; and ‘Réflexions sur le soufisme iranien primitive’, Journal asiatique 266 (1978), 37–55; Margaret Malamud, ‘Sufi Organizations and Structures of Authority in Medieval Nishapur’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 26.3 (1994), 427–42; Christopher Melchert, ‘The Transition from Asceticism to Mysticism at the Middle of the Ninth Century c.e.’, Studia Islamica 83 (1996), 51–70; and ‘The ÓanÅbila and the Early Sufis’, Arabica 48 (2001), 352–67. On early theology, see: Josef van Ess, Theologie und Gesellschaft im 2. und 3. Jh. Hidschra, 6 vols (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1991–2). 2. This is true even of al-Junayd’s (d. 297/910) writings. See, for instance, his discussion of the types of taw˙Èd in Ali Abdel-Kader, The Life, Personality and Writings of Al-Junayd (London: Luzac, 1962), pp. 55–6 (Arabic text). 3. For instance, Wilferd Madelung (Religious Trends in Early Islamic Iran [New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 1988], pp. 46–7) writes that since the 4th/10th century, Sufism in Iraq and Iran was closely associated with ShÅfiÆism and AshÆarism. I am indebted to Dr Annabel Keeler for this reference. 4. This is true even with a narrow definition of ‘theologian’ as one who is, to some extent, specialised in theology, rather than anyone who sets out theological beliefs that he adheres to. On al-Mu˙ÅsibÈ, see Josef van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt des ÓÅrit al-Mu˙ÅsibÈ (Bonn: Universität Bonn, 1961). 5. On Ibn KhafÈf, see al-SubkÈ, ÊabaqÅt al-ShÅfiÆiyya al-kubrÅ, ed. M. al-ÊanÅ˙È and ÆA. al-Óulw, 10 vols (Cairo: Ma†baÆat ÆsÅ al-BÅbÈ al-ÓalabÈ, 1967), 3, pp. 149–63; and Florian Sobieroj, Ibn KhafÈf und seine Schrift zur Novizenerziehung (KitÅb al-IqtißÅd) (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1998). 6. On al-ÓallÅj, see Louis Massignon, The Passion of al-Hallaj, trans. H. Mason (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982). See also Chapter 7 below. 7. AbË Naßr al-SarrÅj, Al-LumaÆ, ed. ÆA. Ma˙mËd and Ê. SurËr (Cairo: DÅr al-Kutub al-ÓadÈtha, 1960), pp. 409–555. 8. One wonders, however, whether this was a deliberate tactic by al-KubrÅ, who reportedly was a competent debater and learned in kalÅm. 9. On Ibn SÈnÅ, see Dimitri Gutas, ‘Intellect without Limits: The Absence of Mysticism in Avicenna’, in Proceedings of the Meeting of the International Society for the Study of Medieval Philosophy (SIEPM), Porto, August 2002 (forthcoming); and ‘Avicenna; V.

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ayman shihadeh Mysticism’, EIr. Gutas denies that this section in the IshÅrÅt is mystical. 10. See al-GhazÅlÈ, The Niche of Lights, trans. D. Buchman (Provo: Brigham Young University Press, 1998); Fadlou Shehadi, Ghazali’s Unique Unknowable God (Leiden: Brill, 1964). On al-GhazÅlÈ and AshÆarism, see, for instance: Kojiro Nakamura, ‘Was GhazÅlÈ an Ash‘arite?’, Memoirs of the Research Department of the Tokyo Bunko 51 (1993), 1–24; Richard Frank, Al-GhazÅlÈ and the Ash‘arite School (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1994); Oliver Leaman, ‘GhazÅlÈ and the Asharites’, Asian Philosophy 6.1 (1996), 17–27; Michael E. Marmura, ‘Ghazali and Ash‘arism revisited’, Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 12 (2002), 91–110. 11. AbË l-QÅsim ÆAbd al-KarÈm al-QushayrÈ, Al-RisÅla al-Qushayriyya, ed. ÆA. Ma˙mËd and M. ibn al-SharÈf, 2 vols (Cairo: DÅr al-MaÆÅrif, 1995), 1, pp. 19–33. 12. ÆAbd al-QÅhir al-BaghdÅdÈ (d. 429/1038) does the same, but in the face of MuÆtazilÈ opponents (UßËl al-dÈn [Istanbul: DÅr al-FunËn al-TËrkiyya, 1928], pp. 315–16). 13. Al-QushayrÈ, RisÅla, 1, pp. 184; 199. 14. Ibn Taymiyya, Al-IstiqÅma, ed. M. SÅlim, 2 vols (Riyadh: JÅmiÆat al-ImÅm Mu˙ammad ibn SaÆËd al-IslÅmiyya, 1991), 1, pp. 81–2. 15. That said, the relation between pre-GhazÅlian AshÆarism and Sufism still requires further exploration. On the relation of MuÆtazilism, the other main kalÅm school, to Sufism, see: Florian Sobieroj, ‘The MuÆtazila and Sufism’, in Frederick De Jong and Bernd Radtke (eds), Islamic Mysticism Contested: Thirteen Centuries of Controversies and Polemics (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 68–92. See also Wilferd Madelung, ‘ZaydÈ Attitudes to Sufism’, ibid. 124–44. 16. Numerous studies of Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s metaphysical thought are available. See, for instance, William Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge: Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s Metaphysics of Imagination (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1989); and Franz Rosenthal, ‘Ibn ÆArabÈ between “Philosophy” and “Mysticism”’, Oriens 31 (1988), 1–35. 17. See also: Alexander Knysh, Ibn ÆArabÈ in the Later Islamic Tradition (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999); and various articles in De Jong and Radtke, Islamic Mysticism Contested. 18. On the religious situation in TÈmËrid Persia, see: B. Amoretti, ‘Religion in the Timurid and Safavid Periods’, in The Cambridge History of Iran: Vol. 6, ed. P. Jackson and L. Lockhart (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 610ff. Also, Annemarie Schimmel, ‘The Ornament of the Saints: The Religious Situation in Iran in Pre-Safavid Times’, Iranian Studies 7.1–2 (1974), 88–111; and Maria Eva Subtelny, ‘The Cult of ÆAbdullÅh AnßÅrÈ under the Timurids’, in God is Beautiful and He Loves Beauty, ed. J. Bürgel and A. Giese (Bern: Peter Lang, 1994), pp. 377–406. 19. See also: Elizabeth Sirriyeh, Sufis and Anti-Sufis: The Defence, Rethinking and Rejection of Sufism in the Modern World (Richmond: Curzon, 1998); and various articles in De Jong and Radtke, Islamic Mysticism Contested.

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1

Mystical Theology and the Traditionalist Hermeneutics of MaybudÈ’s Kashf al-AsrÅr Annabel Keeler In this study I shall address a hermeneutical puzzle that seems to present itself in a Persian commentary on the Qur’Ån, the Kashf al-asrÅr wa-Æuddat al-abrÅr (Unveiling of Mysteries and Provision of the Righteous), composed in the early 6th/12th century by the little-known scholar and mystic, RashÈd al-DÈn MaybudÈ.1 Having outlined the nature of the puzzle, I shall then attempt to solve it by examining what might be called the ‘mystical theology’ of the Kashf al-asrÅr, that is, the esoteric dimensions of theological dogmas that underlie the work. Since MaybudÈ’s Kashf al-asrÅr is not widely known outside the Persianspeaking world, it will be appropriate to begin with a brief introduction to the commentary and its unusual structure, which has not only hermeneutical but also theological significance for MaybudÈ.2 The Kashf al-asrÅr was begun in the year 520/1126, and apart from this date we have no biographical data about MaybudÈ. According to the author’s introduction, the work was based upon a now no longer extant commentary by the ÓanbalÈ mystic, KhwÅja ÆAbdullÅh AnßÅrÈ (d. 481/1089),3 and the influence of AnßÅrÈ’s dogmatic views, as well as of the literary style and spirit of his famous MunÅjÅt is fully evident in the Kashf al-asrÅr.4 An interesting feature of the Kashf al-asrÅr is its threefold structure. The Qur’Ån is divided into sessions (majlis-hÅ) comprising anything from five to fifty or so verses. The commentary on each of these sessions is then presented in three parts, called nawbats (lit. ‘turns’). The first nawbat consists of a translation or concise rendering of the verses in Persian; the second is the exoteric or conventional commentary, and the third is the esoteric or mystical commentary, which MaybudÈ himself defines as comprising: ‘the allegories of mystics (rumËz-i ÆÅrifÅn), allusions of Sufis (ishÅrÅt-i ßËfiyyÅn), and subtle ‘associations’ of preachers (la†Å’if-i mudhakkirÅn).’5 This unusual format held distinct hermeneutical advantages for our commentator, for it provided him with a separate ‘space’, as it were, for two distinct hermeneutical approaches, those of the exoteric and esoteric interpretation of the Qur’Ån, whilst at the same time allowing him to maintain a tangible link between the two. However, it is precisely this juxtaposition of the exoteric and esoteric in MaybudÈ’s commentary that brings us up against the hermeneutical — 15 —

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annabel keeler puzzle that was mentioned above. For one of the curious if not challenging aspects of MaybudÈ’s hermeneutics is that he has combined in his commentary not just the exoteric and esoteric, but what at first appear to be two quite contradictory approaches to the interpretation of the Qur’Ån. The first is a strictly ‘literalist’ approach, which insists that the anthropomorphic expressions in the Qur’Ån, for example God’s ‘ascending’, or ‘being established on’ the Throne,6 or His ‘two hands’,7 should be accepted as they are, without attempting to interpret them. This approach, which vehemently opposes the metaphorical interpretations of such verses made by MuÆtazilÈs, philosophers and some AshÆarÈs, is the hermeneutic that is followed throughout the exoteric sections of MaybudÈ’s commentary.8 The second approach, manifested in the esoteric sections of the Kashf al-asrÅr, includes many quite free metaphorical and allegorical interpretations of the Qur’Ånic verses. Thus, for example, on the one hand MaybudÈ can insist that from an exoteric point of view, ‘God is in one of the directions of the universe, and that direction is above’,9 or that God’s ‘ascending’ the Throne should be accepted as it stands without metaphorical interpretation,10 and on the other, we find him poetically stating that ‘the Throne of God on earth is the heart of His lovers’.11 A similar puzzle or paradox surrounds the person of AnßÅrÈ. He was well known for his strict ÓanbalÈ compositions, including the Dhamm al-kalÅm wa-ahlihi (Condemnation of Scholastic Theology and its Proponents), or ArbaÆÈn fÈ l-taw˙Èd (Forty ÓadÈths on the Subject of Divine Unity).12 Yet he also composed influential mystical treatises such as the ManÅzil al-sÅ’irÈn (Waystations of Travellers), and ÊabaqÅt al-ßËfiyya (Generations of Sufis),13 which were highly respected by later Sufis, including commentators of Ibn ÆArabÈ such as ÆAbd al-RazzÅq KÅshÅnÈ (d. 730/1329) and ÆAbd al-Ra˙mÅn JÅmÈ (d. 898/1492).14 It is the purpose of this study, then, to show how these two approaches can not only coexist, but actually represent two sides of the same theological ‘coin’. Before doing so, it will be necessary to understand more precisely the nature and extent of MaybudÈ’s literalism. There is no doubt that MaybudÈ, like most commentators of the Qur’Ån, was a ‘traditionist’ that is, a scholar of ÓadÈth. But he was also a ‘traditionalist’, and here I am employing this term in the way it was used by George Makdisi and has more recently been defined by Benyamin Abrahamov as: a person who ‘regarded religious knowledge as deriving from the Revelation (Qur’Ån), the Tradition (Sunna) and the consensus (ijmÅÆ), and preferred these sources to reason in treating religious matters’.15 MaybudÈ belonged to the school of al-ShÅfiÆÈ in law, but this should not lead us to assume that he was an AshÆarÈ in theology. We may rather call him a ‘quasi ÓanbalÈ’, for although he espoused a number of ÓanbalÈ doctrines, he never expressed any formal allegiance to that school, preferring to place himself under

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mystical theology and traditional hermeneutics the ubiquitous banner of the ‘ahl al-sunna wa-l-jamÅÆa’ (in Persian, ahl-i sunnat wa-jamÅÆat).16 Two ÓanbalÈ doctrines that MaybudÈ championed in particular were, firstly, the belief that the Qur’Ån was uncreated, not only in meaning, but also in letters and sounds, and secondly, the above-mentioned insistence that the anthropomorphic expressions should not be subject to metaphorical interpretation. Concerning the former, for example, he says in his exoteric commentary on the letters Alif lÅm mÈm at the commencement of SËrat al-Baqara: The ahl al-sunnat say that these letters give evidence and clear [proof] of the fact that the Qur’Ån has letters and is eternal in its letters, and whosoever says other than this is being insolent and stubborn in the face of God and in so doing is a heretic (mul˙id).17

Regarding the anthropomorphic expressions in the Qur’Ån, MaybudÈ states that the ‘hand’ of God in Qur. 5:64 is, a hand of attribute (yad-i ßifat), a hand of essence (yad-i dhÅt), the outward meaning of which [should be] accepted, the inner meaning surrendered [to God], and the reality unapprehended (˙aqÈqat dar nayÅfta), [so that one] desists from the way of [asking] how (rÅh-i chigËnagÈ), the exertion [of reason] (taßarruf) and metaphorical interpretation (ta’wÈl).18

In order to cover himself against possible accusations of anthropomorphism (tashbÈh), MaybudÈ argues that to be the same in name (hamnÅm) is not to be the same in kind (hamsÅn). In fact, he holds that his position avoids the two extremes of tashbÈh on the one hand and taƆÈl (negation of the divine attributes) on the other.19 MaybudÈ’s disallowal of the metaphorical interpretations of these verses by MuÆtazilÈs and others was evidently because in his view they went against the fundamentals of faith.20 An analogous rationale can be found in the hermeneutics of Mu˙ammad (AbË ÓÅmid) al-GhazÅlÈ. He has no objection to metaphorical interpretations of the anthropomorphic verses, though he advises against teaching them to the common man. But he strongly condemns the philosophers’ metaphorical interpretations of Qur’Ånic descriptions of the bodily resurrection and sensible rewards and punishments in the afterlife. These are to be accepted literally, since they are, for GhazÅlÈ, fundamentals of religious belief.21 MaybudÈ, however, takes his literalism even further, applying it beyond verses that have any obvious dogmatic significance, and insisting that other expressions in the Qur’Ån should be accepted as they are, such as: ‘All that is in the heavens and earth glorifies God’ (Qur. 57:1). Concerning this verse he states: ‘[Although] that glorification and attestation of oneness [by all creatures] perplexes the heart of man, and reason rejects it, yet the religion of Islam accepts it and creation’s Creator affirms its truth.’22 Other Qur’Ånic statements which MaybudÈ insists should be accepted in their

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annabel keeler literal meaning, even though that might go against reason, are: ‘a wall which ‘would’ (arÅda) fall into ruin’ (Qur. 18:77); ‘garments of fire’ (Qur. 22:19); ‘As it [hellfire] would burst with rage’ (Qur. 67:8); ‘The thunder hymns His praise’ (Qur. 13:13); ‘the moon was rent in twain’ (Qur. 54:1); and the demand of the insatiable hellfire: ‘Is there more to come?’ (Qur. 50:30). None of these Qur’Ånic statements appears to involve divine attributes; in most cases they are what might be called figurative expressions, and form part of the Qur’Ånic rhetoric.23 So one might infer that MaybudÈ’s objection to metaphorical interpretation in these cases is that it is permitting the rational faculty to interfere with the uncreated word of God, which is, in his view, allowing reason to trespass in an area where it does not belong. By the same token, he disallows any kind of ‘reasoning’ about the essence and attributes of God, for which he condemns both speculative theologians (mutakallimËn) and philosophers (falÅsifa). MaybudÈ does not, of course, suggest that the rational faculty (Æaql) has no validity at all; but he describes its role as that of a policeman (pÅsbÅn), not a guide to be followed, and he advises that one should certainly not ‘place the reins in its hand’. This restricting or tethering of Æaql does not, in MaybudÈ’s view, cut the seeker off from cognisance of the divine realities; on the contrary, it opens the door to it. Thus he states: The noble ones of the way and wayfarers on the path of truth are those whose hearts God kept pure of desires and innovation (bidÆat), … who accepted what they heard, and went the way of submission (taslÈm), so that they escaped both from negating the divine attributes (taƆÈl) and from anthropomorphism (tashbÈh). They purified their hearts from the world and its contamination, until the light of gnosis (maÆrifat) shone in their hearts, and the springs of wisdom opened within them.24

It can be seen here that MaybudÈ has made not only the purification of the heart, but also freedom from innovation a precondition for spiritual realisation. A similar idea is presented in another passage, where he states that a servant should be ‘Sunni in his belief (ÆaqÈdat), pure in his conduct (sÈrat), and virtuous in his way (†arÈqat). From here opens the spring of wisdom (˙ikmat), the truth of spiritual insight (firÅsat), and the light of gnosis (maÆrifat).’25 Of course, by ‘Sunni in his belief’ MaybudÈ almost certainly means following what he considers are the doctrines of the ahl-i sunnat wa-jamÅÆat. To understand how this link between belief (ÆaqÈdat) and wisdom or gnosis works, we have to delve a little into the mystical doctrines of the Kashf al-asrÅr. Here, we find the esoteric dimensions of two theological dogmas: the first is the doctrine concerning the limits of human reason discussed above; the second is the belief in qa∂Å’, qadar or taqdÈr, that is, the doctrine of divine preordination, which teaches that everything, including all human acts, is originated and created by God.26 These two principles form the mainstays of mystical doctrine in the Kashf al-asrÅr, but to these must be added a vital third element, the only one which — 18 —

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mystical theology and traditional hermeneutics actively involves the seeker, namely love. These three interrelated elements form the dynamic of the mystical way as expounded by MaybudÈ. We may summarise them in the following manner. Understood mystically, the doctrine of qa∂Å’ or taqdÈr teaches that however much aspirants strive, they will only reach their goal by the intervention of divine grace. The doctrine which insists on the limits of rational knowledge allows that God can only be known through gnosis (maÆrifat), which is not attained by mental effort, but ‘found’ by the grace of unveiling (mukÅshafat). Hence God is, in the words of AnßÅrÈ: nÅ daryÅfta yÅfta, ‘found, not apprehended’.27 Such unveiling only takes place when the servant is rid of his own ‘I’, but this, again, only occurs by divine intervention. If the seeker may not approach God by way of knowledge, there can and should be no limit to his love and longing for God. Naturally, the lover desires union with God, but again, this may only be attained through divine intervention, when he is delivered from his own ‘I’, that is, when he is brought to annihilation from self (fanÅ’) and subsisting in God (baqÅ’). Since, as this summary shows, what we are mainly concerned with here is the doctrine of divine decree and intervention, it will be necessary to look more closely at the esoteric understanding of this doctrine before examining its role in the realms of love and knowledge. MaybudÈ teaches that aspirants on the spiritual path need to be aware of two aspects of the doctrine of qa∂Å’. The first is the complete helplessness of human beings in the face of the Divine decree, which in pre-eternity determined our happiness or misfortune in this world and the next. The second is their dependence on God’s control and intervention at every stage of the spiritual journey. It is the mystics, MaybudÈ explains, who are truly aware of the implication of qa∂Å’: ‘the worshipper (ÆÅbid) has his eye on his eternal end (abad), whereas the mystic (ÆÅrif) has his eye on what was decreed in pre-eternity (azal).’28 The intense feeling of apprehension and helplessness in face of this pre-eternal decree is powerfully expressed in the following munÅjÅt of AnßÅrÈ cited by MaybudÈ on a number of occasions in the Kashf al-asrÅr: Ah, the fate that has gone before me! Alas for what the Self-willed has already dictated! What use is there in my being happy or upset? I am in fear of what the Omnipotent has decreed in pre-eternity.29

Of course, the awareness that everything has been pre-ordained does not imply that seekers should abandon their efforts; MaybudÈ, in common with most Sufis, recommends the undertaking of rigorous spiritual discipline in order to subdue the ego or nafs. Nonetheless he warns: ‘whoever supposes that they can reach their destination without making an effort is under an illusion; however, whoever imagines they can arrive [simply] by making an effort is no less deluded’.30 Whilst there must be ‘exertion through worship or obedience (†ÅÆat),’ the attainment of ‘degrees [of spirituality] is through God-given help (tawfÈq)’.31 — 19 —

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annabel keeler The servants [of God] should be aware that acceptance by Him is ‘by His grace (fa∂l) not by their own action (Æamal)’,32 and they should not expect to find Him either by means of their acts or of their intellect (Æaql).33 The only solution that MaybudÈ offers for this conundrum is that one should have complete trust in God (tawakkul), and commit one’s affairs to Him (tafwÈ∂). Defining tawakkul, MaybudÈ explains that it means the servant should, rise above the way of his own choice (ikhtiyÅr), and abandon [lit. become blind to] his own power of disposal (taßarruf). He should pitch the tent of acquiescence and surrender (ri∂Å wa-taslÈm) in the valley of destiny and decree (qa∂Å’ wa-qadar).34

In other Sufi works, the subject of Divine intervention may be found in discussions of the two contrasting technical terms of sulËk and jadhb. SulËk refers to the act of making one’s way, the emphasis being on the servant’s own impetus, whereas jadhb means a ‘rapture’ or pulling on the part of God. MaybudÈ defines the term jadhb (or jadhba) as being ‘a Divine overpowering which, in an ecstatic moment, seizes the reins of the servant’s steed without intermediary, taking him through the stations of reality to the holy places of witnessing’.35 Given MaybudÈ’s emphasis on the doctrine of taqdÈr it is no surprise to find him frequently referring to these two contrasting states of sulËk and jadhb, although sometimes he employs Persian equivalents of rawish (going or wayfaring) and kashish (being drawn), or in some contexts rawanda (the one who is making his way) is contrasted with rubËda (the one who is seized). Alternatively, kËshish (making an effort) instead of rawish is contrasted with kashish. These significant pairs of terms may be set out as follows: sulËk (wayfaring) rawish (wayfaring) rawanda (wayfarer) kËshish (effort)

jadhb / jadhba (being drawn, attraction, a rapture) kashish (being drawn, attraction, a rapture) rubËda (one who is seized, snatched) kashish (being drawn, attraction, a rapture)

Another example of MaybudÈ’s esoteric application of the second aspect of the doctrine of taqdÈr, namely that of divine intervention, occurs in his teaching concerning the alternation of states, such as fear and hope (khawf and rajÅ’), contraction and expansion (qab∂ and bas†) and so on. Sufi manuals generally show the alternation of states to be the situation of those who are in the station of talwÈn (vacillation or changeability), while mystics who are in the more advanced station of tamkÈn (stability) are no longer affected by the alternation of states. According to MaybudÈ, however, the alternation of states affects all ranks of spiritual travellers, and even prophets. Here, he may well be following a teaching of AnßÅrÈ, as will be seen below. Among the reasons which MaybudÈ presents to explain this necessary alternation of spiritual states, one is that human beings do not have the capacity for direct or sustained vision of the realities, and another, that it intensifies the lover’s longing for God. But — 20 —

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mystical theology and traditional hermeneutics above all, the insistence on the alternation of states is connected to the mystical dimension of the doctrine of taqdÈr. Hence MaybudÈ explains that the contraction and expansion experienced by mystics are a ‘divine ruling (˙ukm-i ilÅhÈ) and kingly decree (taqdÈr-i pÅdishÅhÈ)’. Turning now to the role of taqdÈr in the doctrine of love, we find it first of all in the coquetry of the Beloved, a theme that is frequently found in Persian love poetry. The divine Beloved torments His lover by allowing him or her only partial or transient glimpses of Him. In another of his munÅjÅt AnßÅrÈ complains at the transience of these experiences of unveiling: O most Precious of the two worlds! Sometimes You are hidden, sometimes manifest. My heart is perplexed and my soul going mad. How long will this concealing and revealing go on? Tell me, when will the unending revealing be?36

Despite the fact that the lover always complains about it, this coquetry (known in Persian as nÅz) on the part of the Beloved is, from a spiritual point of view, regarded in a positive light, for it increases and intensifies the sense of need and longing in the lover, which itself acts as a purifying fire, freeing the seeker from all other than God. Another effect of the brief experience of unveiling is that, as was mentioned in the munÅjÅt above, it brings about a state of overwhelming perplexity (˙ayrat or ta˙ayyur) in the lover. This state is expressed with more intensity in another of AnßÅrÈ’s munÅjÅt: The one who seeks is in the whirlpool of woe (˙asrat), the one who finds is perplexed (˙ayrÅn) in the inundation of light. In that perplexity, [the one who finds] keeps saying in that state of bedazzlement: I am in bewilderment at You, O take my hand You, who are the Guide for the one who is perplexed at You!

The only recourse for those who are in this state is what is called istighÅtha, that is, is seeking refuge in God from God. Again we can see the lover’s total dependence on the favour, we might say whim of the Beloved. We also find the doctrine of divine intervention in the culmination of the way of love, for in order to attain union with the Beloved the lover must be annihilated from himself. Thus, in another munÅjÅt cited by MaybudÈ, AnßÅrÈ prays: O God! You cleansed [me] with a thousand waters until You had acquainted me with love, yet still one cleansing remains to be done: that You should cleanse me of myself so that I can rise out of myself and only You will remain. O God! Shall we never have one day together without the trouble of myself, that I might open my eye and not be confronted with my ‘I’?37

This divine ‘manipulation’ of the seeker, which, incidentally, is understood as being entirely a manifestation of God’s mercy and love, is fully explained in — 21 —

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annabel keeler MaybudÈ’s interpretation of the command to fast during the month of Ramadan. He explains that during this month God cleanses the mystics from other than Him, burning them with His love, alternately keeping them in fire and water, and he adds the poem: If He burns, say ‘Burn!’ and if He soothes say ‘Soothe!’ It is best for the lover that he should be between fire and water. So that in one he should be burnt and in the other drowned. Once he becomes free of himself the Beloved will be in his arms.

MaybudÈ then adds the following explanation from AnßÅrÈ: This is why the master of the Way [AnßÅrÈ] when he was asked about composure (jamÆiyya) answered ‘it is that you should fall into the grip (qab∂a) of God, and whoever falls into the grip of God, is burned away in Him and God remains in his place.’38

Thus far, it may seem that this discussion has digressed somewhat from the subject of hermeneutics in the Kashf al-asrÅr, but by looking now at the role of taqdÈr in the realm of knowledge, it will be possible to see how all these doctrines come into play. In the realm of knowledge, the key word is ‘finding’, in Persian yÅft, in Arabic wujËd. The word wujËd, when it occurs in the works of later Sufis such as Ibn ÆArabÈ, is often translated as ‘being’ or ‘existence’, but in this earlier period of Sufism it sometimes signifies finding or coming upon. Concerning the reality of divine unity (taw˙Èd), AnßÅrÈ explains that it cannot be attained by rational demonstration (istidlÅl) or striving (ijtihÅd) but is found, or experienced, unsought (nÅ khwÅsta dar Åmada) in a state of ‘inadvertence’ (ghaflat).39 Usually, even more than inadvertence, the experience of finding is said to be the moment of annihilation from self – AnßÅrÈ’s being freed from his ‘I’. For example, in one context MaybudÈ defines three stages of knowledge, described as different lights: ‘In the beginning there is the light of reason (Æaql); at the intermediate stage the light of knowledge (Æilm); and at the end, the light of gnosis (ÆirfÅn).’ Then he explains: By the light of the beginning the servant is freed from polytheism (shirk), by the light of the intermediate stage he is freed from opposition (khilÅf), and by the light of the end he is freed from himself. By the light of the beginning he knows his own fault; by the light of the intermediate stage he recognises what is harmful to him, and by the light of the end he discovers his own non-existence.40

Here we can see very clearly the role of Æaql: it does have an important role to play; after all, it frees the human being from polytheism, but it is still for MaybudÈ the most elementary form of knowing. In another context he defines three categories of knowledge, to each of which is assigned a teacher: The knowledge of sharÈÆat may be learned (ÅmËkhtanÈ), and its teacher is the ustÅd; the knowledge of †arÈqat is to be practised (ÆamalÈ), and its teacher is the pÈr; but the

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mystical theology and traditional hermeneutics knowledge of ˙aqÈqat can only be found (yÅftanÈ), and God entrusted the teaching of this to Himself.41

The same idea is conveyed in another passage where MaybudÈ is directly addressing the question of Qur’Ånic hermeneutics. Here he defines the knowledge taught by God as ‘knowledge by understanding’ (Æilm-i fahm), and explains that this has ‘no intermediary, for it is by divine inspiration (ba ilhÅm-i rabbÅnÈ’st)’. There is no question that what MaybudÈ means by Æilm-i fahm in this context is the esoteric interpretation of the Qur’Ån, for he goes on to contrast it with exoteric interpretation, adding that while the latter is accomplished by means of learning and effort (dÅnish wa-kËshish), understanding (fahm) is through finding and a rapture [from God] (yÅft wa-kashish) – note the opposition here between kËshish and kashish. MaybudÈ concludes this passage by stating: The understanding these men [i.e. the saints, awliyÅ’] have of the mysteries in the Book and the Sunna has reached a point such that the masters of outward knowledge dare not even walk around the perimeters of its sacred and revered precincts. In every letter they have found a station (maqÅm), in every word a message, and from every verse guidance.42

This brings us to the last extract from the Kashf al-asrÅr that will be discussed here, one which should make clear the connection between MaybudÈ’s traditionalist hermeneutics and aspects of the mystical theology outlined above. The passage is quoted from AnßÅrÈ, though it is possible that MaybudÈ himself had a hand in it – indeed, it could even be that MaybudÈ is here playing the role of interpreter for AnßÅrÈ’s teachings. God’s establishing Himself on the Throne is in the Qur’Ån. I believe in it and do not attempt to interpret it, for ta’wÈl (metaphorical interpretation) in this case would be a transgression (†ughyÅn). I accept its outer meaning and submit to (taslÈm) its inner meaning. This is the belief of the Sunnis (sunniyyÅn) and their way is to accept in their hearts whatever they do not comprehend. … However I know that He does not occupy this exalted place out of necessity; rather He indicates place by way of demonstration (ba-˙ujjat). The Throne does not bear God, exalted is He, for God is the Maintainer and Keeper of the Throne. The Throne of God is ‘made’ (sÅkhta) for those who seek God, not those who know God. The one who seeks God (KhudÅ-jËy) is different from the one who knows Him (KhudÅ-shinÅs). For the one who seeks God He said: ‘The All-merciful established Himself on the Throne’ [Qur. 20:5], and for the one who knows Him He said: ‘He is with you’ [Qur. 57:4]. In essence (dhÅt) He is on the Throne; in knowledge (Æilm), everywhere; in communing (ßu˙bat), in the spirit (jÅn); in nearness (qurb), in the soul (nafs). O, noble one! When you are in the private chamber of ‘He is with you’ [Qur. 57:4], do not let fall your gown, for [to say] ‘Exalted be God, the King, the Truth’ [Qur. 20:114], is fitting for Him. And do not take your ease upon the carpet of ‘We are nearer to him’ [Qur. 56:85], for above that is ‘They measure not the power of Allah its true measure’ [Qur. 6:91]. Do not be presumptuous with ‘and faces that day will be radiant looking towards their Lord’ [Qur. 75:22], for above that is ‘eyes will not see Him’ [Qur. 6:103].

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annabel keeler Before moving on to the second paragraph of this extract, it will be useful to make some comments about the first. To begin with, we might be tempted to find in this passage a ‘GhazÅlian’ hermeneutic, that is: for the commonalty (ÆawÅmm) among the believers, God’s Throne should be literally understood as a heavenly Throne, above, whereas the elite, who have been vouchsafed knowledge of the inner realities, need not be bound by this literalism. However, to be noted is the choice of the word ‘God-seeker’ (KhudÅ-jËy), the one who is actively seeking God, as contrasted with the one who has cognisance of Him (KhËdÅ-shinÅs). This may be significant, particularly when it is borne in mind that MaybudÈ identifies effort with exoteric interpretation, as opposed to finding, which he identifies with esoteric interpretation, as was seen in the passage previously discussed. We have also to remember remarks cited earlier about seeking God and the limitations of ijtihÅd. Therefore, what AnßÅrÈ (or MaybudÈ) may mean here is: at the level where we are seeking, that is, actively engaged with our rational minds in the pursuit of truth – and it should not be forgotten that MaybudÈ himself was thus engaged in his exoteric commentary – God’s establishing Himself on the Throne must be accepted as it stands. But once the commentator ‘falls into the grip of God’, he may interpret freely according to what he ‘finds’ through the inspiration of God. The statement: ‘He is on the Throne in His Essence; in His Knowledge, everywhere; in communing, in the spirit; in nearness, in the soul,’ appears to introduce another dimension to the hermeneutics of the Kashf al-asrÅr. What our commentator seems to be saying here is that in God’s absolute transcendence and ineffability (i.e. in His Essence) He is on the Throne, which is not very far from saying that the Throne ‘represents’ God’s essence.43 On the other hand, this same statement presents an interesting idea of reciprocity between God in His essence and attributes, and levels of human consciousness: ‘in His communing He is in the spirit, and in His nearness in the soul’. We can discern here the spiritual function of MaybudÈ’s hermeneutics, and this is clarified by what follows: when we are in the state of intimacy with God we need to be reminded of His transcendence; and the converse is true: when we are overawed by a sense of His transcendence, we need to be reminded of His nearness. This is none other than the alternation of states discussed earlier, but here we can see that sulËk (the aspirant’s wayfaring) is being determined by the Qur’Ånic word.44 The concept is clearly illustrated by the second paragraph: Whatever bestows ‘He is the First’ takes away ‘He is the Last’. Whatever indicates ‘He is the Outward’ effaces ‘He is the Inward’ [Qur. 13:33]. Why is this? So that the believer will keep passing (†awf) between fear and hope, and the gnostic between contraction (qab∂) and expansion (bas†). One cannot say that finding [Him] is impossible for that would be contradicted by the sharÈÆa; one cannot say that finding [Him] is possible for [His] Mightiness does not assent to it. [He is] the Glorious, the Mighty,

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mystical theology and traditional hermeneutics Whose power and truth cannot be grasped. [He is] the Gracious, the Loving – ‘He loves them and they love Him’ [Qur. 5:54].45

conclusion It was widely held among Sufi exegetes, and often stipulated by them in their works that the outer meanings of the Qur’Ån should be accepted. In fact, it was one of the conditions for those who would embark upon the esoteric interpretation of the Qur’Ån that they should first have mastered the sciences of exoteric interpretation.46 Yet it was not the norm for esoteric commentaries to be presented alongside exoteric commentaries; they were almost always composed as separate, self-contained works. We have, moreover, few examples of exoteric commentaries written by Sufi exegetes – of QushayrÈ’s exoteric commentary, known as al-TafsÈr al-kabÈr, only a small fragment appears to have survived.47 MaybudÈ’s Kashf al-asrÅr, therefore, provides us with the unusual opportunity of comparing closely the hermeneutics of exoteric and esoteric Qur’Ånic interpretation. However, the juxtaposition of an extremely literalist hermeneutic and a relatively free esoteric hermeneutic in the Kashf al-asrÅr prompts the student of this work to try to find some unifying factor between them, or at least to understand what can make them compatible in the mind of the author. This factor is, as can be seen in the teachings of MaybudÈ, an all-consuming belief in the absolute omnipotence and ineffability of God. In terms of the spiritual vocation of human beings, this belief requires on the one hand submission, in the awareness that not only our ultimate end but also all mystical states are determined by divine decree and intervention. At the same time, it demands that seekers circumscribe or tether their rational faculty, in the knowledge that reason can, of itself, never gain access to the divine realities, which here include the inner meanings of the Qur’Ån. Some knowledge of these may nonetheless be imparted to the purified human being by divine grace. It is in this latter point that MaybudÈ’s hermeneutic overlaps with that of other proponents of esoteric interpretation such as GhazÅlÈ and KÅshÅnÈ, who define knowledge of the inner meanings of the Qur’Ån as ‘knowledge by unveiling’ (Æilm al-mukÅshafa)48 or ‘interpretation by unveiling’ (tafsÈr kashfÈ),49 respectively. The word ‘unveiling’ here suggests a divinely-bestowed illumination. However, it has to be borne in mind that both GhazÅlÈ and KÅshÅnÈ were generally more in favour of the use of Æaql than MaybudÈ – it is doubtful whether GhazÅlÈ would have gone so far as to say, like AnßÅrÈ, that divine knowledge came when the mystic was in a state of ‘inadvertence’ (ghafla), or would have referred to God as the ‘teacher’ (ustÅd) of esoteric interpretation. The use of these expressions places greater emphasis on the role of divine intervention in knowledge. MaybudÈ was not alone in his insistence that the would-be Sufi or mystic should be firmly rooted in sound belief (ÆaqÈda), though he appears to mention — 25 —

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annabel keeler it more, perhaps because of his concern to promote his own traditionalist form of ShÅfiÆÈ Sufism. But other Sufis, such as AbË Bakr al-KalÅbÅdhÈ and AbË Naßr al-SarrÅj do include brief sections on ÆaqÈda in their Sufi manuals, while QushayrÈ took his AshÆarÈ theology seriously enough to be imprisoned for it, and Annemarie Schimmel has said of his RisÅla that it describes Sufi teachings and practices ‘from the viewpoint of a full-fledged AshÆarite theologian’.50 It is likely that a study of the mystical theology underlying many Sufi works written in this period would reveal the same two prevailing dogmas that are to be found in the Kashf al-asrÅr of MaybudÈ, those of divine predetermination and the limits of human reason – these doctrines were, in some degree, common to most ShÅfiÆÈs, whether AshÆarÈ or, like MaybudÈ, more traditionalist in theology.51 Such a study might also reveal, especially in works dating from the 5th/11th century on, the addition of that third element which completed MaybudÈ’s triangle, namely the doctrine of love. Later, these three doctrines would be among the predominant themes of most Persian mystical literature.52 It is tempting to wonder if the doctrine of love, which provides a compensatory dynamic within this theological frame, gained prevalence during this formative period partly because Sufism was at this time flourishing among ShÅfiÆÈ AshÆarÈs and traditionalists. Certainly, this compensatory aspect of love with its reciprocity between God and the human being is expressed in the words of AnßÅrÈ which end the passage above: ‘[He is] the Glorious, the Mighty, Whose power and truth cannot be grasped. [He is] the Gracious, the Loving – ‘He loves them and they love Him’ [Qur. 5:54].’

notes 1. AbË l-Fa∂l RashÈd al-DÈn MaybudÈ, Kashf al-asrÅr wa-Æuddat al-abrÅr, ed. ÆA. Óekmat (Tehran: AmÈr KabÈr, 1331–9 ah solar). Reprinted several times. 2. The hermeneutics and doctrines of MaybudÈ’s Kashf al-asrÅr are more extensively examined in this writer’s Sufi Hermeneutics: the Qur’an Commentary of RashÈd al-DÈn MaybudÈ (Oxford: Oxford University Press with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2006). 3. On the life and works of ÆAbdullÅh AnßÅrÈ, see Serge de Laugier de Beaurecueil, KhwÅdja ÆAbdullÅh AnßÅrÈ, mystique Óanbalite (Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique, 1965); Mu˙ammad SaÆÈd al-AfghÅnÈ, ÆAbd AllÅh al-AnßÅrÈ al-HarawÈ, mabÅdi’uhu wa-ÅrÅ’uhu al-kalÅmiyya wa-l-rË˙iyya (Cairo: DÅr al-Kutub al-˙adÈtha, 1968); and A. G. Ravan Farhadi, ÆAbdullÅh AnßÅrÈ of Herat (1006–1089 C.E.). An Early ÍËfÈ Master (Richmond: Curzon, 1996). 4. On the corpus of munÅjÅt (intimate prayers and invocations) attributed to AnßÅrÈ see Bo Utas, ‘The MunÅjÅt or IlÅhÈ-nÅmah of ÆAbdu’llÅh AnßÅrÈ’, Manuscripts of the Middle East 3 (1988), 83–7; and Mu˙ammad åßif Fikrat, MunÅjÅt wa-guftÅr-i PÈr-i HarÅt KhwÅja ÆAbdullÅh-i AnßÅrÈ-yi HarawÈ (Kabul: BayhaqÈ, 1355 ah solar). Published collections and translations of AnßÅrÈ’s MunÅjÅt are listed in Serge de Laugier de Beaurecueil, Cris du Coeur (Paris: Sindbad, 1988), p. 153, and in the bibliography of Farhadi, ÆAbdullÅh AnßÅrÈ. De Beaurecueil’s own edited collection

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mystical theology and traditional hermeneutics

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

19. 20.

and French translation of AnßÅrÈ’s MunÅjÅt are published as ‘Ilâhînâma’, Bulletin de l’Institut français d’archéologie orietale 47 (1948), 151–70, the translation having been reprinted in his Cris du Coeur. Kashf, I, p. 1. Mentioned in Qur. 7:54; 10:4; 13:2; 20:5; 25:59; 32:4; 57:4, for example. Qur. 5:64; 36:70; 38:76; 48:10. While this hermeneutical principle is applied throughout the exoteric sections of the Kashf al-asrÅr, it is often discussed in the esoteric sections. Kashf, I, p. 123. For example, Kashf, VI, p. 111. Kashf, III, p. 639. Extracts from these two works may be found in de Beaurecueil, KhwÅdja ‘AbdullÅh, pp. 198–221. The Dhamm al-kalÅm wa-ahlihi has been published ed. S. Dughaym (Beirut: DÅr al-Fikr al-LubnÅnÈ, 1994). ÆAbdullÅh AnßÅrÈ, ManÅzil al-sÅ’irÈn, ed. and trans. (French) S. de Beaurecueil (Cairo: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale, 1962); French translation reprinted in de Beaurecueil’s Chemins de Dieu. ÊabaqÅt al-ßËfiyya, ed. ÆA. ÓabÈbÈ (Kabul: Historical Society of Afghanistan, 1962); ed. S. MawlÅ’È (Tehran: IntishÅrÅt-i ÊËs, 1362 ah solar). KÅshÅnÈ’s commentary on AnßÅrÈ’s ManÅzil, published as ManÅzil al-sÅ’irÈn: shar˙ KamÅl al-DÈn ÆAbd al-RazzÅq al-QÅshÅnÈ, ed. M. BÈdÅrfar (Qum: IntishÅrÅt-i BÈdÅr, n.d.), is one among several commentaries on this work. ÆAbd al-Ra˙mÅn JÅmÈ used AnßÅrÈ’s ÊabaqÅt al-ßËfiyya as the basis for his own biographical dictionary of Sufism, the Nafa˙Åt al-uns, ed. M. ÆåbidÈ (Tehran: IntishÅrÅt-i I††ilÅÆÅt, 1370 ah solar). Binyamin Abrahamov, Islamic Theology: Traditionalism and Rationalism (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1998). On the use of the term ‘traditionalist’ see also Christopher Melchert, ‘The Piety of the ˙adÈth Folk’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 34 (2002), 425–39. MaybudÈ explicitly condemns AshÆarÈs on two occasions, namely, in Kashf, VIII, p. 486, where he condemns them amongst other proponents of speculative theology, and in Kashf, VIII, p. 507, where he condemns their belief that the Qur’Ån is eternal in meaning, rather than in letters and sounds. Kashf, I, p. 43. We may note in passing, that his interpretation of these same letters at the esoteric level is that they are a secret communication between lovers that is coded so that no one else can understand it. Kashf, III, 169. MaybudÈ’s ‘way of [asking] how’ (rÅh-i chigËnagÈ) appears to be a Persian equivalent to the Arabic ‘bi-lÅ kayf’. On bi-lÅ kayf, see Benyamin Abrahamov, ‘The bi-lÅ kayfa Doctrine and its Foundation in Islamic Theology’, Arabica 42 (1995), 165–79; Wesley Williams, ‘Aspects of the creed of A˙mad ibn Óanbal: a study of anthropomorphism in early Islamic discourse’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 34 (2002), 441–63; Richard Frank, ‘Elements in the development of the teaching of al-AshÆarÈ’, Le Muséon 104 (1991), 141–90, especially 154ff.; and Ayman Shihadeh, ‘Three Apologetic Stances in Al-ÊËfÈ: Theological Cognitivism, Noncognitivism, and a Proof of Prophecy from Scriptural Contradiction’, Journal of Qur’anic Studies 8.2 (2006), 1–23. Kashf, III, p. 625. This was certainly the belief of the ÓanbalÈ school, as set out in the QÅdirÈ creed

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annabel keeler

21.

22. 23.

24. 25. 26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

(al-IÆtiqÅd al-QÅdirÈ), issued by the ÓanbalÈ Caliph al-QÅdir in 433/1041, which includes the statement that ‘every one of the attributes of [God’s] being which He has ascribed is an attribute of His being which man should not overlook’. The translation of the QÅdirÈ Creed from which this extract is taken is by Salahuddin Bukhsh and David S. Margoliouth, and is cited in Adam Mez, The Renaissance of Islam (London: Luzac, 1937), pp. 207–9. See also George Makdisi, Ibn ÆAqil: Religion and Culture in Classical Islam (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1997), p. 303ff. See GhazÅlÈ’s Fayßal al-tafriqa bayn al-islÅm wa-l-zandaqa (Cairo: ÆsÅ al-BÅbÈ al-ÓalabÈ, 1961); trans. R. T. McCarthy, Freedom and Fulfillment (Boston: Twayne, 1980), p. 159ff.; pp. 191–2. See also chapter 8 of GhazÅlÈ’s TahÅfut al-falÅsifa, ed. S. DunyÅ (Cairo: DÅr I˙yÅ’ al-Kutub al-ÆArabiyya, 1947), trans. S. A. Kamali as Al-GhazÅlÈ’s TahÅfut al-falÅsifah: Incoherence of the Philosophers (Lahore: Pakistan Philosophical Congress, 1958); parallel Arabic text and English translation, Michael E. Marmura (Provo: Brigham Young University, 1997); Ignaz Goldziher, Streitschrift des ˝azalÈ gegen die Batinijja-Sekte (Leiden: Brill, 1916), pp. 70–1. Kashf, IX, p. 485. In fact, GhazÅlÈ has specifically explained the verse ‘All that is in the heavens and earth glorifies God’ (Qur. 57:1) as being an example of a rhetorical device known as lisÅn al-˙Ål, and argues that it should be interpreted metaphorically. See I˙yÅ’, Part 1, Book 2, KitÅb qawÅÆid al-ÆaqÅ’id, ch. 2, pp. 134–5. On GhazÅlÈ’s approach to this rhetorical device in the Qur’Ån and lisÅn al-˙Ål or zabÅn-i ˙Ål in Persian literature see Nasrollah Pourjavady, ‘ZabÅn-i ˙Ål dar adabiyyÅt-i FÅrsÈ’, (Part 1), Nashr-i dÅnish Year 17, no. 2 (1369 ah solar), 25–42. Kashf, III, p. 625. Kashf, I, p. 127. The use of masculine pronouns throughout this study is intended to be gender-inclusive, unless referring to a specified male personage. Of these three terms, MaybudÈ most often employs the word taqdÈr, which indicates God’s ‘implementation’ or ‘activation’ of His eternally decreed destiny or portion for each person in time. Kashf, VIII, p. 205. Kashf, V, p. 260. Occurs in Kashf, I, p. 93; VII, p. 398; X, p. 659. Kashf, II, p. 496. Kashf, IV, p. 441. Kashf, VII, pp. 40–1. Kashf, IX, pp. 201–2. Kashf, VIII, p. 13. Kashf, IV, p. 279. Kashf, V, p. 165. Kashf, VII, p. 398. Kashf, I, p. 496. Kashf, II, pp. 508–9. Kashf, III, p. 485. In his Íad maydÅn (MaydÅn 80) AnßÅrÈ shows these three to be stages of istislÅm (self-surrender): the first is az shirk rastan (being freed from polytheism), the second, az khilÅf rastan (being freed from opposition), and the third, az khwad rastan (being freed from oneself). See ÆAbdullÅh AnßÅrÈ, text and French translation in Serge de Laugier de Beaurecueil, ‘Une ébauche persane des ManÅzil as-SÅ’irÈn:

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mystical theology and traditional hermeneutics

41. 42. 43. 44.

45.

46.

47.

48. 49. 50. 51.

52.

Le KitÅb-e Íad maydÅn de ÆAbdullÅh AnßÅrÈ’, Mélanges Islamologues d’Archéologie Orientale 2 (1954), 1–90; French translation reprinted in de Beaurecueil, Chemins de Dieu. Kashf, V, p. 394; and again II, p. 774. Kashf, VI, pp. 292–3. This would bring MaybudÈ dangerously close to the kind of metaphorical interpretation that is anathema to him! MaybudÈ presents a similar idea concerning the contrasting effects of the divine name AllÅh, which brings about a state of consternation (˙ayrat or dahshat), and al-Ra˙mÅn, which brings about the state of intimacy (uns). See Kashf, X, p. 178, Kashf, X, p. 431; VI, p. 17; p. 342. Kashf, VI, p. 111. See also (Kashf, III, pp. 298–9) the commentary on Qur. 6:3 ‘And He is in heaven,’ where, without attributing his words to AnßÅrÈ, MaybudÈ writes: ‘In essence, in heaven; in knowledge, everywhere; in communing, in the spirit; in nearness in the soul – the soul annihilated in Him, He in place of the spirit that is effaced in Him. … Received knowledge (khabar) does not impair realised knowledge (˙aqÈqat), nor does realised knowledge invalidate received knowledge. Keep saying ‘He ascended,’ for He is established on the Throne, but [also] keep reciting ‘He is with you,’ because He is with you wherever you are. He does not occupy place out of necessity, He indicates place out of mercy.’ See, for example, GhazÅlÈ’s I˙yÅ’ ÆulËm al-dÈn, 6 vols (Damascus: DÅr al-Khayr, 1997), Part 1, Book 8, KitÅb ÅdÅb tilÅwat al-Qur’Ån, ch. 6, p. 386; trans. by Heer in ‘AbË ÓÅmid al-GhazÅlÈ’s Esoteric Interpretation of the Qur’Ån’, in Leonard Lewisohn (ed.), Classical Persian Sufism from its Origins to Rumi (London and New York: Khaniqahi Nimatullahi Publications, 1993), pp. 235–57, at p. 253. This view was also held by later exegetes, such as Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh, cited by al-SuyË†È in Al-I†qÅn fÈ ÆulËm al-Qur’Ån, ed. M. A. IbrÅhÈm 2 vols (Cairo: Maktabat wa-Ma†baÆat al-Mashhad al-ÓusaynÈ, 1967), II, p. 185; trans. R. Ahmad (Jullandri) in ‘Qur’Ånic Exegesis and Classical TafsÈr’, Islamic Quarterly 12 (1968), 71–119, at 106. On KÅshÅnÈ’s view, see Pierre Lory, Les Commentaires ésotériques du Coran d’après ÆAbd al-Razzâq al-Qâshânî (Paris: Les Deux Océans, 1980), pp. 12; 31. A fragment of Qur’Ån commentary entitled TafsÈr QushayrÈ has been preserved in MS Leiden 811. Part of this manuscript has been edited by Rashid Ahmad, who assumed it to be part of QushayrÈ’s commentary known as al-TafsÈr al-kabÈr. See his Ph.D. thesis, ‘TafsÈr in ÍËfÈ Literature with Particular Reference to Abu’l-QÅsim al-QushayrÈ’ (University of Cambridge, 1967). The part of this thesis relating to QushayrÈ has been published as Rashid Ahmad (Jullandri), ‘AbË al-QÅsim al-QushayrÈ as a Theologian and Commentator’, Islamic Quarterly 13 (1969), 6–69. GhazÅlÈ, I˙yÅ, Part 1, Book 1, KitÅb al-Æilm, ch. 2, p. 30; trans. by N. A. Faris as Book of Knowledge (Lahore: Shaykh Mu˙ammad Ashraf, 1962), p. 47. See Pierre Lory, Les Commentaires, p. 10. Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1983), p. 88. Wilferd Madelung (Religious Trends in Early Islamic Iran (New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 1988), pp. 46–7) has pointed out that the majority of Sufis in this period were ShÅfiÆÈs. For an analysis of the dogma underlying the works of the later poet FarÈd al-DÈn

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annabel keeler ÆA††År (d. before 617/1220), see Helmut Ritter, Das Meer der Seele (Leiden: Brill, 1978); trans. O’Kane as The Ocean of the Soul (Leiden: Brill, 2003), ch. 3, 4. and 5. See especially O’Kane’s translation pp. 68 and 78–9.

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1 2

The All-Comprehensive Circle (al-I˙ņa): Soul, Intellect, and the Oneness of Existence in the Doctrine of Ibn SabÆÈn Vincent J. Cornell The Andalusian philosopher and mystic ÆAbd al-Óaqq ibn SabÆÈn (d. 669/1270) is one of the most misunderstood figures in the history of Islamic thought. Most pre-modern Muslim writers portrayed him as the epitome of whatever they considered wrong with mysticism. Ibn KhaldËn (d. 808/1406), for example, described him as a radical monist whose ideas constituted ‘overt heresy and unwarranted innovations, and to justify them, the most extravagant and detestable interpretations of the literal meaning of orthodox doctrine’.1 Nearly everything that has been written about Ibn SabÆÈn is problematical. His name, his ethnic origin, his morals, his honesty, and even the means of his death have been called into question. He has been called a plagiarist, a seducer of women, and the author of pedantic and unintelligible writings. However, he has also been described as the author of works ‘the likes of which no one has ever seen’ and, according to at least one account, he was an accomplished physician who fashioned a prosthetic skullcap for the SharÈf of Mecca.2 The historian A˙mad al-GhubrÈnÈ (d. 703/1304), who relied on accounts about Ibn SabÆÈn that were related by his associates in the eastern Algerian city of BijÅya, tells of the Andalusian mystic’s impressive rhetorical skills, his eloquence, and his remarkable fluency in the Arabic language. GhubrÈnÈ also praises Ibn SabÆÈn’s wisdom, intelligence, and piety, and claims that when he eventually moved to Mecca, pilgrims from the Islamic West sought him out like no one else.3 Curiously, despite all of the disputes over who or what Ibn SabÆÈn may have been, few writers – either in the past or in the present – have described him as what he himself claimed to be: a Muslim follower of Hermes Trismegistos who sought ultimate Truth beyond the boundaries of Peripatetic philosophy, Sufism, and even formal religion.4 Ibn SabÆÈn states this position clearly in the Introduction to his most famous work, Budd al-ÆÅrif (The Idol of the Gnostic):5 I petitioned God to propagate [through me] the wisdom (al-˙ikma) that Hermes Trismegistos (al-harÅmisa) revealed in the earliest ages, the spiritual realities that prophetic guidance has made beneficial, the happiness that is sought by every person of guidance, the light (nËr) by which every Fully-Actualised Intellectual (mujtahid

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vincent j. cornell mu˙aqqaq) wishes to be illuminated, the knowledge that will no longer be broadcast or disseminated from [Hermes] in future ages, and the secret from which and through which and for the sake of which the Prophets were sent.6

the hermetic ‘third way’ As a Muslim Hermetist, Ibn SabÆÈn practised what John Walbridge has termed ‘Platonic Orientalism’,7 a Greek-inspired tradition of Eastern wisdom that originated in late antiquity but was still popular in the medieval Islamic world. According to this tradition, the most ancient and valuable source of wisdom was the Orient, a conceptual space that was centred on Egypt and India. In parts of the medieval Islamic world, Iran was also considered a source of Oriental wisdom. Pre-Islamic traditions from the Sassanian period claimed that much of the Greek intellectual heritage had been ‘stolen’ from Persia when Alexander the Great conquered the Achaemenid capital of Persepolis.8 Platonic Orientalism was central to the worldviews of both late antique and medieval Hermetism. According to Ibn KhaldËn, a centre of Hermetism in Muslim Spain was Ricote (Ar. RÈqˆ), a town on the Segura River north-west of the city of Murcia in the Spanish Levant.9 Ibn SabÆÈn was born in Ricote and the present-day town takes pride in its native son by honouring his memory on its website.10 In his study of Ibn SabÆÈn’s predecessor, the Sufi martyr ShihÅb al-DÈn Ya˙yÅ al-SuhrawardÈ (d. 587/1191), Walbridge identified four themes that were characteristic of medieval Islamic Hermetism: 1. A conception of a ‘higher philosophy’ as a form of revelation; 2. A primordial wisdom tradition (˙ikma qadÈma) that included Egyptian sages such as Hermes Trismegistos and Pre-Socratic mystical philosophers such as Pythagoras and Empedocles; 3. An Illuminationist (ishrÅqÈ) mysticism that used light as a metaphor for revelation; 4. Legitimation of the occult and openness to theurgy (Gr. semeia, Ar. al-sÈmiyya) and other ‘sciences’ based on the concept of Universal Sympathy.11 All of the above are present in Ibn SabÆÈn’s writings, whether in Budd al-ÆÅrif or in his shorter treatises and invocations. To Walbridge’s four themes of Islamic Hermetism, one can also add a fifth, which Steven M. Wasserstrom has identified as facilitating interactions between Muslim and Jewish intellectuals in the medieval Islamic world: 5. An elite interconfessionalism in which terminology and mythical constructs are shared across religious boundaries.

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the all-comprehensive circle Wasserstrom has observed that in the medieval Islamic world elite Hermetic circles provided one of the few acceptable contexts in which a true religious interconfessionalism could be practised. According to Wasserstrom, this was because ‘the figure of Hermes stood for a trans-confessional wisdom, a universal revelation, which doctrine further endorsed Muslim study of Jewish works’.12 This type of interconfessionalism is also found in Ibn SabÆÈn’s writings. In the Sufistic text RisÅlat al-nËriyya (The Treatise on the Illuminative), a discourse on the epistemology of invocation and remembrance, Ibn SabÆÈn cites Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed.13 In the theurgic invocation DaÆwat al-QÅf (Imprecation on the Letter QÅf), he calls on the occult powers (rË˙ÅniyyÅt) of the Jewish angels Metatron and Yahoel to overcome his enemies.14 However, besides religious interconfessionalism, other important themes of Islamic Hermetism can also be found in Ibn SabÆÈn’s writings. These doctrinal themes call into question the assertion, first made by Festugière and repeated by Walbridge and others, that Hermetism was merely an intellectual bricolage: in other words, it was purely syncretistic and did not have a doctrine unique to itself.15 However, such a conclusion fails to hold up, both as a logical argument and after a critical examination of Hermetic writings. In the first place, the very existence of Hermetism as an intellectual alternative implies a doctrine that cannot be found in other traditions. Second, the fact that Hermetists may have borrowed their doctrines from earlier sources does not make them any less original. For example, Plotinus claimed to have taught the ‘true’ doctrine of Plato and the Pre-Socratics, yet he is widely thought of as an innovator. The accusation of syncretism (or of hybridity as its variant) is a polemic that is as ancient as Hermetism itself. The concept of syncretism denies legitimacy to hybrid doctrines by positing a purity of ‘original’ doctrines that is seldom borne out (if ever) in real life. In modern colonial and post-colonial Islam, the charge of syncretism has often been used as a way of silencing both Islamic mysticism and religious vernaculars such as Indonesian Islam, and even the ‘historical’ Jesus has been accused of borrowing ideas from India. The contemporary scholar should be wary of allowing the concept of syncretism to obscure the coherence that may lie behind hybrid doctrines. An important premise of this chapter is that Hermetic doctrines were often unique reformulations of earlier doctrines, and that an appreciation of their coherence is essential for understanding the ‘Third Way’ of medieval Hermetists such as Ibn SabÆÈn. In the works of Ibn SabÆÈn as well as in parts of the third-century ce Corpus Hermeticum, the Hermetic ‘Third Way’ includes two additional doctrines that may be used to distinguish Hermetism from other intellectual traditions of late antiquity and medieval Islam: 6. The Hermetic ‘Third Way’ involves a doctrinal critique of both Peripatetic philosophy and alternative epistemologies such as Gnosticism (in — 33 —

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vincent j. cornell late antique Hermetic texts) and Sufism (in medieval Islamic Hermetic texts).16 7. The Hermetic ‘Third Way’ is an eclectic mystical philosophy, drawing heavily on Neo-Platonism and Neo-Pythagoreanism, whose main doctrinal focus is on the centrality of the Intellect (Ar. al-Æaql) as the ground of existence.17 Most contemporary commentators on Ibn SabÆÈn and his works understand the core of his doctrine to have been a unified and monistic theosophy that was epitomised by the term wa˙dat al-wujËd (the Oneness of Existence).18 This concept is most often ascribed to the Sufi Mu˙yÈ al-DÈn Ibn al-ÆArabÈ (d. 638/1240), who was born one generation before Ibn SabÆÈn in the city of Murcia, a short distance downriver from the latter’s home town of Ricote. However, there is yet little evidence that Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s doctrines were influential in Muslim Spain during Ibn SabÆÈn’s lifetime. Rather, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ seems to have gained his notoriety in the Arab Levant, where he relocated early in his career.19 Several generations had to elapse before he was fully appreciated in his home region. Even more importantly, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ never seems to have used the term wa˙dat al-wujËd himself. As William C. Chittick has pointed out, he devotes more attention in his writings to affirming the nature of multiplicity within unity than to affirming the concept of oneness per se.20 In addition, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s students rarely used the term wa˙dat al-wujËd either. For example, Íadr al-DÈn al-QËnawÈ (d. 673/1274), who was one of Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s closest disciples, mentions the term twice, but does not appear to have regarded it as a major concept.21 Given this evidence, it is difficult to understand why Chittick, following the French Ibn al-ÆArabÈ specialist Michel Chodkiewicz, still regards Ibn SabÆÈn as ‘thoroughly influenced by the perspective of Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’. 22 Instead, it is more likely that both mystics appropriated the concept of wa˙dat al-wujËd independently, from earlier Sufi or philosophical notions of divine oneness or from hitherto unidentified esoteric traditions that were current in Murcia or the Ricote Valley of Muslim Spain.23 In fact, the weight of evidence suggests that Ibn SabÆÈn may have been the first Muslim thinker to discuss wa˙dat al-wujËd as a major concept. If this were indeed the case, then its attribution to Ibn al-ÆArabÈ may have been due to later polemicists, such as Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328), who wrote a treatise entitled Ib†Ål wa˙dat al-wujËd (The Bankruptcy of the Oneness of Existence) and condemned both Ibn al-ÆArabÈ and Ibn SabÆÈn for using the concept.24 In several of his writings, Ibn SabÆÈn uses the term wa˙dat al-wujËd to characterise his doctrine. For example, at the end of RisÅlat al-nËriyya he uses the term as a synonym for the ‘Reality of Absolute Oneness’ (wujËd al-wa˙da al-mu†laqa aÆnÈ wa˙dat al-wujËd).25 In another treatise, he equates wa˙dat al-wujËd with the Unification of Existence (itti˙Åd al-wujËd), a concept that was particularly scandalous — 34 —

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the all-comprehensive circle for exoteric Muslim critics such as Ibn Taymiyya.26 However, even Ibn SabÆÈn more commonly used other terms to speak about the Oneness of Existence, such as al-wa˙da al-ma˙∂a (Unadulterated Oneness), al-wa˙da al-mu†laqa (Absolute Oneness) or al-wujËd al-mu†laq (Absolute Existence). In a few texts, he also uses the exclamatory phrase AllÅh faqa† (God Alone).27 Whatever its origin, Ibn SabÆÈn’s ‘Third Way’ as expressed in the concept of wa˙dat al-wujËd reveals its Hermetic roots in its doctrinal eclecticism. In his works, he cites a vast array of Muslim and non-Muslim thinkers, focusing in particular on the Greek philosophers, but including as well a reference to the Jewish philosopher and theologian Maimonides (d. 601/1204).28 At times, he cites the ritual practices of Christians and even of Brahmins.29 Although he is highly critical of the Peripatetic philosophical tradition, he freely borrows terms and concepts coined by the Muslim philosophers. He acknowledges his debt to AbË Naßr al-FarÅbÈ (d. 339/950), whom he calls ‘the Lord of the Philosophers of Islam, their Imam, and the chief subject of discussion among them’ (sayyid falÅsifat al-IslÅm wa-imÅmuhum wa-huwa al-mukhņab baynahum).30 However, he castigates Ibn Rushd (Averroes, d. 596/1198) for being so ‘obsessed with Aristotle’ (maftËn bi-Aris†Ë) that he has lost all critical ability and has become a mere cipher for Aristotle’s teachings. The most important unacknowledged figure in Ibn SabÆÈn’s intellectual background is AbË ÆAlÈ Ibn SÈnÅ (Avicenna, d. 428/1037), whose concept of the interdependence of being and existence appears to provide one of the foundations for Ibn SabÆÈn’s own ontology. However, Ibn SabÆÈn has little good to say about Avicenna either. Rather than acknowledging him as a forerunner, he accuses him of philosophical incoherence and of misrepresenting the Oriental tradition of esoteric wisdom (al-˙ikma al-mashriqiyya): ‘[Avicenna’s] discourse is full of sophistry and confusion and is of little benefit, and his works are good for nothing. He imagines that he has understood the Oriental wisdom, yet if he had truly understood it, its aroma would have been upon him.’31 To an outside observer, it seems that Ibn SabÆÈn wanted his followers to think of Avicenna’s Oriental wisdom as ‘SabÆÈnian’ theosophy that had been obscured undeservedly by the more famous reputation of Avicenna. The doctrinal core of Ibn SabÆÈn’s theosophy and, I would suggest, of Hermetism in general, is a focus on Intellect as the First Cause and ground of existence. Philip Merlan has termed this doctrine ‘Monopsychism’, by which he means a unitas intellectus that unites all souls within a single nous.32 For Ibn SabÆÈn, this was the fundamental doctrine of the tradition of Oriental wisdom (al-˙ikma al-mashriqiyya), as represented (accurately) by SuhrawardÈ and (inaccurately) by Avicenna. As a Hermetic doctrine, it consisted of an intellectual mysticism that corresponded to what Garth Fowden has termed religio mentis.33 However, Ibn SabÆÈn’s ‘Religion of the Intellect’ had little in common with the dualism expressed in such late antique Hermetic works as the Discourse on the Eighth and

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vincent j. cornell Ninth from the Nag Hammadi codices, or even Asclepius, where the term religio mentis first appears.34 Instead, it corresponded more closely to the teachings of certain other texts of the Corpus Hermeticum, such as Krater (The Mixing Bowl, libellus IV), Peri Psuchis (On Mind, libellus VIII), or Kleis (The Key, libellus X). It also shared an affinity with the medieval Arabic Hermetic text KitÅb dhamm al-nafs (The Castigation of the Soul).35 Its view of existence was monistic, emanationist, and integrative, and was based on the idea that the principle that unifies all contingent existence in the sublunar world is Intellect, or more accurately, the Intellectual Principle (al-Æaql). At times, Ibn SabÆÈn refers to the Intellectual Principle in mythological terms as the ‘Supreme Father’ (al-ab al-muÆaΩΩam), apparently evoking the Christian concept of God the Father.36 At other times, he describes the Intellectual Principle more philosophically as ‘the foundational attribute of the universe’ (uss ßifat al-ÆÅlam) and ‘the axis around which the existential order revolves’ (al-qu†b alladhÈ yadËru Æalayhi al-tadbÈr).37 According to Ibn SabÆÈn, Peripatetic philosophy is insufficient as a way of knowledge both because it refuses to acknowledge an epistemology based on revelation and because it fails to recognise the centrality of the Intellectual Principle in the overall scheme of things. This objection is more than just a philosophical splitting of hairs. For Ibn SabÆÈn, a unitary ontology based on the concept of Monopsychism is the fundamental doctrine of the Oriental wisdom tradition, and hence of Hermes Trismegistos, whom he regards as the source of this tradition: What I wish to counsel you is this: that you firmly believe that the universal, the particular, the material, and the spiritual are all one. Do not differentiate between them in your mind from the standpoint of whether or not they were brought into being at the first creation and do not believe that the primordial system (al-niΩÅm al-qadÈm) is internally differentiated … Do not let the unitary theology (taw˙Èd) that you hear others (i.e., exoteric Muslims) discuss confuse you. For the knower, knowledge, and what is known are all one. So know that what is necessary is Existence (al-wujËd) itself and that nothing issues from it but the One.38

soul, intellect and existence in ibn sabÆn’s monopsychism In the writings of Ibn SabÆÈn, the doctrines of Monopsychism and wa˙dat al-wujËd are brought together in the symbiotic interrelationship of Intellect, Soul and Existence.39 This notion draws upon, but is not identical with, Plotinus’ doctrine of the three ‘super-mundane’ principles.40 Among the works of Ibn SabÆÈn that discuss this symbiosis are Budd al-ÆÅrif, which discusses the interrelationship of Intellect, Soul and Existence in philosophical and psychological terms, and KitÅb al-I˙ņa (The Book of the All-Comprehensive Circle), a mystical text on the revelatory nature of knowledge. In Budd al-ÆÅrif, Ibn SabÆÈn proposes a variation on the well-known philosophical theme of the manifestation of Soul (Gr. nous, Ar. al-nafs) in the sublunar — 36 —

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the all-comprehensive circle world. The key to this variation is the insertion of the ‘Insightful Soul’ or more literally, the ‘Wisdom-Bearing Soul’ (al-nafs al-˙ikmiyya) into the hierarchy of Vegetative Soul (al-nafs al-nabÅtiyya), Animal Soul (al-nafs al-˙ayawÅniyya), Rational Soul (al-nafs al-nņiqa), and Prophetic Soul (al-nafs al-nabawiyya).41 In this schema, the Insightful or Wisdom-Bearing Soul is placed above the Rational Soul and acts as a mediator between the Rational Soul and the Prophetic Soul. For Ibn SabÆÈn, the addition of this fifth soul in the hierarchy of souls improves on the classical model by providing a justification for the continued transmission of divinely inspired knowledge in the post-Prophetic age. In addition, it solves the epistemological problem of Peripatetic philosophy (the Falsafa tradition as normally conceived) by positing a mediatory form of knowledge that is open to revelation between rational knowledge and prophetic knowledge. However, even in this ‘new and improved’ system, the Rational Soul (as the locus of Intellect in the sensible world) remains the key to the hierarchy of souls. This is because the Rational Soul mediates between the ‘partial’ or particularised (juz’iyya) Vegetative and Animal souls and the ‘practically complete’ (ÆalÅ wajh al-tamÅm) Wisdom-Bearing and Prophetic souls, which partake of the Universal Soul (al-nafs al-kulliyya) and the Productive Intellect (al-Æaql al-faÆÆÅl).42 Since each lower soul constitutes the ‘site’ (maw∂iÆ) or foundation of the soul above it, and each higher soul comprises the perfected form (ßËra) of the soul below it, the Rational Soul occupies a unique position in that it partakes of both partiality (or contingency) and completeness (or transcendence) at the same time. It is partial because its foundation is the Animal Soul and it is ‘practically complete’ because, as the basic human soul, it represents the perfected form of the animal nature. Similarly, the Rational Soul also comprises the foundation of all the souls above it. Therefore, it shares in the Universal Soul and the Productive Intellect to a degree not found in the subhuman Vegetative and Animal souls. Elsewhere in Budd al-ÆÅrif, Ibn SabÆÈn speaks of the Rational Soul as divided into three subtypes: the Rational-Philosophical Soul (al-nafs al-falsafiyya), the Insightful or Wisdom-Bearing Soul (al-nafs al-˙ikmiyya), and the Prophetic Soul (al-nafs al-nabawiyya). This further particularisation of the Rational Soul into epistemological categories does not contradict the previous model. Rather, it illustrates the link between the human soul and the Productive Intellect, and consequently reinforces the unification of ontology and epistemology in Ibn SabÆÈn’s Monopsychism. Just as the Rational Soul constitutes the perfection of the Animal Soul, the Insightful or Wisdom-Bearing Soul constitutes the perfected form of the Rational Soul. This is because the ultimate purpose of the Rational Soul is to understand things in their totality (kulliyyÅt al-ashyÅ’). This global vision of the Rational Soul is a token of its essential, though partial, similarity with the Universal Soul (al-nafs al-kulliyya), and forms the foundation of the Prophetic

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vincent j. cornell Soul, which is the acme of human possibility. As the agent of revelatory knowledge, the Prophetic Soul derives its knowledge directly from Intellect as the First Truth (al-awwal al-Óaqq), the Supreme Logos (al-kalima al-muÆaΩΩama), and the Transcendent Essence (al-dhÅt al-munazzaha), ‘without intermediary or composition and without need for individual effort or research.’43 Thus, it is on the level of gnosis (maÆrifa) – the perception of the Ultimate Truth that is shared by the Wisdom-Bearing Soul and the Prophetic Soul in varying degrees – that Soul and Intellect are conjoined in Ibn SabÆÈn’s epistemology. This conjunction (ittißÅl) of Soul and Intellect is what leads Ibn SabÆÈn to speak of ‘unification’ (itti˙Åd) when he discusses wa˙dat al-wujËd. According to Ibn SabÆÈn, the human soul unites with Intellect when it ‘sees’ the archetypal forms of things (al-maÆlËmÅt) and arrives at the total and comprehensive knowledge of their inner natures (al-maÆÅnÈ al-kulliyya).44 The human intellect, like the human soul, is organised in a hierarchy that ascends from knowledge of the Sensibles to knowledge of the Intelligibles. This hierarchy is congruent with the hierarchy of souls discussed above and starts with the Primary Instinctive Intellect, which is associated with the Animal Soul: 1. Primary Instinctive Intellect (al-Æaql al-awwal al-gharÈzÈ) – associated with the Animal Soul. 1. Practical Intellect (al-Æaql al-ÆamalÈ) – associated with the lower orders of the Rational Soul. 1. Cognitive Intellect (al-Æaql al-ÆilmÈ) – associated with the higher orders of the Rational Soul and the Wisdom-Bearing Soul. 1. Human Productive Intellect (al-Æaql al-faÆÆÅl) – associated with the Wisdom-Bearing Soul and the Prophetic Soul.45 The Animal Soul is associated with the Primary Instinctive Intellect because an animal’s actions and decisions are made instinctively, with little or no cognition. This differentiates animals from human beings, who use cognition in their decision making. However, most human beings fully actualise only the Practical Intellect but only partially actualise the Cognitive Intellect. This is because the Practical Intellect governs knowledge derived from experience, which is the most basic form of human knowledge. The Practical Intellect also governs instrumental forms of knowledge, such as the skills and the crafts. A minority of human beings, however, actualise the Cognitive Intellect more fully because their ‘work’ is knowledge based: these are the Intellectuals who realise the potential of the Rational Soul sufficiently to derive their knowledge either from the Rational-Philosophical Soul or from the Wisdom-Bearing Soul (or both). Such people are the scholars and sages of humanity. The greatest Intellectuals are those who partake of the Productive Intellect directly by realising the complete potential of the Rational Soul. These are the Prophets and great sages. Their

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the all-comprehensive circle souls are ‘Prophetic’ because they take their knowledge directly from the Productive Intellect. Ibn SabÆÈn calls the person who has reached this highest epistemological level the ‘Actualised Intimate’ (al-mu˙aqqiq al-muqÅrib) of the Truth (al-Óaqq).46 In the context of al-FÅrÅbÈ’s philosophy, which Ibn SabÆÈn acknowledges as similar to his own, such a person would be called the ‘True Human Being’ (al-insÅn ÆalÅ l-˙aqÈqa). Not surprisingly, Ibn SabÆÈn also uses this term when describing the Actualised Intimate. On the level of human thought, the interrelationship of Soul and Intellect is mediated by the Faculty of the Imagination (al-quwwa al-wahmiyya or al-quwwa al-khayÅliyya). Just as Soul and Intellect are conjoined in the process of cognition, Imagination works with Thought (corresponding to Soul) and Reason (corresponding to Intellect) to apprehend the Sensibles (al-ma˙sËsÅt) and the Intelligibles (al-maÆqËlÅt). Ibn SabÆÈn’s psychology of the Imagination is based on the interaction of four faculties: the Sensible Faculties (al-quwwÅt al-˙issiyya), the Logical Faculties (al-quwwÅt al-man†iqiyya), the Psychic Faculties (al-quwwÅt al-nafsiyya), and the Spiritual Faculties (al-quwwÅt al-rË˙Åniyya). Ibn SabÆÈn differs from most Muslim thinkers by positing six senses instead of five. At the apex of the five senses of sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch is a sense that he describes as the ‘Sense of Sensing’ (˙iss al-˙Åss), which in modern terms would be called Intuition.47 Ibn SabÆÈn calls Intuition the ‘Shared Sense’ or ‘Common Sense’ (al-˙iss al-mushtarak) because it is the basis of the Imagination, and conjoins with the Imagination as one of the Logical Faculties, which are located in the brain. These Logical Faculties consist of Retentive Memory (al-˙ifΩ), which is located at the rear of the brain, Thought (al-fikr), which is located in the centre of the brain, and Figurative Imagination (al-wahm), which is located at the front of the brain. Because it operates precognitively, Ibn SabÆÈn’s notion of Intuition is most closely related to Imagination on the level of the Psychic Faculties, where, in the guise of the Sensible Faculty (al-quwwa al-˙issiyya), it mediates between the Logical Faculty and the Motivating Faculty (al-quwwa al-mu˙arrika). These psychic faculties derive directly from the Rational Soul and constitute the foundation of the five Spiritual Faculties (al-quwwÅt al-rË˙Åniyya): 1. Artifice (al-quwwa al-ßÅniÆa); 2. Reason (al-quwwa al-nņiqa); 3. Retentive or Recollective Memory (al-quwwa al-˙ÅfiΩa, also called al-quwwa al-dhÅkira); 4. Thought (al-quwwa al-mufakkira); 5. Conceptual Imagination (al-quwwa al-mutakhayyala). Ibn SabÆÈn calls the five Spiritual Faculties ‘Spiritual Senses’ in order to demonstrate that an essential continuity exists between Spirit (al-rË˙, derived

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vincent j. cornell from Soul and Intellect) and Body (al-jism, in the guise of the Logical Faculty and the six bodily senses). The grounding of the Imagination in the six bodily senses allows the Imagination to perceive and make use of the Sensibles.48 Ibn SabÆÈn illustrates the interaction of the three highest Spiritual Faculties – Thought, Conceptual Imagination and Memory – by using the metaphor of a royal Cabinet of Ministers. In this model, Thought is the king, which generates ideas in the form of plans; Conceptual Imagination is the king’s vizier, which puts Thought’s plans into effect through the use of Reason and Artifice; Retentive Memory is the king’s treasurer, which stores away the outcomes and results of the plans generated by Thought.49 A key term that has been overlooked by most commentators on Ibn SabÆÈn’s works is nu†q: ‘pronunciation’ or ‘vocalisation’. This term or its derivatives show up constantly in Ibn SabÆÈn’s writings. The importance of this term highlights the danger of relying on conventional definitions of philosophical terminology in studies of Islamic thought. Definitions based on English translations of Greek works often do not correspond adequately to definitions in Arabic, which may be based on the Arabic roots of technical terms, rather than on their Greek originals. For example, Ibn SabÆÈn’s term for the Logical Faculty (al-quwwa al-man†iqiyya) comes from na†aqa, the same Arabic root as for the word nu†q, as do his terms for the Rational Faculty (al-quwwa al-nņiqa) and the Rational Soul (al-nafs al-nņiqa). However, his discussion of the concept of the Rational Soul makes it clear that it would be a mistake to construe the Arabic notion of this concept as always having to do with logic, reason or rationality. Just as often, it may refer to transcendent logic or transrational forms of cognition. For Ibn SabÆÈn, al-nafs al-nņiqa is not so much the ‘Rational Soul’ as it is the ‘Vocalising Soul’ or the ‘Speaking Soul,’ concepts that more clearly correspond to the meaning of nu†q as ‘pronunciation’, ‘enunciation’ or ‘vocalisation’. This is because, for Ibn SabÆÈn, the task of Reason is to replicate, on the human level, the ‘enunciative’ process by which the Productive Intellect as Logos generates ideas and brings them into existence. To put the matter in more Islamic terms, the creativity of the human mind replicates, on its own level, God’s vocalisation of the Creative Command as expressed in the following famous verse of the Qur’Ån (2:116–17): ‘[God] is the Originator of the heavens and the earth. When He decrees a thing, he merely says unto it, “Be!” And it is.’ The vocalisation of the divine command ‘Be!’ expresses the idea of creativity, which, for Ibn SabÆÈn, is manifested through the Imagination. Just as Soul and Intellect are one in essence, so Soul, Intellect and Imagination (manifested as the ‘vocalisation’ of ideas) are united in the creative process. In this way, Imagination-as-Vocalisation (nu†q) can be seen as the essential expression of the Monopsychic union of Soul and Intellect, which manifests itself through visionary insights and inspired thoughts. This is why

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the all-comprehensive circle the ‘Rational Soul’ is called al-nafs al-nņiqa. When the ideas generated by the Rational Soul are intuitive (badÈhÈ), their vocalisation is linked to Imagination and Intuition. When ideas arise from an ‘inner voice’ (nu†q dÅkhilÈ), they allow the human intellect to ‘speak with’ the Productive Intellect. When the ideas generated by the Rational Soul are enunciated through an ‘outer voice’ (nu†q khÅrijÈ) – which is Ibn SabÆÈn’s way of expressing formal or ‘front brain’ rationality – they become the means by which the Intellect disseminates knowledge through the medium of formal argument.50 The concept of nu†q is also crucial to an understanding of Ibn SabÆÈn’s treatise KitÅb al-I˙ņa (The Book of the All-Comprehensive Circle) because this work conceives of the production of knowledge as a ‘vocalisation’ of Intellect and Imagination.51 More than Budd al-ÆÅrif, KitÅb al-I˙ņa reflects the supra-rational side of Ibn SabÆÈn’s thought, for it combines philosophic analysis with Hermetic statements derived from revelatory experiences. In this text, the Faculty of Imagination (al-quwwa al-wahmiyya) is brought front and centre as the connecting link between the sensible world and the Intellectual Principle. Through the mediation of the Imagination, unification (itti˙Åd) with the Intellectual Principle becomes the ‘ultimate goal and acme of human perfection’ and the ‘secret of the Farthest Mosque’ (sirr al-Masjid al-AqßÅ).52 This last statement may refer to traditions that identify Jerusalem as a repository of esoteric knowledge. However, it more likely refers to the ‘ultimate site of prostration’ (another possible meaning of al-masjid al-aqßÅ), in which the human soul ‘bows’ existentially before its ‘father’, the Intellectual Principle.53 As the Axis of Existence and fundamental ‘point’ (budd) of Ibn SabÆÈn’s philosophy, the Intellectual Principle may be conceived metaphorically as the ‘Idol of the Gnostic,’ thus yielding a more literal yet deeper meaning of Budd al-ÆÅrif than most commentators have heretofore acknowledged. KitÅb al-I˙ņa also differs from Budd al-ÆÅrif in that it focuses on a concept called the Volitional Faculty or more literally, the ‘Attractive Impulse’ (al-quwwa al-nuzËÆiyya), which is not discussed in the latter work. Also called the Will (al-irÅda) or the Faculty of Attachment (quwwat al-taÆalluq), the Volitional Faculty acts within the human mind (al-dhihn) to help the Imagination ‘attach’ itself to ideas. Volition is seen as an important faculty by Ibn SabÆÈn because it grounds the quest for knowledge in the most basic instincts of the human being. At one point in KitÅb al-I˙ņa, he tells his readers, ‘Say “Hi!” to Ibn al-ÆArÈf (The Son of the Knowing).’54 The historical Ibn al-ÆArÈf (d. 536/1141) was a Sufi from the city of Almería in the Spanish Levant who taught a spiritual method called the ‘Way of the Will’ (†arÈq al-irÅda).55 If Ibn SabÆÈn meant this reference to Ibn al-ÆArÈf to be taken literally, then he most likely saw Ibn al-ÆArÈf’s Way of the Will as similar to his own Way of Volition. While the Volitional Faculty is necessary for motivating the Seeker to

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vincent j. cornell embark on the way of knowledge, Vocalisation, which Ibn SabÆÈn also terms the Discursive Faculty or the ‘Vocalising Instinct’ (al-quwwa al-mu˙additha), is what ‘calls’ the Seeker to aspire to the highest levels of understanding. The Discursive Faculty is a receptive faculty, located within the human consciousness (al-∂amÈr), which receives ‘discourses that originate in the Eternal’ (al-mukhņaba fÈ l-khuld). As such, it acts as a catalyst for both creative inspiration (ilhÅm) and ‘various types of prophecy’ (anwÅÆ al-wa˙y), and thus acts in conjunction with the Wisdom-Bearing Soul and the Prophetic Soul.56 The ‘calls’ that are received by the Discursive Faculty ‘pull’ the Imagination (injirÅr al-wahm) upward, beyond the forms of material things, so that it recognises its absolute need (al-iftiqÅr al-ma˙∂) for the Unitary Truth. Spurred on by these inner voices (a reference to nu†q dÅkhilÈ, discussed above), the Imagination leads one to realise that despite the assumptions of both exoteric theologians and Sufis, there is no unity outside of the Godhead: ‘There is no oneness (taw˙Èd) in heaven, nor among the people of heaven.’ Nor does true theological oneness exist for the person who says, ‘There is no separation of one from one,’ or for the person who says, ‘One does not see but by means of [God’s] light, and one does not witness except through [God’s] presence.’57 For Ibn SabÆÈn, the concept of the ‘One’ can logically mean only one of four things: (1) ‘One’ in the sense of the unification of two separate entities; (2) ‘One’ in the sense of completion or perfection; (3) ‘One’ in the sense of a simple, undifferentiated unity; (4) ‘One’ as a universal totality. At this point in the discussion, Ibn SabÆÈn subjects the apparent ‘mysticism’ of KitÅb al-I˙ņa to the strictures of formal logic, which recalls his earlier strategy of opening Budd al-ÆÅrif with a discussion of the logical categories in Porphyry’s Isagoge. At points such as this, the modern student of ‘Islamic mysticism’ is led to ask where to draw the line between ‘mysticism’ and ‘philosophy’ in Ibn SabÆÈn’s discussion of wa˙dat al-wujËd. Was the recourse to Hermetism his key to squaring this epistemological circle? Once it has been ‘called’ to transcend its conventional limits by the ‘voice’ of the Intellect, which ‘speaks’ through the Wisdom-Bearing Soul and the Prophetic Soul, the Imagination finds itself within the All-Comprehensive Circle (al-I˙ņa), an epistemological conundrum that Ibn SabÆÈn describes as an ‘everlasting girdle’ (mußmata ßamadiyya). His ensuing description of the All-Comprehensive Circle makes it clear that when it comes to the logical possibilities of theological oneness (taw˙Èd) discussed above, he chooses to define the concept as Unity-As-Totality: Exit [from this everlasting girdle] is both forbidden and beyond our ability. The entrance to it is encompassed by [the girdle] itself such that the entrance and the exit are the same. It is encompassed neither by number nor by distinct essences. It is not like any specific place, nor can it be [conceived as] place, time, number, or increase. It

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the all-comprehensive circle cannot be a predicate because it is, in fact, All – it possesses one single meaning and nothing else. It is the All-Comprehensive Circle (al-I˙ņa), which at first seems like the negation of existence to the Imagination because it tears things apart, discards them, and then transforms all forms of multiplicity into One.58

This Imaginative Circle (dÅ’ira wahmiyya) of Absolute Unity – the All-Comprehensive Circle of al-I˙ņa as wa˙dat al-wujËd – comprises both multiplicity and singularity together. ‘It is a presence (˙u∂Ër) that contains the Truth and nothing else is with it,’ states Ibn SabÆÈn. Like a Black Hole that conceals a dwarf star of enormous attractive power, it collapses into itself all distinctions, including those expressed by symbols and metaphors. The first [manifestation of al-I˙ņa] is like the Throne (al-Æarsh); the second is like the Footstool (al-kursÈ); the third is the heavens (al-samÅwÅt); the fourth is the elements (al-ÆanÅßir); the fifth is engendered things (al-muwalladÅt); the sixth is the motions (al-˙arakÅt); the seventh is the multiplicity of the universe (al-akwÅn); the eighth is the daily life of all things (al-˙ayÅt al-ÆÅdiyya fÈ l-jamÈÆ); the ninth is the Living as a divine attribute (al-˙ayy); the tenth is Comprehensive Form (al-ßËra al-jÅmiÆa); the eleventh is the Great One that makes all things possible by means of a single statement (al-kabÈr bi-l-qawl al-wÅ˙id bi-l-wa∂Æ).59

Within the All-Comprehensive Circle of wa˙dat al-wujËd, point, line and circle are one; indeed, everything is a point, everything is a line, and everything disappears into the Circle of al-I˙ņa: Its essence is its ‘whereness,’ its ‘whereness’ is its existence, and its existence is all there is of it (ÆaynuhÅ aynuhÅ wa-aynuhÅ kawnuhÅ wa-kawnuhÅ kulluhÅ). All statements [of the Logos] (al-maqËlÅt) are but a single point within it. Its point is like a line and its line is like a circle; and the circle within it is a circle upon it that has neither centre nor axis. Neither the philosopher (al-˙akÈm) nor the Sufi master (al-qu†b) understands it. [The All-Comprehensive Circle] is ‘with’ God in the Imagination but it ‘is’ God in Reality (fa-hiya bi-llÅhi fÈ l-wahm wa-hiya AllÅhu fÈ l-˙aqÈqa).60

Going back to the Faculty of Volition or the Attractive Impulse (al-quwwa al-nuzËÆiyya) that ‘pulls’ the human consciousness to higher levels, Ibn SabÆÈn universalises the concept of Attraction to explain the link between the human Imagination and the Intellectual Principle in the epistemology of wa˙dat al-wujËd. Al-I˙ņa is like a magnet (maghna†Ès, literally, ‘lodestone’) and the Existents (al-mawjËdÅt) are like iron. The comprehensive relationship (al-nisba al-jÅmiÆa) that pertains between them is the essential fact of Existence (huwwiyyat al-wujËd). All that separates them is the existent Imagination (al-wahm al-mawjËd).61

Here Ibn SabÆÈn has arrived at a place where the philosophers, who are limited by Reason, cannot go and the Sufis dare not go, lest they open themselves to charges of heresy by their exoteric opponents. Far more than Ibn al-ÆArabÈ, who

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vincent j. cornell in his writings always felt the need to Islamise transcendent truths by grounding them in Qur’Ånic epistemology, Ibn SabÆÈn goes out on a doctrinal limb by taking the concept of wa˙dat al-wujËd literally. The text of KitÅb al-I˙ņa makes it clear that for him, Existence really is one, and the One, while not limited by Existence, is more than just the Maker or Producer of Existence. The interrelationship of Soul, Intellect and Imagination is the essential fact of Existence and the Imagination is the key to the storehouse of hidden treasures, the missing link between the human mind and the Divine Mind. Within the All-Comprehensive Circle, Monopsychism is revealed through Metaconsciousness. For Ibn SabÆÈn the vocalisation or enunciation of this all-encompassing truth can only be in the philosophical-revelatory language of the Hermetic sages: Hey! Imagination is the king; it is both the sea and the ship (al-fulk, or ‘the vehicle’). It is the earth and the heavens, it is the goal and it is the blindness [of will], it is the atom and it is dust. Water and the isthmus [across the water] (al-barzakh) are its elementary natures, and contingency and contingent things are the natures of its compounds. The All-Comprehensive Circle (al-I˙ņa) of which we speak is at once great and small, transitory and fixed, governing and governed, encompassing and encompassed, and general and specific; it is of a shared nature. There is no imagination but the Divine Imagination (lÅ wahma illÅ l-wahm). There is no god but God (lÅ ilÅha illÅ AllÅh). In fact, there is nothing but Quiddity alone (laysa illÅ l-ays faqa†). He, He, God, God, God, God, God, God, God! This is how it comes. This is how it comes to be. This is how it is described. This is how it is classified. This is how it was and this is how it always will be. Hey!62

notes 1. ÆAbd al-Ra˙mÅn Ibn KhaldËn, La Voie et la Loi, ou Le Maître et le Juriste: ShifÅ’ al-sÅ’il li-tahdhÈb al-masÅ’il, trans. René Pérez (Paris: Sindbad, 1991), p. 252; see also p. 184. 2. ÆAbd al-Óaqq ibn IsmaÆÈl al-BÅdisÈ, Al-Maqßad al-sharÈf wa-l-manzaÆ al-la†Èf fÈ l-taÆrÈf bi-ßula˙Å’ al-RÈf, ed. SaÆÈd AÆrÅb (Rabat: Imprimerie Royale, 1982), pp. 34–35. 3. AbË l-ÆAbbÅs A˙mad al-GhubrÈnÈ, ÆUnwÅn al-dirÅya fÈ man Æurifa min al-ÆulamÅ’ fÈ l-mi’at al-sÅbiÆa bi-BijÅya, ed. RÅbi˙ BËnÅr (Algiers: al-Sharika al-Wa†aniyya li-lNashr wa-l-TawzÈÆ, 1970), p. 209. 4. Two exceptions to this trend are Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Islamic Life and Thought (Chicago: Kazi Publishers, 2001), p. 103, and Steven M. Wassertstrom, who has remarked on the relationship between Hermetic epistemology and medieval interconfessionalism in the works of Ibn SabÆÈn and others (see below). 5. Although I have previously translated Budd al-ÆÅrif as ‘The Prerequisite of the Gnostic’ or ‘What the Gnostic Needs to Know,’ I now believe that the title, The Idol of the Gnostic, was indeed intended by Ibn SabÆÈn and that he had in mind the Greek term eidolon (image, form, copy), which corresponds roughly to the German term gestalt. In general terms, the title of this work refers to the identity of the Intellectual Principle with its objects (i.e., ideas). This doctrine, which is central to Ibn SabÆÈn’s understanding of the Oneness of Existence (wa˙dat al-wujËd), comes by way

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the all-comprehensive circle

6. 7. 8.

9. 10.

11. 12.

13.

14. 15. 16.

17.

of Plotinus. For my previous discussion of this term, see Vincent J. Cornell, ‘The Way of the Axial Intellect: The Islamic Hermetism of Ibn SabÆÈn’, Journal of the Mu˙yiddÈn Ibn ÆArabÈ Society 23 (1997), 41–7. ÆAbd al-Óaqq ibn SabÆÈn, Budd al-ÆÅrif, ed. Georges Kattoura (Beirut: DÅr al-Andalus/ DÅr al-KindÈ, 1978), pp. 29–30. John Walbridge, The Wisdom of the Mystic East: SuhrawardÈ and Platonic Orientalism (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2001). See Dimitri Gutas, Greek Thought, Arabic Culture: the Graeco-Arabic Translation Movement in Baghdad and Early ÆAbbÅsid Society (2nd–4th/8th–10th centuries) (London and New York: Routledge, 1998), 40–5. The Iran-centred variety of Islamic Orientalism included Zoroastrianism as a source of primordial wisdom. However, this view was not shared universally. Although the wisdom of Iran was an important aspect of ShihÅb al-DÈn al-SuhrawardÈ’s (d. 587/1191) Hermetism, it was not relevant to Ibn SabÆÈn’s Hermetism. Ibn KhaldËn, La Voie et la Loi, pp. 279–80, n. 135. See http://www.valledericote.com/. The town of Archena in the Valley of Ricote, much like the regions of Sicily that were associated with Pre-Socratic Greek mystery traditions, is a centre of geothermal activity. Archena has maintained geothermal baths since Roman times. In classical antiquity, volcanic steam vents and caves were considered passages to the Underworld. For the Greeks, these tended to be associated with the cult of Persephone and the Orphic mysteries. On the geography of Sicily and its influence on the philosophers Empedocles and Plato, see Peter Kingsley, Ancient Philosophy, Mystery, and Magic: Empedocles and Pythagorean Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), especially pp. 71–87 and 112–48. Walbridge, Wisdom of the Mystic East, pp. 42–50. Steven M. Wasserstrom, ‘Jewish-Muslim Relations in the Context of Andalusian Emigration’, unpublished paper for the conference, ‘Christians, Muslims and Jews in Medieval and Early Modern Spain: Interaction and Cultural Change’, Notre Dame University, South Bend, Indiana, February 1994. Ibn SabÆÈn, KitÅb al-naßÈ˙a aw RisÅlat al-nËriyya, in RasÅ’il Ibn SabÆÈn, ed. ÆAbd al-Ra˙mÅn BadawÈ (Cairo: Al-DÅr al-Mißriyya li-l-Ta’lÈf wa-l-Tarjama, 1965), p. 157. I call this text ‘Sufistic’ instead of ‘Sufi’ because it discusses the common Sufi theme of remembrance (dhikr), but adds certain elements, such as religious interconfessionalism and philosophical terms, that are not found in typical Sufi discussions of this subject. Ibn SabÆÈn may have included Guide for the Perplexed in this work because in Guide I: 68, Maimonides appears to suggest that God is Intellect, a stance that would have appealed to Ibn SabÆÈn. See Diana Lobel, ‘Silence is Praise to You: Maimonides on Negative Theology, Looseness of Expression, and Religious Experience’, American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 76.1 (2002), pp. 29–30. DaÆwat li-˙arf al-QÅf Æan Ibn SabÆÈn (MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Wetzstein II 1769), fols 117a–19b. See, for example, A. J. Festugière, La Révélation d’Hermès Trismégiste, 4 vols in 1 (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2006 reprint of 1954 original), 3, p. 120. Given Ibn SabÆÈn’s acerbic critique of Peripatetic philosophy and its representatives, it is hard to see how A. F. Mehren (‘Ibn SabÆÈn’, EI2), following Louis Massignon, could consider him the ‘last representative of the Arabic peripatetic school’. This seventh doctrinal theme is similar to what Walbridge terms ‘Pythagoreanising

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18.

19.

20.

21.

22.

23.

24.

25. 26.

27.

Neoplatonism’ (Wisdom of the Mystic East, pp. ix and 3). Although Walbridge does not specifically link this doctrine to Hermetism, a close examination of the Corpus Hermeticum reveals the centrality of both Pythagoreanising Neoplatonism and the doctrine of the immanent Intellect, which are also found in the works of Ibn SabÆÈn. See, for example, the recent work by Mu˙ammad al-ÆAdlËnÈ al-IdrÈsÈ, Falsafat al-wa˙da fÈ taßawwuf Ibn SabÆÈn (Casablanca: DÅr al-ThaqÅfa, 1998). Although this author discusses Ibn SabÆÈn’s mysticism as a unique brand of ‘philosophical Sufism,’ he completely overlooks Ibn SabÆÈn’s Hermetism. This is in spite of the fact that the quotation by Ibn SabÆÈn in the epigraph to the abovementioned book cites Hermes Trismegistos as the key to the sciences of spiritual realisation and illumination and further claims that the revealed scriptures of the Prophets replicate Hermes’ teachings (wa-l-harÅmisa khÅßßata ÆulËmihi wa-l-kutub al-munazzala ifÅdatuhum, p. 5). Alexander D. Knysh notes that Ibn al-AbbÅr (d. 658/1260), the earliest Andalusian biographer of Ibn al-ÆArabÈ, mentions the latter’s early career in al-Andalus but shows no apparent awareness of his subsequent importance as a Sufi thinker. The first in-depth doctrinal critique of Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s Sufism appears to have been that of the Syrian ÓanbalÈ jurist and theologian Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328). See Alexander D. Knysh, Ibn ÆArabi in the Later Islamic Tradition: the Making of a Polemical Image in Medieval Islam (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999), pp. 28 and 87–112. William C. Chittick, ‘RËmÈ and wa˙dat al-wujËd’, in Poetry and Mysticism in Islam: the Heritage of RËmÈ, ed. Amin Banani et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), p. 76. See Chittick, ‘RËmÈ and wa˙dat al-wujËd’, pp. 78–9. Al-QËnawÈ’s disciple SaÆÈd al-DÈn al-FarghÅnÈ (d. 699/1300), uses the term wa˙dat al-wujËd a number of times, but sees it as designating only the lowest stage of the Sufi understanding of divine oneness, whereas the contemplation of diversity within God’s unity and the harmonisation of diversity and unity are higher (pp. 80–1). It is important to note in this regard that FarghÅnÈ lived a full generation after Ibn SabÆÈn and hence his view of wa˙dat al-wujËd may constitute a critique of the latter’s notion of this concept. Chittick, ‘RËmÈ and wa˙dat al-wujËd’, p. 82; see also, Michel Chodkiewicz, Editor’s Introduction to Aw˙ad al-DÈn al-BalyÅnÈ, Epître sur l’Unicité Absolue (Paris: Les Deux Océans, 1982), pp. 36–7. For example, in KitÅb fÈ ta˙qÈq mÅ li-l-Hind, the historian AbË l-Ray˙Ån al-BÈrËnÈ (d. 442/1051) suggests that the origin of the Arabic word ßËfÈ is the Greek Sophia and that the central doctrine of both Sufism and Greek philosophy is that ‘only the First Cause has real existence, because it alone is self-sufficing’. This doctrine seems quite similar to wa˙dat al-wujËd. See Alberuni’s India, trans. Edward Sachau and ed. Ainslie Embree (New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1971), pp. 33–4. For a discussion of Ibn Taymiyya’s critique of wa˙dat al-wujËd see Chittick, ‘RËmÈ and wa˙dat al-wujËd’, pp. 85–7. Alexander Knysh notes (Ibn ÆArabi in the Later Islamic Tradition, p. 90) that Ibn Taymiyya equated this concept with incarnationism. Ibn SabÆÈn, RisÅlat al-nËriyya in BadawÈ, RasÅ’il Ibn SabÆÈn, p. 189. RisÅlat al-nËriyya, p. 194; it will be seen below that for Ibn SabÆÈn, the unification of existence depends on the centrality of the Intellectual Principle, which is the common thread that ties together all forms of contingent being. See, for example, AbË l-WafÅ al-GhanÈmÈ al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, Ibn SabÆÈn wa-falsafatuhu al-ßËfiyya (Beirut: DÅr al-KitÅb al-LubnÅnÈ, 1973), pp. 198–249. As the title suggests, this work characterises Ibn SabÆÈn as a ‘Sufi philosopher.’ The phrase al-wa˙da

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the all-comprehensive circle

28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39.

40.

41.

42.

al-ma˙∂a can be found, for example, in the treatise al-I˙ņa, discussed below. See BadawÈ, RasÅ’il Ibn SabÆÈn, p. 133. Ibn SabÆÈn does not refer to Maimonides by name, but simply as ‘the author of Guide for the Perplexed.’ See RisÅlat al-nËriyya, p. 157. See, for example, RisÅlat al-nËriyya, p. 161. Budd al-ÆÅrif, p. 58. Budd al-ÆÅrif, pp. 143–4. Philip Merlan, Monopsychism, Mysticism, Metaconsciousness: Problems of the Soul in the Neoaristotelian and Neoplatonic Traditions (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1963), p. 2. Garth Fowden, The Egyptian Hermes: A Historical Approach to the Late Pagan Mind (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), p. 95. I prefer the term ‘intellectual mysticism’ to Merlan’s ‘mysticism of reason’, because the latter term appears to imply the Peripatetic error of excluding the universality of revelation. Merlan himself acknowledges that the mysticism of reason ‘may sound like a contradictio in adjecto’ (Monopsychism, Mysticism, Metaconsciousness, p. 3). See James M. Robinson, ed., The Nag Hammadi Library (San Francisco: Harper, 1981), pp. 292–7, 300–7. For the Arabic text and Latin translation of this work, see Hermetis Trismegisti, De Castigatione Animae Libellum, ed. Otto Bardenhewer (Bonn: Carol Georgi, 1873). In calling the Intellectual Principle ‘Supreme Father’, Ibn SabÆÈn actually follows Plotinus, who refers to the Supreme Intelligence as ‘father’ because it is the cause (Gr. eitios) of all being. See Merlan, Monopsychism, Mysticism, Metaconsciousness, p. 63. Budd al-ÆÅrif, pp. 182, 288 Budd al-ÆÅrif, p. 196; the idea that is expressed in the final sentence of this passage is reminiscent of Avicenna’s concept of the ‘Necessarily Existent’ (wÅjib al-wujËd). The apparently ‘Trinitarian’ nature of Ibn SabÆÈn’s Monopsychism is worthy of note. Intellect, as the ‘Supreme Father’ (al-ab al-muÆaΩΩam) can be seen to correspond to the Father as the source of creation, Soul corresponds to the Holy Spirit (al-rË˙ al-qudus) as inspiration or revelation, and Existence corresponds to the ‘Son’ (al-ibn) as manifestation. Furthermore, Existence might be said to share ‘a single nature’ with Intellect, since for Ibn SabÆÈn the Intellectual Principle is the ‘foundational attribute of the universe’ and ‘the axis around which the existential order revolves’. As will be seen below, these hypostases are unified within Ibn SabÆÈn’s concept of al-I˙ņa, the All-Comprehensive Circle of Being. However, it must be stressed that Ibn SabÆÈn’s ‘Trinitarianism’ is not Christian but is instead an Islamisation of the Monopsychism of Plotinus: the ‘Son’ includes all human beings (and indeed all being in general) and is not focused on the being of Christ. In this sense, it expresses a notion reminiscent of the ‘Buddha Nature,’ which is manifest in the Bodhisattvas (bËdÅßaf in medieval Islamic texts) of Mahayana Buddhism and the arahants or saints of Theravada Buddhism. Roughly speaking, these consist of Soul as ‘Thinking’ Intelligence in the sensible world, Soul as Productive Intellect, and Transcendent Intellect. See Merlan, Monopsychism, Mysticism, Metaconciousness, p. 6. Budd al-ÆÅrif, pp. 278–9; I have not translated al-nafs al-˙ikmiyya as ‘Philosophical Soul’ because the Rational-Philosophical Soul (al-nafs al-falsafiyya) appears in Budd al-ÆÅrif as a subtype of the Rational Soul (see below). I have translated al-Æaql al-faÆÆÅl as ‘Productive Intellect’ rather than the more common ‘Active Intellect’ because the former term more adequately conveys the centrality of

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43.

44. 45. 46.

47.

48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53.

54. 55.

56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62.

the Intellectual Principle in Ibn SabÆÈn’s concept of wa˙dat al-wujËd. According to Merlan (Monopsychism, Mysticism, Metaconsciouness, p. 11 n. 2), ‘productive’ is also the best translation of the Greek term (poetikos) that Aristotle uses to characterise the ‘action’ of the Active Intellect. ‘Production’ (ßudËr) is a term that Ibn SabÆÈn uses repeatedly in his works for both intellection and creation. Budd al-ÆÅrif, p. 279; it is here where Ibn SabÆÈn’s epistemology most closely approximates Plotinus’ notion of the ‘supermundane’ principles that unite the outward (ΩÅhir) and inward (bņin) aspects of human intelligence. Budd al-ÆÅrif, p. 286. Budd al-ÆÅrif, pp. 286–7. One could also call such a person the ‘Slave or Servant of the Truth’ (ÆAbd al-Óaqq), which corresponds to Ibn SabÆÈn’s own given name. For such reasons, several scholars, including myself, have suggested that Ibn SabÆÈn’s name is a pseudonym. For a discussion of these arguments, see Cornell, ‘The Way of the Axial Intellect’. Budd al-ÆÅrif, p. 266. This ‘sixth sense’ of Intuition shares certain characteristics with the modern notion of extrasensory perception. However, Intuition is more limited in scope than ESP, because modern notions of ESP also comprise perceptions that Ibn SabÆÈn would have associated with the Wisdom-Bearing and Prophetic Souls. Ibn SabÆÈn’s notion of Intuition as the ‘Common Sense’ is similar but not identical to that of Avicenna. For the latter, the ‘Common Sense’ acts more as a rational filter or clearing-house of ideas and perceptions and does not involve the intuitive transcendence of logic that is implied in Ibn SabÆÈn’s understanding of this faculty. Budd al-ÆÅrif, pp. 262–3. Budd al-ÆÅrif, p. 266. The discussion in the previous two paragraphs can be found in Budd al-ÆÅrif, pp. 286–7. The full text of KitÅb al-I˙ņa can be found in BadawÈ, RasÅ’il Ibn SabÆÈn, pp. 130–50. Al-I˙ņa, p. 130. The classic Hermetic motif of Mind or Intellect as ‘father’ originates in the Corpus Hermeticum text Poimandres (libellus I), although the Gnostic and anthropomorphic flavour of this text is very unlike the writings of Ibn SabÆÈn. A less anthropomorphic version of the same motif can be found in Krater (libellus IV). See Hermetica: The Greek Corpus Hermeticum and the Latin Asclepius in A New English Translation with Notes and Introduction, ed. Brian P. Copenhaver (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 1–7 and 15–17. Al-I˙ņa, p. 134. For information on AbË l-ÆAbbÅs Ibn al-ÆArÈf, see Vincent J. Cornell, Realm of the Saint: Power and Authority in Moroccan Sufism (Austin, Texas: University of Texas Press, 1998), pp. 19–23. Al-I˙ņa, p. 130. Al-I˙ņa, p. 134. These last quotations refer to well-known Sufi definitions of divine oneness. Al-I˙ņa, p. 135. Al-I˙ņa, pp. 135–6. Al-I˙ņa, p. 136. Al-I˙ņa, p. 145. Al-I˙ņa, p. 149.

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1 3

One Aspect of the Akbarian Turn in ShÈæÈ Theology* Robert Wisnovsky This chapter is a companion piece to an article published in 2004 in the journal Arabic Sciences and Philosophy.1 There I examined the history of one of Avicenna’s (d. 428/1037) most famous contributions to the history of philosophy, his distinction between ‘the necessary of existence in itself’ (wÅjib al-wujËd bi-dhÅtih) and ‘the necessary of existence through another’ (wÅjib al-wujËd bi-ghayrih, which Avicenna took to be convertible with ‘the possible of existence in itself’, mumkin al-wujËd bi-dhÅtih). I concluded that Avicenna’s distinction can be fully understood only if it is placed in a kalÅm as well as a falsafa context. In particular, Avicenna’s distinction seems to have been at least partly shaped by preceding theological debates about the ontological status of the divine attributes (ßifÅt). In contrast to the MuÆtazilÈs, who believed that there was no real distinction between the divine attributes and the divine self (dhÅt), the SunnÈs (especially the AshÆarÈs and the MÅturÈdÈs) maintained that the divine attributes (or at least a subset of them) enjoyed an eternal existence that was in some sense meaningfully distinct from that of God’s self. The SunnÈs held this position partly because they were committed to the idea that the Qur’Ån, understood as God’s attribute of speech, was eternal rather than created. I argued that the conceptual challenge which this position on the divine attributes presented to the SunnÈ mutakallimËn was analogous to the challenge facing Avicenna with respect to the ontological status of the eternal heavens: namely, finding some way of maintaining that there was a category of being that was eternal yet not uncaused. For the SunnÈs, the eternal beings that were not uncaused were the divine attributes; for Avicenna, they were the heavenly spheres, the souls that moved those spheres, and the intellects that motivated those souls. Avicenna addressed this challenge by inventing the category of being that is in itself possible of existence and at the same time necessary of existence through *

Thanks are due to Ayman Shihadeh, Stephen Menn, Eliza Tasbihi and Hermann Landolt for their criticisms of earlier versions of this paper and their suggestions about particular points. Some of the ideas discussed here crystallised during a graduate seminar on ShÈÆÈ theology that I taught at Harvard in 2003, and I am grateful to the students in that class – Licsi Szatmari, Bader al-Saif, Gabriella Berzin and Danielle Widmann – for their suggestions and enthusiastic participation.

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robert wisnovsky another, namely, through its cause. The close conceptual similarity between the two challenges – one to the SunnÈs’ attribute-theory, the other to Avicenna’s cosmology – is demonstrated historically by the sudden and widespread use of Avicenna’s distinction in AshÆarÈ and MÅturÈdÈ discussions of the ßifÅt in the two generations following Avicenna’s death.2 My focus in the present chapter is on ShÈÆÈ rather than SunnÈ kalÅm, and specifically on the transformation that took place in Twelver-ShÈÆÈ theology after mutakallimËn began to appropriate elements of the metaphysics of Mu˙yÈ al-DÈn Ibn al-ÆArabÈ (‘al-Shaykh al-Akbar’, d. 638/1240). In order to give a sense of the continuities that existed between the Akbarian turn in ShÈÆÈ theology and the Avicennian turn in SunnÈ theology that began two centuries earlier, I shall again restrict my scope to the divine attributes, and even more specifically to the evolution of the distinction between God’s ‘attributes of Majesty’ (ßifÅt al-jalÅl) and His ‘attributes of Beauty’ (ßifÅt al-jamÅl). After briefly discussing the early history of the distinction I shall turn to Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s short treatise entitled KitÅb al-JalÅl wa-l-jamÅl, which will help us pinpoint how and why his understanding of the distinction differed from that of his predecessors. Then I shall turn to Sayyid Óaydar åmulÈ, and particularly to his summa, the KitÅb JÅmiÆ al-asrÅr wa-manbaÆ al-anwÅr, which will help us pinpoint how and why his understanding of the distinction differed from that of Ibn al-ÆArabÈ. Although neither jalÈl nor jamÈl occur as such in the Qur’Ån as names of God, God is referred to at one point as ‘Possessor of Majesty and Generosity’ (dhË l-jalÅl wa-l-ikrÅm) (Qur. 55:78), and jalÈl at least was included in canonical lists of God’s names as early as the 5th/11th century, at which point the distinction itself began to circulate amongst Muslim writers.3 During this early period, the distinction between God’s Majesty (jalÅl) and His Beauty (jalÅl) was generally construed by Sufi thinkers in such a way that God’s jalÅl expressed His quality of overpowering might (qahr), while His jamÅl expressed His quality of merciful benevolence (lu†f). Goldziher suggested that the ultimate source of the distinction was the Jewish thinker Philo of Alexandria, who contrasted two forces, one a dunamis sunkolastikê (corresponding to the Arabic qahr), the other a dunamis kharistikê (corresponding to the Arabic lu†f), which come together in the logos. Goldziher further suggested that Philo’s distinction corresponded to a Talmudic differentiation of, respectively, middath ha-dÈn (God’s attribute of judgement) and middath hÅ-rachamÈm (God’s attribute of mercy), as well as to the difference between God’s two names Elo¯hÈm and Jahweh.4 The culmination of this classical Islamic trend towards understanding the jalÅl–jamÅl distinction in what I call ‘pietistic’ terms, is Najm al-DÈn KubrÅ (d. 618/1221), who wrote a treatise entitled FawÅ’i˙ al-jamÅl wa-fawÅti˙ al-jalÅl. Fritz Meier’s relatively brief remarks on the distinction in the Introduction to his edition of that work are, to my

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one aspect of the akbarian turn in shi Æ i theology knowledge, the most sustained examination thus far of it.5 By and large, subsequent scholars have followed Goldziher’s analysis, often via Meier’s synopsis, without adding much to the discussion.6 Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s way of construing the distinction between God’s jalÅl and His jamÅl marks a radical departure from the interpretation of Philo and earlier Sufis such as KubrÅ. In his essay entitled KitÅb al-jalÅl wa-l-jamÅl, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ makes explicit his differences with the pietistic understanding: Now then: jalÅl and jamÅl are amongst [the topics] that have captured the interest of those Sufis who attest to the Real and know God (al-mu˙aqqiqËn al-ÆÅlimËn bi-llÅh min ahl al-taßawwuf). Each of them has pronounced upon the two [terms] in a way that is attributable to his own state (na†aqa fÈhimÅ bi-mÅ yarjiÆu ilÅ ˙Ålih). The fact is that most of them take intimacy (al-uns) to be bound up with Beauty, and awe (al-hayba) to be bound up with Majesty. The situation is not as they have said (wa-laysa l-amr ka-mÅ qÅlËhu); and yet, in a sense, things are as they have said (wa-huwa ay∂an ka-mÅ qÅlË bi-wajhin mÅ).7

What caused Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s dissatisfaction with construing the distinction the old-fashioned way, that is, along the lines of awe (corresponding to jalÅl) and intimacy (corresponding to jamÅl)? First, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ objected to the general principle, on which he took the pietistic interpretation to be based, that such a sublime distinction as that between God’s Majesty and His Beauty could be reduced to the difference between what were, ultimately, emotional responses in a particular believer. The gnostics who made overpowering might the criterion of Majesty and mercy the criterion of Beauty did so on the basis of the effects they observed in themselves (fa-jaÆalË al-jalÅla li-l-qahri wa-l-jamÅla li-l-ra˙mati wa-˙akamË fÈ dhÅlika bi-mÅ wajadËhu fÈ anfusihim).8 Instead, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ insists that the distinction should be interpreted so that a more basic tension is seen to be at issue: First of all, I say that God’s Majesty is something that links Him to Him (maÆnan yarjiÆu minhu ilayh), and He has prevented us from apprehending it. Beauty is something that links Him to us (maÆnan yarjiÆu minhu ilaynÅ); it is what gives us the knowledge that we have of Him, along with revelations, perceptions and states.9

In other words, divine Majesty signifies God’s quality of transcendence, or His separateness from the world, while divine Beauty signifies God’s quality of immanence, or His involvement with the world. The jalÅl–jamÅl distinction is thus pressed by Ibn al-ÆArabÈ into service at a cosmological level rather than at the level of the individual believer’s emotional reactions. Even so, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ makes a gesture of reconciliation to those who hold to the pietistic interpretation by maintaining that divine Beauty, the metonym that signifies God’s involvement with the world, itself possesses two further qualities, one sublime (Æuluwwan) and the other earthly (dunuwwan). The sublime aspect or quality is what Ibn al-ÆArabÈ (somewhat confusingly) calls ‘the Majesty of Beauty’ (fa-l— 51 —

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robert wisnovsky Æuluww nusammÈh jalÅla al-jamÅl). More unexpectedly, even counter-intuitively, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ holds that while the ‘Majesty of Beauty’ is what the earlier gnostics were speaking about when they discussed ‘Majesty’ in general, it is this sublime, elevated aspect of Beauty that produces feelings of intimacy in the believer. This is in contrast to the proximate or earthly aspect of divine Beauty, which produces feelings of awe in the believer.10 Ibn al-ÆArabÈ has therefore departed from the pietistic interpretation of KubrÅ and the earlier Sufis in two respects. First, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ has isolated divine Majesty – understood ‘in itself’, that is, in a strict sense – in order to uphold God’s utter transcendence of the world. Since believers cannot apprehend divine Majesty per se, feelings of awe that might be produced in us cannot be the effect of that transcendent quality. Instead, feelings of awe produced in us are the effect of one of the two aspects of divine Beauty, which has now been divided by Ibn al-ÆArabÈ into a sublime or elevated aspect and an earthly, proximate aspect. Contrary to expectation, it is not the sublime, elevated aspect of Beauty that produces feelings of awe in us, nor does the earthly, proximate aspect of Beauty produce feelings of intimacy in us. Rather, it is the reverse: the first, ‘elevated’ aspect, ‘the Majesty of Beauty’, is connected to the emotion of ‘intimacy’. The second, ‘earthly’ or ‘proximate’ aspect, is connected to the emotion of awe. What makes Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s reversal unexpected is that previous Sufi thinkers had tended to represent God’s jalÅl as something like the distant coldness of a stern and disapproving father, in contrast to God’s jamÅl, which was taken to evoke the warm embrace of a loving and indulgent mother. Ibn al-ÆArabÈ was able to justify his reversal by maintaining that the elevated aspect of God’s Beauty – the jalÅl al-jamÅl – represents a ‘contraction’ (qab∂) of the divine away from the believer, while the earthly, proximate aspect of Beauty represents an ‘expansion’ (bas†) of the divine towards the believer. Understood this way, the contraction of the divine could plausibly evoke feelings of longing in the believer, while the expansion of the divine could plausibly evoke feelings of terror in the believer. Splitting divine Beauty into an elevated, distant aspect and an earthly, proximate aspect allowed Ibn al-ÆArabÈ to accommodate the traditional association of the jalÅl–jamÅl distinction with the emotions of awe and intimacy (though on his own, newly reversed terms), and thereby allowed him to make a conciliatory gesture towards the pietistic interpretation his Sufi predecessors gave to the distinction between jalÅl and jamÅl. At the same time he dramatically expanded the distinction’s scope to cover God’s fundamental qualities of transcendence and immanence. As Ibn al-ÆArabÈ puts it, Therefore, our colleagues’ intuitive vision [of this distinction] is correct. The mistake consists in their assessment that Majesty in itself closes and diminishes them and that Beauty in itself opens and expands them (fa-kashfu aß˙ÅbinÅ ßa˙È˙un wa-˙ukmuhum

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one aspect of the akbarian turn in shi Æ i theology bi-anna l-jalÅla yaqbi∂uhum wa-anna l-jamÅla yabsu†uhum ghala†un). If the intuitive vision is correct then we are not so concerned. This [account] is Majesty and Beauty as the realities provide it.11

In spite of this conciliatory gesture to his predecessors, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s new, cosmological interpretation of the distinction marks a radical departure from the earlier Sufis’ pietistic way of construing God’s Majesty and Beauty. Philo’s distinction between a dunamis sunkolastikê and a dunamis kharistikê, the ultimate source posited by Goldziher, will therefore not help us much in trying to understand why Ibn al-ÆArabÈ differentiated between jalÅl and jamÅl in the way he did. Instead, it seems plausible that Ibn al-ÆArabÈ constructed his new interpretation of the jalÅl–jamÅl distinction in order to help him confront the larger, Neoplatonic challenge of reconciling God’s transcendence of the world with His causal involvement with the world. Though certainly not fully articulated in his own work, as many scholars have now pointed out, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s incipient theory of the ‘oneness of existence’ (wa˙dat al-wujËd) was partly meant to address this old Neoplatonic dilemma, as it arises in his new cosmology.12 There is only one real existence in the universe, on Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s account, and this existence is extensionally identical to God (understood as the agglomeration of the divine self and the divine attributes), with the result that all things thought to be ‘other’ than God are actually manifestations of this single divine existence. How, then, is one to differentiate between the divine being understood in itself and the divine being understood as involved with created beings? Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s method of construing the jalÅl–jamÅl distinction allows him to hold that God’s jalÅl expresses that transcendent aspect of the divine being which is totally beyond our reach, while God’s jamÅl, by contrast, expresses that immanent aspect of the divine being which expands and contracts in our world, and which acts as a cause by propelling and impelling us. Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s hints at wa˙dat al-wujËd could easily have been construed by potential critics as implying a kind of ˙ulËlÈ incarnationism, and thus as potentially upsetting the balance – so carefully maintained by generations of mutakallimËn – between God’s transcendence and His immanence. The new way of differentiating between jalÅl and jamÅl might, in this light, have been designed by Ibn al-ÆArabÈ in such a way that this charge could be rebutted. The role of Óaydar åmulÈ (d. after 787/1385) in the Akbarian Turn in ShÈÆÈ thought has already been examined in broad terms by Corbin and Antes, the authors of the two major Western studies of Óaydar åmulÈ’s philosophy.13 Corbin maintained that whereas Óaydar åmulÈ remained completely loyal to Ibn al-ÆArabÈ in ontological matters, he departed from al-Shaykh al-Akbar in the area of imamology. Antes tried to add nuance to the picture of Twelver ShÈÆism painted by Corbin, by investigating how ShÈÆÈs of the generation or two before — 53 —

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robert wisnovsky Óaydar åmulÈ adopted some MuÆtazilÈ positions on points of conflict with the AshÆarÈs. However, neither Corbin nor Antes discusses Óaydar åmulÈ’s reception and appropriation of the jalÅl–jamÅl distinction. It turns out that Óaydar åmulÈ’s interpretation of the distinction between God’s Majesty and Beauty constitutes evidence that allows us to modify Corbin’s thesis and to complicate the picture even more than Antes had done. One of the major pieces of conceptual vocabulary that Óaydar åmulÈ took up from Ibn al-ÆArabÈ are the twin terms maΩhar (pl. maΩÅhir) and tajallÈ (pl. tajalliyÅt). (Óaydar åmulÈ uses the former term more, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ the latter.) When used by both thinkers these terms mean, respectively, ‘locus of manifestation’ and ‘act of revealing oneself’ – that is, by God in the world. More specifically, the maΩÅhir in question are manifestations of God’s different qualities. The Qur’Ån’s varied collection of divine epithets, such as ‘The Hearing’ (al-samÈÆ) and ‘The Living’ (al-˙ayy), provided Ibn al-ÆArabÈ with a way to explain – or rather, explain away – variegation in the world. For if we hold, like Ibn al-ÆArabÈ, that God (understood as the agglomeration of the divine self and the divine attributes) is the only true being, and if God is completely unitary and simple, then all things in the world, since they are manifestations of God, should reflect that divine unity and simplicity. But, given the vast array of different beings we see around us every day, the world in fact appears to be complex and multiple, not simple and unitary. If all existence is one, and if that one existence is coextensive with God, how then can the world’s apparent complexity and multiplicity be reconciled with God’s simplicity and unity? The divine names (asmÅ’) and attributes (ßifÅt) provided those like Óaydar åmulÈ who worked in the Akbarian tradition with a means of skirting this contradiction. In working out the details of Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s intuition that the complex and multiple beings of the world are manifestations of the divine names and attributes, Óaydar åmulÈ appeals to the old-fashioned way of construing distinction between jalÅl and jamÅl: Moreover, these [divine] names are restricted – in the sense of [producing feelings of] intimacy (al-uns) and dread (al-hayba) in the one perceiving them – to the Beautiful (al-jamÅliyya) (such as the Kind [al-la†Èf]) and the Majestic (al-jalÅliyya) (such as the Mighty [al-qahhÅr]). There are no manifestations (maΩÅhir) whatsoever apart from these two; I mean all the manifestations that occur in respect of the names are divided into these two [categories]. And though they [i.e. the manifestations of the divine names] are like this, they are not equivalent, since some are the manifestation of a single name, while others are [the manifestation of] more than that, and others are the manifestation of all the names. I mean [that] belonging to every created or existing [thing] – other than man – is a share of one of His names, may He be exalted (leaving aside the totality, for the totality is specific to man alone).14

In the second sentence of the passage above Óaydar åmulÈ is making an

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one aspect of the akbarian turn in shi Æ i theology assertion about the overarching nature of the distinction, but he is unclear about how it maps onto older kalÅm distinctions between God’s names. On the one hand, the prima facie reading of the passage above indicates that the distinction between God’s Majestic Names (asmÅ’ jalÅliyya) and His Beautiful Names (asmÅ’ jamÅliyya) is comprehensive: there are no divine names or attributes that cannot be subsumed into one or the other of these two categories. On the other hand, several paragraphs before this passage Óaydar åmulÈ endorses the traditional kalÅm distinction between ‘names of the self’ (asmÅ’ al-dhÅt), ‘names of the attributes’ (asmÅ’ al-ßifÅt) and ‘names of the acts’ (asmÅ’ al-afÆÅl). On Óaydar åmulÈ’s account, the first category, ‘names of the self’, includes names such as ‘The Autonomous’ (al-ghaniyy) and ‘The Holy’ (al-quddËs). The second category, ‘names of the attributes’, includes names such as ‘The Necessary’ (al-wÅjib) and ‘The Knowing’ (al-ÆÅlim). The first category of names is held by Óaydar åmulÈ to refer to what are not, strictly speaking, existing things, presumably because they are completely collapsible into the divine self. The second category, ‘names of the attributes’, refers to existing things whose opposites would be inconceivable in a divine being. The third category, ‘names of the acts’, is unlike the first category, and similar to the second category, in that the ‘names of the acts’ are also existing things. However, Óaydar åmulÈ goes to great lengths to demonstrate that when he uses the term ‘existing’ things to describe the second and third categories of names (that is, ‘names of the attributes’ and ‘names of the acts’), he is not in any way committing himself to the SunnÈ position that these names are somehow concretely existing things that are additional to God’s self. On the contrary, Óaydar åmulÈ devotes several paragraphs to rebutting such a view, which he associates with ‘certain AshÆarÈ ignoramuses’ (baÆ∂ al-juhhÅl mina l-ashÅÆira). His attack on the AshÆarÈ attributetheory clearly echoes that of his Twelver-ShÈÆÈ predecessors NaßÈr al-DÈn al-ÊËsÈ (d. 672/1274) and al-ÆAllÅmat al-ÓillÈ (d. 726/1326), the father of one of Óaydar åmulÈ’s own teachers.15 What the first two categories of divine names, ‘names of the self’ and ‘names of the attributes’, do have in common is the fact that neither category implies the actual existence of anything other than God. It is only the third category of names, ‘names of the acts’, such as ‘The Provider’ (al-rÅziq), whose existence entails the existence of creatures.16 In this light the passage above, and particularly Óaydar åmulÈ’s explicit statement that the maΩÅhir of the divine names in creation are restricted to the manifestations of the Majestic and Beautiful Names, could indicate that he is concerned here only with that category of divine names – the ‘names of the acts’ – whose existence does entail the existence of things other than God. Might the jalÅliyya–jamÅliyya distinction therefore be intended to apply only to this last category, the names of the acts? Such a reading of our passage is undermined by the lines immediately

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robert wisnovsky preceding it, which discuss the names in general, not only the names of the acts. This is one piece of evidence that the jalÅliyya–jamÅliyya distinction was seen by Óaydar åmulÈ to be overarching.17 Moreover, in the lines immediately after the passage above, Óaydar åmulÈ contrasts the ‘share’ or ‘allotment’ (˙aΩΩ) from the totality of the divine names which humans are accorded, and the share accorded to the angels, who are manifestations of only a select number of divine names, including ‘The Glorious’ (al-subbË˙) and ‘The Holy’ (al-quddËs).18 Because ‘The Holy’ was explicitly included as an example of the very first category of divine names – the ‘names of the self’ – this indicates that Óaydar åmulÈ construed his jalÅliyya–jamÅliyya distinction to cover all three of the categories contained in the particular version of the older kalÅm division that he endorsed: names of the self, names of the attributes, and names of the acts. Finally, Óaydar åmulÈ contrasts the angels’ share of the divine names with that accorded to devils (al-shayņÈn), who are the manifestations of names such as ‘The Domineering’ (al-jabbÅr) and ‘The Haughty’ (al-mutakabbir).19 The suspicion that the names associated with devils squarely fit into the category of jalÅl is confirmed later on, where Óaydar åmulÈ states explicitly that angels, taken as a whole, are a manifestation of the Names of Beauty, while devils are the manifestation of the Names of Majesty.20 It seems, then, that despite this ambiguity over the scope of the distinction between God’s Majestic and Beautiful Names, the balance of evidence compels us to think that Óaydar åmulÈ meant for the distinction to be understood as overarching, rather than as specific to the ‘names of the acts’. Why is this an important issue? I believe it is partly because Óaydar åmulÈ’s main aim here is to introduce the idea that there are degrees to which the asmÅ’ jalÅliyya and the asmÅ’ jamÅliyya are instantiated in the world. If the jalÅl–jamÅl distinction is truly comprehensive in scope, Óaydar åmulÈ will have an easier time justifying the idea that humans are superior not only to animals, but to angels as well. This is because God’s ‘names of the acts’ appear to be restricted to worldly creations, rather than heavenly or spiritual creations. Recall that, according to Óaydar åmulÈ, humans are superior as a species to others because it is only in humans that the totality of the divine names is manifest. Because humans are manifestations of both asmÅ’ jalÅliyya and asmÅ’ jamÅliyya, we possess qualities that make us disobedient at some times (devils are disobedient at all times) as well as qualities that make us obedient at other times (angels are obedient at all times). As evidence for the idea that humans are manifestations of both categories of attributes, the Majestic as well as the Beautiful, Óaydar åmulÈ cites the Qur’Ånic passage from SËrat al-baqara (Qur. 2:31) in which God teaches Adam alone – and not the angels – the names of all the creatures, as well as the prophetic ˙adÈth in which God is held to have created Adam in His own image.21 Not only are humans superior as a species to other creatures – on account of

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one aspect of the akbarian turn in shi Æ i theology the fact that we are manifestations of all and not just some of the divine names – so too is there a difference between humans as individuals that derives from the degree to which the divine names are instantiated in each of us. Referring to the SËrat al-baqara passage just mentioned, Óaydar åmulÈ states that: What is meant by ‘Adam’ is not Adam alone. Rather, what is meant is his descendants, according to the agreement of the majority of those commenting upon most of the passages in the Qur’Ån. By ‘taught the names’ is [meant] teaching in potentiality, not in actuality. For this reason, every person in whom all or most of these names are actually manifest, is more perfect than someone else (kÅna akmala min ghayrih), given the fact that he will be none other than a prophet or a saint or one of the prophets’ regents [that is, the imams] or a perfect gnostic from amongst their followers (li-annahu lÅ yakËnu illÅ nabiyyan aw waliyyan aw waßiyyan min awßiyÅ’i al-anbiyÅ’i aw ÆÅrifan kÅmilan min tÅbiÆÈhim). Their actual appearance is proportional to [their] predisposition (bi-˙asab al-istiÆdÅd), that is, proportional to the individual’s predisposition and receptivity towards them.22

In this passage Óaydar åmulÈ describes a hierarchy of perfection according to which the most perfect creature is that in whom the divine names are actually and not just potentially instantiated. At the top of the hierarchy are two subsets of individuals who seem to fulfil their role as maΩÅhir or manifestations of the divine names in a passive rather than an active manner. The first subset is prophets, on whom divine grace has bestowed not only the predisposition to receive the instantiation of the divine names but also the actualisation of that predisposition. Mu˙ammad’s own life-story indicates that there does not in fact appear to be much choice given to the prophet whom God has chosen to reveal Himself to. Similarly, the imams’ predisposition to receive the instantiation of the divine names is not the result of any active choice on their part but rather because they are the descendants of the prophet. They are thus entitled by birth to the actualisation of their predisposition. As Óaydar åmulÈ reasons, humans are the noblest and most perfect of beings; prophets are the noblest and most perfect of humans; Mu˙ammad is the noblest and most perfect of prophets; therefore Mu˙ammad, and by extension his family, are the noblest and most perfect of beings.23 Although this notion of human perfection is also hinted at by Ibn al-ÆArabÈ, it has a distinguished Aristotelian and Neoplatonic pedigree, stretching all the way back to Aristotle’s analysis of ‘the perfect’ (to teleion) in Metaphysics V.16.24 What about normal humans like you or me? In contrast to prophets and imams, we must take a more active role in actualising our predisposition to receive the instantiations of the divine names. Following the passage above, Óaydar åmulÈ hints that in order to become a perfect gnostic one’s heart must direct its attention upwards, towards one’s intellect, instead of downwards, towards one’s soul. Óaydar åmulÈ puts this choice in the Qur’Ånic terms that

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robert wisnovsky Ibn al-ÆArabÈ had himself used in his own KitÅb al-jalÅl wa-l-jamÅl. Again citing the story about God’s teaching Adam the names of all the creatures, and IblÈs’s subsequent refusal to obey God’s order to prostrate himself before Adam, Óaydar åmulÈ quotes the verse in which God asks IblÈs ‘O IblÈs, what prevents you prostrating before that which I created with my two hands?’ (Qur. 38:75). As Ibn al-ÆArabÈ had done before him, Óaydar åmulÈ equates God’s right hand with His Beautiful Names, and God’s left hand with His Majestic Names.25 The distinction between right hand and left hand, between God’s asmÅ’ jamÅliyya and His asmÅ’ jalÅliyya, is then placed in psychological terms: A concrete example of this is a human’s spirit with respect to his corporeal manifestations, understood in a strict sense. The intellect is the manifestation of His Kind Names, whereas the soul is the manifestation of His Mighty Names (fa-inna l-Æaqla maΩharu asmÅ’ihi al-la†Èfati wa-l-nafsa maΩharu asmÅ’ihi al-qahriyyati). In a similar fashion each of his organs and faculties is the manifestation of one or other of the names, with the exception of the heart, for it is the manifestation of all the names and attributes and perfections. It is called the heart on account of its turning back and forth from one form to another, like man for example, for he is sometimes in the form of an animal, and other times in the form of inert matter, as when the story of his being fashioned [out of clay] is told in the Qur’Ån. Now the intellect, among these manifestations, is on the side of the right, whereas the soul is on the side of the left. And the side of the right here is the side that is pointed towards the spirit or towards the Real, may He be exalted. And what is meant by it is the side of what is more sublime and nobler, such as the heavens and the world of spirits, as in the Almighty’s saying ‘And the heavens are folded up on His right.’ Whenever the heart inclines towards (mÅla … ilÅ) the intellect and its affairs, it belongs to the partisans of the right, and whenever it inclines towards the soul and its judgements, it belongs to the partisans of the left. [This is] because the heart has two sides: one side towards the spirit and the intellect, and one side towards the soul and the body.26

One can clearly detect in this passage Óaydar åmulÈ’s appeals to the metaphysics and cosmology that Muslim philosophers such as Avicenna appropriated from the late-antique Greek Neoplatonists. Specifically, the theory of perfection, as developed by thinkers such as Proclus and Ammonius, is much in evidence: the upwards turn towards the intellect and the downwards turn towards the soul and body are prominent themes in those thinkers and in Avicenna.27 The difference is that, in Óaydar åmulÈ’s account, the divine names constitute the totality of substantial and intelligible forms contained in the Agent Intellect (al-Æaql al-faÆÆÅl) at least according to the Neoplatonic understanding of the Agent Intellect as mediated through Ibn al-ÆArabÈ. It has emerged in this chapter that Corbin’s claim that in ontological matters Óaydar åmulÈ completely followed Ibn al-ÆArabÈ must be qualified. It is true that Óaydar åmulÈ, like Ibn al-ÆArabÈ, finds the scriptural basis for differentiating

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one aspect of the akbarian turn in shi Æ i theology between the Majestic Names and the Beautiful Names in the Qur’Ånic story of God’s teaching Adam the names and creating him with His two hands. However, Óaydar åmulÈ’s concerns were not identical to Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s concerns. Although Ibn al-ÆArabÈ paved the way for Óaydar åmulÈ to construe the jalÅl–jamÅl distinction in cosmological rather than just pietistic terms, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ elevated the names of majesty as a way to safeguard God’s quality of transcendence, in order to pre-empt accusations that his incipient theory of wa˙dat al-wujËd entailed too great a degree of identification between God and the world. By contrast, Óaydar åmulÈ seized upon the idea of wa˙dat al-wujËd with enthusiasm, because it could explain, in cosmological terms, the presence of the divine on earth, and particularly in the form of the imams. What Óaydar åmulÈ still needed was a way to differentiate the imams from other creatures. This is where the Neoplatonic metaphysics of perfection, as articulated by Avicenna in KitÅb al-shifÅ’/IlÅhiyyÅt 4.3 and transformed by Ibn al-ÆArabÈ into a perfect-man cosmology, came in handy, because it enabled Óaydar åmulÈ to explain the perfection of the imams as resulting from the higher degree to which the divine names of majesty and beauty were instantiated in this elite subset of humans. That is not the whole story, however. Óaydar åmulÈ’s embrace of the Neoplatonic metaphysics of perfection, albeit naturalised in Islamic terms as a metaphysics of manifestations of the divine names, can also be seen as addressing another problem, one that had been left to him by the first ShÈÆÈ mutakallimËn to engage fully and systematically in integrating Avicennian metaphysics into ShÈÆÈ kalÅm, al-ÊËsÈ and al-ÓillÈ. As their SunnÈ counterparts had done two centuries earlier, al-ÊËsÈ and al-ÓillÈ seized upon Avicenna’s distinction between necessary and possible existence with great enthusiasm, coming to see intrinsically necessary existence as the most basic attribute of God. The application of necessary existence to God appears throughout the beginning chapters of the section on God’s unity and attributes from al-ÊËsÈ’s Outline of Dogma (TajrÈd al-iÆtiqÅd), on which al-ÓillÈ wrote a popular commentary. However, al-ÊËsÈ and al-ÓillÈ insisted that their endorsement of Avicenna’s idea that God is necessary of existence did not commit them to the position that He is therefore the necessitator (mËjib) of the world’s existence. If God’s causation of the world’s existence were one of simple necessitation, they argued, then God would be robbed of the choice to create or not to create and this would effectively strip God of His divine attribute of will.28 But if Avicenna is wrong and God is not the necessitator of the world’s existence, how then is God causally responsible for the world? Addressing this challenge was another factor motivating Óaydar åmulÈ to take up Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s newly cosmological interpretation of the jalÅl–jamÅl distinction. The Neoplatonic metaphysics of perfection that Óaydar åmulÈ had appropriated in order to provide a kind of cosmic context for the imams also came with a way of explaining how the world relates to God. Briefly, God is

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robert wisnovsky the cause of the world as both efficient and final cause. As efficient cause, God is the original source of the procession (proödos) of being. As final cause, God is the ultimate destination towards which all beings are constantly reverting (epistrophê), by perfecting themselves and thereby attaining well-being. Óaydar åmulÈ’s interpretation of the distinction between asmÅ’ jalÅliyya and asmÅ’ jamÅliyya, as described above, can be viewed as mapping onto that older Neoplatonic distinction between procession and reversion quite neatly. In other words, Óaydar åmulÈ conceives of the attributes of majesty as processionary, and the attributes of beauty as reversionary, in the sense that the former point to God as the One or origin of procession, while the latter point to God as the Good, or culmination of reversion. This is clear from the passage quoted at length immediately above. It is one of the ironies of the history of Islamic philosophy that even though they fully endorsed Avicenna’s distinction between necessary and possible being, al-ÊËsÈ and al-ÓillÈ, in rejecting Avicenna’s account of the causal relationship between God and the world as one of necessitation (ÈjÅb), created a situation in which subsequent TwelverShÈÆÈ thinkers such as Óaydar åmulÈ felt the need to take a step backwards to a pre-Avicennian Neoplatonic cosmology. In my earlier work I tried to show that a single-source explanation of Avicenna’s metaphysics will inevitably run up against serious problems. In Avicenna’s case, there is a combination of intertwining influences that includes Aristotle, the Neoplatonists and the mutakallimËn. The unsatisfactory nature of singlesource explanations is even more acute with post-classical Muslim thinkers such as Óaydar åmulÈ. When examining a particular issue such as the distinction between asmÅ’ jalÅliyya and asmÅ’ jamÅliyya, evidence of Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s thought is certainly present in Óaydar åmulÈ’s metaphysics; but so too is Avicenna’s metaphysics and al-ÊËsÈ’s and al-ÓillÈ’s Twelver-ShÈÆÈ kalÅm, not to mention the traditional pietistic understanding of the distinction associated with Najm al-DÈn KubrÅ. Seeing each post-classical Muslim philosopher as creatively appropriating and combining disparate elements of the intellectual and spiritual heritage available to him allows us to appreciate the specific philosophical and doctrinal challenges facing him better than seeing him simply as the passive heir either to a great thinker’s thought or to some all-determining national tradition of mystical gnosis.

notes 1. R. Wisnovsky, ‘One aspect of the Avicennian turn in SunnÈ theology’, Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 14.1 (2004), pp. 65–100. 2. For a broad view of these developments, see my ‘Avicenna and the Avicennian tradition’, in P. Adamson and R. Taylor (eds), The Cambridge Companion to Arabic Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 92–136. 3. See, for example, ÆAbd al-KarÈm al-QushayrÈ (d. 465/1072), al-Ta˙bÈr fÈ l-tadbÈr:

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one aspect of the akbarian turn in shi Æ i theology

4. 5. 6.

7.

8. 9. 10.

Shar˙ asmÅ’ AllÅh al-˙usnÅ, annotated by ÆAbd al-WÅrith Mu˙ammad ÆAlÈ (Beirut: DÅr al-Kutub al-ÆIlmiyya, 1999), pp. 46–7; and al-GhazÅlÈ (d. 505/1111), al-Maqßad al-asnÅ fÈ shar˙ asmÅ’ AllÅh al-˙usnÅ, ed. F. Shehadi (Beirut: DÅr al-Mashriq, 1971), pp. 126–7. I. Goldziher, Die Richtungen der islamischen Koranauslegung (Leiden: Brill, 1920), pp. 210–13. ˘ amÅl wa-FawÅti˙ al-G ˘ alÅl des Nag˘m ad-DÈn al-KubrÅ, ed. F. Meier Die FawÅ’i˙ al-G (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1957), pp. 79–82. J. van Ess, ‘Der Name Gottes im Islam’, in H. von Stietencron and P. Beyerhaus (eds), Der Name Gottes (Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1975), pp. 156–75 at 170–2; R. Gramlich, Die schiitischen Derwischorden Persiens. 2. T.: Glaube und Lehre (Wiesbaden, 1976), pp. 28–9, notes 102–5; H. Landolt, ‘Mystique iranienne: SuhravardÈ Shaykh al-ishrÅq (549/1155–587/1191) et ‘Ayn al-QuzÅt-i HamadÅnÈ (492/1098–525/1131)’, in his Recherches en spiritualité iranienne (Tehran: Institut Français de Recherche en Iran, 2005), pp. 157–75 at 171 (originally published in C. J. Adams [ed.], Iranian Civilization and Culture; Essays in honour of the 2500th Anniversary of the Founding of the Persian Empire [Montreal: McGill Institute of Islamic Studies, 1972], pp. 23–37); Landolt, ‘Der Briefwechsel zwischen KÅshÅnÈ und SimnÅnÈ über Wa˙dat al-WujËd’, in Recherches, pp. 245–300 at 266–7 and 287 (originally published in Der Islam 50.1 [1973], pp. 29–81); and Landolt, ‘Sakralraum und mystischer Raum im Islam’, in Recherches, pp. 327–55 at 349 (originally published in Eranos Jahrbuch 44 [Leiden: Brill, 1975], pp. 231–65). See also H. S. Nyberg, ed., Kleinere Schriften des Ibn al-‘ArabÈ (Leiden: Brill, 1919), pp. 74 and 88, where he cites an earlier (Stockholm, 1915) iteration of Goldziher’s hypothesis. KitÅb al-jalÅl wa-l-jamÅl, contained in RasÅ’il Ibn al-ÆArabÈ (Beirut: DÅr I˙yÅ’ al-TurÅth al-ÆArabÈ, 1968?; reprint of edition originally published in Hyderabad: DÅ’irat al-MaÆÅrif al-ÆUthmÅniyya, 1943–8), p. 3. Brokelmann (GAL I, 448) suggests that this work could be by al-QËnawÈ (d. 673/1274), Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s foremost disciple. However, in GALS II, 800, he lists the work without casting any doubt on its authenticity; and Osman Yahia (Histoire et classification de l’oeuvre d’Ibn ÆArabÈ [Damascus: Institut français de Damas, 1964], 1, 263–4) argues briefly though convincingly that it is authentic. There is an English translation by R. T. Harris, ‘On Majesty and Beauty: The KitÅb al-jalÅl wa-l-jamÅl of Muhyiddin Ibn ÆArabÈ’, Journal of the MuhyiddÈn Ibn ÆArabÈ Society 8 (1989), pp. 5–32. However, all translations are my own. Ibn al-ÆArabÈ, KitÅb al-jalÅl wa-l-jamÅl, p. 3. Ibid., p. 3. Ibid., p. 3. There is a strong possibility that Ibn al-ÆArabÈ was influenced in this regard by Fakhr al-DÈn al-RÅzÈ (d. 606/1210), who credits the metaphysical philosophers (al-ilÅhiyyËn mina l-falÅsifa) with making a distinction between God’s ‘negative’ (salbiyya) attributes, which signify God’s transcendental qualities and which al-RÅzÈ says are labelled ßifÅt al-jalÅl in the Qur’Ån, and His ‘relational’ (i∂Åfiyya) attributes, which signify God’s qualities of involvement with the world and which are labelled ßifÅt al-ikrÅm (al-RÅzÈ, LawÅmiÆ al-bayyinÅt fÈ l-asmÅ’ wa-l-ßifÅt, ed. ÊÅhÅ ÆAbd al-Ra’Ëf SaÆd [Beirut: DÅr al-KitÅb al-ÆArabÈ, 1990], p. 37) – a distinction that al-RÅzÈ himself endorses at LawÅmiÆ, p. 343. Hypothesizing a filiation between Ibn al-ÆArabÈ and al-RÅzÈ on this topic is made more plausible by the fact that in a separate passage al-RÅzÈ ties the distinction between ßifÅt al-jalÅl and ßifÅt al-ikrÅm to, respectively,

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robert wisnovsky

11. 12.

13.

14. 15.

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28.

God’s jalÅl and His jamÅl, and even draws the same parallel that Ibn al-ÆArabÈ would later do with God’s qab∂ and bas†; see LawÅmiÆ, p. 121. Ibn al-ÆArabÈ, KitÅb al-jalÅl wa-l-jamÅl, p. 4. In a more restricted sense, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s hints at a theory of wa˙dat al-wujËd can also be seen as a conscious decision to salvage Avicennian ontology in the face of attacks by SuhrawardÈ. In effect, Ibn al-ÆArabÈ skirts SuhrawardÈ’s attacks (for example, in KitÅb ˙ikmat al-IshrÅq, ed. H. Corbin as Oeuvres philosophiques et mystiques de Shihabbaddin Yahya Sohrawardi [Tehran: Institut Franco-Iranien, 1952], nos. 56–68, pp. 64–72) by collapsing a distinction that Avicenna made between a pure existence (mujarrad al-wujËd) that does not allow for things to participate in it, and an existence that does allow for things to participate in it. The former existence is what Avicenna calls being ‘with the condition of negation’ (bi-shar† al-salb), and is what he thinks God is; while the latter type of existence is what Avicenna calls being ‘without the condition of affirmation’ (lÅ bi-shar† al-ÈjÅb), and this is what he thinks existents possess. Avicenna, KitÅb al-ShifÅ’: IlÅhiyyÅt 8.4, ed. and trans. M. Marmura, as Avicenna: The Metaphysics of The Healing (Provo, Utah: Brigham Young University Press, 2005), no. 13, pp. 276–7. This is a story for another article, however. H. Corbin, ‘Haydar Âmolî (VIIIe/XIVe siècle) théologien shî’ite du soufisme’, in his En Islam iranien. Aspects spirituels et philosophiques, Vol. 3 (Paris: Gallimard, 1972), pp. 149–213; Peter Antes, Zur Theologie der SchiÆa. Eine Untersuchung des GÅmiÆ al-asrÅr wa-manbaÆ al-anwÅr von Sayyid Óaidar åmolÈ (Freiburg im Breisgau: Schwarz, 1971). Óaydar åmulÈ, JÅmiÆ al-asrÅr wa-manbaÆ al-anwÅr, ed. H. Corbin and O. Yahia (Tehran: Institut Franco-Iranien, 1969), no. 257, p. 134. Al-ÓillÈ (ad al-ÊËsÈ), Kashf al-murÅd fÈ shar˙ TajrÈd al-iÆtiqÅd (Beirut: Mu’assasat al-AÆlamÈ: 1988), pp. 314–18 (where al-ÓillÈ traces al-ÊËsÈ’s position to the MuÆtazilÈ AbË l-Óusayn al-BaßrÈ, d. 435/1044); 315–16; 321. Óaydar åmulÈ, JÅmiÆ al-asrÅr, nos. 255–6, p. 133. Ibid., no. 256, pp. 133–4. Ibid., no. 257, pp. 134–5. Ibid., no. 258, p. 135. Ibid., no. 261, pp. 136–7. Ibid., no. 259, p. 135. Ibid., no. 260, pp. 135–6. Cf. Óaydar åmulÈ, KitÅb Naßß al-nußËß (fÈ shar˙ FußËß al-˙ikam), ed. H. Corbin and O. Yahia (Paris: Maisonneure, 1975), no. 837, pp. 383–4. Ibid., no. 16, p. 10. See my Avicenna’s Metaphysics in Context (London: Duckworth, 2003), Chapters 1–6 passim. Ibn al-ÆArabÈ, KitÅb al-jalÅl wa-l-jamÅl, pp. 4–5; Óaydar åmulÈ, JÅmiÆ al-asrÅr, no. 262, p. 137. Óaydar åmulÈ, JÅmiÆ al-asrÅr, nos. 263–264, pp. 137–8. Cf. also Óaydar åmulÈ, TafsÈr al-Mu˙Ȇ al-aÆΩam wa-l-ba˙r al-Khi∂amm fÈ ta’wÈl KitÅb AllÅh al-ÆazÈz al-mu˙kam (Tehran: Mu’assasat al-†ibÅæa wa-l-nashr, 1993/4–2002), vol. 2, p. 560 and Vol. 3, pp. 162–3. See my Avicenna’s Metaphysics, Chapters 2–6 and 10, passim. Al-ÓillÈ (ad al-ÊËsÈ), Kashf al-murÅd fÈ shar˙ TajrÈd al-iÆtiqÅd, pp. 305–6.

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1 4

Sufism and Theology in the Confessions of ÍÅ’in al-DÈn Turka IßfahÅnÈ (d. 830/1437) Leonard Lewisohn

introduction In the history of Islamic esotericism, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn ÆAlÈ ibn Mu˙ammad Turka IßfahÅnÈ (d. 830/1427) was a thinker of extraordinary originality whose mystical thought played a formative and fundamental role in the development of later Islamic theosophical doctrines. As S. H. Nasr points out, ‘in his integration of illuminationist theosophy with Peripatetic thought and philosophical mysticism (ÆirfÅn)’, he is ‘perhaps the most important figure in Islamic philosophy after NaßÈr al-DÈn ÊËsÈ, figuring as the key link in the chain [of philosophical thought stretching] between MullÅ ÍadrÅ, SuhrawardÈ and Ibn SÈnÅ.’1 The profound originality of ÍÅ’in al-DÈn’s Persian prose style, Nasr adjudicates, ‘puts him in the same rank as NÅßir-i Khusraw, SuhrawardÈ, BÅbÅ Af∂al, NaßÈr al-DÈn ÊËsÈ and Qu†b al-DÈn ShÈrÅzÈ.’2 Author of some thirty books and treatises in Arabic and Persian,3 he is yet another major Persian philosopher who awaits Western discovery, research, translation and recognition. None of his works have to date been translated into any European language. Born circa 761/1360 in IßfahÅn, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn spent his youth travelling through Syria, Egypt and the ÓijÅz in pursuit of learning. It is recorded that as part of TÈmËr’s (Tamerlane) enforced intellectual brain-drain of IßfahÅnÈ intellectuals, he was apparently forcibly transported from his native city to Samarqand together with his older brother in the latter quarter of the 8th/14th century, although he managed to return to IßfahÅn after TÈmËr’s death in 1405.4 It is known that he learned the fundamentals of jurisprudence at the hand of this same older brother, who was a juridical authority.5 His journeys would certainly have taken place after preliminary study in a ShÅfiÆÈ madrasa in IßfahÅn, which was still a predominantly Sunni city on the eve of the Safavid ShÈÆification when it was established as the Iranian capital under that dynasty in the early 10th/16th century. In an Egypt undergoing a Sunni restoration, he studied with SirÅj al-DÈn ÆUmar ibn RaslÅn BulqÈnÈ (d. 805/1403), the most important ShÅfiÆÈ jurisprudent of the day, with an eminence far beyond the posts he held officially, such as the vital QÅ∂i al-Æaskar, supreme judge of the military.6 SirÅj al-DÈn was also

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leonard lewisohn a ShÅdhilÈ Sufi, indicating the notable interconnection between ShÅfiÆÈ jurisprudence and Sufism, but he was also a conservative, being amongst those who condemned ÓallÅj in a debate with the restorer of the ShÅdhiliyya in Egypt, Shams al-DÈn Mu˙ammad ÓanafÈ (d. 847/1443), a supporter of the martyr.7 The little that is known of his life’s history, apart from sketchy references to his education, really begins in his adulthood, where he is seen serving as a legal counsellor in the courts of one princeling or another. Though a ShÅfiÆÈ in Sunni jurisprudence, he would cite the school of AbË ÓanÈfa with equal authority. His qualifications provided for service as chief justice under various regimes. As a Sufi, there is some evidence that he was a close associate of the master and orderfounder ShÅh NiÆmatullÅh WalÈ KirmÅnÈ (d. 834/1431) and, according to one source, a khalÈfa of that order.8 In Herat, the TÈmËrid capital under the rule of ShÅh Rukh (r. 1408–1447), the son of TÈmËr, he was certainly a close associate of ShÅh NiÆmatullÅh’s chief khalÈfa, ShÅh QÅsim-i AnwÅr (d. 837/1433–34), so much so that, like the latter, he was implicated in the abortive assassination of the monarch in 830/1426–27, engineered by the politically radical ÓurËfÈ movement, though, unlike ShÅh QÅsim, who only suffered the punishment of exile, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn was imprisoned and tortured, his family and friends implicated in the ‘terrorist plot’. Only with great difficulty did he manage to exonerate himself in the end.9 Like ShÅh QÅsim as well, he was said to have been subject to ÓurËfÈ influences. Indeed, the editor of his Persian treatises dubs him ‘one of the grandees of the ÓurËfÈ †arÈqat’.10 However, I have not found any evidence in his works linking him with Fa∂l AllÅh AstarÅbÅdÈ (740/1340–796/1394), the founder of the ÓurËfÈ sect, or any of his followers.11 ÍÅ’in al-DÈn Turka interprets the epithet ‘ÓurËfÈ’ in the widest possible sense to denote the ‘science of letters’ (Æilm-i ˙urËf) which ‘encompasses every particular or general object of knowledge, and which can be deduced from the patterns made by the forms of the heavenly constellations and their astronomical transfigurations’.12 His absorption in the occult sciences in general, and the science of numerology (jafr) in particular, exerted considerable influence on the subsequent history of Islamic philosophy in Persia.13 While ÍÅ’in al-DÈn seems to have made his living as a jurisprudent, his prime occupation outside his profession was as an esoteric thinker fusing the thought of the schools of Ibn ÆArabÈ and SuhrawardÈ. He inherited his interest in theosophy and philosophy from his father, Íadr al-DÈn Turka, who introduced him to the study of the IshrÅqÈ, or ‘Illuminationist’, school founded by SuhrawardÈ.14 In the first decade of the 8th/14th century he served in the court of MÈrzÅ Iskandar in IßfahÅn, who later rebelled against ShÅh Rukh (in 817/1414).15 ShÅh Rukh as a consequence conquered IßfahÅn and Fars. Although ÍÅ’in al-DÈn Turka retired from public service, he was not immune from attacks by those envious of his position. He travelled twice to meet ShÅh Rukh in KhurÅsÅn, where he

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the confessions of sa’in al-din turka isfahani composed several treatises in the prince’s honour, in which he complains about the stratagems that his rivals had used against him. Although at one point, ShÅh Rukh put ÍÅ’in al-DÈn Turka in charge of the judiciary (qa∂Åwat) of the province of Yazd, his rivals at court persisted in intriguing against him, accusing him of being a Sufi, thereby obliging ÍÅ’in al-DÈn to travel to Herat to defend the Sunni orthodoxy of his beliefs, and his association with the kind of esotericism connected with the ÓurËfiyya. However, he still seemed to have been tarred by the brush of heterodoxy for his open espousal of Sufism, so that in the wake of the wave of anti-esotericism following the assassination attempt on ShÅh Rukh in 830/1426–27, he was forced to defend his Sufi principles in a treatise, the Profession of Faith, or Tract on Religious Belief (RisÅla-i IÆtiqÅdÅt). He then carried the argument further in another treatise, in which he goes so far as to state that Sufism is not a matter of belief but of perception and revelation.16 Devoted to elucidating his views on Sufism and its compatibility with orthodox Sunnism, he dedicated all these semiautobiographical confessional treatises to ShÅh Rukh. If his literary style in his autobiographical works is relatively simple and straightforward, his prose filled with a pleasant fluency and sweetness, his works on Islamic spirituality are far more convoluted, as Mu˙ammad TaqÈ BahÅr noted, being typical of the period to which he belonged, written in ‘an ornate literary style, filled with rhyming prose (sajÆ) and other signs of painstaking labour in their composition (takallufÅt). His peculiar prose style is not original but follows that of ÆA†Å’ Malik JuwaynÈ; only it is slightly more eloquent and somewhat less pretentiously laboured.’17 Below, I will discuss both these autobiographical confessions and the light they cast on his attitude to Sufism and, more broadly, on his views concerning the relation of esoteric Islamic speculative thought to exoteric Muslim theology.

sufism and sunni theology in the confessions of sa’in al-din The two most important of these treatises are: (1) First Expectoration, or Inspired Effusions in Relief of Chest Pain I (Nafthat al-maßdËr-i awwal), or, more colloquially rendered, An Initial Letting off of Some Steam, composed in two parts; and (2) A Secondary Letting off of Some Steam (Nafthat al-maßdËr-i duwam). Although the first treatise, composed when he was fifty-nine years old, is full of much important autobiographical information, for the purposes of the present essay, its main importance lies in the light it casts on his attitude to Sufism and Islamic theology in general and esoteric Islam in particular. For the last fifteen years, he claims in this treatise, ‘I have not been occupied in teaching any other sciences but Qur’Ånic commentary (tafsÈr), ˙adÈth, the Principles of Theology (ußËl), and Jurisprudence (fiqh), nor have I ever stepped even one hair’s breadth outside the bounds of the exoteric Law (ΩÅhir-i sharÆ).’18 He goes on to say that he has already defended himself previously before ShÅh

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leonard lewisohn Rukh against similar charges of heresy that others had levelled against him, having publicly confessed at that time his adherence to the Sunni faith.19 In the beginning of his Tract on Religious Belief, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn casts a coldly disdainful eye on different Islamic sects and theological doctrines. Just as he is highly critical of the MuÆtazilÈ denial of the vision of God in the hereafter, so he rejects the philosophers’ (falÅsifa) view that creation expresses the final extent of God’s Power and Will, while attacking the ShÈÆÈ doctrine that God’s nature obliges Him to vouchsafe grace upon anyone who worships and obeys Him, and to display His wrath to all those who sin and trespass against Him.20 At the end of his Tract on Religious Belief, he characterises himself as a Sunni Sufi.21 He begins another smaller autobiographical tract on the same subject with these words: The belief (iÆtiqÅd) of this faqÈr has never been anything other than that which the leaders of the Sunni sect (a’immat-yi sunnat va-jamÅÆat) – may God’s grace accompany all of them – profess, and at the present moment, it is still the same. [He then details some of the spiritual and intellectual reasons for this affiliation.] … And whoever follows a religious affiliation (madhhab) other than this is lost and gone astray.22

From this passage and other biographical particulars that he relates in his autobiographical writings, we can now correct an important misunderstanding of his thought promulgated by Henry Corbin, who mistakenly conceived his philosophy to be representative of a kind of ShÈÆÈ gnostic spirituality.23 His chilly if not downright frigorific attitude towards sectarian ShÈÆism is reflected in the following passage found in another of his Persian works, where he writes: The ShÈÆÈs and the MuÆtazilÈs are in agreement in many of their theological principles, and the opinion of both these groups are mostly in accordance with those of the Philosophers. All these three groups are enemies of the Sunnis (sunnat Ë-jamÅÆat). All the Sufi shaykhs follow the Sunni denomination. In fact, no one who is not a member of the Sunni denomination can grasp this science [of Sufism]. Hence, anyone who comes to a Sufi master (murshid) in pursuit of this science will not be offered any spiritual direction until he or she converts to Sunnism.24

ÍÅ’in al-DÈn here directly links the esoteric tradition of Sufism with exoteric Sunni theology, implying by extension that ShÈÆÈs, MuÆtazilÈs and Peripatetic philosophers are all misled and astray in their faith. Despite ÍÅ’in al-DÈn’s evident unwillingness to publicly confess himself an affiliate of any contemporary Sufi †arÈqa, his deep sympathy and devotion for the great classical Sunni Sufi esoteric tradition and its masters is everywhere in evidence in his writings. Given the political climate, he was at pains to stress that Sufism was not a religious cult, like ÓurËfism, making it clear that, as a Sufi, he was not a member of an organisation of a sort that might threaten the sociopolitical establishment. In his autobiographical first confession, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn points out that Sufism cannot be classified as a heresy. The bias maintained by — 66 —

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the confessions of sa’in al-din turka isfahani so-called orthodox theologians against the study of Sufism appears absurd when contrasted and compared to the unbalanced support given by the TÈmËrid state to the teaching of the profane sciences. If monarchs are willing to fiddle away their time and demean their dignity by attacking the so-called heresy of Sufism, ‘why is it they never bother to castigate the science of astronomy, which is clearly a type of religious infidelity (kufr) since so many of its principles contradict the Qur’Ån?’ he asks, concluding: And if astronomy is infidelity, then so is astrology also infidelity, since it is grounded in astronomy; yet one sees that most of the discussions that take place in royal assemblies revolve around astrology, especially during the present day when this science has been revived with a fresh vigour, with edicts continually being issued to erect new observatories, the like of which no rulers in past epochs ever founded.25

Noting that ‘it is a common trait of petty-minded fault-finders to try to pigeonhole people by labelling them with names’, he observes how some mullahs, to whom he refers derogatively as ‘turbanites’ (ahl-i dastÅr), characterising them as quarrelsome meddlers constantly engaged in disputing and fighting with each other, are especially engaged in refutation of the Sufis, and so have accused him of being a Sufi as well: They have continuously tried to drag this faqÈr into [belonging to] the Path of Sufis such as Junayd and ShiblÈ and BÅyazÈd and KhwÅja Mu˙ammad ÆAlÈ ÓakÈm TirmidhÈ and Shaykh SaÆd al-DÈn Óamuya, the light and grace of each of whose mausoleums has filled all four quarters of the world with luminosity and the fragrance of the Sacred.26

As can be seen by the enthusiastic and flowery epithets attached to classical heroes of the Sufi tradition cited here, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn was by no means displeased at having the label ‘Sufi’ attached to his name! In fact, he characterises himself as a ‘dervish’ in one place of the same tract.27 His dominant sympathy, however, hovers with the elect among the great Sunni Sufis, with whom he stands shoulder to shoulder in opposition to the popular exoteric Sunni theologians, their common enemy. In his Profession of Faith, he writes sarcastically that one of the reasons that he set pen to paper, was because it had been heard that my contemporaries in general, and the turbanites (ahl-i dastÅr) in particular (insofar as their noble nature requires that the scissors of spiteful self-interest be continually employed in hostile contact and engaged in animosity with one another by setting afire and shredding each other’s character) had been relating these sorts of [spiteful] tales about the religious doctrine of the dervishes (dar bÅb-i iÆtiqÅd-i darvÈshÅn), while standing, as it were, before the pedestal of their throne. … However, the reason why these turbanites repudiate and reject the dervishes is that there are certain types of complex and difficult sciences pertaining to the works of the prophets and the mysteries of God’s saints (awliyÅ’) that still exist down to the present day, the understanding of which is beyond the comprehension of most people. None but smart, intelligent folk (zÈrakÅn-i hËshmand), who by

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leonard lewisohn virtue of their devoted obedience, and Masters of the Sufi Path (pÈrÅn-i †arÈqat) who have traversed this path, with the help of being befriended by divine favour after subjecting themselves to a multitude of ascetic exercises and learning many sciences, can traverse this arena on the swift foot of Thought. No one else has the ability to understand these sciences.28

ÍÅ’in al-DÈn’s admiration for the great representatives of the Persian Sunni Sufi tradition, whom he classifies as constituting the elect intelligentsia (khawÅßß) of esoteric Islamic thought, is here quite evident. Authorities such as GhazÅlÈ and AnßÅrÈ are the true saints, he declares, the ‘smart, intelligent folk’ who follow the true Prophet, the real masters of the †arÈqat. In fact, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn observes that the lack of understanding of these esoteric sciences on the part of the common rabble is the main reason why ImÅm Mu˙ammad GhazÅlÈ and Shaykh ÆAbdullÅh AnßarÈ (‘who bore away the ball of intellectual pre-eminence from their contemporaries in the arena of their day and age’) have been attacked and criticised for their works. ÍÅ’in al-DÈn here uses the term ‘intelligent person’ (hËshmand) in a general mystical sense, defining it as ‘someone who is capable of making use of the sound assets of the present moment (naqd al-waqt), not one who is heedless of his own present moment of inspiration (waqt-i khwud), preoccupied with another moment, whether of the past or future.’29 Esotericism is a time-honoured mode of intellectual and religious discourse, he argues in defence of Sufism. If an idea’s literary expression contains several levels of interpretation and degrees of meaning, most of which are erroneous, but one of which is correct and true, then the idea itself cannot be condemned as constituting error or construed as blasphemy: First of all, it is possible to make a full explanation and to formulate an esoteric exegesis (ta’wÈl) for all the words and discourses delivered by the Sufi shaykhs. The legal authorities that specialise in Islamic jurisprudence (a’imma-i fiqh) all agree that if within one discourse several different connotations can be found, all of which are blasphemous except for that [non-blasphemous] one, then the fair judge must choose the connotation that is not blasphemous, and adjudicate that the words are not to be interpreted in a heretical sense. What a strange tale all this is! On the one hand, all those masters who uttered these statements clearly asserted that their intention in such sayings had nothing to do with the formal, exoteric dimension (ΩÅhir). On the other hand, one finds two other groups, that is, the MuÆtazilÈs and the philosophers, who actually substantiate their heretical opinions by demonstration, arbitrarily and persistently adducing arguments in defence of these opinions. Nobody objects to anything they say, while they are allowed to pursue and persecute these Sunni [Sufi] shaykhs. How well ÓÅfiΩ ShÈrÅzÈ sums up the situation: Lift up the tulip-cup: its eyes’ drunken narcissus gaze, And set on me the label ‘pervert’. With so many judges That are set over me, O Lord, who should I take to be my judge?30

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the confessions of sa’in al-din turka isfahani The real enemies of religion, continues ÍÅ’in al-DÈn, are thus the cryptoShÈÆÈs and crypto-philosophers, who, disguised as Sunnis, attack the Sufis as infidels. ‘And the reason why they do this is to defend their own sect, instead of attacking those two other heresies (i.e. MuÆtazilÈ philosophy and the natural sciences).’31 At this juncture, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn clarifies what he perceives to be the inseparable relationship between Sufism and Sunnism, while pointing out some of the shortcomings of the former: Although it is clearly the case that this company of the Sufis are the highest dignitaries of the Sunni denomination, since any Sunni who attains to the degree of perfection in knowledge and its application is designated as a ‘Sufi’, two ugly flaws have appeared as a by-product of the words and behaviour of this group [the Sufis]. The first is that they have uttered a few words and spoken discourses inspired by sapiential ‘taste’ and an influx of inspiration borne of mystical consciousness (az sar-i dhawq Ë-˙Ål), the exterior sense (ΩÅhir) of which appears to be blasphemous. Then along comes a troupe of vain and errant folk who have not transcended their brute animal natures who latch onto these words, adopting them to further their own fallible ends, saying that ‘everything is God’ (hama-yi chÈz khudÅ’st) – Heaven forefend! – and so become apostates and heretics. They imagine that the rhyme and verse of the great masters such as Shaykh A˙mad JÅm, MawlÅnÅ RËm, ÆIrÅqÈ and others convey this [pantheistic] sense, and so announce in public that these masters followed their faith. Then up walks a company of nobles and princes who are too bewildered and confused to know whether or not their words are truthful. Why? Because they have heard how the jurisprudents (fuqahÅ) condemn and excommunicate them, while they have seen for themselves how badly they [the Sufis] conduct themselves. So these princes and notables end up repudiating and denying the Sufis entirely, and in this, they are fully justified! For the words of the Sufi masters are extremely hard to understand, while the disposition and behaviour of this other group who have affiliated themselves to the Sufis, is extremely ugly and repulsive. What fault of it is mine That among so many swine Not one pearl can be found? It is no secret that the words of the Sufi masters can only be understood by someone who has exerted himself for years in pursuit of knowledge while making efforts in practical works through following the Sunna of the Prophet Mu˙ammad (peace and blessing be upon him), after which, befriended by divine grace, he becomes the object of the regard of a perfect master who has realised and comprehended the spiritual stations (maqÅmhÅ) of this path. Only then, after availing himself of this master and spending many years engaged in his service, only after all of this, will he perhaps understand all of their words – or perhaps not. So how can a band of lewd and dissolute folk whose outward character is utterly soiled with sin, and whose inward nature is filled with all sorts of spite, rancour, envy and malice, who have never taken even one single step outside their soul’s lustful passions, ever hope to understand such statements?32

The second ‘ugly flaw’ of Sufism is actually the fault neither of the majority of the Sufis nor of the theosophy of Sufism itself, but rather pertains to the — 69 —

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leonard lewisohn fallacies and foibles of certain pseudo-Sufis – charlatan shaykhs advertising their own miracle-working powers, laying claim to incredible ascetic feats and creating, as a consequence, social and political disturbances in the land, says ÍÅ’in al-DÈn.33 Despite his defence of the esoteric language of Sufism, his maintenance of the orthodox nature of the Sufis’ pursuit of the Prophet’s Sunna, and his defence of the path of the great classical masters in the above treatise, in other works ÍÅ’in al-DÈn is careful not to endorse the Sufi tradition either in regard to its overall theological doctrine, or in respect to its practical †arÈqat methods and initiatic lineage. His position regarding direct affiliation with the Sufi tradition he clarifies in another small, two-page tract On Belief (IÆtiqÅdiyya) as follows: However, during the days of my youth and pursuit [of knowledge], following the adage that enjoins one to ‘Study until the dawn’, if I did engage in the study of certain sciences that contradicted or were contrary to these [Sunni] principles, my examination of these sciences was not due to my belief in them, but simply for the sake of obtaining many-sidedness and versatility (tafannun), and by way of acquiring culture and erudition.34 Such, after all, is the habit and practice of lovers of knowledge, and is in accordance with the custom of my occupation, for my following of these things was by the example of the religious leaders (may God hallow their innermost mystery) and the Proof of Islam (˙ujjat al-islÅm) and pride of mankind [i.e. GhazÅlÈ]. Sinful wretch I am, but I was not the first of Love’s criminals – Nor me it was who first of all brought Amor’s games of love into the world. Likewise, the various things concerning the words of the Sufi masters that were written [by me], which were at the command and entreaty of a group of them, should be considered in the same way. They were not written because I believed in them, since most of those words are not matters bound up with doctrines of religious belief (iÆtiqÅdÈ nÈst).35

Commenting on the biographical and political circumstances underlying some of the above-cited passages, ÆAbd al-Óusayn ZarrÈnkËb notes that while ÍÅ’in al-DÈn was ‘no doubt associated with the Sufi movement and with ShÅh QÅsim-i AnwÅr (d. 837/1433–4), because of anti-Sufi conspiracies and prejudices against certain Sufi groups prevailing at the court of ShÅh Rukh, he was obliged in his RisÅla-i IÆtiqÅdÅt to rebut the accusation of affiliation with Sufism that had been levelled against him. In his Nafthat al-maßdËr awwal, he maintains furthermore that whatever he has composed in its chapters should not be interpreted as reflecting his own personal ‘belief’ (iÆtiqÅd), since Sufism is not a matter of ‘belief’ but rather an experience realised through direct visionary perception (kashf) and insight (idrÅk).’36 As ZarrÈnkËb here points out, although ÍÅ’in al-DÈn declines to profess himself fully and formally to be an exoteric affiliate of the Sufi tradition, he is quite clear about the esoteric nature of his understanding and knowledge of this tradition. ‘My knowledge’, he informs us, ‘has not been obtained by — 70 —

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the confessions of sa’in al-din turka isfahani way of supposition and imitation (gumÅn Ë-taqlÈd) like that of our contemporaries, but rather verified by real certainty and obtained by a comprehensively perfect knowledge realised through the good graces of obedience to Mu˙ammad and following his wise discourses. … My knowledge has not been obtained by theoretical means of demonstration and rational thought.’37 Despite all these reservations, some evidence exists to indicate that ÍÅ’in al-DÈn may have actually been affiliated with the Naqshbandiyya, in the person of Mu˙ammad PÅrsÅ (d. 822/1419). In fact, his copious mention of this master – the only living authority to which he refers, the others being long-dead authors of Sufi doctrinal works – and the earnest presentation of him as emphasising the importance of the canon law and the Prophetic Custom in Sufism, provides rather robust circumstantial evidence of a possible disciplic connection.38 Looking at the precise nature of ÍÅ’in al-DÈn’s doctrine of esoteric Sufi knowledge, one sees that he maintains that there are two different approaches to God. These he classifies as the exoteric and esoteric ways, each of which is fared properly by two different sorts of seekers on the path of religion (†ÅlibÅn-i rÅh-i dÈn): The first kind are those who know the way leading to the quarter of Interior Spiritual Reality (kËcha-yi maÆnÅ) and to the farthest reaches of Certitude, who do not allow themselves to rest and recline on the portal of the phenomenal form and exoteric appearances (ßËrat). The second sort are those who do not have the strength to undertake the journey towards the waystations of spiritual realisation (manÅzil-i ta˙qÈq) and who, despite all their scouring about after knowledge and practical application, are never able to gain access to anything beyond the pavilion of phenomenal form and exoteric appearances.39

To the first group pertains knowledge of the inner realities of faith (ÈmÅn) and to the second belong the outward formalities of ordinary religious practice (islÅm). In order to understand his conception of the relationship of Sufism and Islamic Theology, it will be necessary to briefly study his theories of the esoteric hierarchy of adepts and views on spiritual anthropology.

sa’in al-din’s sevenfold esoteric hierarchy and islamic theology ÍÅ’in al-DÈn’s esoteric doctrine is perhaps best expressed in his Treatise on Cleaving the Moon in Twain and the Advent of the Final Hour (RisÅla-yi Shaqq al-qamar wa-sÅÆat) in which the various stages and degrees of esoteric knowledge are explained in great depth and detail. In this treatise he divides the Islamic community into seven groups – scholastic theologians (mutakallimËn) and Sufis comprising respectively the second and fifth groups in the schema – — 71 —

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leonard lewisohn which reveals his conception of the relationship between Islamic theology and Sufism. Here I will give a brief overview of this treatise.40 The treatise begins with a description of the Qur’Ånic verse referred to in the title: ‘The hour has drawn nigh and the moon is rent twain’ (Qur. 54:1). Given the deeply symbolic nature of both the key images in this verse (moon and hour), it is probably quite appropriate that ÍÅ’in al-DÈn’s exegetical discourse should take on the form of an imaginal autobiographical tale set in a visionary academic landscape. The author begins the treatise recounting his chance visit to a seminary where he found a group of students gathered around discussing the meaning of this verse according to ‘both the rhetorical expressions of the literalist exoteric authorities and the lexicon of the scholastic theologians (mutakallimÅn).’41 To ÍÅ’in al-DÈn, whose approach to Qur’Ånic hermeneutics was intensely mystical, this verse contained a deeper esoteric sense that he personified as a ‘Witness of Beauty from the Unseen’ (shÅhid-i ghaybÈ), belonging to the realm of divine Beauty.42 Abstracted from her place in the Ideal Realm, incarcerated in the secular Academe, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn laments her condition as a virgin, subjected to ignorant mullahs’ molestation: They were putting this lovely virgin from the sacred precincts of prophecy and Qur’Ånic inimitability on public display and had decked her out in garments of technical expressions found in the common science – even though she is sequestered from the sight of strangers who reside in the City of Reason (sharistÅn-i Æaql), hidden from the view of those who live in the Lane of Reflection (kË-y fikr), while the comprehension of immature men who inhabit the degree of spiritual chivalry and knighthood has never once laid hand on the skirt of her chaste innocence.

Simultaneous with this metahistorical, imaginal apparition of the Sophianic spirit of the verse as a ravishing virgin compromised by the unchaste seductions of undeserving intellectual aliens, the author admits his wish to compose his commentary on the verse in order to ‘keep up with the times’. So upon contemplation of the spiritual form of the Qur’Ånic verse, he re-enters the exigencies of linear historical time, commenting that ‘the thought seemed then to pass through my feeble fractured consciousness that I should dress her up in apparel suited to the needs of the time and the demands of the age.’ The rest of the treatise exemplifies ÍÅ’in al-DÈn’s attempt to interpret or to re-present the verse’s esoteric virginal reality in harmony with his own esoteric interpretation of the Islamic intellectual tradition. At the beginning of the treatise, he observes, Since the hierarchical degrees [of understanding] of every society and people are classed in different gradations according to the amount of their faith and scientific knowledge, we have arranged each of the various categories of apologetic theology (kalÅm) and the principles of theology (ußËl) of this noble discussion into a method-

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the confessions of sa’in al-din turka isfahani ologically systematic order, so that perspicacious and discerning adepts in the ways of manners and morals as well as mature mystics in the stations of the spiritual quest may possess for themselves a decisive, binding and sufficient pattern to emulate.

His treatise covers seven classes of people who are differentiated by their increasingly refined degree of esoteric comprehension. The first class are exotericists (ahl-i ΩÅhir). These are ‘specialists in the study of prophetic traditions (mu˙addithÅn-i kalÅm-i nabawÈ), the guardians of the literal sense of its texts’. According to this group, a simple blind acceptance of the external sense of the verse suffices, for ‘to demand how such a cleavage could have occurred is blasphemous and reprehensible. They believe that the signification of “the splitting of the moon” should be confined solely to this [exoteric dimension]’. The second class are likewise ahl-i ΩÅhir or exotericists, whom he describes as ‘having gone beyond the level of blind conformism and having reached the frontiers of direct experiential verification (ta˙qÈq) and certitude (yaqÈn) through making use of reflective thought and speculation’. They are the philosophers of Islam (˙ukamÅ-yi islÅm) and the orthodox scholastic theologians (mutakallimËn), whose position is in essence identical to that of the first group, with one significant difference: that they do not refrain from asking questions. However, since their interpretation of the moon’s cleavage rules out any symbolic approach to the problem, they basically are content to argue that since God is a free Agent, He is able to literally split the moon, ‘since the heavenly bodies are sensory objects just like any other bodies, and being composed of material elements, are capable of being split apart and rent in twain’. Thus, although they are theologians and philosophers of considerable skill and erudition, their literalistic approach to the verse’s imagery restricts their understanding to its most superficial materialistic sense. ÍÅ’in al-DÈn characterises the third class as being ‘exoteric philosophers (˙ukamÅ-yi ΩÅhir) and their latter-day followers’. This class represent the most simple and primitive kind of Islamic esotericism, insofar as they essentially deny that the verse should be interpreted in the literal sense of the word, for, They affirm that for each stellar body (kawkab) and heavenly sphere (falak), there corresponds an invisible esoteric reality (bņin), which they call the Intellect (Æaql). Hence, the esoteric reality of the moon they name the ‘Active Intellect’ (Æaql-i faÆÆÅl). Likewise, another of their principles posits that the farthest degree of human perfection – the degree of the Seal of the Prophets – is that one becomes conjoined, or one, with this same Active Intellect.

In this passage ÍÅ’in al-DÈn refers to the two well-known interpretations about the relation of human intellects to the Active Intellect. According to one interpretation, an essential oneness is said to exist between the two intellects, leading to the confluence and confounding of the human soul with the Active Intel— 73 —

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leonard lewisohn lect. According to the other interpretation (held, for instance, by Avicenna and SuhrawardÈ), the two minds merely become conjoined to one another, while preserving the distinct individuality of both. The exoteric philosophers maintain that the farthest degree of human perfection is that of the ‘acquired intellect’ (Æaql-i mustafÅd) in which the Active Intellect enters into man and becomes the virtual ‘Form’ of his knowledge, so that he becomes an inspired philosopher.43 Based on these philosophical conceptions, according to this group, The ‘splitting of the moon’ may be thus considered a metaphor (kinÅyat) for transgressing beyond its exoteric reality, and becoming conjoined with its esoteric reality which is the Active Intellect. Now, since there is no higher degree of human perfection than that according to them, and the degree of the Seal of the Prophets constitutes the final entelechy of the human species, for this reason ‘rending the moon in twain’ exclusively refers to the spiritual level of the Seal of Prophecy. This then is an in-depth analysis of the significance (ta˙qÈq) of the splitting of the moon couched in the language of the exoteric philosophers, who are called Peripatetics, Aristotle having been their teacher and Avicenna their [current] leader and master.

The fourth class are called ‘the ancient philosophers’ (˙ukamÅ-yi qadÈm) by ÍÅ’in al-DÈn, and it is with them that the true esoteric tradition of Islam commences.44 These are the followers of ShihÅb al-DÈn Ya˙yÅ SuhrawardÈ (d. 591/1194) and are named ‘Oriental Theosophers’ or ‘Illuminationists’ (ishrÅqiyyÅn). Their hermeneutical approach to this verse is based on Illuminationist principles according to which there are two kinds of light: the first a light totally devoid of any form of corporeal darkness and penumbra; and the second a light intermingled with the darkness of corporeal materia. They interpret the cleavage of the moon as symbolic of the irradiation of a combination of both sorts of light, asserting that while the moon is a metaphor for the admixture of light with darkness, the actual splitting of the moon can be interpreted as a symbol for the clear manifestation of knowledge and the perfection of its epiphanic function within its interior (bņin), which being ‘split open’ has now emerged and become revealed for all the world to see.

For these Illuminationists, just as for the third class of exoteric philosophers, the highest degree of cosmic existence belongs to the Seal of the Prophets (martaba-yi khÅtamÈ). At this degree, ‘knowledge becomes exteriorised as it actually is’, and therefore ‘the significance of rending the moon in twain thus refers exclusively to the spiritual level of the Seal of Prophecy’, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn concludes. The realised adepts in Sufism (mu˙aqqiqÅn-i ßËfiyya) constitute the fifth class. They are ‘those who are proficient in direct contemplative vision (ahl-i shuhËd)’. According to these advanced Sufi adepts, there are basically two kinds of epiphany and luminous manifestation. The first kind appertains to the phenomenal manifestation of the world, ‘in which the revelation of every thing — 74 —

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the confessions of sa’in al-din turka isfahani possible to be becomes totally manifest as it actually is’. This first epiphany is designated ‘Adam’ by the Sufis, who is, as Henry Corbin points out in his commentary on this passage, ‘a compendium of all existence, insofar as all being realises through and by him the degree of self-consciousness’.45 Through the form of Adam, the celestial Anthropos, ‘all phenomena enter into the realm of form and manifestation’. The second epiphany is a more intense kind of manifestation appearing through the Seal of the Prophets (khÅtam), in whom the esoteric reality or archetypal meaning (maÆnÅ) of phenomena is revealed. As ÍÅ’in al-DÈn puts it, one who is invested as ‘the Seal of the Prophets’ displays ‘the esoteric meaning (maÆnÅ) from out of that form which was perfectly inclusive on its own level, and the exhibition of this form to the world’. This epiphany constitutes a kind of theomorphosis of the human soul, which ‘for the adept is a matter of direct contemplation, without having to have recourse to rational or dialectical constructions’.46 Thus, to these realised adepts among the Sufis, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn states: ‘the splitting of the moon alludes to the total divulgence of the esoteric sense (maÆnÅ) through that perfect form without the intermediation of any artificial means or the logical arrangement of premises acquired through study, in such a manner as to predict the advent of the Seal of the Prophets’. The sixth class are those who practise an arcane sort of symbolic interpretation of the Scripture through ‘deciphering the mysteries of the letters of the Qur’Ån’ (ramz-khwÅnÅn-i ˙urËf-i Qur’ÅnÈ). These supreme hermeneuts of the Qur’Ån are a group whose knowledge is obtained without recourse to contemplative reflection (fikr), spiritual practice (Æamal) or any other intermediary means of [intellectual] exertion. Their contemplative perception (naΩar) proceeds and derives from the same forms that were revealed to and descended upon the prophets from the hierocosmos and realm of divine Transcendence.

In order to demonstrate the superiority of this esoteric class of adepts over the Sufis and Illuminationists, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn explains that ‘the highest degree of being is the degree of the divine Word (martaba-yi kalÅm)’, which enjoys an ‘all-encompassing epiphanic plenitude (jamÅÆa), insofar as through it all spiritual conceptions or Idea-archetypes (maÆnÅhÅ) are made manifest and all spiritual realities (˙aqÅ’iq) and gnostic lore (maÆÅrif) by it are made explicit and elucidated, clearly recognisable for all the world to see. All the Idea-archetypes which are the ultimate pith and purpose of the Truth, and cherished by the Absolute, are all decked out upon this throne.’ This degree of being derives, however, ‘from the light cast by the epiphany of the divine Name “The Speaker” (iqtibÅs-i nËr-i ΩuhËr az mutakallim mÈkunad)’. This Name manifests certain eternally subsistent characters, one of which is the — 75 —

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leonard lewisohn Qur’Ån’s written character, and it is this character which Qur’Ån 54:1 refers to as the ‘Moon’, as ÍÅ’in al-DÈn explains: It is this written character, which is simply the Moon, that lies at the source of all written letters (aßl-i ˙urËf). In this respect, ‘cleaving the Moon in twain’ is a symbol of the coming forth of the original symbolic archetypal meaning (maÆnÅ-yi aßlÈ) from out of the exoteric form of its written character (ßËrat-i raqamÈ-yi kitÅbÈ) without any intermediary means of thought or reflection needed to divulge it, and without any mental exertion, as is normally the case with ideas designated by conventional meanings (maÆÅnÈ wa∂ÆÈ) and with the traditional sciences.

Only to these adepts in Qur’Ånic numerology is the inner meaning of this written character revealed; these adepts are thus enabled ‘through visionary experience to split open and divulge, as if by secret ambush, the written character, thus laying bare and exposing the esoteric meaning’. The final and seventh class of adepts belong to the Family of the Prophet. ÍÅ’in al-DÈn posits that the esoteric significance of the ‘splitting of the moon’ relates to understanding what he calls ‘the All-inclusive Word of the Seal of the Prophets’ (kalÅm-i kÅmil-i khÅtam al-nabuwwa). Another term he uses for this ‘Word’ is the ‘Perfect Form’ (kamÅl-i ßËrat), which, he says, ‘harbours and includes the full plenitude of all spiritual meanings (tamÅm-i maÆnÅ)’. The only group of people capable of comprehending and thus able to ‘disclose the full extent and scope [of this Form]’ are ‘the pillars of the prophetic family’ (asņÈn-i ahl-i bayt), who are also called ‘those who possess inner strength and spiritual vision (ulË al-aydÈ wa-l-abßÅr), … who are the elect servants of the Seal of the Prophets, and his perfectly worthy heirs.’47 The highest gnostic in this category is ÆAlÈ ibn AbÈ ÊÅlib (d. 40/661). According to ÍÅ’in al-DÈn, the most perfect aspect of this seventh degree of gnosis is found in the science of Arithmomancy (jafr), ‘which completely demonstrated the way to expound and expose the esoteric spiritual sense’.48 This then, is an overview of the basic hierarchy of knowers and knowledge in the treatise. Being a tract on ‘esoteric knowledge’, no doubt much still remains that is obscure and even impenetrable despite the above summary.

conclusion From the above synopsis of ÍÅ’in al-DÈn’s treatise and the previous overview of his autobiographical confessions, it can be seen that his position on the relationship between scholastic theology (kalÅm) and Sufism is essentially that of an esotericist. In its hierarchical elitist differentiation of Islamic intellectual elites into various classes of theoreticians and knowers, his spiritual anthropology recalls the fourfold division made by AbË ÓÅmid al-GhazÅlÈ (d. 505/1111) in Al-Munqidh min al-∂alÅl of Islamic schools of thought into: Scholastic Theology (kalÅm), IsmÅÆÈlÈ authoritarianism (taÆlÈm), Philosophy (falsafa), and Sufism (taßawwuf).49 — 76 —

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the confessions of sa’in al-din turka isfahani But ÍÅ’in al-DÈn’s sevenfold classification, which additionally includes the IshrÅqÈ sages and the ÓurËfÈs, reflects the highly sophisticated intellectual evolution in Muslim society that had occurred in Persia since GhazÅlÈ’s times. His pro-Sufi esotericism anticipates the philosophical esotericism of the late 11th/17th century School of IßfahÅn, particularly the thought of ÆAbd al-RazzÅq LÅhÈjÈ (d. 1072/1661–2).50 His apologetic defence of the Sufi tradition in the context of Sunni jurisprudence from its critics also recalls the Apologia of another famous Sufi jurist, the martyred (526/1132) ÆAyn al-Qu∂Åt HamadhÅnÈ.51 In defending Sufism from both its theological and philosophical critics, while underlining that the highest reaches of Sunnism culminate in Sufism, he argues that there has never been any time in the history of Islamic faith when the exoteric mullahs have not attacked those ÆulamÅ’ sympathetic to Sufism. ‘All one has to do is to read the biographies of Shaykh ÆAbdullÅh AnßÅrÈ and ImÅm GhazÅlÈ to see that.’52 The sole difference between now and then, says ÍÅ’in al-DÈn, is that in the past the state authorities seldom lent their ear to the absurd views of these slanderous folk and took seriously the Qur’Ån’s injunction to avoid suspicion and backbiting of one’s fellow Muslims.53 In fact, in speaking of the man who appears to have been his master, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn confirms this defence, saying, The very science of Sufism is, furthermore, one of the Islamic sciences, and all the great masters have been followers of the Sunna [the Prophetic Custom] and the [Sunni] Community; and in our age KhwÅja Mu˙ammad PÅrsÅ is amongst the authorities and the most eminent masters of Sufism. He has been both respected by AmÈr TÈmËr and fulfilling for the people, with nobody raising any objection to him. In fact, in terms of Sufism, moreover, no one, in my view, has a right to raise such objection.54

It is thus fitting to conclude this study with a quotation from his confessions in which he vigorously defends the study and teaching of Sufi classics as universally accepted by scholars throughout the Muslim world. Why, he asks, should people fault him for having composed a few treatises on Sufism? Unto the wise it cannot be hidden that if writing down such words constituted an error in religion, then the religious leaders of Islam throughout countries all over the earth inhabited by pious Muslims and devoutly religious people would never have written them down. Yet in actual fact, this discourse they have set down in writing, as one can see from the works of KhwÅja Mu˙ammad PÅrsÅ, KhwÅja ÆAbdullÅh AnßÅrÈ, KhwÅja Mu˙ammad ÆAlÈ ÓakÈm TirmidhÈ and Shaykh SaÆd al-DÈn Óamuya, as well as many others (may God hallow the innermost mysteries of them all). Let us not fail to mention, in this context, the land of Anatolia (RËm) where the strength of Islam is so powerful that they [its ÆulamÅ’] are always being sent to the lands of Syria and Egypt, finding fault with the inhabitants there, criticising them and claiming that the rules of the religious law are more powerful in our lands. … There also, this science [of Sufism] is and always has been a subject of instruction. For example, MullÅ Shams al-DÈn FanÅrÈ, who currently holds the post of Chief

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leonard lewisohn Justice (qa∂È al-qu∂Åt) for the whole land of Anatolia, has been teaching these [Sufi] books – which those folk deride so much – inside his own courtroom for the past twenty years! There are many people in this city who can bear witness to this. Not long ago in fact, he set out for the south Arabian peninsula, for the ÓijÅz. Halfway on his journey, he was invited with great respect to travel from Syria to Egypt, where the king of Egypt treated him with greater honour and respect than all the other men of learning in that land. Now, if this science [of Sufism] were such a damnable heresy, then none of those learned Egyptian scholars, each of whom had committed to memory an innumerable amount of Prophetic traditions and juridical lore, would ever have permitted him to take a place of honour above themselves or acknowledged his exalted rank and stature. Albeit, if the learned folk of this place were to hear this story, they would deny it.55

notes 1. ÍÅ’in al-DÈn Turka, RisÅla-i IÆtiqÅdÅt, in Sayyid ÆAlÈ MËsavÈ BihbahÅnÈ and Sayyid IbrÅhÈm DibÅjÈ (eds), ChahÅrdah RisÅla-yi FarsÈ ÍÅ’in al-DÈn … Turka IßfahÅnÈ (Tehran: ChÅpkhÅna-i FirdawsÈ, 1972), introduction by S. H. Nasr, pp. bÅ, jÈm. 2. IÆtiqÅdÅt, Nasr’s introduction, pp. pih, jÈm. 3. His Arabic works include: Shar˙ FußËß al-˙ikam (a commentary on Ibn ÆArabÈ’s FußËß); KitÅb MafÅ˙a∂ (on numerology); RisÅla BÅ’iyya (on numerology and divination); RisÅla AnzÅliyya (on Revelation in Sunni kalÅm theology); RisÅla Mu˙ammadiyya (on the numerological significance of the name Mu˙ammad, a ÓurËfÈ tract); ÓawÅshÈ wa-i߆ilÅ˙Åt (on marginalia and technical terms); RisÅla Mihr nubuwwat (on prophetology); RisÅla TamhÈd fÈ Shar˙ QawÅÆid al-taw˙Èd (a commentary on the famous theological work by ÊËsÈ); RisÅla Mukhtaßar; RisÅla Bismala; RisÅla ManÅhij (on logic). His Persian works include: Shar˙-i TÅ’iyyat Ibn FÅri∂ (commentary on Ibn al-FÅri∂); AsrÅr al-ßalÅt (on the mysteries of prayer); Dar A†wÅr thalÅtha-yi taßawwuf (on Sufism); Tu˙fa ÆAlÅ’iyya (On the principles and customs of Sunni Islam); MadÅrij afhÅm al-afwÅj (on marriage); RisÅla-i IÆtiqÅdÅt (on belief); MunÅΩara-yi bazm Ë-razm (a literary tract); RisÅla dar Shar˙-i LamaÆÅt-i ÆIrÅqÈ (a commentary on ÆIrÅqÈ’s LamaÆÅt); RisÅla Shaqq al-qamar va-biyÅn-i sÅÆat (summarised below); RisÅla AnjÅm (on Sufism); RisÅla Nuq†a (interpretation of the ˙adÈth ‘I am the dot under the letter bÅ’’); RisÅla dar maÆÅnÈ-yi dah bayt (commentary on a poem by Ibn ÆArabÈ); RisÅla dar MabdÅ’ va-maÆÅd (on eschatology); RisÅla Su’Ål al-mulËk (on numerology); RisÅla Sullam-i dÅr al-salÅm (on the five pillars of Islam); Tarjama-yi A˙ÅdÈthÈ az ˙a∂rat AmÈr al-Mu’minÈn ÆAlÈ (commentary on some ˙adÈths of ÆAlÈ); RisÅla-i KhawÅß-i Æilm-i ßarf (a Sufi interpretation of Arabic grammar). See also Mu˙ammad TaqÈ BahÅr, Sabk-shinÅsÈ, 3 vols (Tehran: ChÅp-i TÅbÅn, n.d.), III, pp. 236–8. 4. DhabÈ˙ullÅh ÍafÅ, TÅrÈkh-i AdabiyyÅt-i rÅn, 8 vols (Tehran: IntishÅrÅt-i Firdaws, 1994), IV, p. 489; BahÅr, Sabk-shinÅsÈ, III, p. 230. 5. BahÅr, Sabk-shinÅsÈ, III, p. 230. 6. ÆAbd al-Ra˙mÅn Ibn KhaldËn (The Muqaddimah, trans. F. Rosenthal [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1958], III, p. 12) states that the ShÅfiÆÈ leadership was assumed by the current Shaykh al-Islam in Egypt, SirÅj al-DÈn al-BulqÈnÈ, describing him as ‘the greatest ShÅfiÆÈ in Egypt today and, indeed, the greatest Egyptian religious scholar’. (The Persian secondary sources that discuss Turka misspell his surname,

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7.

8.

9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23.

making it appear to be BË’lqÈnÈ. He is actually from the Egyptian town of BulqÈn.) I am grateful to Terry Graham for clarifying the identity of BulqÈnÈ. Louis Massignon (The Passion of al-ÓallÅj, trans. H. Mason, 4 vols [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982], II, pp. 37, 38, 51) indicates the divisions in the ShÅfiÆÈ camp over the correctness of ÓallÅj’s position, the martyr himself having been an adherent of this school. Thus, BulqÈnÈ was consistent with one of the two positions, his going back to ÓallÅj’s associate Junayd, a Sufi master who was also a ShÅfiÆÈ authority. See ÆAbd al-RazzÅq KÅshÅnÈ, ManÅqib-i ˙a∂rat-i ShÅh NiÆmatullÅh-i WalÈ, in MajmuÆa dar tarjuma’-i a˙wÅl-i ShÅh NiÆmatullÅh-i WalÈ-yi KirmÅnÈ, ed. Jean Aubin (Paris: Librairie d’Amérique et d’Orient, 1982), pp. 70–1. I am grateful to Terry Graham for bringing this connection to my attention. BahÅr, Sabk-shinÅsÈ, III, p. 233ff.; Shahzad Bashir, Fazlallah Astarabadi and the Hurufis (Oxford: Oneworld, 2005), p. 102. BihbahanÈ, Introduction, ChahÅrdah RisÅla, p. yu. The ÓurËfÈ colouring of his thought (but denying his affiliation to the actual historical ÓurËfiyya sect) is also mentioned by BÈdÅrfar in his introduction to Turka, Shar˙-i FußËß al-˙ikam, ed. Mu˙sin BÈdÅrfar, 2 vols (Tehran: IntishÅrÅt-i BÈdÅr, 1999), I, p. 42. See A. Bausani, ‘ÓurËfiyya’, EI2. BihbahanÈ, introduction, ChahÅrdah RisÅla …, p. yu. For a good summary of this science, see T. Fahd, ‘ÓurËf’, EI2. ChahÅrdah RisÅla, S. H. Nasr’s introduction, pp. pih, jÈm. Sayyid ÆAlÈ MËsawÈ BihbihÅnÈ, ‘ÆA˙wÅl Ë-ÅthÅr-i ÍÅ’in al-DÈn Turka IßfahÅnÈ’, in H. Landolt and M. Mohaghegh (eds), Collected Papers on Islamic Philosophy and Mysticism (Tehran: Tehran University Press, 1971), pp. 97–132, at p. 101. BahÅr, Sabk-shinÅsÈ, III, p. 231. ÆAbd al-Óusayn ZarrÈnkËb, DunbÅla-yi JustujË-yi dar taßawwuf-i rÅn (Tehran: AmÈr KabÈr, 1983), p. 131. See above, p. 70, where the relevant passage is translated. BahÅr, Sabk-shinÅsÈ, III, p. 238. Naftha, in ChahÅrdah RisÅla, p. 170. Naftha, p. 172. IÆtiqÅdÅt, p. 227. ‘This then is the full mystery of the doctrinal beliefs of this dervish, and those of everyone following him in the Sunni religious denomination (madhhab-i sunnat va-jamÅÆat)’ (IÆtiqÅdÅt, p. 229). IÆtiqÅdiyya, in ChahÅrdah RisÅla, p. 267. It would appear that the primary reason why Corbin insists (Histoire de la philosophie islamique [Paris: Gallimard, 1964], p. 63), against so many autobiographical statements to the contrary by ÍÅ’in al-DÈn, that he was a ShÈÆÈ, is that the mystic’s Persian works were as yet unpublished when Corbin composed his history. The collection of fourteen Persian essays by ÍÅ’in al-DÈn, published by Dr BihbahÅnÈ in 1972 (n. 1 above) clearly reveals that his sectarian affiliation was to the Sunni community. Yet bias in viewing Turka as a ShÈÆÈ continues to persist, to the point that an eminent British scholar (John Cooper, ‘From al-ÊËsÈ to the School of IßfahÅn’, in History of Islamic Philosophy, ed. S. H. Nasr and O. Leaman (London: Routledge, 1996), I, pp. 585–96, at p. 591) described him as ‘one of the first to seek to unify the Peripatetic, ishrÅqÈ, and Akbarian strands in the perspective of ShÈÆÈ esotericism.’ Nor does the

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24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34.

35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

41. 42.

fact that ÍÅ’in al-DÈn’s KitÅb TamhÈd al-qawÅÆid is still used as a teaching text of gnosis (ÆirfÅn) and Sufism in ShÈÆÈ madrasas in Qum (S. H. Nasr, ‘The Traditional Texts used in the Persian Madrasahs’, Islamic Quarterly 19.3–4 (1975), 172–86) make him ShÈÆÈ, as some Iranian scholars have argued, viewing his own patent confessions of Sunnism purely as pious dissimulation (taqiyya). I find it repugnant to think a man of such great religious sincerity could exhibit such an extreme depth of dissemblance, which would make him the author of two contradictory, exoteric teachings. Naftha, p. 175. Naftha, pp. 173–4. Stating, ‘These are the beliefs then of this darvÈsh’ (IÆtiqÅdÅt, p. 224). IÆtiqÅdÅt, p. 229. IÆtiqÅdÅt, p. 223. IÆtiqÅdÅt, p. 227. Naftha, p. 174. The line is from Shams al-DÈn Mu˙ammad ÓÅfiΩ, DÈvÅn-i ÓÅfiΩ, ed. ParvÈz KhanlarÈ, 2 vols (Tehran: IntishÅrÅt-i KhwÅrazmÈ, 1980), 335:4. Naftha, p. 175. Naftha, p. 176. So far goes the summary of the introduction. The main part of the treatise contains two sections (waßl). The first section concerns various ˙adÈths relating to the harmfulness of heretical innovation (bidÆa), monasticism, religious fanaticism, and various other matters. The second section is devoted to the defence of Sufism, and presents a synopsis of a mystical treatise by Mu˙ammad PÅrsÅ, which in turn was composed by way of commentary on a poem by Ibn al-FÅri∂. In this part, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn actually defends the role of esoteric knowledge in Islam in general, and in Sufism in particular. On the importance of tafannun in Islamic education, see George Makdisi, The Rise of Humanism in Classical Islam and the Christian West (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1990), p. 304. IÆtiqÅdiyya, pp. 267–8. ZarrÈnkËb, DunbÅla-yi JustujË, p. 141. IÆtiqÅdÅt, p. 229–30. Naftha, pp. 172, 186–7, 193. See also Mu˙ammad PÅrsÅ: Shar˙-i FußËß al-˙ikam, ed. JalÈl Misgar-nizhÅd (TehrÅn: Nashr-i DÅnishgÅhÈ, 1987), introduction, p. xvi. IÆtiqÅdÅt, pp. 239–40. For a translation of the entire treatise, see L. Lewisohn, An Anthology of Esoteric Traditions in Islam (London: I. B. Tauris and the Institute of Ismaili Studies, forthcoming). All the following citations are from RisÅla-yi Shaqq al-qamar va-sÅÆat, in ChahÅrdah RisÅla, pp. 101–17. A˙mad ÆAlÈ RajÅ’È BukhÅrÅ’È (Farhang-i AshÆÅr-i ÓÅfiΩ [Tehran: IntishÅrÅt-i ÆIlmÈ, n.d.], p. 361ff.) devotes several comprehensive pages to the meaning of shÅhid, citing most of the important authorities who have written on this Sufi technical term. He notes that ‘literally, the term shÅhid means “seer” and “witness”; in the Sufi lexicon it is used to mean “the Good” and “the Beautiful” in the absolute sense, with the connotation that the shÅhid is one who bears witness to God’s artifice.’ BukhÅrÅ’È cites Qu†b al-DÈn ManßËr ÆAbbÅdÈ’s Al-Taßfiya fÈ a˙wÅl al-mutaßawwifa ([Tehran: 1968], pp. 211–12) on this term: ‘It should be understood that in Sufi terminology

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43.

44.

45. 46. 47.

48.

49.

50.

there are many different sorts of [implications to the term] shÅhid. The shÅhid is that thing found to be acceptable to the eyes of the heart. It is an interior spiritual reality (maÆnÅ) that becomes attached to heart such that the heart beholds it in all its states, seeking deeper intimacy with it by envisioning it (bi-dÈdÅr-i Ë-uns †alabad), and the shÅhid is that which “bears witness”. Therefore, what the spiritual wayfarer’s heart becomes intimately attached to beholding, and which it contemplates in all its contemplative moments, such that that thing attests and bears witness to the soundness of its presential awareness-of-heart – that thing is the shÅhid.’ Here, Turka is evidently referring to al-FÅrÅbÈ’s theory that the ordinary thinking human mind reaches its perfection when it becomes Æaql mustafÅd and thus capable of contemplating the Active Intelligence itself, which had so far been only its productive agent. See Fazlur Rahman, Prophecy in Islam (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1958), p. 14ff. ÍÅ’in al-DÈn follows here all the later IshrÅqÈ philosophers who identified SuhrawardÈ’s thought with the ‘ancient wisdom’ of Greece, India and Persia. See John Walbridge, The Wisdom of the Mystic East: SuhrawardÈ and Platonic Orientalism (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2001), pp. 59–62. Henry Corbin, En Islam iranien, Tome III: Les Fidèles d’amour, ShÈÆism et soufisme (Paris: Gallimard, 1972), III, p. 248. Corbin, En Islam iranien, III, p. 249. UlË al-aydÈ wa-l-abßÅr is a reference to Qur’Ån 38:45: ‘And call to mind Our servants Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, all possessed of inner strength and vision,’ who are also characterised two verses later (38:47) as belonging to the ‘Chosen Elect, the Good’. Jafr is a science based on speculations about the numerical value of Arabic letters, often involving calculations intended to divine the future, the lore of which was originally said to have been deposited amongst the ShÈÆÈs by prophetic apanage. T. Fahd (‘Djafr’, EI2) notes that ‘the ShÈÆÈ conception of prophecy, closely connected with that of ancient gnosis made the prophetic afflatus pass from Adam to Mu˙ammad and from Mu˙ammad to the ÆAlids. … Deviating from its original form of esoteric knowledge of an apocalyptic nature, reserved to the imÅms who were the heirs and successors of ÆAlÈ, it [jafr] became assimilated to a divinatory technique accessible to the wise whatever their origin.’ See GhazÅlÈ, al-Munqidh min al-∂alÅl, ed. FarÈd Jabre (Beirut: Librairie Orientale, 1969), pp. 18–27; trans. R. McCarthy, Deliverance from Error (Louisville: Fons Vitae, n.d.), pp. 60–70. In his biographical study and survey of ÍÅ’in al-DÈn’s life and works still in manuscript, BihbahÅnÈ (A˙wÅl Ë-ÅthÅr, p. 99) underlines the formative influence of his writings on thinkers of the 11th/17th-century School of IßfahÅn as follows: ‘In the history of the development of Islamic philosophy, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn figures as one of the founders of the comparative synthesis of mystical gnosis (ÆirfÅn), philosophy and the spiritual realities of the Law (˙aqÅ’iq-i sharÆÈ), his method of thought and analytical approach in the divine sciences (ÆulËm-i ˙aqÈqÈ) having laid down a foundation for the later evolution of “Transcendental Philosophy” (falsafa-yi mutaÆÅliya), that is to say, the particular type of Islamic ShiÆi philosophy of the Safavid period, which featured thinkers such as MÈr DÅmÅd, MÈr FindiriskÈ, MullÅ ÍadrÅ and ÆAbd al-RazzÅq LÅhÈjÈ …’. See also Lewisohn, ‘Sufism and the School of Isfahan: Taßawwuf and ÆIrfÅn in

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51.

52. 53. 54. 55.

Late Safavid Iran’, in L. Lewisohn and D. Morgan (eds), The Heritage of Sufism; Volume III: Late Classical Persianate Sufism: the Safavid and Mughul Period (Oxford: Oneworld, 1999), pp. 63–134. On whom, see Leonard Lewisohn, ‘In Quest of Annihilation: Imaginalization and Mystical Death in the Tamhidat of ÆAyn al-Qudat Hamadani’, in L. Lewisohn (ed.), The Heritage of Sufism: Classical Persian Sufism from its Origins to Rumi (Oxford: Oneworld, 1999), pp. 285–336; and A. J. Arberry, A Sufi Martyr: the Apologia of ÆAin al-Qu∂Åt al-HamadhÅnÈ (London: Allen & Unwin, 1969). Naftha, p. 173. Qur. 49:12. Naftha, p. 173. Quoted in BahÅr, Sabk-shinÅsÈ, III, p. 231. Naftha, pp. 172–3.

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1 5

A Sufi Theology Fit for a ShÈæÈ King: The Gawhar-i MurÅd of æAbd al-RazzÅq LÅhÈjÈ (d. 1072/1661–2) Sajjad Rizvi The origins of the Safavid dynasty as a Sufi order pose a basic paradox for our understanding of the religious history of early modern Iran. The shift from a charismatic, devotional leadership to monarchy, from pÈr to shÅh, meant that the rulers recognised the conflicts between temporal and spiritual authority and hence organised a vehement persecution of Sufi orders in Iran. However, this did not mean that devotion to the Shah could not be expressed in traditional Sufi formulae nor that aspects of Sufi thought and practice were proscribed in the Safavid period as antithetical to the emergent influence of Twelver ShÈÆÈ jurists. There was no essential conflict between eros and nomos. This chapter examines the Sufi theology of one particular seventeenthcentury thinker who lived in an age when philosophy and mysticism were in vogue despite the protestations of some jurists, and analyses aspects of his major work, a summary of philosophical theology with a strong mystical inclination that was commissioned by Shah ÆAbbÅs II (r. 1642–67) himself and dedicated to him. The text is not just a promotion of Sufi thought at court but also an implicit plea for patronage from a scholar who was out of favour. One needs to recognise that discourses about the permissibility of disciplines at court cannot be divorced from their social and political contexts.

sufism in the safavid period When the Safavids took TabrÈz in 1501 and established a state, they set an uncomfortable precedent of a Sufi order seizing power on the basis of the charismatic authority of the shaykh and the devotion of his followers. Sufi orders needed to be suppressed to retain the paramountcy of the authority of the Safavid murshid-i kÅmil. Alongside the suppression of the orders, genealogists and official chroniclers began the process of inventing a new genealogy of the kings as MËsawÈ sayyids so that the charisma of descent from the Prophet could bolster their claims to exclusive, charismatic authority.1 The invented nasab became commonplace at the very latest by the middle of the sixteenth century.2 As such the stress on descent from the Prophet provided Safavid legitimacy and

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sajjad rizvi marked them as distinct from their non-sayyid Ottoman rivals and their Mughal Timurid rivals. Both of these trends may be visible and impelled by the state of Sufism in Tabriz at the beginning of the Safavid period. The KhwÅjagÅn-Naqshbandiyya order dominated the city led by prominent sayyids. It seems that there were at least three reasons for suppressing these orders: first, they rivalled the Safavid order and its political manifestation; second, they were Sunni and the Safavids had openly declared Twelver ShÈÆism as the state confession (further complicated by the simple fact that the Safavid order had originally been a Sunni one); third, their siyÅdat made Shah IsmÅÆÈl uneasy because at that period it would have been difficult to impose acceptance of his new genealogy.3 The original reason for the suppression of these orders may have been their Sunnism; at least the vehement attack on the order of AbË Is˙Åq in KÅzirËn may be explained in this way.4 The suppression of the orders spread to ShÈÆÈ orders such as NËrbakhshiyya and the NiÆmatallÅhiyya who were clearly a greater and closer challenge. The former was effectively destroyed with the execution of its leader AmÈr QawÅm al-DÈn in 1537, and the latter was tied into the royal family through marriage alliances, and its remnants driven out to India in the seventeenth century.5 Two further processes are discernable through the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. First, the foundation of the Safavid’s authority shifted from their role as spiritual messianic guides. Shah IsmÅÆÈl (r. 1501–24) and his fanatical QizilbÅsh supporters became an embarrassment, especially once the state imported ShÈÆÈ scholars from Jabal Æåmil and Iraq and propagated a revived ShÈÆism through scholarship, patronage of religious offices and popularisation of ritual both commemorating and celebrating the Imams and excoriating their rivals (i.e. the early Caliphs). The development of religious policy threatened the spirituality of the QizilbÅsh. The threat of QizilbÅsh spirituality had become clear in the millenarian Nuq†avÈ fiasco of the 1590s.6 If charisma alone was the foundation of authority, the throne was under threat. The socio-religious threat that the QizilbÅsh and Turkmen supporters of the Safavid Shahs posed in Anatolia against the Ottomans gradually led to it being considered suspect and seditious even within the Safavid realm. There was no guarantee that these ‘wild tribesmen’ would not shift their allegiance to another charismatic apotheosis. Second, and partly alongside the first process, Shah ÆAbbÅs I (r. 1588–1629) ushered in major social and military changes. He developed further links with the Persian and Arab elites at the expense of the QizilbÅsh and gradually undermined the military significance of the QizilbÅsh by using Georgian and other slaves as military leaders, an old Islamic theme of slave-soldiers bolstering the empire. The QizilbÅsh attempted to protect their control of the dynasty’s administration but their failure at court intrigue and their success at times of removing the ruler

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a sufi theology fit for a shi Æ i king (as in the case of IsmÅÆÈl) and ushering in civil war (in the 1580s) made them a threat. Shah ÆAbbÅs I’s action against the Sufis of LÅhÈjÅn in 1614 and 1615 can thus be seen as a final stamp of his authority and the crushing of political (but also implicitly religious) dissent.7 This act established once and for all that Sufi, if used in a non-pejorative sense, was a title bestowed upon loyal subjects by the Shah: as the official chronicler described it, the massacre differentiated Sufis (i.e. loyal subjects) from non-Sufis (disloyal subjects).8 ÍËfÈgarÈ, from being the fanatical devotion to the charismatic pÈr, became briefly a badge of dynastic loyalty. The QizilbÅsh were mocked as stupid relics of a past age and demonised as amoral, irreligious cannibals.9 The result of these processes was to bring into disrepute and question the legitimacy of a spirituality that focused upon the self and upon particular individuals to be emulated as perfect men. It was therefore not just the orders that were proscribed but also the doctrine of following spiritual individuals, propagating the ideas of Ibn ÆArabÈ (d. 638/1240) and other Sufis like RËmÈ (d. 672/1273). The new religiosity of the Safavid state was underpinned by political allegiance to the Shah as the shadow of God on earth and the authority of the jurists as representatives of the religious authority of the Imam and the popular ritual of a ShÈÆism that made charisma the exclusive property of the significantly non-present Imam. The Safavid policy of suppressing Sufism was aided by the composition of anti-Sufi tracts. Thus far, I have not provided that most elusive of definitions, the answer to the question what was Sufism in the period. I have indicated that there are two aspects to Sufism, an institutionalised †arÈqa and a non-†arÈqa manifestation. But the best way to understand what Sufism was is to look at the writings of the period, with a caveat that we should not accept the totality of the description of ‘deviancy’ but the general notions of what was considered objectionable. There are at least two types of works written on Sufism during the period. The first category are works critical of the decadence of the orders, written by authors sympathetic to the ideas and doctrines of metaphysical Sufism and even of the importance of a spiritual path directed by an appropriate spiritual master. Perhaps the best known works of this genre are two works by MullÅ ÍadrÅ (d. c. 1045/1635–6). The first, Kasr aßnÅm al-jÅhiliyya fÈ dhamm al-mutaßawwifÈn [Smashing the idols of ignorance in condemnation of pretend-Sufis], is an attack on those who pretend to be Sufis, who are affiliated to an order and display the trappings of the Sufi life with its institutions, but who in actuality are far removed from the true spiritual concerns of the path. The work was completed in the reign of Shah ÆAbbÅs I in 1027/1618. The actual critique of deviant Sufis is only a brief prelude to an extended panegyric on the spiritual path, and considers the deviance of the orders to be an external obstacle on the

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sajjad rizvi path, just as defects of the soul and its attachment to materiality are an inner obstacle on the path. A key theme, which FayyÅ∂ later repeats, is the complete complementarity between the Sufi path and ShÈÆism. The fact that this text was written in Arabic is instructive; it suggests that the main audience was a scholarly class that needed to be convinced of the Sufi path. The second work is the only one that MullÅ ÍadrÅ wrote in Persian. Sih aßl is a defence of the spiritual path and of the authorities commonly cited in Sufi circles such as al-ÓallÅj and Ibn ÆArabÈ, as well as a critique of literalist and traditionalist scholars. Seemingly written towards the end of his life in the early 1630s, it is an apologia written for a large audience, once again stressing the compatibility of the Sufi path and ShÈÆism: sayings of Sufis, philosophical authorities and Imams are intertwined and the work is divided significantly into fourteen chapters. ÍadrÅ happily quotes RËmÈ and other Sufi poets. Perhaps what is most striking about the work is the unashamedly positive use of the word ßËfiyya. He happily castigates literalist scholars for their condemnation of philosophy and Sufism: O enemy who pretends to be a friend on the path to God, O denier of the wayfarers, the pure on the path, the greatest reason for you and those who similarly are hypocrites and worldly scholars [being wrong and astray] is condemnation of philosophy and true philosophers and Sufis, and enmity to the brothers of purity and spirituality and the companions of fidelity.10

However, those opposed to Sufism tout court were not so willing to qualify their criticisms. Fatwas were intermittently issued against Sufism, focusing on Sufi orders and later also on the citation and use of Sufi symbols, doctrines and practices found in QizilbÅsh spirituality, the popular recounting the AbË-Muslim-nÅma and the philosophy of Isfahan.11 The AbË-Muslim-nÅma in particular was an uncomfortable reminder of the extremism of the early Safavid state.12 The opprobrium against Sufism ranged from accusations of crypto-Sunnism to extremist ShÈÆism! Two of the most important works and authors of the antiSufi movement came from the reign of Shah ÆAbbÅs II. The first and arguably the most influential was ÓadÈqat al-ShÈÆa written in the Deccan in 1058/1648 but attributed to the famous saintly jurist A˙mad ibn Mu˙ammad al-ArdabÈlÈ (d. 993/1585) known as al-Muqaddas.13 The text is a history of ShÈÆism but it includes a long digression attacking the AbË-Muslim-nÅma, Sufi doctrines of extremism, and Sufi orders. Early Sufis like al-ÓallÅj (d. 309/922), AbË YazÈd Bis†ÅmÈ (d. 260/874) and later ones like Ibn ÆArabÈ were condemned for their belief in divine incarnation (˙ulËl) and union (itti˙Åd) and, just like the attack on AbË Muslim for diverting attention to the true spiritual guides and authorities of the time, the Imams. The anti-Sufi tradition held a long-standing condemnation of mystical union as heretical: even the Sufi al-GhazÅlÈ (d. 505/1111) seems to have had reservations in his public writings,14 and it became the core — 86 —

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a sufi theology fit for a shi Æ i king of the attack on the school of Ibn ÆArabÈ.15 The second part of the digression is a description of twenty-one Sufi groups defined either by their particular beliefs or as actual historical orders.16 What is clear is that a litany of charges (as one would expect in any process of heretication) is placed against them: Sunnism, extremism, sexual deviancy, licentious behaviour, indulging in singing and music and flouting the religious law. The second author is MÈr Law˙È. In 1060/1650 he wrote Íalwat al-ShÈÆa under the pseudonym Mu†ahhar ibn Mu˙ammad al-MiqdÅdÈ and was the first to cite ÓadÈqat al-ShÈÆa as the work of al-ArdabÈlÈ.17 The text focused upon the deviant practices of Sufis.18 He begins the text with this observation: It is observable that groups of charlatans concerned with music, filling their bellies, lassitude and the pursuit of the world have deviated from the law of Mu˙ammad and the path of Murta∂Å. They have called the love of the world forsaking the world and invocation of God an excuse for the mixing of women and men. Under this guise, merrymaking and license are veiled. They call disobedience and flouting the law worship. But the weak-minded have accepted their call and their principles.19

The author is seeking to ‘protect’ those who may be fooled and taken in by the corrupt practices of Sufis. It is a call for people to awaken from their ghaflat and condemn this manner of behaviour. Al-ÓallÅj and the so-called ÓallÅjiyya are the particular object of condemnation because of their indulgence in music and dancing. Most of the authorities that he draws upon in support of his condemnation are classical ShÈÆÈ jurists and theologians such as al-ÆAllÅma al-ÓillÈ (d. 725/1325) and al-Shaykh al-ÊËsÈ (d. 460/1067). The basic point is that Sufism as practised by these groups is contrary to ShÈÆism, as clearly enunciated by the specialists of the confession.20 Another key feature condemned is the antinomianism of Sufis and their rejection of the law.21 The text concludes with a list of fatwas condemning music and dancing in particular, issued by FayyÅ∂’s contemporaries such as MÈr ÓabÈb AllÅh al-KarakÈ and Sayyid ÆAlÈ-NaqÈ KamarihÈ.22 He ends with mention of the abuse and ill manner of these Sufis and cites himself as having seen a ÓallÅjÈ Sufi abusing MÈr DÅmÅd.23 The focus in this text is therefore on deviant practice and not so much on doctrines that may be objectionable. It is also notable how FayyÅ∂ co-opts a number of thinkers who were inclined to Sufi ideas, and at this level does not say much beyond the similar condemnation of deviant practices that MullÅ ÍadrÅ and others discussed. However, for him, there can be no redeeming feature of Sufism. Despite all this, Sufi-inclined thinkers, by which I mean those insistent upon a spiritual path and the need for higher mystical intuition guided by a spiritual master outside of the orders, did enjoy the patronage of the court. During the reign of Shah ÆAbbÅs I, while orders were strictly proscribed and a clear affiliation to QizilbÅsh spirituality was heretical and seditious, an eclectic approach to God, as Babayan puts it, was acceptable and central to the high culture of the time:24 — 87 —

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sajjad rizvi for example, MÈr DÅmÅd (d. 1041/1631), BahÅ’ al-DÈn al-åmilÈ (d. 1031/1621) and MullÅ ÍadrÅ were all thinkers who espoused the ideas of Ibn ÆArabÈ, wrote works of speculative metaphysics and also acted as jurists and commentators on the scriptures. A High Sufism was thus entirely respectable as long as it was neither religiously nor politically seditious. Later, in the time of Shah ÆAbbÅs II inclinations to Sufism were again acceptable. Arguably the reason for the sudden increase in anti-Sufi works in this period may be due to the increasingly open closeness that the Shah exhibited to Sufism, including patronising wandering dervishes and establishing tekkes.25 It is within the context of this period of debate that one ought to understand and situate the work of FayyÅ∂ LÅhÈjÈ.

lahiji: life and works A prominent poet with the pen-name of FayyÅ∂, ÆAbd al-RazzÅq ibn ÆAlÈ ibn Óusayn LÅhÈjÈ GÈlÅnÈ is famed as one of the two most prominent students and sons-in-law of MullÅ ÍadrÅ. The relevant sources about his life are scarce: biographical dictionaries and poetic anthologies yield very little.26 We know nothing about his early life. His nisba suggests that he was born in LÅhÈjÅn; some of his later poetry that is nostalgic about Tabriz suggests that he may have begun his studies there.27 He seems to have first studied with MullÅ ÍadrÅ either in Kashan or in Qum in the 1020s/1610s and remained faithfully with him in Qum and perhaps Shiraz, having married his daughter Umm KulthËm in around 1034/1623–4. It is possible that he was also, briefly at least, a student of MÈr DÅmÅd in Isfahan, as he wrote a poem in praise of his ‘teacher’.28 Interestingly this qaßÈda praises him for his learned status as a jurist; it may thus date from the late 1620s when MÈr DÅmÅd was Shaykh al-IslÅm of Isfahan (there are a number of allusions to the city). In another four poems, he praises MullÅ ÍadrÅ.29 Having settled permanently in Qum some time around the death of MullÅ ÍadrÅ, FayyÅ∂ taught at the madrasa attached to the shrine and seems to have been in the favour of Shah ÆAbbÅs II. The favour may have been mediated by the ßadr MÈr ÓabÈb AllÅh ibn al-Óusayn al-KarakÈ. His DÈwÅn of poetry attests to his pursuit of patronage and his intellectual influence. He wrote two poems in praise of his patron Shah ßafÈ (r. 1629–42), and another one for his successor, Shah ÆAbbÅs II.30 Another panegyric praises the ßadr MÈr ÓabÈb AllÅh al-KarakÈ under whose protection the roads are safe and the realm secure.31 A shorter poem praises him on his appointment as ßadr in 1042/1632 during the reign of Shah ÍafÈ.32 These attestations suggest that FayyÅ∂ may well have spent some time in the 1630s and especially 1640s at court in Isfahan. One last poem is worth mentioning as it suggests a plea for patronage with a shift in royal policy: a panegyric addressed to KhalÈfa Sul†Ån known as Sul†Ån al-ÆulamÅ’ Sayyid Óusayn ibn RafÈÆ al-DÈn al-MarÆashÈ (d. 1064/1654). It mentions that he has just been appointed the grand vizier, which was in 1645, and suggests that

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a sufi theology fit for a shi Æ i king FayyÅ∂ was still connected at court at this time. After the death of al-KarakÈ in 1060/1650, FayyÅ∂ seems to have lost favour and been eclipsed by his rival and ham-rÈsh (they were married to two sisters) Fay∂ KÅshÅnÈ (d. 1090/1681) and his own student from Qum, Mu˙ammad SaÆÈd QummÈ (d. 1107/1696). He had earlier encouraged QummÈ to follow his destiny to Isfahan in 1658, but later in a poem criticised his student for forsaking him.33 Clearly, by this time, FayyÅ∂ was out of favour in Isfahan. We do not know much about FayyÅ∂’s teaching in Qum at the Madrasa-yi MaÆßËma or his reaction when Fay∂ had a madrasa endowed for himself (Madrasa-yi Fay∂iyya). In 1065/1655, Fay∂ was invited to take up the post of imÅm-jumÆa of Isfahan, an invitation that he refused because of the controversial nature of the status of the Friday congregation.34 However, four years later he may have taken up the post, as attested by the official chronicle Qißaß-i KhÅqÅnÈ. The bitterness felt at his own eclipse, coupled with the rising star of his rival, is a key factor in understanding FayyÅ∂’s work in Persian. AfandÈ (and others) state that FayyÅ∂ was not known for his learning in jurisprudence, legal theory or ˙adÈth, the most important subjects of the madrasa. Instead his expertise seems to have been wholly in philosophy and kalÅm. As such he was clearly a lesser thinker (at least in the scope of his learning and teaching) than his teacher MullÅ ÍadrÅ and his rival Fay∂. While he may not have been a polymath or an original thinker, he was still capable of critical engagement, espousing the Avicennism of his age that was in decline and going against the fashion in philosophy of that time, which was markedly Illuminationist or followed either the doctrine of MÈr DÅmÅd or MullÅ ÍadrÅ. He died in Qum in 1072/1661–2.35 He was survived by his wife Umm KulthËm (d. 1090/1679), and, among others, his son Óasan (d. 1121/1709) who made a name for himself as a scholar of philosophy and theology in Qum.36 FayyÅ∂’s works can be divided into three categories: kalÅm, philosophy, and his ethical and spiritual writings in Persian. In the first, his most important work is ShawÅriq al-ilhÅm fÈ shar˙ TajrÈd al-ÆaqÅ’id, a sophisticated Avicennan commentary on the famous theological epitome of NaßÈr al-DÈn al-ÊËsÈ (d. 672/1274), a text that was central to speculative and polemical writings in theology in Persianate Islam from the fourteenth century onwards. Unlike other commentaries that focus on the controversial sections on prophecy and the imamate, about half of his commentary concerns the first section (maqßad) on metaphysica generalia (umËr ÆÅmma), of which a large part is taken up by the discussion on the properties of existence in the first chapter.37 He wrote three further works on the text of al-ÊËsÈ: another Arabic commentary that is shorter and less important than ShawÅriq and may have been called MashÅriq al-ilhÅm fÈ shar˙ TajrÈd al-kalÅm; a marginalia (˙Åshiya) critical of the famous marginalia of Shams al-Din KhafarÈ (d. 941/1535) on the latter commentary (shar˙ jadÈd) by

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sajjad rizvi al-QËshjÈ on the TajrÈd and a short commentary on the section on substances and accidents from the ontology of the latter commentary on the TajrÈd. In philosophy, he penned a marginalia on Shar˙ al-IshÅrÅt of al-ÊËsÈ, defending him and the Avicennian tradition, critical of Qu†b al-DÈn RÅzÈ Ta˙tÅnÈ (d. 766/1365) and his Mu˙ÅkamÅt between the commentaries of al-ÊËsÈ and Fakhr al-Din al-RÅzÈ (d. 606/1209), and a commentary on HayÅkil al-nËr of ShihÅb al-DÈn al-SuhrawardÈ (d. 587/1191) on whose basis he is sometimes described as an Illuminationist (ishrÅqÈ) thinker. AfandÈ cites this as Shar˙ al-HayÅkil fÈ ˙ikmat al-ishrÅq and refutes the attribution to him.38 Madelung reads it as referring to a commentary on ˙ikmat al-ishrÅq. Neither work seems to be extant, and given his own tastes as expressed in his other works, he may not have written anything in the Illuminationist tradition. FayyÅ∂’s DÈwÅn of Persian poetry is an excellent example of some of the best poetry of the period including love poems, panegyrics, elegies and other poetic forms. It is a valuable source for his intellectual life as it includes poems in praise of his teachers and patrons. He wrote two further works in Persian, the first being Gawhar-i murÅd, a theological work that stresses the importance of the spiritual path, dedicated to Shah ÆAbbÅs II, and the focus of this study. He later wrote an epitome of it entitled SarmÅya-yi ÈmÅn (published in Bombay in the early twentieth century as a lithograph).39

a sufi theology for the shah: study of the GAWHAR-I MURåD Most sources describe FayyÅ∂ as primarily a theologian (mutakallim), given his expertise in the tradition of commentary on the TajrÈd. However, some sources, such as AfandÈ, do recognise his inclination towards Sufism, describing him as ßËfÈ al-mashrab.40 A reading of his ShawÅriq al-ilhÅm and philosophical works suggests a thinker firmly in the Avicennian tradition.41 But that is only part of the story. Lewisohn’s suggestion that it is the tradition of mystical Avicennism that FayyÅ∂ espouses merely begs the question.42 There is no unequivocal evidence in his works that FayyÅ∂ considered Avicenna to be anything but a masterful discursive philosopher, and in this he follows his teacher MullÅ ÍadrÅ, who considers Avicenna to be an incomplete sage because of his alienation from mystical intuition.43 What is clear is that FayyÅ∂ was committed to a spiritual path, a philosophical theology as a ‘way of life’. His internal critique of Sufism (much like his master MullÅ ÍadrÅ and his colleague Fay∂) was designed to defend the spiritual path and distance himself from the †arÈqa-Sufism that was particularly proscribed during the period. At the same time, he wrote Gawhar-i murÅd for the simple reason that he was a thinker out of favour attempting to regain the grace of the Shah by appealing to the ruler’s mystical inclinations: Shah ÆAbbÅs II was described in his official chronicles as shÅh-i darvÈsh-dËst.44 But this darvÈsh-dËstÈ did not extend to the official orders and the institutions of

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a sufi theology fit for a shi Æ i king what FayyÅ∂ like many others after him, condemns as pÈrÈ va-murÈdÈ (mastership and discipleship). Turning to the text, the first point to note is the title, which suggests a royal commission, the ‘desired jewel’ or a petition for patronage, an ‘expression of one’s request’. The text itself is divided into an introduction, three sections – on self-knowledge, knowledge of God (theology) and the God-world relationship – and a conclusion. The order of the text makes it a mißdÅq (referent) for the commentary on the famous tradition of man Æarafa nafsah fa-qad Æarafa rabbah. One can discern a clear progression from the early discussion of physics through psychology to theology, from the most material aspects of reality to the most subtle and immaterial. Consistent with his master’s teachings in Kasr aßnÅm al-jÅhiliyya, FayyÅ∂ condemns the pÈrÈ va-murÈdÈ of his time and the dervishes and members of orders who forsake intellectual training. The prophetic teaching of seclusion and devotion to worship has lost its spirit among some Sufis who have established deviant practices and mixed ‘the good with the bad’.45 I want to focus on three sections and concerns of the text: first, the dedication to the Shah; second, the chapter in the introduction on the spiritual path to God; and third, and most importantly, the final chapter in the conclusion on the Sufi path and its veracity. The result that FayyÅ∂ wishes to demonstrate is a higher theology that describes a Sufi-ShÈÆÈ path to God, encompassing the exoteric and the esoteric, the rational and the supra-rational as a method to be enjoined upon the court and defended and espoused against its detractors.46 The text is also interspersed with the position of Sufis on various theological doctrines that are cited approvingly. In the proemium, FayyÅ∂ sets forth his intentions. He reveals his desire to present a scheme in which kalÅm, Sufism and philosophy may be reconciled: The most necessary knowledge is self-knowledge (shinÅkhtan-i khwud), and return of the self, knowledge of one’s Lord and his commands. The totality of the knowledge is called the principles of religion (ußËl-i dÈn) by the scholars of kalÅm, divine philosophy (˙ikmat-i ilÅhÈ) by the true philosophers and gnosis (maÆrifat) by the monotheistic Sufis.47

He goes on to explain that the pursuit of knowledge cannot depend on taqlÈd, the rehearsal and imitation of doctrines but must be the result of intellectual effort and lived spiritual experience.48 In this, he is consistent with the teachings of his master MullÅ ÍadrÅ. He proceeds to discuss the work and its dedication: I have named this treatise Gawhar-i murÅd (The desired jewel) … This noble work has reached completion and this desired jewel has come from the sea of potentiality to the shore of actuality, a most precious work … This work includes issues of physics, important topics that the dear gnostics and realised selves (ÆurafÅ’ va-mu˙aqqiqÈn) have explained and a summary of the thought of the ancients and the moderns in a

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sajjad rizvi manner that beginners may progress on the path of the goal [of understanding], and results of enquiry that intermediates may be released from the valleys of confusion, and critical analyses that the advanced may from the treasures of intellect become immersed in imagination.49

He then indicates that the work is not just dedicated to the Shah but actually commissioned by him: It is clear and should be clarified that this work would not have been were it not for the command … from his high presence the Emperor … who nurtures his subjects, … the dearest authority and power, light of the sight of Mu߆afÅ, the delight of the heart of Murta∂Å, scion of the household of the Prophet, the purity of the chain of walÅyat … Shah ÆAbbÅs II the Safavid, the MËsawÈ, the ÓusaynÈ, the Murta∂awÈ, the Mu߆afawÈ.50

The introduction that follows is divided into three chapters (ma†Ålib). The first justifies the order of the text by considering the preliminary question of the superiority of humans over the rest of creation and the need for them to pursue the path of enquiry that reconciles reason and intuition, theoretical knowledge (metaphysics, theology and so forth) and practical knowledge (especially ethics). Chapter three, on the other hand, deals with the debate about the permissibility of philosophy and rational theology from the early period. However, the key discussion is presented in chapter two, on the exoteric and esoteric aspects of the spiritual path to God which every human ought to traverse. FayyÅ∂’s language is explicitly Sufi, referring to the †arÈqa as the Path and sulËk as the manner of enquiry and progression along the path. It becomes clear therefore, from his preliminaries, that he is positing three levels or orders of enquiry on the path to Truth: a ratiocinative philosophy, a rational theology, and an arational intuitive Sufi path, each of which can, in themselves, be considered to be a form of theology, of arriving at knowledge of God. The word ßËfiyya is used approvingly. At the beginning of chapter two, he defends the claim of the unity of being posited by true, realised Sufis (mu˙aqqiqÈn-i ßËfiyya).51 Consistent with the classical tradition, he asserts that the path to God is arduous and difficult and is divided into two modes, exoteric and esoteric. In this passage, he delineates the relationship between rational enquiry (philosophy and theology) and arational pursuit (Sufi path) and clarifies his views on their relative rank: It should be known that humans have two paths to God: one of them is exoteric (ΩÅhir) and the other esoteric (bņin). The esoteric path is the one through which one arrives at God and the exoteric one is the one through which one comes to know God, and there are many ways to know God. The exoteric path is not so difficult (ßuÆËbat nÈst) but the esoteric one is particularly arduous, as indicated previously. The exoteric path is the one of inference (istidlÅl) and inference is limited for each knower to inferring causes from their effects. The path of inference is a preliminary to the path of wayfaring (sulËk). If someone does not know what the destination is, the pursuit

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a sufi theology fit for a shi Æ i king of the path that arrives there cannot be made. The prophets were not sent to guide along the exoteric path of inference, although finding this path is dependent on the appearance of prophets … but rather they were sent to awaken people … from their dream state of negligence [of God] …52 You should know that travelling the exoteric path and the esoteric path are opposites. The traveller along the exoteric path infers the existence of things stage by stage until he finally arrives at the cause that has no cause … But the traveller along the esoteric path negates each thing stage by stage until he arrives at that which cannot be annihilated … He negates everything in which he finds deficiency and dependence until he arrives at that perfection in which there is no deficiency … Until he is constantly in the state of pleasure and plunged in contemplation … This is what the divine philosophers call true felicity (saÆÅdat-i ˙aqÈqÈ) and the true realised Sufis call arriving and annihilation (wußËl va-fanÅ’) and it is the cooling of the eyes of the Prophets and the saints (anbiyÅ’ va-awliyÅ’). The true purpose of sending prophets was thus to call people to this pleasure … The intellect cannot arrive at this stage.53

The Sufi path is the esoteric path and capable of progressing beyond the limits of the path of reason.54 The validity of this path and the difference of opinion concerning it are not posed at this point; it is only the soundness of the rational path that is discussed in chapter three. Throughout the text, FayyÅ∂ consistently discusses theological and philosophical arguments and at their culmination brings in Sufi views to demonstrate their superiority. Rational arguments may be disputed because reason is a limited tool which has verifiable principles, modes of argumentation and standards of assessment. Sufi experience cannot be verified in the same way and is not open to the same mode of falsification and disputation. The theological discussions (in the ShÈÆÈ MuÆtazilÈ tradition) may be read on their own terms, but more specifically, within the strategy of the text, ought to be read alongside the Sufi position that he articulates. Consider the following case. Chapter two (bÅb-i duvvum) of section three (maqÅla-yi sivvum) discusses the nature of prophecy. FayyÅ∂ appends the discussion with a brief affirmation of the views of three groups, theologians, philosophers and Sufis, about the nature of prophecy and it is clear which one he prefers. The Sufi position is discussed with reference to the paradigm of the four journeys, the central organising feature of the magnum opus of his teacher MullÅ ÍadrÅ: The culmination of the existence of humanity is wayfaring and travelling to God and this journey has four stages: The first is from creation to God, negating all other than him, even negating the self from the self … The second is journey in God, contemplating the essence of unicity and the determinations of the attributes (taÆayyunÅt-i ßifÅt) … The third is journey with God, contemplating the absolute essence and its creative determinations until all contingency is effaced … The fourth is the journey from God to creation, the return to the world of contingent

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sajjad rizvi existence after realising reality that makes one necessary, bearing divine commands and prohibitions, laws and normative rules to guide the thirsty to the wine of contingency, to the source of eternal life … to uniting in true unity. This is the true goal, the real purpose of sending prophets and messengers, and there is no other.55

It is thus clear that for him the purpose of prophecy is to attract people to the Sufi path. The striking influence of the thought of MullÅ ÍadrÅ on this scheme is clear, all the more so given FayyÅ∂’s critical appropriation of Sadrian philosophy in his theological works.56 The lexicon of the school of Ibn ÆArabÈ is also quite apparent in this presentation. The final point to make about the section on prophecy concerns the discussion of the miracles of saints (karÅmÅt-i awliyÅ’).57 It is perhaps surprising not to find this discussion in the chapter on the imamate that follows. The saint (walÈ AllÅh) is one whose pleasure and will are negated in return for the pleasure and will of God. The true saints are the Prophets and the Imams, but for FayyÅ∂ it is possible for ordinary believers to aspire to their rank by imitating their path and thus not ‘unusual’ for them to also perform extraordinary acts. But the claims need to be assessed in the light of the performance of miracles and measured by the yardstick of fidelity to the Prophets and Imams. This discussion, whilst allowing for the possibility of Sufi miracles, limits them to a ShÈÆÈ context; unlike the school of Ibn ÆArabÈ, the saint does not act through his spiritual energy (himmat) but through his fidelity in emulating those who are saints without any doubt, namely the Prophets and Imams. The conclusion brings the text through a full circle with two chapters on the esoteric path. FayyÅ∂ completes his case by affirming the need for a higher philosophy embedded within a spiritual practice akin to the notion of philosophy as a spiritual practice and way of life that was so dear to his teacher MullÅ ÍadrÅ, and a strong case for the Sufi path as the ultimate referent for the esoteric path, whether one uses the word Sufi or not. This last emphasis is important. FayyÅ∂ clearly recognised the controversial nature of the very word Sufi; but for him what was important was the reality that it indicated and not the word itself. The esoteric path is more important than what one wishes to call it. The final chapter thus begins with an unequivocal statement that the true scholars of the SharÈÆat, in the double sense of the way and the law, are the Sufis. The focus of the chapter is distinctly ShÈÆÈ: the true aim of human life is to achieve justice in this world, a common MuÆtazilÈ theme. But FayyÅ∂’s understanding of justice is rooted in ethics and is initiated by the ethics of the Avicennian tradition and the Prophetic example of perfecting one’s virtues.58 The true culmination of justice and ethics lies in Sufi ethics and the spiritual path: The realised ones of this group possess lofty spiritual energies derived from energy from the essence of the One … This group have stages along the path to God, the first of which is awakening, then turning towards Him by forsaking disobedience and

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a sufi theology fit for a shi Æ i king ending with forsaking all save Him and repenting from their true sin, which is their figurative existence.59

The explicit relationship of this ethics with Sufism is clarified by referring to the (in)famous section on the stages of the gnostics at the end of Ibn SÈnÅ’s al-IshÅrÅt wa-l-tanbÈhÅt. FayyÅ∂ does not claim that Ibn SÈnÅ was a Sufi. But he does think that as an accomplished philosopher he was capable of explaining key Sufi doctrines such as the unity of being.60 The further implication is that Ibn SÈnÅ understood that the intuitive and esoteric path of the mystic was superior to that of the philosopher. He concludes: From all that we have mentioned it is clear that the stage of gnosis is higher than that of philosophy and the goal of the gnostics is more precious than that of the philosophers. The goal of the philosophers is to free the rational soul from corporeality and become conjoint to the higher host and the world of incorporeals. The goal of the gnostics is to free their reason from all other than God and obtain the stage of annihilation and conjunction with the world of everlastingness. The goal of both the philosophers and gnostics is higher than that of the ascetics and worshippers (zuhhÅd va-ÆubbÅd) since their goal is not even to free themselves from corporeality but from worldly, corporeal and ephemeral pleasures while holding out for the corporeal and everlasting pleasures of the afterlife.61

What we can conclude about the Sufi theology of FayyÅ∂ LÅhÈjÈ is his unhesitating championing of Sufi views, including controversial doctrines, such as the unity of being, associated with controversial figures such as Ibn ÆArabÈ. The practices of the Sufi orders are not defended; nor in this period would one expect to find that. But his Sufi theology is decidedly ShÈÆÈ as well and designed to appeal in a most effective way to a ShÈÆÈ monarch enamoured of the way of the Sufis. The options for Sufism within this period of around 200 years shifted and flowed. By the end of the Safavid period almost any profession of Sufism or even sympathy to some aspects of Sufism was a dangerous position. But before the final period of the rigidity of the Safavid state, there was a brief moment under Shah ÆAbbÅs when non-†arÈqa Sufism was quite in vogue. FayyÅ∂ LÅhÈjÈ was riding the crest of this final wave. Ironically, although the word Sufism was successfully killed off in Safavid Iran, doctrines espoused by Sufis and some of the institutional features of Sufism survived, to the extent that a text that is insistent upon the identity of Sufism and ShÈÆism at the level of spirituality and theology has been championed and published by precisely those sort of people who think Sufism is pure heresy.

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sajjad rizvi

notes 1. One of the first to recognise this was A˙mad KasravÈ, Shaykh ÍafÈ wa-tabÅrish (Tehran: Nashr va-Bakhsh-i KitÅb, 1976); cf. Jean Aubin, ‘Etudes Safavides I. Shah Ismail et les notables de l’Iraq Persan’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 2 (1959), 43–45; idem, ‘L’avènement des Safavides reconsidéré (Études Safavides III)’, Moyen Orient et Océan Indien 5 (1988), 1–130. 2. Cf. Sholeh Quinn, Historical Writing during the Reign of Shah ÆAbbÅs (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2000), 83–86. 3. Cf. Hamid Algar, ‘Naqshbandis and Safavids’, in M. Mazzaoui (ed.), Safavid Iran and her Neighbors (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2003); ManßËr Íifatgul, SÅkhtÅr-i nihÅd va-andÈsha-yi dÈnÈ dar rÅn-i Æaßr-i ÍafavÈ (Tehran: Mu’assasa-yi RasÅ, 2002), 72–79. 4. Aubin, ‘Etudes Safavides I’, 58. 5. Said Amir Arjomand, The Shadow of God, and the Hidden Imam (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 115–18. 6. Kathryn Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs: Cultural Landscapes of Early Modern Iran (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 57–117, 349–57. 7. Arjomand, The Shadow of God, 111; Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 356–68. 8. Iskandar Beg MunshÈ, TÅrÈkh-i ÆÅlam-ÅrÅ’-yi ÆAbbÅsÈ, trans. R. Savory as History of Shah ÆAbbas the Great, 2 vols (Boulder: Westview Press, 1978), II, 1007. 9. On cannibalism, see Giorgio Rota, ‘A remnant of shamanistic beliefs in Safavid Iran: cannibalism’, in the Proceedings of the 7th European Conference on Central Asian Studies (Vienna, 25–30 September 2000). 10. MullÅ ÍadrÅ, Sih aßl, ed. S. H. Nasr (Tehran: Tehran University Press, 1961), 9–10. 11. RasËl JaÆfarÈyÅn, DÈn va-siyÅsat dar dawra-yi ÍafavÈ (Qum: IntishÅrÅt-i AnßÅrÈyÅn, 1991), 228–29. 12. Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 121–60. 13. MihdÈ Tadayyun, ‘ÓadÈqat al-ShÈÆa yÅ KÅshif al-Óaqq?’ MaÆÅrif 2.3 (1985), 453–69. I follow the date given by Andrew J. Newman, ‘Sufism and anti-Sufism in Safavid Iran: the authorship of ÓadÈqat al-ShÈÆa revisited’, Iran: Journal of the British Institute of Persian Studies 37 (1999), 95; Tadayyun’s dating of the text to after 1070/1659 seems a bit late. I have not had access to the new edition of the text: ÓadÈqat al-ShÈÆa, ed. Í. ÓasanzÅda, 2 vols (Qum: IntishÅrÅt-i AnßÅrÈyÅn, 1998). The older edition was published in Tehran in one volume in 1960. 14. Cf. M. Abul Quasem, ‘Al-GhazÅlÈ’s evaluation of AbË YazÈd al-Bis†ÅmÈ and his disapproval of the mystical concepts of union and fusion’, Asian Philosophy 3 (1993), 143–64. 15. Alexander Knysh, Ibn ÆArabÈ in the Later Islamic Tradition (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999), 88–96. 16. Ps-ArdabÈlÈ, ÓadÈqat al-ShÈÆa (Tehran: IntishÅrÅt-i MaÆÅrif-i IslÅmÈ, 1960), 556–604; cf. Newman, ‘Sufism and anti-Sufism’, 97–98. 17. JaÆfarÈyÅn, DÈn va-siyÅsat, 249; MÈr Law˙È, Salwat al-ShÈÆa wa-quwwat al-sharÈÆa, ed. A. ÆåbidÈ, in MÈrÅth-i IslÅmÈ-yi rÅn: daftar II, ed. RasËl JaÆfarÈyÅn (Qum: Maktaba-yi MarÆashÈ, 1995), 351.

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a sufi theology fit for a shi Æ i king 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

36.

37.

38. 39.

Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 410–11. MÈr Law˙È, Salwat al-ShÈÆa, 343. MÈr Law˙È, Salwat al-ShÈÆa, 353. MÈr Law˙È, Salwat al-ShÈÆa, 350. MÈr Law˙È, Salwat al-ShÈÆa, 357–58. On the attack on music and dancing as a feature of anti-Sufism in the Safavid period, see Andrew Newman, ‘Clerical perceptions of Sufi practices in late seventeenth century Persia: Arguments over the permissibility of singing’, in L. Lewisohn (ed.), The Heritage of Sufism Volume III (Oxford: Oneworld, 1999), 135–64. MÈr Law˙È, Salwat al-ShÈÆa, 358. Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 408. Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 410–11. Mu˙ammad Mudarris TabrÈzÈ, Ray˙Ånat al-adab, 6 vols (TabrÈz: KitÅbfurËshÈ-yi SaÆdÈ, 1954), IV, 361–63; ÆAbbÅs QummÈ, al-FawÅ’id al-Ra∂awiyya fÈ a˙wÅl ÆulamÅ’ madhhab al-JaÆfariyya (Qum, 1980), 229; Ri∂Å-qulÈ KhÅn HidÅyat, RiyÅ∂ al-ÆÅrifÈn (Tehran, 1937), 382; Mu˙sin al-AmÈn, AÆyÅn al-ShÈÆa, 10 vols (Beirut: DÅr al-TaÆÅruf, 1986), VII, 470–1; Mu˙ammad BÅqir KhwÅnsÅrÈ, Raw∂Åt al-jannÅt, 9 vols (Beirut: al-DÅr al-IslÅmiyya, 1991), IV, 196; Lu†f-ÆAlÈ BaygdilÈ åzar, åtashkada-yi Åzar, ed. J. ShahÈdÈ (Tehran: Mu’assasa-yi Nashr-i KitÅb, 1958), II, 846, 850; ÆAbd AllÅh AfandÈ, RiyÅ∂ al-ÆulamÅ’ wa-˙iyÅ∂ al-fu∂alÅ’, ed. S. A. ÓusaynÈ, 6 vols (Qum: Maktabat al-MarÆashÈ, 1981), III, 114–15; Mu˙ammad al-Óurr al-ÆåmilÈ, Amal al-Åmil, ed. S. A. ÓusaynÈ, 2 vols (Najaf: Ma†baÆat al-Adab, 1966), II, 148. . J. MisgarnizhÅd, ‘Introduction’, to FayyÅ∂, DÈvÅn-i FayyÅ z LÅhÈjÈ, ed. JalÈl MisgarnizhÅd (Tehran: IntishÅrÅt-i DÅnishgÅh-i ÆAllÅma ÊabņabÅ’È, 1994), 22–23. DÈwÅn, 460–2 (qaßÈda 31). DÈwÅn, 423–4 (qaßÈda 19), 458–69 (29), 462–4 (32), 465–68 (33). DÈwÅn, 446–9 (qaßÈda 26, 27), 455–58 (29). DÈwÅn, 468–9 (qaßÈda 34). DÈwÅn, 490–1 (qi†Æa 8), based on abjad calculation of the last two verses. DÈwÅn, 489–90 (qi†Æa 6). JaÆfarÈyÅn, DÈn va-siyÅsat, 449–52. Zayn al-ÆÅbidÈn QurbÅnÈ LÅhÈjÈ, ‘Introduction’, to FayyÅ∂ LÅhÈjÈ, Gawhar-i murÅd, ed. Zayn al-ÆÅbÈdÈn QurbÅnÈ LÅhÈjÈ (Tehran: VizÅrat-i Farhang va-IrshÅd-i IslÅmÈ, 1993), 4–5. AfandÈ, RiyÅ∂ al-ÆulamÅ’, III, 207; TabrÈzÈ, Ray˙Ånat al-adab, IV, 363; Óasan ibn ÆAbd al-RazzÅq LÅhÈjÈ, RasÅ’il-i fÅrsÈ, ed. ÆAlÈ ÍadrÅ’È KhË’È (Tehran: IntishÅrÅt-i Qalam, 1996); LÅhÈjÈ, ÛawÅhir al-Óikma, in MuntakhabÅtÈ az ÅthÅr-i ˙ukamÅ’-yi ilÅhÈ-yi ÈrÅn, ed. H. Corbin and S. J. åshtiyÅnÈ, rpt. (Qum: Markaz-i intishÅrÅt-i daftar-i tablÈghÅt-i IslÅmÈ, 1999), III, 291–444. This amounts to 145 out of 257 pages on maqßad I in the lithograph. The complete text comprises 555 pages. There is a new edition established by Akbar Asad ÆAlÈ-zÅda with the introduction and annotation by the eminent contemporary ShÈÆÈ theologian Shaykh JaÆfar Sub˙ÅnÈ and printed by his press Mu’assasat al-ImÅm al-ÍÅdiq. Thus far only one volume has appeared (2004). AfandÈ, RiyÅ∂ al-ÆulamÅ’, III, 115. The modern edition is edited by ÍÅdiq LÅrijÅnÈ åmulÈ (Tehran: IntishÅrÅt-i ZahrÅ’, 1983).

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sajjad rizvi 40. AfandÈ, RiyÅ∂ al-ÆulamÅ’, III, 114. 41. Cf. Wilferd Madelung, ‘ÆAbd al-RazzÅq LÅhÈjÈ’, EIr. 42. Leonard Lewisohn, ‘Sufism and the school of Isfahan: Taßawwuf and ÆIrfÅn in late Safavid Iran’, in The Heritage of Persian Sufism; Volume III, ed. L. Lewisohn (Oxford: Oneworld, 1999), 103–4. 43. MullÅ ÍadrÅ, Al-˙ikma al-mutaÆÅliya fÈ-l-AsfÅr al-Æaqliyya al-arbaÆa, ed. R. Lu†fÈ et al, 9 vols (Beirut: DÅr I˙yÅ’ al-TurÅth al-ÆArabÈ, 1981), IX, 108. 44. Mu˙ammad ÊÅhir Wa˙Èd QazwÈnÈ, ÆAbbÅsnÅma, ed. I. DihqÅn (Arak: KitÅbfurËshÈ-yi DÅvËdÈ, 1951), 255. 45. Gawhar-i murÅd, 688. 46. It is worth noting that Lewisohn covers much of the same ground in his ‘Sufism and the school of Isfahan’, 103–12 but it should be clear that my interpretation of the wider cultural context and the specific aims and sense of FayyÅ∂’s work is distinct. 47. Gawhar-i murÅd, 19. 48. Gawhar-i murÅd, 20. 49. Gawhar-i murÅd, 22. 50. Gawhar-i murÅd, 22–3. 51. Gawhar-i murÅd, 33. He does so consistently in his other works; see ShawÅriq al-ilhÅm fÈ shar˙ TajrÈd al-kalÅm (Tehran: Shaykh Ri∂Å TÅjir KitÅbfurËshÈ, 1311 ah), offset rpt. (Isfahan: IntishÅrÅt-i MahdavÈ, 1980), 41–42, 118–19. 52. Gawhar-i murÅd, 34. 53. Gawhar-i murÅd, 35–6. 54. Gawhar-i murÅd, 38. 55. Gawhar-i murÅd, 362–3. 56. See ShawÅriq al-ilhÅm, 25–51. 57. Gawhar-i murÅd, 456–7. 58. Gawhar-i murÅd, 686–7. 59. Gawhar-i murÅd, 688. 60. Gawhar-i murÅd, 690–1. 61. Gawhar-i murÅd, 691.

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1 6

The Mystic and the Sceptic in Fakhr al-DÈn al-RÅzÈ Ayman Shihadeh

introduction By the 6th/12th century, it was possible to discern a number of well-established and well-developed religious and intellectual traditions offering distinct ‘approaches’, or ‘methods’ (†arÈqa) to metaphysical knowledge and human salvation. Although these traditions, of course, overlapped greatly in their constituencies and were at that stage undergoing a process of increasing inter-tradition eclecticism, they typically had devoted ‘partisans and adherents’ (ahl), who often would be more or less antipathetic to other traditions. Just as schools within the same tradition vied with one another, traditions too were often in competition. Hence, while MuÆtazilÈs and AshÆarÈs were at loggerheads, they nonetheless shared the designation ‘ahl al-kalÅm’ and represented †arÈqat al-kalÅm. Members of both schools defended not only their school doctrines, but likewise their practice of kalÅm. Among the accusations frequently levelled at the mutakallimËn by an array of their critics – Sufis, traditional theologians and philosophers alike – is that they have a propensity to doubt (shakk) and perplexity (˙ayra).1 The mutakallim claims to offer a path to certitude (yaqÈn), the charge goes, but engages merely in controversy and raising doubts against others. When he himself becomes prey to doubt, he becomes the living proof for the failure of his method. This impression will have been consolidated by al-GhazÅlÈ’s (d. 505/1111) well-known assessment, in al-Munqidh mina l-∂alÅl and elsewhere, of the four main current approaches to metaphysical knowledge – kalÅm, philosophy, IsmÅÆÈlÈ instruction and Sufism – and his conclusion that genuine certainty is attainable through Sufism, whereas kalÅm may only serve a subsidiary role. Although al-GhazÅlÈ does not reach doubt as a result of his practice of kalÅm, it is nevertheless momentous that when he searches for certainty in kalÅm he fails to find it there. Our focus in the present study will be Fakhr al-DÈn al-RÅzÈ (544/1149– 606/1210), a major mutakallim and philosopher. The significance of his case stems from his being the most influential figure in later kalÅm and one of the most influential in later philosophy, and at the same time his having a reputation for

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ayman shihadeh being disposed to doubt, and indeed being rumoured to have developed serious doubts with regard to the noetic value of kalÅm and philosophy. In several cases, he is portrayed as epitomising the tension between Sufism and the discursive methods of kalÅm and philosophy, the main touchstone being the criterion of certainty. Some biographical or pseudo-biographical accounts, to be considered below, juxtapose this doubt with his links to Sufism, implying a direct connection between the two. We are more interested here in this alleged connection than in the accounts themselves. Considering first al-RÅzÈ’s doubt, I have shown elsewhere, through an examination of his works, that he does express pronounced scepticism late in his life.2 This assessment is further corroborated by an external source, namely the well-known letter sent to him by his celebrated contemporary Ibn al-ÆArabÈ (560/1165–638/1240), in which he invites him to Sufism and warns him against reliance on thinking (fikr). Ibn al-ÆArabÈ records the following anecdote: It was reported to me by someone whom I trust, and who means you well, that he saw you weeping one day, and that he and others present asked you about [the cause of] your weeping. You said: ‘[It is] a view I took on a certain problem for thirty years. Just now, it has become clear to me by an evidence that has just occurred to me that the truth is contrary to my view. So I wept. And I said [to myself]: It may be that what has just occurred to me is equivalent to my previous view [in its liability to error]!’ This is what you said. It is inconceivable for one who knows the status of the mind and of thinking to become tranquil and restful, not least with regard to knowing God. It is inconceivable that His essence be known by the method of reflection (naΩar). So, why, my brother, do you remain in this quandary? Why do you not enter the path of spiritual discipline and reclusion …?3

The terminus post quem for this epistle should be 598/1201–2, when Ibn al-ÆArabÈ travels to the east, where he is likely to have met al-RÅzÈ’s students and to have become acquainted with his works and repute.4 Besides confirming that al-RÅzÈ develops doubts concerning kalÅm later in his career, this account suggests that already during his life he was acquiring a reputation for being a doubter.5 As it is seized upon by opponents, this reputation turns into notoriety. In Ibn Taymiyya’s (d. 728/1328) diatribe against kalÅm generally and al-RÅzÈ specifically, one repeatedly encounters the contention that kalÅm fails to arrive at theological certainty, but instead leads to endless doubts and dubiosities (shubha), which have driven many mutakallimËn late in their careers to perplexity, scepticism and the realisation that their lives have gone to waste.6 He remarks: AbË ÆAbdullÅh al-RÅzÈ is one of the most radical people in this respect, namely perplexity, doubt and confusion (al-˙ayra wa-l-shakk wa-l-i∂†irÅb). But, unlike others, he goes too far in this, to the extent that he has a great appetite for raising doubt, to the exclusion of positive enquiry (lahu nahmatun fÈ l-tashkÈk dËna l-ta˙qÈq).7

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the mystic and the sceptic in fakhr al-din al-razi As explained copiously throughout Ibn Taymiyya’s works, this accusation rests, firstly, on various particular theological problems in which al-RÅzÈ arrives at a suspension of judgement (tawaqquf), and secondly, on his express admissions of doubt in his later works, with which his widely-read traditionalist opponent was au fait. We shall return to Ibn Taymiyya in the following section. It is worthwhile here also to mention the clichéd references by some Safavid philosophers, most notably MÈr DÅmÅd (d. 1041/1631) and MullÅ ÍadrÅ (d. 1050/1640), to al-RÅzÈ as imÅm al-mushakkikÈn, ÆallÅmat al-mushakkikÈn, al-imÅm al-mushakkik or al-mutashakkik, etc. – polemical appellations that were never used outside this circle, until they were taken up by some contemporary scholars. When these references are examined closely, it will appear that ‘mushakkik’ here denotes ‘one who raises doubts’ against the views of others (or, by implication, against the truth, if those views are taken to represent it), rather than ‘one who has doubts’ about his own views (although the latter sense may be implied secondarily, sometimes by implication). In most cases, this pejorative designation refers simply to the fact that al-RÅzÈ approaches Ibn SÈnÅ critically with unremitting methodical doubt. DÅmÅd, for instance, finds fault with his tendency to raise doubts (shukËk) and objections (iÆtirÅ∂), and refers to one argument ad hominem (ilzÅm), which he puts forth as ‘tashkÈk ilzÅmÈ’.8 This critical attitude does not represent scepticism, that is the express epistemological view that knowledge in general, or within a specific area, is unattainable.9 It will scarcely be meritorious here to account extensively for later references to al-RÅzÈ’s doubt. What we aim to achieve in what follows is to show, through an examination of key discussions in his own works, that towards the end of his life al-RÅzÈ ‘converts’ to Sufism, and that this crucial change should be linked to his arrival at scepticism. First, however, we will consider an oft-cited group of biographical accounts involving a meeting with a famous contemporary Sufi, often perceived as epitomising al-RÅzÈ’s relation to Sufism.

encounter with najm al-din al-kubra Our sources record contacts that al-RÅzÈ had with three of the most prominent Sufis of his time: Ibn al-ÆArabÈ, ShihÅb al-DÈn ÆUmar al-SuhrawardÈ (d. 632/1234), who also wrote him a letter advising him to turn to Sufism, and the highly influential Najm al-DÈn al-KubrÅ (540/1145–618/1221).10 By contrast to the first two, the reported contact with al-KubrÅ takes the form of a personal encounter, one which came to be cited as symbolic of an essential tension between spiritual discipline and kalÅm. The chronological and geographical overlap between their lives certainly allows for such an encounter, of which several accounts are preserved, all variously showing al-RÅzÈ, qua theologian, in an unfavourable light. In what follows, I will examine two accounts, the others being clearly of late origin.11 — 103 —

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ayman shihadeh One account, which has been examined by Nasrollah Pourjavady, is preserved in several sources, the earliest apparently being Mußannifak (803/1400– 875/1470), a descendant of al-RÅzÈ and himself a Sufi and jurist.12 This account has al-RÅzÈ arriving in HerÅt, whereupon he is visited and welcomed by local scholars and notables. He then learns that one pious man, who we are told is al-KubrÅ, has failed to visit him, and expresses astonishment at such impertinence towards ‘the imÅm of Muslims’. Reportedly, the two men later meet in a gathering in the city and converse. [Al-KubrÅ] says: ‘You are very proud of your knowledge. But the pinnacle of knowledge is to know God, exalted. So how do you know Him, exalted?’ [Al-RÅzÈ] says: ‘By a hundred demonstrations!’ [Al-KubrÅ] says: ‘A demonstration is to eliminate doubt. However, God has brought about a light in my heart, with which no doubt will enter, not to mention the need for demonstration.’13

The encounter supposedly affected al-RÅzÈ profoundly and led to his immediate initiation into the Sufi path at the hands of Najm al-DÈn: he made spiritual repentance (tawba) and entered into reclusion (khalwa) under his instruction. This reportedly transformed him and inspired him to write his Great Commentary on the Qur’Ån. Pourjavady notes that Mußannifak does not name his source and that too much minute detail is provided. Nonetheless, he argues that the bulk of the account appears authentic, as it is strengthened by the other accounts. On the basis of these accounts, including one by ÆAbd al-WahhÅb al-ShaÆrÅnÈ (d. 973/1565), he concludes that, towards the end of his life, al-RÅzÈ meets al-KubrÅ, becomes influenced by him, repents, enters reclusion, but is unable to bear it, and fails to progress in the spiritual path.14 These are surprising claims about al-RÅzÈ. Does he really become al-KubrÅ’s disciple? The scenario is in fact far-fetched and lacks the support of reliable evidence, whether in al-RÅzÈ’s own works or elsewhere. The sources cited are late and provide anonymous reports: Mußannifak’s work was written in 864/1460, two and a half centuries after al-RÅzÈ’s death,15 whereas al-ShaÆrÅnÈ, writing in sixteenth-century Egypt, is far too late to merit consideration. The second account of the encounter (not referred to by Pourjavady) appears in several sources, the earliest and most reliable being Ibn Taymiyya (661/1263– 728/1328), who writes about a century later and names his source.16 He does this in both BayÅn talbÈs al-Jahmiyya, a response to one of al-RÅzÈ’s theological works, and Dar’ taÆÅru∂ al-Æaql wa-l-naql, a critique of kalÅm, especially through the writings of al-RÅzÈ and his followers. Applauding al-KubrÅ as ‘one of the greatest shaykhs of his time in his region, namely JurjÅn and KhwÅrazm,’ he writes: I read a story in the handwriting of the qÅ∂È AbË l-BayÅn A˙mad ibn Mu˙ammad ibn Khalaf al-MaqdisÈ, in which he says that the shaykh A˙mad al-KhÈwaqÈ, known

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the mystic and the sceptic in fakhr al-din al-razi as al-KubrÅ, told him that he was visited by two eminent specialists in kalÅm: AbË ÆAbdullÅh al-RÅzÈ and a shaykh of the MuÆtazila who are in that region, namely KhurÅsÅn and KhwÅrazm. ‘They said to me: “Shaykh, we heard that you possess certain knowledge (Æilm al-yaqÈn).” ‘I said: “Indeed!” ‘They said: “How do you possess certain knowledge, when we have been debating for a very long time – whenever he advances a proof … I will refute it, and whenever I advance a proof he will refute it, and we will leave one another, neither of us having been able to sustain and defend a proof against the other?” ‘I said: “I do not know what you are talking about! I just possess certain knowledge.” ‘They said: “Describe this certain knowledge to us!” ‘I said: “Intuitions that arrive within the soul, which the soul will be unable to reject” (wÅridÅtun taridu ÆalÅ l-nufËs, taÆjazu al-nufËsu Æan raddihÅ).”17 … [They began to repeat what he said: “Intuitions that arrive within the soul, which the soul will be unable to reject!” They were bemused by this reply.] ‘They said to me: “What is the way (†arÈq) to attaining these intuitions?” ’ So he indicated one method to them, namely to shun worldly attachments and to turn towards prescribed devotional acts and asceticism. He then said: ‘Al-RÅzÈ said: “I cannot do this. I have too many attachments!” ‘As for the MuÆtazilÈ, he said: ‘I need these intuitions; for my heart is burning with doubts!”’ The shaykh then instructed him in the practice of recollection (dhikr) and reclusion. [So God blessed him with these intuitions.]18

Ibn Taymiyya writes that he found this story recorded in the handwriting of Najm al-DÈn AbË l-ÆAbbÅs A˙mad ibn Mu˙ammad al-MaqdisÈ (578/1182–638/1241), who reportedly narrates it directly from al-KubrÅ. Biographers indeed record that al-MaqdisÈ, a Damascene ÓanbalÈ turned ShÅfiÆÈ, travelled to BukhÅrÅ and settled there for a while, where he gained considerable respect and reputation, and became the disciple of al-KubrÅ in Sufism. He then returned to Damascus, where he became a judge, taught at four madrasas, wrote and died.19 His autograph writings would have been available in Damascus, perhaps at the madrasas where he taught, and thus accessible to Ibn Taymiyya. There can be little doubt, therefore, that a meeting between al-RÅzÈ and al-KubrÅ did take place. As there are crucial differences between the two accounts, they clearly do not describe the same incident. Most obviously, whereas the former account has the two meeting in a gathering in HerÅt, al-RÅzÈ here is the one who visits al-KubrÅ, most probably in KhwÅrazm, where the latter settled and gained prominence as a great Sufi master, following his study in Egypt. Moreover, al-RÅzÈ is portrayed here as being rather naïve and immature. He and a fellow mutakallim, indeed a MuÆtazilÈ opponent at that, go like two junior students to see this renowned shaykh, and ask him a question about something they had heard about him. Whether they were inquisitive, cynical, or simply looking for a debate, at any — 105 —

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ayman shihadeh rate it will be hard to imagine al-RÅzÈ doing this at an advanced stage in his career, after he had gained immense fame and respect, when kings, princes and scholars would humbly and reverently visit him (as in the first account), rather than him visiting them. Moreover, his later works show a high level of familiarity with Sufism, precluding his having such a basic conversation when he wrote them. It appears most likely, therefore, that the meeting reported by al-MaqdisÈ occurs at a relatively early stage in al-RÅzÈ’s life, during his early travels to KhwÅrazm and other places in the east, referred to by both himself and biographers.20 As Fritz Meier concludes, the meeting appears to have taken place around 580/1184, with a terminus ante quem of 584/1188.21 To recapitulate, al-RÅzÈ did meet al-KubrÅ, early in al-RÅzÈ’s life. We have al-KubrÅ’s account of the meeting, as narrated by Ibn Taymiyya, whereas Mußannifak’s account is to be rejected. If, later in his life, al-RÅzÈ turns towards Sufism, there is no credible evidence to suggest that al-KubrÅ is responsible. In fact, al-RÅzÈ declines his offer of spiritual guidance. Nor is there any credible biographical evidence shedding light on whether and how he practised Sufism; for instance, whether or not he adhered to a Sufi master or entered reclusion, and the extent of his advancement in the Sufi path. All that we have is his own writings expressing his views on the subject, to which we should now turn.

scepticism This section will focus on how the scepticism reached by al-RÅzÈ relates to, and to an extent arises from, key features in the nature and structure of his thought. It will take seriously the contention that there may be a link between the method of kalÅm, precisely RÅzian kalÅm, and the supposed inevitability of scepticism. The justifications that he himself offers for this scepticism have been examined elsewhere; they will be referred to very briefly here, and only to serve the present, second-order approach to the subject. In contrast to al-KubrÅ, al-RÅzÈ defines ‘certainty’ as knowledge acquired through deliberation (ta’ammul) following a prior state of doubt (shakk, shubha) with respect to that item of knowledge.22 This definition only applies to acquired (kasbÈ) knowledge to the exclusion of immediate (∂arËrÈ) knowledge, which is indubitable. Doubt, hence, is the theoretical starting point for acquired knowledge and should be eliminated through the appropriate exercise of deliberation. This notion represents a major trend in early kalÅm and contrasts with, say, the view that the starting point should be, or may be, belief, which may originate in primordial human nature (fi†ra) or in the community’s tradition.23 So what does al-RÅzÈ consider to be the appropriate method of deliberation through which one may acquire knowledge of God, this being the class of knowledge on which human happiness depends?24 The central problem is that one does not possess this knowledge innately and immediately, nor acquire it through

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the mystic and the sceptic in fakhr al-din al-razi sensorial perception, but should seek it through non-ordinary epistemic means. In earlier theology, two such means were proposed: rational reflection (naΩar) and scriptural revelation. Classical AshÆarÈs, the early al-RÅzÈ included, generally gave primacy to reflection in establishing the core theological doctrines necessary for proving the truth of revelation, and then established other theological doctrines in a range of ways depending on the relative strength of relevant rational and scriptural evidence. Hence, in the section on ‘the obligatoriness of reflection’ in al-RÅzÈ’s early NihÅyat al-ÆuqËl, he discusses the ways of acquiring knowledge and accepts three: sense perception, (religious) reports (khabar) and reflection, the last being the only way to knowing God. He also addresses various possible objections, including the following: that there is yet a fourth method, practised by Sufis and specialists in spiritual self-discipline (riyÅ∂a), namely purifying (taßfiya) the self of bodily attachments and dispositions. Could the possibility of this method not undermine the obligatoriness and exclusiveness of reflection? Al-RÅzÈ’s response is surprisingly feeble. ‘Doctrines’ (ÆaqÅ’id) gained this way, he reasons, are either immediate or not immediate. ‘If immediate, we do not need to discuss them further; for we accept that discursive knowledge can become immediate.’ If not immediate, he argues in a manner typical of early kalÅm, they must consist of either discursive knowledge, or mere conventional belief, which not only Muslims, but likewise Jews, Christians and even atheists may have, if they practise riyÅ∂a.25 It is exactly for its feebleness that this response is most telling. It shows that the ‘mystical’ mode has no place in al-RÅzÈ’s early kalÅm epistemology and its basic categories. Furthermore, it bespeaks both ignorance, at this stage in al-RÅzÈ’s life, of the nature of this mode, and a total lack of interest in its true nature as it is brushed aside cursorily among the numerous other objections addressed in defence of the method of rational reflection. He does not attempt to understand it on its own terms, but simply tackles it from a standard kalÅm angle. So, what does the method of rational reflection involve in practice? Firstly, of course, it involves providing positive rational proofs for the core doctrines. However, early AshÆarÈs often conceived of their practice of kalÅm as being primarily a defence of the Sunni creed against the excessively speculative MuÆtazila (scripturalist theologians usually appearing as secondary opponents). This orientation is typified in a hitherto neglected, but apparently authentic, account of the first meeting between the school founder AbË l-Óasan al-AshÆarÈ (d. 324/936) and Ibn KhafÈf al-ShÈrÅzÈ (d. 371/982), who became one of his prominent students.26 Having travelled to Basra to meet this famous shaykh, Ibn KhafÈf attends a debate between him and some MuÆtazilÈs. Reportedly, the latter proceed to advance their contentions and arguments before al-AshÆarÈ eventually steps in, offering a potent rebuttal to their fallacies. Leaving triumphantly, he is followed most admiringly by Ibn KhafÈf, who is nonetheless bothered by one

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ayman shihadeh aspect in this episode: This debate, he notes, did not follow the proper procedure (niΩÅm) of debate, according to which the person of the highest stature in the gathering (here, in his view, al-AshÆarÈ) should commence the discussion, and will be the only one to take questions from debaters afterwards. Al-AshÆarÈ’s response is instructive: Indeed! However, I do not begin by presenting evidence and by seeking to justify anything, since this would lead the opponent to put forth his fallacies by way of objection. I cannot allow myself to lead anyone into committing an act of disobedience. Instead, I allow him to set out his misguided views and to explicate his fallacies and contentions, then I offer a response. By that, I seek reward from God.27

This approach to the procedure of dialectic is representative not only of the way in which early AshÆarÈs carried out their ‘nose-to-nose’ debates with the MuÆtazila, but likewise of a major orientation in their theology itself. This same apologetic and refutative orientation finds expression in al-RÅzÈ’s early kalÅm writings. In NihÅyat al-ÆuqËl, he writes: ‘I will refute every view, except what is upheld by the followers of the sunna, and I will show with strong proofs and overwhelming evidence that that is what one ought to adhere to and obey.’28 At this early stage, his main concern is to provide evidence in support, and in defence, of Sunni doctrines and to refute opponents. Reason here serves the community’s tradition and consensus, the embodiment of orthodoxy. At the same time, however, al-RÅzÈ gives absolute primacy to rational reflection as the sole means to attaining certainty in theology, in contradistinction to scriptural evidence, which he considers generally inconclusive (ΩannÈ).29 This assessment of the relative epistemic values of reason and scripture, which appears to be a more general and clear-cut assessment than anything in classical AshÆarism, does not tally with the foregoing apologetic stance: if reason has absolute epistemic primacy in theology, it should not merely serve scriptural or traditional creeds dialectically, but should itself be the primary basis for theological knowledge. The latter position indeed tallies with the increasing influence on al-RÅzÈ of the philosophical tradition, and is taken to heart in later works. In al-MabÅ˙ith al-Mashriqiyya, he disapproves of both those whose sole preoccupation is to refute the chief philosophers (an activity in which he engaged earlier), and those who imitate them uncritically. By contrast, he advocates ‘our method of delving deeply (taÆammuq) into [intellectual] defiles and plunging into the oceans of subtleties’, which, though not oriented at refutation, may lead to departure from traditionally accepted philosophical opinions.30 Hence, from the middle period of his career onwards, al-RÅzÈ’s theological enquiry becomes aimed at attaining knowledge through unaided reason, rather than simply defending orthodoxy per se. It acquires a primarily noetic orientation. The chief measure of truth becomes the support a given doctrine receives from rational evidence, not whether it is enshrined in an orthodox creed to start with. — 108 —

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the mystic and the sceptic in fakhr al-din al-razi Nonetheless, al-RÅzÈ’s previous specialisation in the art of refutation survives, though in a different form, as methodical doubt serving this new orientation of his philosophical theology. Certainty will require not only positively demonstrating the truth of a given doctrine, but also addressing all that could possibly contradict it, namely objections and conflicting views.31 In contrast to the dominant trend in earlier kalÅm, the list of items to address will now include not only actual objections and views put forth by earlier or contemporary sides, but all logically possible views and objections. Al-RÅzÈ’s analysis of a given problem will normally start with a comprehensive division encompassing all possible views, informed by his wide learning in past and contemporary intellectual traditions, before thoroughly investigating all possible arguments and counter-arguments for each, until one view proves to withstand scrutiny.32 As such, methodical doubt (tashkÈk) is essential to critical investigation (ta˙qÈq). With such a style of enquiry, al-RÅzÈ seeks to eliminate not only what actually undermines knowledge, but all that may possibly do so – only then will certainty be achieved. Remarkably ambitious and optimistic, this project nonetheless betrays considerable anxiety with regard to the reliability of discursive knowledge. The spectre of doubt, which, as we saw, forms the theoretical starting point of discursive knowledge, inevitably looms in the backdrop. This ‘primary’ doubt indeed creeps back in as al-RÅzÈ’s enterprise is eventually betrayed by its immense ambition and optimism. He sets too high a standard for theological enquiry, which even he is then unable to meet sufficiently. Not only is the magnitude of the enterprise extremely gruelling, its complexity becomes more palpable when we bear in mind the innumerable connections, direct and indirect, obvious and subtle, among different problems within a theological system. These make al-RÅzÈ’s thorough analysis of different, seemingly separate problems effectively tests for the consistency of his theology in general, especially that he systematically posits objections to his own views, which explicitly underscore inconsistencies with his other views. As I show elsewhere, during the last half-decade or so of his life, al-RÅzÈ arrives at scepticism with respect to the efficacy of rational reflection in metaphysics, which in the context of classical Islamic theology is quite remarkable.33 Rather than advocating a standard suspension of judgement, al-RÅzÈ appears to be the first known Islamic theologian or philosopher to maintain both that certainty in many problems is not achievable and that in these cases one is justified in accepting probable belief. The close link that becomes evident here between this scepticism and his style of theological enquiry, just depicted, is implied in the two sceptical modes that he puts forth in his late Dhamm ladhdhÅt al-dunyÅ, namely, (1) interminable disagreement (that there are many disagreements in the history of thought continuing endlessly without resolution, in which each side will claim to have

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ayman shihadeh certain knowledge); and (2) the infinite regress of proofs (that any criterion for certainty requires another criterion to prove it, ad infinitum). The former mode he justifies partly by providing examples of disagreements on specific subjects: the nature of divine attributes, and of time and matter. On the latter mode, he likewise appeals to the experience of actual particular problems: If we reflect, contemplate and investigate, and if following this reflection a conviction arises, then our knowledge that this conviction constitutes knowledge cannot be immediate; for truth frequently turns out to be contrary to it. If it is [said to be] discursive, it will need another proof; and infinite regress will follow, which is inconceivable.34

Both modes thus presuppose extensive experience in theological and philosophical enquiry. They originate inductively from actual difficulties with numerous particular problems encountered during a long intellectual career, more so than from basic and abstract epistemological considerations.35 Al-RÅzÈ’s expressions of scepticism constantly invoke this experience, in references to either pedantic involvement in the opinions of others, or the tendency to ‘delve deeply into intellectual defiles and subtleties’ – both defining features of his style of enquiry. Hence, in his famous poetry in Dhamm al-ladhdhÅt, he admits to having gained nothing from a lifelong research other than collecting opinions (al-qÈl wa-l-qÅl), and that ‘entanglement is the acme of the mind’s pursuit’ (nihÅyatu aqdÅm al-ÆuqËl ÆiqÅl).36 He goes on to warn against ensnarement in the hair-splitting method – the method which he epitomised. In another late, though undated, work, he writes, clearly hinting at what, as we saw, he describes earlier as ‘our method’ of enquiry: Whoever abandons reflection and inference in seeking to know God, exalted, and relies on the method to which he has become accustomed, using his senses and imagination, will tumble into forms of misguidance. As for one who delves deeply (tawaghghala) into research, and wants to fathom the nature of [divine] Greatness and the essence of Majesty, he will become perplexed and confused (ta˙ayyara wa-taraddada); indeed, he will be blinded. For the light of divine majesty blinds the sight of human intellects. Therefore, these two extremes are reprehensible. The straight path is that man engages in moderate research (al-ba˙th al-muÆtadil) and abandons deep investigation (taÆmÈq). This is implied in the saying of the Prophet, peace be upon him: ‘Contemplate upon creation; contemplate not upon the Creator!’37

body-soul dualism and perfectionism We should now briefly consider another pertinent development in al-RÅzÈ’s thought, which profoundly affects his conception and practice of philosophical theology more broadly. This development occurs both in the ontological aspect of his theory of human nature and in his conception of the human good.38 In his earlier works, he adheres to a classical kalÅm theory of human nature (˙aqÈqat al-insÅn), which follows from classical kalÅm physics, whereby all created beings, including human beings, consist of atoms and accidents. The absolute — 110 —

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the mystic and the sceptic in fakhr al-din al-razi majority of the classical mutakallimËn worked within the same physicalist framework, but differed in detail.39 Connected to this broad notion of human nature is a particular understanding of the human good. Early Muslim theologians conceived of human happiness and misery in terms of eschatological reward and punishment, which God apportions according to an individual’s acts and beliefs, after He reconstitutes the disintegrated parts of his body. And while they differed widely in epistemology and on whether uncritical traditional imitation (taqlÈd) could be a valid basis for belief, they all understood ‘belief’ in terms of a creed (iÆtiqÅd, ÆaqÈda) consisting of a set of doctrines on the nature of God and His relationship to creation, especially humans, which the believer ought to accept. Later, al-RÅzÈ abandons and refutes classical kalÅm physicalism, and, admittedly under philosophical and Sufi influence, adopts a dualist theory of human nature, according to which man consists of a physical body and a separate, non-physical rational soul.40 Again, this notion of human nature affects and inevitably converts his notion of the human good. It allows for two main levels of perception with different modes and objects of perception: one within the body, the other within the soul. Knowledge acquired at the former level is tied to sensory perception, and is of sensorily perceptible things, whereas the soul, being non-physical, may perceive supra-physical, supra-sensory beings. At both levels, pleasure may be experienced as a result of perception, satisfying a prior need, an imperfection. (In contrast, the earlier al-RÅzÈ, in the vein of early kalÅm, rejects the notion of non-sensory pleasure.) The two broad classes of pleasure differ qualitatively and quantitatively; for example, bodily needs are satisfied only transiently, whereas intellectual perfection is lasting and cumulative. For such differences, al-RÅzÈ contends, the human good, happiness, lies in the pursuit of spiritual perfection, and thus forms the primary and essential purpose of revealed religions.41 Al-RÅzÈ underscores the connection between the body-soul dualism and this perfectionist notion of the human good in commenting on the ˙adÈth, ‘He who knows his self will know his Lord,’ by arguing: ‘Had “self” in this ˙adÈth referred to the physical body, everyone would have known his Lord completely.’ Attributing this physicalist view to most ÆulamÅ’ and mutakallimËn, he contrasts it to the view of the theistic philosophers and divinely-oriented scholars (al-ÆulamÅ’ al-rabbÅniyyËn), also accepted by mystics who perceive the substance of their souls when they leave their bodies and receive divine lights; namely that the soul, is neither the physical body nor a physical thing, but is a spiritual substance that emanates onto this frame, animates it, and uses it as an instrument to acquire sciences and knowledge, until it perfects its substance by them and knows its Lord and the rights of His creatures. By that, it will become prepared to return to His presence and to become one of His angels eternally happy.42

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ayman shihadeh Attaining spiritual perfection thus becomes the foremost purpose of theological enquiry – a notion which will reorient al-RÅzÈ’s attitude towards the soteriological value and urgency of acquiring knowledge. Broadly speaking, dualistic conceptions of human nature are generally more conducive to mysticism than physicalist conceptions, which are generally more resonant with voluntaristic and ascetic outlooks. Now, a major trend in early AshÆarism, in which al-RÅzÈ initially took part, conceived of salvation in terms of a favourable afterlife, depending partly on the individual’s knowledge of both a set of doctrines and their evidence. Neither uncritical imitation (taqlÈd), which is to believe in the doctrines without knowing their evidence, nor scriptural evidence where rational evidence is required, can constitute proper grounds for salvation.43 So let us posit this question: What would an early AshÆarÈ be inclined to do with respect to theological belief, were he to arrive at a major stalemate in his exercise of theological reflection (for instance, if he arrives at the equipollence of proofs (takÅfu’ al-adilla) in too many problems)? AshÆarÈs had one main option readily available within their school, namely a ‘reduced’, more ‘conservative’ strand of AshÆarism, which I characterise as ‘noncognitive’, and to which the notion of ‘acquiescent assent’ (tafwÈ∂) is central. In this poorly studied strand, one may adhere, in some insoluble theological problems, to simple scriptural theological doctrines that are neither literalist and anthropomorphic, nor rationalist, but involve affirming scriptural statements and suspending theological interpretations thereof.44 In the case of stalemate in the exercise of reflection on a given problem, the theologian may admit that failure, turn to an affirmation of relevant scriptural statements, while suspending cognitive theological interpretations thereof, and declaring that God knows best. This position appears to be encapsulated in a deathbed avowal attributed to al-JuwaynÈ (d. 478/1085): ‘I die upon the same belief upon which die the old women of NÈshÅpËr.’45 Regardless of whether or not al-JuwaynÈ did say this, the avowal represents the essence of the shift that an AshÆarÈ theologian may make in the case of losing confidence, to some extent, in rational reflection. The noncognitive alternative is always at hand. By contrast, al-RÅzÈ’s later perfectionist theory is expressed in highly causal terms: happiness depends intrinsically on the internal development of the individual, which in turn is affected by the individual’s acts and physical and psychological circumstances. This transformation involves a process whereby virtues, moral and intellectual, are acquired and nurtured, normally gradually and systematically. Its highest end is intellectual perfection, which is furthered through reflection and engenders the experience of intellectual pleasure and hence lasting happiness. This causal connection between the acquisition of knowledge and happiness affords the former great and absolute urgency. And although al-RÅzÈ will still maintain that God is a voluntary agent and is conceiv-

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the mystic and the sceptic in fakhr al-din al-razi ably capable of altering this state of affairs, this causal trend, in my view, will put less emphasis on divine salvific intervention, except perhaps indirectly to the extent that God may provide some individuals with internal or external circumstances conducive to transformation. In such a perfectionist framework, mere adherence to creed cannot constitute a goal in itself, or the foundation of the complex transformative process, although it may play a limited and preliminary role therein. It follows that, in the event of scepticism with respect to reflection, a scriptural or traditional form of belief cannot be a viable alternative.

sufism So, having reached scepticism towards the ‘method of reflection’ in theology (†arÈqat al-naΩar), al-RÅzÈ could not simply resort to noncognitive theology, as a classical AshÆarÈ is likely to be inclined. Providentially for him, he had a different sort of alternative to which he was able to turn and avoid despair, and which, as we will see, he acknowledges in an earlier work; namely, the (mystical) path of spiritual self-discipline (riyÅ∂a). Albeit untenable in his earlier kalÅm epistemology, the view that this may be an alternative to discursive reasoning as a method of knowing God is congruent with his later body-soul dualism. A dichotomy of methods is already detectable in his Shar˙ al-IshÅrÅt (written after NihÅyat al-ÆuqËl, but before 582/118646), though more by the influence of al-GhazÅlÈ, than by that of Ibn SÈnÅ. In commenting on the epistemological part of the IshÅrÅt, he accepts Ibn SÈnÅ’s notion that discursive knowledge may be acquired in two ways: by means of thinking (fikr), or through intuition (˙ads), which (in Gutas’s words) is ‘the intellect’s ability to hit spontaneously upon the middle term in a syllogism’.47 However, al-RÅzÈ describes a different, non-discursive mode of acquiring knowledge when commenting on Section 9 of his IshÅrÅt, on the ‘stations of knowers’, which he considers to be ‘the most valuable part in this book; for [the author] outlines the knowledge of the Sufis in a way that has not been matched by anyone before or after him’.48 Indeed, he reads this section as an essentially Sufi text and gives it a fittingly Sufi interpretation. He appears to indicate that knowledge gained through spiritual discipline comprises direct unveiling (mukÅshafa), or visionary experience (mushÅhada) of supernal things. Knowledge gained in this way is non-syllogistic; hence, as we will see, he indicates that one who attains such knowledge may be unable to fathom it, or to think about it and interpret it correctly.49 The soul’s amenability to this mode of knowledge, he further maintains, is hindered because of its distraction by its physical attachments, which can be reduced through spiritual self-discipline.50 Despite this, in all save his later works, al-RÅzÈ rarely discusses, or even mentions, the path of spiritual self-discipline, which continues to be alien to his thorough rationalism and completely eclipsed by it. Instead, he shows unwav-

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ayman shihadeh ering confidence in the method of discursive reasoning, as is evident in both his direct epistemological discussions and his overall style of enquiry. He will even continue to argue, in the manner of early kalÅm, that reflection is necessary for knowing God, without accounting for the possibility of spiritual discipline.51 Hence, in most of the second half of his career (beginning some time in the 570s [1175–85]), al-RÅzÈ chooses the path of reflection, at least for himself, drawing on both kalÅm and Avicennan philosophy, and deservedly earning the reputation of being an exceedingly confident rationalist. The dichotomy, however, resurfaces in his later works. In the introduction of the Ma†Ålib (dated 603/1207), we find a section where, as previously indicated, he argues that discursive reasoning in metaphysics often yields little more than probable belief, rarely certainty. This sceptical discussion is followed by another section entitled, ‘On whether this sacred knowledge may be attained by one or more methods’, where the dichotomy reappears. He points out that the ‘method of reflection and inference’ aims at knowing God indirectly by examining the world. By contrast, the method of spiritual self-discipline is a guaranteed and highly potent method: For if one preoccupies oneself with cleansing one’s heart from the remembrance of anything other than God, and perseveres in God’s remembrance both by the tongue and spiritually, there will appear in his heart radiance and light, an overwhelming state and mighty power. Lofty, transcendent lights and divine secrets will manifest in the substance of the soul. These are stations that, unless one attains them, one will be unable to apprehend in detail.52

As it provides direct and certain knowledge of the unseen, spiritual discipline is presented as a superior alternative to the discursive method. And it is evident that al-RÅzÈ’s attention at this late stage turns to Sufism primarily as a result of the scepticism that he reaches. Elsewhere, in a discussion where he argues that the method of recollection (dhikr) is superior to that of thinking (fikr), he writes: Thinking is dangerous! For the condition of the thinker is akin to that of a ship in the middle of the ocean enduring violent gales and high seas. Thinking may lead to dubiosities, just as it may lead to sound proofs. Therefore, thinkers frequently tumble into various sorts of falsehood, unbelief and heresy. As for recollection, there is no danger in it. For, during recollection, man will be possessed of a heart that is firm upon servanthood to God, exalted, and a soul that is illuminated by the lights of knowing Him. Hence, his heart will be free of anxious doubt, and his knowledge will be unadulterated by dubiosities.53

In the same aforementioned part of the Ma†Ålib, he goes on to explain a cognate and crucial dimension in the body-soul relationship. He maintains that ‘in its original nature and primordial instinct’, the human soul is attracted in immense love (Æishq) towards the divine presence. However, once it becomes — 114 —

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the mystic and the sceptic in fakhr al-din al-razi connected to the body and subsequently drawn and attached to bodily pleasures, this acquired preoccupation will distract it from its instinctive attraction to its native spiritual realm (wa†an). Hence, if one strives ‘to remove these accidental things’ through spiritual self-discipline, the essence of which is ‘to empty the heart of the remembrance (dhikr) of anything other than God’, the soul will eventually return to its pristine state and will have its original characteristics restored, casting off the thick layer of dust that shrouds it. As a result, the soul will receive ‘the light of the majesty of God’.54 The two methods of acquiring knowledge thus involve fundamentally different processes, leading to different outcomes. In the discursive method, the individual seeks (†alaba) knowledge through reflection, progressing through the various stages of intellectual development with effort. In spiritual self-discipline, the individual only seeks to free the soul from its physical attachments, which obstruct (ÆÅ’iq) it from fulfilling its potential in accordance with its primordial instinct. Its purpose is that the senses, lust and irascibility ‘do not dominate or overpower the rational faculty; for when the rational soul is not dominated by these faculties, it will be drawn to the realm of sacred beings by its very nature (†abÆ)’.55 Knowledge will then be received effortlessly.56 How, one may ask, does this knowledge compare to normal discursive knowledge? Al-RÅzÈ does not tell us exactly; so we have to be content with his statement that it has to be experienced to be known. Nonetheless, it is evident that, unlike discursive knowledge, this type of knowledge may be attained by non-learned individuals and that it does not have logical structure (it is not gained through ˙ads). In the Ma†Ålib, al-RÅzÈ indicates that spiritually advanced individuals should seek guidance in rational theology to interpret, contextualise and assess their spiritual experiences critically, which otherwise could lead into serious error. He adds: If a man is perfect in the method of intellectual inference, then becomes gifted with perfection in the method of self-purification and self-discipline, and if his soul in its original nature is highly amenable to these states, that man will be able to transcend to the highest points in these lofty strata and stations. … These states cannot be explained verbally. … He who has not tasted, will not know. He who has not witnessed will not accept.57

Similarly, in Shar˙ al-IshÅrÅt he distinguishes between four types of people with respect to the nature of their attraction to the spiritual path: (1) some acquire an attraction to the higher world through engaging in metaphysical speculation; (2) some souls are inclined to spirituality instinctively by their inborn natures (mainly because of their superior souls58), without study or enquiry; (3) some combine both natural aptitude and metaphysical learning; and (4) some lack both, but become attracted to the path as a result of hearing so much about its great virtue.59 Someone of the first type, al-RÅzÈ opines, ought to incline towards — 115 —

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ayman shihadeh reclusion; for the only reason he would associate with others is to seek instruction and guidance, whereas he can have no better guide than his own knowledge. By contrast, someone of the second type, ‘if not learned, will undoubtedly require an instructor and guide, lest he deviates from the right path, or tumbles into various pitfalls’. Most excellent of all are those of the third type.60 This stance is instructive in various ways. First, it shows that knowledge gained through the spiritual path (in contrast to knowledge gained through ˙ads) is non-discursive, but comprises direct perceptions and manifestations of supernal things within the soul. Second, although al-RÅzÈ states that one who has not witnessed these things cannot apprehend them, he does not seem to suggest the absolute ineffability or paradoxicality of this knowledge. Indeed, the fact that the experient may benefit from rational theology indicates that, at least to a certain extent, there does not exist a fundamental conflict between this knowledge and reason. Third, al-RÅzÈ’s turn to Sufism as a result of his scepticism (which, after all, is not absolute) evidently does not come with a wholesale rejection of rational theology as futile or inexorably contrary to spiritual development. He simply demotes it to a secondary place, whence it continues to provide some vital theological knowledge, which may inform the experient’s assessment and interpretation of his spiritual experience. For instance, in the Ma†Ålib, al-RÅzÈ points out that theological enquiry may allow the experient to distinguish between what is conceivable and what is inconceivable.61 The latter, we may assume, includes belief in union (itti˙Åd) with God and incarnation (˙ulËl), which he rejects as irrational.62 Finally, let us consider a crucial disagreement that al-RÅzÈ has with Ibn SÈnÅ with regard to the ultimate end of the spiritual path, which determines not only the motivation for pursuing the path, but also its quintessential nature and character. In the IshÅrÅt, Ibn SÈnÅ adopts a commonplace Sufi distinction between those who seek to know God (ÆÅrif) through contemplation (fikr) and those who dedicate themselves to worship (ÆibÅda) or asceticism (zuhd). While the latter types seek reward in the afterlife, the first type, he points out, have the higher goal of contemplating God’s essence; they seek God purely for the sake of God.63 This claim, al-RÅzÈ retorts, betrays inconsistency on the part of Ibn SÈnÅ, who elsewhere in the IshÅrÅt contends that anything sought has to be more favourable (awlÅ) to the seeker than its lack.64 It follows, al-RÅzÈ continues, that what is sought in the first instance will only be that favourableness, which in the final analysis comes down to an increased subjective perfection in the seeker. To seek God, accordingly, will only involve seeking the perfection that the seeker will acquire in knowing Him. Such a stance, we may observe, is indeed commensurate with the rationalism and intellectualism of Ibn SÈnÅ’s philosophical system, in which the wise and rational way to lead one’s life is

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the mystic and the sceptic in fakhr al-din al-razi to seek individual perfection primarily through the pursuit of knowledge. To say that one may somehow seek God purely for the sake of God will, in this framework, appear irrational or at least highly cryptic. This appears to be one place where al-RÅzÈ criticises Ibn SÈnÅ for unsuccessfully attempting to attire his philosophy with an Islamic garb.65 As I show elsewhere, al-RÅzÈ himself adopts a more radically self-centred notion of human motivation and develops it into a systematic and comprehensive theory of action.66 He also defines the human good in terms of the individual’s development in theoretical perfection. So one would expect him to be inclined towards a self-centred intellectualism, rather than a self-effacing Sufi attitude expressed in (seemingly) emotive terms, such as love and selfless devotion. However, the latter attitude, he argues, is a perfectly rational one. He writes: As for those divinely-oriented among the Sufi philosophers (al-muta’allihËn mina l-falÅsifa al-ßËfiyya), they unanimously hold that man is able to seek God, exalted, for the sake of none other than God Himself. They argue that perfection is loved (ma˙bËb) in itself. The more complete one’s perception of the perfection of what is known, the more intense will one’s love for it be. The more intense the love, the greater will immersion in it and detachment from all else be. This may ultimately lead man to become heedless of himself and of his love for that beloved. Instead, he will only have awareness of that beloved alone. … In this case, he will not have the desire to be perfected through God, exalted; for loving something is conditional upon awareness of it; so if, in this state, he is heedless of everything other than God, exalted, it will be inconceivable for him to love anything other than God, exalted. However, he will love God, exalted, because in this case he will have complete awareness of the perfection of God, exalted, and because this awareness leads to love. It thus becomes evident that loving God, exalted, can be free from anything other than God.67

Although the view that man may love perfect external beings without any element of desire for subjective gain echoes al-GhazÅlÈ,68 the identity of these curious Sufi philosophers remains unclear, and the passage should be taken to represent al-RÅzÈ’s own view. Here, he affirms the superiority of the Sufi path for being the only path in which one may have this unconditional love for God and transcend everything else, including one’s own self.

concluding note Al-RÅzÈ, one of the most important Muslim theologians ever, turns to Sufism in the last few years of his life, mainly as a result of his arrival at scepticism concerning rational theology. The fact that he neither becomes a prominent Sufi nor writes any noteworthy works on the subject should not detract from the significance of this conversion. But we have to ask the inevitable question: Does he become a practising Sufi? For this we have no answer, given the complete lack of reliable evidence. We do, however, have numerous discussions of Sufirelated themes in his later works, most notably his hugely influential Qur’Ånic — 117 —

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ayman shihadeh commentary, which shed light on the nature and extent of the transformation that took place in his thought. These indicate that he had a range of Sufi influences, textual and probably non-textual, including al-QushayrÈ and al-GhazÅlÈ. Al-RÅzÈ writes at a time when some Sufis were starting to engage in metaphysical theorisation; so there is hardly any influence of this emerging trend in his writings. I have not found any traces of Ibn al-ÆArabÈ or ShihÅb al-DÈn Ya˙yÅ al-SuhrawardÈ (d. 587/1191). Although a detailed comparison has not been attempted here, the similarity between al-RÅzÈ’s case and al-GhazÅlÈ’s turn to Sufism following his spell of doubt is nonetheless instantly recognisable. No doubt, al-RÅzÈ was fully aware of the conversion of his predecessor. So it is possible that al-GhazÅlÈ’s experience was itself influential on al-RÅzÈ in two ways: it provided a precedent of a theologian openly expressing doubt with regard to the rational theology he practised; and it presented Sufism as the epistemologically and soteriologically superior alternative. It is unlikely, however, that al-RÅzÈ’s scepticism itself transpires under the influence of al-GhazÅlÈ. Lastly, does al-RÅzÈ’s turn towards Sufism signal a major defeat for the tradition of kalÅm, as Ibn Taymiyya would have it? Not entirely. This turn should be seen, first and foremost, as yet another sign of increasing eclecticism in the mainstream of the major traditions during this period.

notes 1. See, for instance, I˙sÅn ÆAbbÅs, ‘AbË ÓayyÅn al-Taw˙ÈdÈ wa-Æilm al-kalÅm’, al-Ab˙Åth 19 (1966), 189–207; Yahya Michot, ‘Vanités intellectuelles … L’impasse des rationalismes selon le Reject de la contradiction d’Ibn Taymiyyah’, Oriente Moderno 19 (2000), 597–617; Ibn al-JawzÈ, AkhbÅr al-ßifÅt, ed. and trans. M. Swartz (Leiden: Brill, 2002), p. 14. 2. See above, pp. 109–10. 3. Ibn al-ÆArabÈ, RisÅla ilÅ l-imÅm Fakhr al-DÈn al-RÅzÈ, in RasÅ’il Ibn ÆArabÈ (Hyderabad: DÅ’irat al-MaÆÅrif al-ÆUthmÅniyya, 1367 ah), pp. 3–4. It is impossible to determine whether this epistle affected al-RÅzÈ. The claim made by Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s biographer (al-QÅrÈ al-BaghdÅdÈ, ManÅqib Ibn ÆArabÈ, ed. Í. Al-Munajjid (Beirut: Mu’assasat al-TurÅth al-ÆArabÈ, 1959), pp. 25–6), that it had a profound, life-changing effect leading to an abandonment of kalÅm in favour of Sufism, is unsubstantiated. 4. On Ibn al-ÆArabÈ’s travels, see Claude Addas, Quest for the Red Sulphur, trans. P. Kingsley (Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 1993), p. 194ff. 5. Ibn al-ÆImÅd (ShadharÅt al-dhahab, 8 vols (Cairo: Maktabat al-QudsÈ, 1351 ah), 5, p. 21) records a similar, but shorter anecdote. 6. See Michot, Vanités intellectuelles. 7. Ibn Taymiyya, MajmËÆ al-fatÅwÅ, ed. ÆA. al-QÅsim, 37 vols (Riyadh: Ma†baÆat al-ÓukËma, 1381 ah), 4, p. 28. 8. MÈr DÅmÅd, Al-QabasÅt, ed. M. Mohaghegh (Tehran: Tehran University Publications, 1988), p. 74. 9. On al-RÅzÈ’s style of criticism towards Ibn SÈnÅ, see Tzvi Langermann, ‘Criticism of

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10.

11. 12. 13.

14. 15. 16.

17. 18.

19.

20.

21. 22.

23.

Authority in the Writings of Moses Maimonides and Fakhr al-DÈn al-RÅzÈ’, Early Science and Medicine 7.3 (2002), 255–75, at 266ff. It should be noted, however, that al-RÅzÈ never wrote a commentary on Ibn SÈnÅ’s NajÅt, the manuscript mentioned on p. 273, which I have examined, being of a commentary by a certain Fakhr al-DÈn al-IsfarÅ’ÈnÈ. Al-SuhrawardÈ’s letter is edited by Nasrollah Pourjavady, Two Renewers of Faith: Studies on Muhammad-i GhazzÅlÈ and FakhruddÈn-È RÅzÈ (Tehran: Iran University Press, 2002), pp. 515–17. For reports of contacts al-RÅzÈ supposedly had with other Sufis, see ibid. p. 459ff. For references, see Pourjavady, Renewers, p. 499ff. Pourjavady, Renewers, p. 499ff. On Mußannifak, see IsmÅÆÈl al-BaghdÅdÈ, Hadiyyat al-ÆÅrifÈn, 2 vols (Istanbul: Milli Eg˘itim Basımevi, 1951), 1, p. 735. Mußannifak, Al-Tu˙fa al-Ma˙mËdiyya (unpublished), cited in Pourjavady, Renewers, p. 500. Cf. ÊÅshköprÈzÅde (d. 968/1560), MiftÅ˙ al-saÆÅda, ed. K. BakrÈ and ÆA. AbË l-NËr, 3 vols (Cairo: DÅr al-Kutub al-ÓadÈtha, 1968), 2, pp. 122–3. Pourjavady, Renewers, p. 502. Pourjavady, Renewers, p. 501, n. 88. Pourjavady calculates the gap as about 160 years. For other, later sources, see Fritz Meier, Die FawÅ’i˙ al-GamÅl wa-FawÅti˙ al-GalÅl des Nagm ad-DÈn al-KubrÅ (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1957), pp. 45–6. Meier, however, is unaware of this early report. On comparable statements by other Sufis, see Meier, FawÅ’i˙, pp. 45–6, n. 4. Ibn Taymiyya, BayÅn talbÈs al-Jahmiyya, ed. M. al-QÅsim, 2 vols (Makka: Maktabat al-ÓukËma, 1392 ah), 1, pp. 265–6. The bracketed parts are introduced from Dar’ taÆÅru∂ al-Æaql wa-l-naql, ed. M. SÅlim, 11 vols (Riyadh: JÅmiÆat al-ImÅm Mu˙ammad ibn SaÆËd al-IslÅmiyya, 1991), 7, pp. 431–2. Al-ÍafadÈ, Al-WÅfÈ bi-l-wafayÅt, ed. M. Najm, 29 vols (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1971), 8, p. 25. Al-DhahabÈ (TÅrÈkh al-IslÅm, Years 631–640 ah, ed. ÆU. TadmurÈ, (Beirut: DÅr al-KitÅb al-ÆArabÈ, 1988), pp. 360–3) records that al-MaqdisÈ travelled to Baghdad at the age of seventeen, hence around 595/1199–1200, and studied there for a while, before travelling to HamadhÅn, where he studied with Rukn al-DÈn al-ÊÅwËsÈ (d. 600/1204), and from there to BukhÅrÅ. He quotes him stating that he has been to KhwÅrazm and citing a conversation he had with al-KubrÅ. Al-MaqdisÈ returns to Damascus thirteen years after starting his travels, hence around 608/1212. I am not aware of any manuscripts of his writings. On al-RÅzÈ’s early visit to KhwÅrazm, see: ZakariyyÅ al-QazwÈnÈ, åthÅr al-bilÅd wa-akhbÅr al-ÆibÅd, ed. F. Wüstenfeld (Wiesbaden: Martin Sandig, 1967), pp. 252–3 (who mentions that this visit took place before al-RÅzÈ became famous); Ibn KhallikÅn, WafayÅt al-aÆyÅn, ed. I. ÆAbbÅs, 8 vols (Beirut: DÅr al-ThaqÅfa, 1972), 4, p. 250; and Frank Griffel, ‘On Fakhr al-DÈn al-RÅzÈ’s life and the patronage he received’, Journal of Islamic Studies 18.3 (2007), 313–44. Meier, FawÅ’i˙, pp. 39–40. For instance, al-RÅzÈ, Al-TafsÈr al-kabÈr, 32 vols (Cairo: al-Ma†baÆa al-Bahiyya al-Mißriyya, 1938), 2, p. 32. See also Mu˙ammad al-ÆUraybÈ, Al-Mun†alaqÅt al-fikriyya Æinda l-ImÅm al-Fakhr al-RÅzÈ (Beirut: DÅr al-Fikr al-LubnÅnÈ, 1992), pp. 129–31. On the view of some mutakallimËn that doubt is the starting point of reflection, see, for instance, Richard Frank, ‘Knowledge and Taqlîd: The foundations of religious

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24. 25. 26.

27. 28.

29.

30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

36.

37. 38.

belief in classical AshÆarism’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 109 (1989), 37–62, at 45–6. On this, see, for instance, al-RÅzÈ, Al-Ma†Ålib al-ÆÅliya, ed. A. al-SaqqÅ, 8 vols (Beirut: DÅr al-KitÅb al-ÆArabÈ, 1987), 1, pp. 37–40. Al-RÅzÈ, NihÅyat al-ÆuqËl (MS Ahmet III 1874), fol. 20a; 22a; cf. Ibn Taymiyya, BayÅn, 1, p. 265. On Ibn KhafÈf, see TÅj al-DÈn al-SubkÈ, ÊabaqÅt al-ShÅfiÆiyya al-kubrÅ, ed. M. al-ÊanÅ˙È and ÆA. al-Óulw, 10 vols (Cairo: Ma†baÆat ÆsÅ al-BÅbÈ al-ÓalabÈ wa-ShurakÅh, 1967), 3, pp. 149–63. Al-SubkÈ, ÊabaqÅt, 3, p. 163. NihÅya, fol. 2a; cf. Ayman Shihadeh, ‘From al-GhazÅlÈ to al-RÅzÈ: 6th/12th Century Developments in Muslim Philosophical Theology’, Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 15 (2005), 141–79, at 164ff. On the epistemic value of scriptural evidence, see: al-RÅzÈ, MaÆÅlim ußËl al-dÈn, ed. Ê. SaÆd (Cairo: Maktabat al-KulliyyÅt al-Azhariyya, n.d.), p. 24. Cf. Nicholas Heer, ‘The priority of reason in the interpretation of scripture: Ibn TaymÈyah and the MutakallimËn’, in Literary Heritage of Classical Islam, ed. M. Mir (Princeton: The Darwin Press, 1993), pp. 181–95. Al-RÅzÈ, Al-MabÅ˙ith al-mashriqiyya, ed. M. al-BaghdÅdÈ, 2 vols (Beirut: DÅr al-KitÅb al-ÆArabÈ, 1990), 1, p. 89. NihÅya, fol. 20a; cf. al-ÆUraybÈ, Mun†alaqÅt, p. 128. Shihadeh, From al-GhazÅlÈ to al-RÅzÈ, 168–9. Ayman Shihadeh, The Teleological Ethics of Fakhr al-DÈn al-RÅzÈ (Leiden: Brill, 2006), p. 181ff. Al-RÅzÈ, Dhamm ladhdhÅt al-dunyÅ, in Shihadeh, Teleological Ethics, pp. 211–65, at pp. 255–6. Arguably, these modes are likely to be made by either a novice with a superficial, rejectionist attitude towards what he fails to understand and be competent in, or a seasoned veteran. Al-RÅzÈ is the veteran. Dhamm, p. 262. This phrase appears earlier as an expression of optimism and confidence: in Shar˙ KulliyÅt al-QÅnËn (MS Bodleian, Seldon A.64, fol. 2b), dated 580/1184, he praises God for allowing him to understand the various parts of philosophy and to become familiar with nihÅyat aqdÅm al-ÆuqalÅ’, the ‘cutting-edge’ investigations of previous learned men. It is no coincidence that the phrase also echoes two kalÅm titles, al-RÅzÈ’s own NihÅyat al-ÆuqËl fÈ dirÅyat al-ußËl and al-ShahrastÅnÈ’s NihÅyat al-aqdÅm, both representing an important motif in kalÅm (also appearing in other disciplines) conveying the pretension of achieving the full potential for enquiry in the field, leaving no gaps or loose ends. In the sceptical verses, this notion turns out to be a mirage. This motif is mocked by Ibn Taymiyya (Dar’, 1, pp. 330–1), who remarks on the theology of the mutakallimËn, that ‘the acme of their pursuit, the final end of their seeking [referring to al-åmidÈ’s GhÅyat al-marÅm], and the acme of their intellects in establishing their principles (nihÅyat aqdÅmihim wa-ghÅyat marÅmihim wa-nihÅyat ÆuqËlihim fÈ dirÅyat ußËlihim)’ is confusion. Al-RÅzÈ, AsrÅr al-tanzÈl wa-anwÅr al-ta’wÈl, ed. M. Mu˙ammad et al. (Baghdad: WizÅrat al-AwqÅf wa-l-Shu’Ën al-DÈniyya, 1990), p. 65. I discuss some points at greater length in Teleological Ethics, p. 109ff., and expand here on others.

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the mystic and the sceptic in fakhr al-din al-razi 39. See Duncan Macdonald, ‘The Development of the Idea of Spirit in Islam’, The Moslem World 22 (1932), 25–42, 153–68. 40. Shihadeh, Teleological Ethics, p. 116ff. On Ibn SÈnÅ’s body-soul dualism, see, for instance, Dag Hasse, Avicenna’s De anima in the Latin West (London: The Warburg Institute, 2000), p. 80ff. 41. Shihadeh, Teleological Ethics, p. 134ff. 42. Al-RÅzÈ, RisÅla fÈ l-nafs (MS MarÆashÈ-NajafÈ (Qum) 9508/1, fol. 1b–8b), fol. 2b. 43. Frank, Knowledge and Taqlîd, p. 42ff. 44. See my ‘Three Apologetic Stances in al-ÊËfÈ: Theological Cognitivism, Noncognitivism, and a Proof of Prophecy from Scriptural Contradiction’, Journal of Quranic Studies 8.2 (2006), 1–23. The two trends appear in the writings of al-AshÆarÈ (George Makdisi, ‘Ash‘arÈ and the Ash‘arites in Islamic Religious History I’, Studia Islamica 17 (1962), 37–80, at 42–4; 51–2). 45. See al-SubkÈ’s (ÊabaqÅt, 5, pp. 190–2) commentary on this with reference to the two strands in AshÆarism. 46. Shihadeh, Teleological Ethics, p. 9. 47. Al-RÅzÈ, Shar˙ al-IshÅrÅt wa-l-tanbÈhÅt, 2 vols (Cairo: al-Ma†baÆa al-Khayriyya, 1325 ah), 1, p. 153ff. On Ibn SÈnÅ’s notion of intuition, see Dimitri Gutas, ‘Intuition and Thinking: The Evolving Structure of Avicenna’s Epistemology’, in R. Wisnovsky (ed.) Aspects of Avicenna (Princeton: Markus Wiener Publishers, 2001), pp. 1–38; and Hasse, Avicenna’s De anima, pp. 174–89. 48. Shar˙ al-IshÅrÅt, 2, p. 100. 49. Shar˙ al-IshÅrÅt, 2, p. 111. 50. Shar˙ al-IshÅrÅt, 2, p. 112. 51. For instance, al-RÅzÈ, Mu˙aßßal afkÅr al-mutaqaddimÈn wa-l-muta’akhkhirÈn …, ed. Ó AtÅy, 2 vols (Cairo: Maktabat DÅr al-TurÅth, 1991), 1, pp. 134–6. 52. Ma†Ålib, 1, pp. 54–5. 53. Al-RÅzÈ, LawÅmiÆ al-bayyinÅt, ed. Ê. SaÆd (Cairo: al-Maktaba al-Azhariyya li-l-TurÅth, 2000), p. 66. 54. Ma†Ålib, 1, p. 58. 55. Shar˙ al-IshÅrÅt, 2, p. 114. 56. Cf. al-GhazÅlÈ, I˙yÅ’ ÆulËm al-dÈn, 4 vols (Cairo: DÅr I˙yÅ’ al-Kutub al-ÆArabiyya, 1957), 3, p. 17ff. 57. Ma†Ålib, 1, p. 59. 58. On al-RÅzÈ’s view that humans vary in the essences of their souls, see my Teleological Ethics, pp. 118–19. 59. Shar˙ al-IshÅrÅt, 2, p. 111. 60. The spiritual path, however, is not suitable for everyone. Concerning the fourth type, they should prioritise the improvement of their external conduct by adhering to practical ethics, rather than internal, spiritual development through spiritual discipline. In the Ma†Ålib (1, pp. 55–7), al-RÅzÈ argues that spiritual discipline is futile for those who are not adequately predisposed. For such people, he sometimes prescribes a pious, scriptural and noncognitive form of belief. That, I believe, explains why, in his late epistle Dhamm al-ladhdhÅt, which appears to target a non-specialist readership, al-RÅzÈ makes no mention of spiritual discipline as a superior alternative to theological reflection, but proposes a more tangible, scripturally oriented alternative. By contrast, one discussion in the TafsÈr echoes, almost verbatim, a sceptical point

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61. 62.

63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68.

expressed in Dhamm al-ladhdhÅt (namely, the inadequacy of ascribing to God attributes that merely either deny His similarity to creatures, or relate Him to creatures in various ways), but recommends the Sufi alternative of attempting to know God in Himself, in separation from creatures, through the practice of recollecting (dhikr) the divine name ‘He’ (huwa) (TafsÈr, 1, pp. 147–8). Ma†Ålib, 1, p. 58. In the LawÅmiÆ (pp. 100; 281–2) he provides rational interpretations for the ecstatic statements made by al-ÓallÅj and al-Bis†ÅmÈ, which some ‘ignorant folk’ understand as implying unity with God. Ibn SÈnÅ, Al-IshÅrÅt wa-l-tanbÈhÅt, ed. S. DunyÅ, 4 vols (Cairo: DÅr al-MaÆÅrif, 1957–60), 4, p. 57–73; Shar˙ al-IshÅrÅt, 2, p. 104ff. Ibn SÈnÅ, IshÅrÅt, 3, pp. 128–9. Shar˙ al-IshÅrÅt, 2, p. 107. Shihadeh, Teleological Ethics, passim. Shar˙ al-IshÅrÅt, 2, pp. 108–9. Al-GhazÅlÈ, I˙yÅ’, 4, pp. 297–306.

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Ibn Taymiyya’s Commentary on the Creed of al-ÓallÅj Yahya Michot The great Damascene theologian Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328) is often presented as an extremist, with many dire, radical positions attached to his name. In the domain of politics, he is unjustly regarded by some as the spiritual ancestor of the kind of extremism associated with UsÅma bin LÅdin, the source of ‘a long tradition of extreme intolerance within one stream of Islam’.1 The situation is not much better in regard to philosophy – being the author of the Refutation of the Logicians (al-Radd ÆalÅ l-man†iqiyyÈn), he is generally seen as an arch-enemy of the falÅsifa.2 This image of him is likewise a grave distortion. Shams al-DÈn al-DhahabÈ (d. 748/1348) was closer to the truth when he accused Ibn Taymiyya of having ‘repeatedly swallowed the poison of the philosophers and of their works’.3 One ought to remember too that he not only commented on Avicenna’s RisÅla A∂˙awiyya, on Averroes and several other Muslim thinkers, but also on the Abridgement (talkhÈß) of Aristotle’s Metaphysics by ThÅbit ibn Qurra.4 Quid about mysticism? Ibn Taymiyya surely wrote many fatwas and other texts condemning the deviant or suspect ideas and practices of the Sufis of his time. Nevertheless, rather than being an unconditional opponent of Sufism, he used to show great respect for the early spiritual masters of Islam,5 was quite probably himself a QÅdirÈ,6 and composed commentaries on various Sufi texts.7 Th. Michel has written a study of one of these commentaries, the shar˙ on ÆAbd al-QÅdir al-JÈlÅnÈ’s FutË˙ al-ghayb.8 The present chapter has to do with Ibn Taymiyya’s commentary on the Creed (ÆaqÈda) of the famous Sufi executed in BaghdÅd in 309/922, al-Óusayn ibn ManßËr al-ÓallÅj. My modest hope is that it will show the theologian’s relation to Sufism to be far more complex than the usual presentation of it. As, in his reading of al-ÓallÅj’s ÆAqÈda, he brings in Ibn ÆArabÈ’s ideas, the chapter should also provide a good illustration of the interaction between kalÅm and taßawwuf around 700/1300. Ibn Taymiyya speaks of al-ÓallÅj in several works.9 Louis Massignon in his magnum opus10 analysed three important fatwas. Apart from these, the most substantial text is the commentary on the ÆAqÈda, of which the French scholar does not seem to have been aware. This commentary is part of the first volume of the long Book of Rectitude (KitÅb al-IstiqÅma), which Ibn Taymiyya composed in Egypt, perhaps while in jail or under house arrest, between 705/1305 and — 123 —

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yahya michot 709/1309, probably 708/1308–709/1309.11 The work sets out to deal with theology in the narrow sense of the word – the oneness of God and His attributes – and to demonstrate the complete sufficiency of the scriptural and traditional teachings on the fundamentals of the religion (ußËl al-dÈn). As explained by Ibn Taymiyya in his introduction, it is a ‘rule on the necessity of going straight, being balanced, following the Scripture and the Sunna concerning the names of God and His attributes, proclaiming His oneness in what one says and believes, and the expounding that the Scripture and the Sunna contain the totality of the [divine] guidance.’12 In reality, it quickly develops into an analysis and discussion of various parts of the famous Epistle (RisÅla) of AbË l-QÅsim al-QushayrÈ (d. 465/1072), with special attention to what al-QushayrÈ says about the beliefs and creeds of several Sufi shaykhs of the past, in correlation to various schools of KalÅm. One of those Sufi shaykhs is al-ÓallÅj. Al-QushayrÈ quotes his ÆAqÈda in its entirety, and Ibn Taymiyya comments on it because he considers that al-QushayrÈ misinterpreted it.13 In order to appreciate properly what Ibn Taymiyya says of al-ÓallÅj in his commentary on his Creed, a double introduction is necessary. The first will briefly assess how he views the controversial shaykh in his three fatwas on him. The second will address, on the basis of the same fatwas, the question of the presence, according to him, of an incarnationist monism in al-ÓallÅj’s Sufism. Ibn Taymiyya’s views on al-ÓallÅj in his fatwas can be set out as responsive to four main questions: (1) Was the execution justified? (2) Was he a Friend of God, i.e. a saint (walÈ)? (3) How should we understand his famous theopathic exclamation AnÅ l-Óaqq? (4) Did he repent? The MamlËk scholar knows that some people contest the legality of al-ÓallÅj’s condemnation to death: A group [of people] have said that [in being] killed he was the victim of an injustice and that it was not permissible to kill him. They are hostile towards the Law and the jurists because they killed al-ÓallÅj. Among them, there are some who are hostile to the [whole] class of scholars and people of knowledge, and say: ‘It is they who killed al-ÓallÅj.’ These [individuals] are of the kind of those who say: ‘We have a Law (sharÈÆa) and we have a reality (˙aqÈqa) that contradicts the Law.’14

Without mentioning ÆAbd al-QÅdir al-JÈlÅnÈ by name, Ibn Taymiyya alludes to his position on the matter but does not accept it: ‘The most serious of those who have a good opinion of [al-ÓallÅj] say that killing him was necessary in respect to the outward [rules of the religion] (fÈ l-ΩÅhir), the executioner being a jihÅd fighter and the killed one a martyr. … This is also an error.’15 As for his own view, Ibn Taymiyya states in Fatwa I that al-ÓallÅj was killed for heterodoxy (zandaqa).16 He was a sorcerer sometimes served by devils, experiencing satanic states and performing fallacious tricks. There is no doubt that he was an impostor and he had to be killed.17 In Fatwa II, the theologian’s focus is different: — 124 —

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Muslims only killed him for his doctrine of the indwelling (˙ulËl) [of the divine in humanity] and of their union (itti˙Åd), and for similar doctrines of the adepts of heterodoxy (zandaqa) and heresy (il˙Åd); notably his words ‘I am the Real’ (anÅ l-Óaqq) and ‘God in heaven and God on earth’.18

According to Ibn Taymiyya, al-ÓallÅj is not usually recognised as a walÈ by sensible people. He was, instead, possessed by the devil and there is no historical truth in the prodigious phenomena that are sometimes said to have occurred when he died.19 Among the Friends of God who know al-ÓallÅj’s situation, there is none who venerates him. This is why al-QushayrÈ did not mention him among the shaykhs [mentioned in] his Epistle, although he does mention, among other of his words, things that he finds beautiful. Shaykh AbË YaÆqËb al-NahrajËrÈ had married him to his daughter but, when he discovered his heterodoxy, he took her back from him.20 He was not among the Friends of God, who fear Him. Rather, some of his worship, exercises and spiritual struggles were satanic, some were psychic and some were in conformity with the SharÈÆa from some viewpoint, not from another. He was confounding the truth with vain things.21

For some people, it is God who was speaking through the mouth of al-ÓallÅj when he uttered his famous ‘AnÅ l-Óaqq’. According to them, he who proclaims the [divine] oneness is He whose oneness is proclaimed. He who utters this proclamation of oneness by the tongue of the servant is the Real and nobody proclaims His oneness but Himself. He who proclaims the [divine] oneness is thus nobody else than Him whose oneness is proclaimed. They distinguish between Pharaoh’s saying ‘I am your highest lord’ and al-ÓallÅj’s sayings ‘I am the Real’ and ‘Glory to Myself’. Pharaoh indeed said that, with himself testifying to it; he thus said it of himself. As for the people experiencing extinction (fanÅ’), they become absent to themselves and he who speaks by their tongue is someone other than them.22

For Ibn Taymiyya, there is a very interesting debate here. For to claim, about al-ÓallÅj’s AnÅ l-Óaqq, ‘that it was God who was then speaking for (ÆalÅ) a human just as jinns speak by the tongue (ÆalÅ lisÅn) of an epileptic, is clear unbelief’.23 Who, then, was the speaker? For the MamlËk theologian, it could have been al-ÓallÅj himself, supposing that he was then affected by a psychological disorder of the type of MajnËn’s absence to himself due to his excessive love for Layla. His statement would then have to be excused. The problem is, however, that al-ÓallÅj was not absent, as he wrote about his ecstasy.24 The speaker in fact might then have been a demon possessing the Sufi. Ibn Taymiyya states that he has himself witnessed many similar cases of possession, adding that the situation is in no way like that of the Prophet receiving the revelation: Mu˙ammad was neither possessed, nor absent to himself like MajnËn; he was not speaking like Pharaoh and God was not speaking for him.

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yahya michot Whoever says that God spoke by the tongue (ÆalÅ lisÅn) of al-ÓallÅj, that the words that were heard from al-ÓallÅj were words of God, and that it is God who, by his tongue (ÆalÅ lisÅni-hi), said ‘I am God’ (anÅ AllÅh) is an unbeliever – the Muslims are agreed on that. God indeed does not indwell in humanity and does not speak by the tongue (ÆalÅ lisÅn) of a human but sends the Messengers with His words. [The Messengers] then say on His behalf (Æalay-hi) what He ordered them to communicate and He thus says, by the tongues (ÆalÅ alsina) of the Messengers, what He ordered them to say.25

Finally, as for ‘knowing whether, when he died, al-ÓallÅj repented, between himself and God, or did not repent, this is a mystery (ghayb) of which God alone has the knowledge’.26 Moreover, for Ibn Taymiyya, it changes nothing about the fact that he had to be put to death. In the same Fatwa II in which he considers that ‘Muslims only killed [al-ÓallÅj] for his doctrine of the indwelling (˙ulËl) [of the divine in humanity] and of their union (itti˙Åd),’ Ibn Taymiyya also writes that, God and His Messenger have called the Nazarenes unbelievers and the Muslims are agreed on their unbelief in regard to God and His Messenger. One of the gravest things which [the Nazarenes] claim is the indwelling [of the divine in humanity] and their union by the Messiah, the son of Mary. As for those who speak of indwelling and union about someone else than the Messiah, as the exaggerators (ghÅliya) do about ÆAlÈ [ibn AbÈ ÊÅlib], the ÓallÅjiyya about al-ÓallÅj, the ÓÅkimiyya about [the Fņimid caliph] al-ÓÅkim, etc., what they say is worse than the sayings of the Nazarenes, since the Messiah, the son of Mary, is more eminent than all these. Those [people in fact] belong to the genus of the followers of the Impostor (al-dajjÅl), who will claim to be divine so that people follow him.27

The indwelling and union referred to so far or, in other terms, the ‘attribution of some kind of divinity’28 are ‘bound’ (muqayyad), ‘particular’ (khÅßß) to individuals (Jesus, ÆAlÈ, al-ÓallÅj, al-ÓÅkim …).29 In Fatwa III, Ibn Taymiyya turns his attention also to the ‘general’ (ÆÅmm), ‘absolute’ (mu†laq) type of ˙ulËl and itti˙Åd. Those who report, from AbË YazÈd al-Bis†ÅmÈ and others, sayings relating to the particular union [of the divine and the human], the negating of their difference, and excuse them about that, say that their reason was absent, so that they said: ‘I am the Real’, ‘Glory to me’, and ‘There is nobody but God in this jubbah’. When, they say, someone is strongly in love and his heart is weak, he becomes absent, by his beloved one to his love, by what he finds to his finding [it], and by what he remembers to his remembering, so that what was not fades away and that what has not ceased [to be] remains. Someone, it is reported, threw himself in the water and his lover threw himself [in it] after him. ‘Me, I fell’, he said, ‘why then did you fall, you?’ – ‘I was absent, by you, to myself’, [the lover] said, ‘and I thought that you were me.’30

For Ibn Taymiyya, a state like that one, wherein someone ceases to distinguish between the Lord and the servant, as well as between what is commanded and what is prohibited, is neither

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knowledge, nor reality. It is rather, at the utmost, a defectiveness of his reason by means of which one differentiates between this and that. At best then someone will excuse him rather than consider that what he says is [some] real perception of the truth.31

That said, a group of the Sufis who claim to really perceive the truth consider such [states] a real perception of the truth (ta˙qÈq) and a realisation of the [divine] oneness (taw˙Èd). It is notably what the author of The Stopping-places of the travellers (ManÅzil al-sÅ’irÈn),32 Ibn al-ÆArÈf,33 and others did. [The situation is] similar to the [doctrine] of general union, which a group [of thinkers] also considered a real perception of the truth (ta˙qÈq) and a realisation of the [divine] oneness (taw˙Èd), for example Ibn ÆArabÈ al-ÊÅ’È. A group [of people] were of the opinion that al-ÓallÅj was one of these [Sufis]. They subsequently formed two parties. One party say that he fell in such a [state of] extinction. He was therefore excusable in regard to the inward aspect [of things] (fÈ l-bņin) but killing him was necessary in regard to the outward [rules of the religion] (fÈ l-ΩÅhir). The executioner, they say, was a jihÅd fighter and the killed one a martyr. They report about one of the shaykhs34 that he used to say: ‘[Al-ÓallÅj] stumbled. If I had been his contemporary, I would have taken his hand!’ They consider his state to be of the genus of the states of the people who experience ecstasy and extinction. A second party is [formed by] those who accept as authentic the state of the people experiencing extinction, as far as realising the oneness of Lordship is concerned, and say that it is the ultimate [accessible point]. Al-ÓallÅj, they rather say, [attained] the ultimate [degree] in real perception of the truth and realisation of oneness.35

Further on in the same Fatwa III, Ibn Taymiyya writes, in relation to ÆAbdullÅh al-AnßÅrÈ of HerÅt, that people, say that [al-ÓallÅj] was killed for having divulged the secret of the realisation of oneness (taw˙Èd) and the real perception of the truth (ta˙qÈq), which it was not fitting for him to divulge. … What these people really [mean by what they] say is similar to what is [meant and] said by someone saying that what the Nazarenes say about the Messiah is true, that it is also valid for others than him among the Prophets and the Friends [of God] (walÈ) but that it is not possible to state it openly.36 This is a trap into which many later Sufis fell and this is why al-Junayd, may God have mercy upon him, refuted such people when he was asked about the realisation of [divine] oneness. ‘It consists’, he said, ‘in differentiating between [what is] pre-eternal and [what is] temporally originated’. Al-Junayd, the master of the [Sufi] movement, thus made it manifest that realising the divine oneness does not obtain except by differentiating between the pre-eternal Lord and the temporally originated servant, and not as said by these people who make this be that. These people are the adepts of particular and bound (muqayyad) union and indwelling. As for those who speak of general, absolute, indwelling and union, they are those who say that [God] is by essence in every place, or that He is the existence of the creatures.37 Those who used to speak of indwelling and union, absolute or identifiable (muÆayyan),

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yahya michot were of the opinion that it was what al-ÓallÅj was saying and they therefore helped the latter. This is why, according to the sect of Ibn SabÆÈn, among the victims of injustice there is a group of people among whom one finds al-ÓallÅj.38

In this Fatwa III, Ibn Taymiyya thus sees al-ÓallÅj as exploited by the partisans of absolute monism and pantheism as well as by those who only speak of particular and bound forms of indwelling and union, between God and some humans. That being so, here, in contradistinction to what he does in Fatwa II, the theologian does not affirm that al-ÓallÅj himself was speaking of indwelling and union. So, in his opinion, did al-ÓallÅj really claim to be God, like Pharaoh and al-DajjÅl? Or was there smoke without a fire and did his disciples misbehave in regard to him as the Christians in regard to Jesus, with the consequence that it would be unjust to accuse him of the sins of his followers? At this stage of our analysis, the divergences between the views found in these fatwas do not yet allow a definitive conclusion, as the MamlËk theologian appears to answer both questions positively. Although he generally leans towards calling al-ÓallÅj an impostor,39 he could surely have been less equivocal. Reacting to a text of some length provides a good opportunity to express oneself unambiguously. Therein lies the great interest and value of Ibn Taymiyya’s commentary on the Creed of al-ÓallÅj. Although Ibn Taymiyya writes once again that al-ÓallÅj ‘was killed for heterodoxy (zandaqa)’,40 his presentation of the Sufi master is somehow less hostile in this commentary than in his three fatwas. This is the best thing said by someone coming to his help: he was a righteous man, whose journey was authentic but who was so overwhelmed by his ecstasy (wajd) and [mystical] state that he slipped in his statements and did not know anymore what he was saying; now, things said by someone drunk will be kept secret and will not be reported. The killed one was a martyr, and the [person] who killed him a jihÅd fighter on the path of God. Leave aside what is said by anyone accusing him of extraordinary actions and of mixing the truth with vain things. [In fact], none of the shaykhs of the [Sufi] way – neither the first of them, nor the last of them – approves of al-ÓallÅj in everything he said. Rather, the community is agreed on the fact that he was either mistaken, or disobedient, or a pervert, or [even] an unbeliever. Someone saying that he was right in all these sayings that are reported from him is going astray or, even, will be judged an unbeliever by the consensus of the Muslims. Now, if things are so, how would it be permitted to set as a basis for the people [journeying on] the way of God, words that are only reported from him?41

In Fatwa II, Ibn Taymiyya calls al-JÈlÅnÈ’s opinion on al-ÓallÅj an ‘error’.42 When he quotes it in Fatwa III, it is after stating that his execution was Legally necessary.43 Instead of doing the same in the present passage, he reproduces al-JÈlÅnÈ’s comment that al-ÓallÅj was ‘a righteous man’. As for the consensus of the community, which he now refers to, about the Sufi master, the least that can — 128 —

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be said is that it does not amount to a universal, unconditional condemnation of the latter. The Damascene theologian’s less negative appraisal of al-ÓallÅj proves even more evident when, raising the question of the authenticity of his Creed, he defends him against forgeries. Are these words – and God knows better! – authentically reported from al-ÓallÅj or not? There is indeed, in the chain of those who transmitted them, someone whose circumstances I do not know about. Moreover, I have seen many things attributed to al-ÓallÅj – works, apophthegms, letters … – and which are lies, there is no doubt about it. To be sure, in many of the sayings that are established to be from him, there are things of corrupted nature and confusion. People have nevertheless made him carry far more than his own load, since every individual wanting to bring in a new kind of mystical formula (sha†˙) and excess (†Åmma) attributes it to al-ÓallÅj, as his [ideas constitute] a place more welcoming to such things than other [places].44

Promising though this other Taymiyyan approach may be, the following passage of the theologian’s commentary on the Creed of al-ÓallÅj will still come as a total surprise for the reader of his fatwas: So, if these words of al-ÓallÅj are authentic, their true meaning consists in a disavowal (nafy) of the doctrine of union and indwelling into which a group of Sufis have fallen – such ideas having also been attributed to al-ÓallÅj. These words will thus be, on the part of al-ÓallÅj, a refutation of the adepts of union and indwelling; which is good, and acceptable (˙asan maqbËl). As for putting forward as their exegesis (tafsÈr) things agreeing with the views of AbË l-QÅsim [al-QushayrÈ] on the [divine] attributes, this does not suit these words.45

When, at the beginning of his Epistle, al-QushayrÈ surveys the theological opinions of the great Sufi masters – al-Junayd, al-ShiblÈ, AbË ÊÅlib al-MakkÈ, al-ÓallÅj and others – it is in order to demonstrate their orthodoxy, notably on questions which opposed KalÅm schools like the MuÆtazilÈs and the AshÆarÈs: the difference between pre-eternity and temporally originated existence, the divine essence and attributes, etc. ‘Know’, al-QushayrÈ writes, that the shaykhs of this way built the bases of their doctrine on just foundations as far as the realisation of the divine oneness (taw˙Èd) is concerned, and thereby protected their beliefs from innovations. They adopted for religion what they found confessed by the ancients and by the people of the Sunna: a realisation of the divine oneness entailing neither assimilationism (tamthÈl) nor reductionism (taƆÈl). They knew what the reality of the Pre-eternal is and realised what the characteristic of that which exists ex nihilo is.46

According to Ibn Taymiyya, in the Creed of al-ÓallÅj there are of course ‘words that are vain and others that are equivocal, ambiguous; there are some for which no true meaning can be found and which, furthermore, are confused; and there are some whose meaning is of little interest.’ That said, he acknowledges — 129 —

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yahya michot that, in this ÆAqÈda, ‘there are also things that are true’ (wa-fÈ-hi mÅ huwa ˙aqq).47 For the Damascene theologian, however, al-QushayrÈ’s understanding of these things as corresponding to his own theological beliefs is wrong as they do not relate to the question of the divine attributes but to that of the indwelling of the Creator in the creatures and of their union. One passage suffices to illustrate Ibn Taymiyya’s perspective: his comment on the second sentence of the Creed: ‘[As for] the [being] whose appearing is by the body, the accident necessarily accompanies it.’ ‘These words,’ Ibn Taymiyya writes, imply the affirmation of the body, of a thing (shay’) that appears by the body, and of an accident that necessarily accompanies it. Now, for those whose way AbË l-QÅsim [al-QushayrÈ] supports and for the rest of the KalÅm theologians, in the creation there is nothing but bodies and accidents as the atom (jawhar fard) is a part of the body. These words are thus not in agreement with such a [theory]. Moreover, it could in itself be said that these [words] are a kind of mystical expression (sha†˙), not a truth. What is indeed this [being] whose appearing is by the body? If it is the body, it is not right that the latter be called ‘the [being] whose appearing is by the body’. If it is something other than it – this being conceded to him – what is necessitating the evocation of that [other thing] in particular by speaking of it independently of the body although the accident necessarily accompanies the body in a more obvious way than it necessarily accompanies what is not a body? Moreover, when it is said that ‘the accident necessarily accompanies it’, that is the way followed by some of the theologians of modernist (mu˙dath) KalÅm in order to demonstrate the temporal origination of bodies by means of the fact that the accidents necessarily accompany them. In such a way, there is however a confusion that we have mentioned elsewhere; it is not the way of the shaykhs and of the knowers [of the truth] (ÆÅrif). [Here is] one of the best manners to understand these words [of al-ÓallÅj]: the [person] who said them wanted to show the vanity of the doctrine of indwelling (˙ulËl), of union (itti˙Åd), and of the godhead’s appearing in humanity (ΩuhËr al-lÅhËt fÈ l-nÅsËt): [he meant] that the Lord, glorified is He, does not indwell in any of the creatures and does not appear in any of the bodies [and] produced beings (maßnËÆa), as said by those who say that He appeared in the Messiah, in ÆAlÈ, in al-ÓallÅj, etc. (this is what is said by those among them who are adepts of the identification (taÆyÈn) [of the locus of indwelling]), and as said by those who say similar things about the totality of the produced beings (according to the doctrine of Ibn ÆArabÈ, Ibn SabÆÈn and their like). [If this is so], the words [of al-ÓallÅj ‘God] made it necessary, for everything, to originate temporally’48 mean that, for the [created beings], He made that a necessary concomitant, inseparable from them, so that what is temporally originated does not become pre-eternal. As for his words ‘the [being] whose appearing is by the body …’, they allude to any thing appearing by these bodies which would be deemed to be the Real and to be appearing in the bodies. The accident would necessarily accompany this [thing] appearing in the body just as it necessarily accompanies this body. The [thing] appearing in the body would then be in the situation of the body itself, and to make one of the two a Lord, a Creator, and the other a creature, would not be worthier than the reverse.49

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This text and the rest of Ibn Taymiyya’s commentary on the Creed of al-ÓallÅj are amazing in more than one respect. This ÆAqÈda indeed offers a striking example of transcendentalism. Underlining the contingency, dependence, corporality, disunity and existential weakness of the creatures, in space as well as in time, it implicitly extols, by contrast, the greatness, the total otherness, and the uniqueness of the pre-eternal God. Thereafter it develops into an explicitly negationist theology, reducing God to an entirely immaterial and abstract reality, interpreting accordingly several Scriptural notions suggesting spatio-temporality and perceptibility by the senses or the imagination, and thus reminding one far more of MuÆtazilism than of Óanbalism or AshÆarism. It is the debates opposing these early KalÅm schools that are undoubtedly the immediate background and context of al-ÓallÅj’s Creed, and Ibn Taymiyya is most probably mistaken when he reads it as a deliberate refutation of the doctrine of indwelling and union.50 Even more surprising than such a misreading, and more important, is the fact that Ibn Taymiyya now sees al-ÓallÅj as being opposed to ˙ulËl and itti˙Åd, i.e. a doctrine often attributed to the latter not only by his disciples, the ÓallÅjiyya, by unionists like Ibn ÆArabÈ, Ibn SabÆÈn et alii, but also, sometimes, by the MamlËk theologian himself! The contrast could therefore not be greater between such an approach and what we now read in this commentary. Following the latter, to call al-ÓallÅj a ˙ulËlÈ or itti˙ÅdÈ should logically be nothing but defamation and calumny. He should be cleared of the associationism of the ÓallÅjiyya as much as Jesus or ÆAlÈ are innocent of the sins of those who proclaim their divinity. Later unionists cannot use him as their patron saint and he would have been an adversary of Ibn ÆArabÈ and his like. That has the consequence that two of the four questions raised earlier need to be asked again: Why was he put to death? And what was the real meaning of his AnÅ l-Óaqq? It would indeed be absurd to claim, simultaneously, that al-ÓallÅj was opposed to the doctrine of indwelling and union and, as Ibn Taymiyya writes in Fatwa II, that ‘Muslims only killed him for his doctrine of the indwelling (˙ulËl) [of the divine in humanity] and of their union (itti˙Åd)’.51 So, the only reason for killing him would have been his zandaqa, an accusation which the Damascene theologian maintains in his commentary, but this heterodoxy would not be much more than a matter of sorcery, satanic states and fallacious tricks, as explained in Fatwa I. As for AnÅ l-Óaqq and similar theopathic formulae, it would also be absurd to think that al-ÓallÅj would have meant to express by them an experience of indwelling and union, either delimited or absolute, since Ibn Taymiyya believes that he wrote his ÆAqÈda in refutation of such ideas. Such excessive ecstatic statements would then have to be explained in one of the manners mentioned in the Taymiyyan fatwas: as an imposture, as a phenomenon of satanic possession or, somewhat less negatively, as a mental disorder due to a passionate love of God.

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yahya michot In Fatwa I, Ibn Taymiyya refers to his participation in the execution of a wizard possessed by a demon in 715/1315.52 This fatwa is therefore posterior not only to this date but to the commentary on al-ÓallÅj’s Creed. The absence of any allusion to indwelling and unionism in this Fatwa I, and the fact that the sole justification then offered for al-ÓallÅj’s execution relates to sorcery, fit perfectly with this later date. As for Fatwa II, in which Ibn Taymiyya accuses al-ÓallÅj of ˙ulËl and itti˙Åd, it must logically represent an earlier stage of his thought and be anterior to his commentary on the Sufi’s Creed, i.e., probably, 708/1308–709/1309. The date of Fatwa III is less clear. The complexity of the passages in which Ibn Taymiyya then speaks of the charges of ˙ulËl and itti˙Åd sometimes retained against al-ÓallÅj – without sharing them explicitly himself – seems to indicate a later date, either contemporary with or posterior to the commentary on the Creed. One could elaborate on the Damascene theologian’s misapprehensions in his commentary on the Creed of al-ÓallÅj. Far more useful here, however, is to underline that, in relation to his Fatwa II and Fatwa I, this commentary demonstrates a profound development of his thought on al-ÓallÅj, which thus proves far more complex than has generally been assumed – notably by L. Massignon.53 Al-ÓallÅj is indeed now seen as opposed to the worst doctrine of fanÅ’ – i.e., neither the extinction of the servant’s will by his conforming to the divine religious, ethical will, nor the fanÅ’ al-shuhËd by his ceasing to contemplate anything else than God, but the fanÅ’ al-wujËd which consists in ‘bearing witness that there is nothing existing but God, that the existence of the Creator is the existence of the created, and that there is thus no difference between the Lord and the servant – this is the extinction of the adepts of straying and heresy, who fall into the [doctrines of] indwelling and union’.54 To oppose such doctrines of indwelling, union and extinction must surely be credited to this Sufi master whom Ibn Taymiyya otherwise often accuses of being possessed by the devil or psychologically weak in his ecstatic raptures! That said, in relation to theological deontology, one should also give its full importance to the statement by Ibn Taymiyya that it would be ‘better, more rigorous and more useful’ to search for the truth by following another way than al-ÓallÅj’s.55 Just as he refuses al-RÅzÈ’s kind of rationalism,56 he considers that the fundamentals of the religion (ußËl al-dÈn) cannot be defined on the basis of the ecstatic experiences of Sufis like al-ÓallÅj or others. This rigorism surely did not facilitate his relations with the MamlËk religious establishment and was in fact already a lost cause in his time. At the crossroads of Sufism and KalÅm, Ibn Taymiyya’s commentary on the ÆAqÈda of al-ÓallÅj confirms the necessity of an unpartitioned study of these dimensions of classical Islamic thought. The Shaykh al-IslÅm’s refusal to follow al-QushayrÈ’s reading of this Creed in relation to theological debates concerning

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ibn taymiyya’s commentary on the

CREED

of al-hallaj

the divine attributes, and his preference for an approach to that text as an anti-˙ulËlÈ and anti-itti˙ÅdÈ manifesto, demonstrate how deeply marked, and worried, he was by the spread of the theosophism of Ibn ÆArabÈ, Ibn SabÆÈn and their like among his contemporaries. As for the real nature of the beliefs of al-ÓallÅj himself, L. Massignon writes that the Creed commented on by Ibn Taymiyya is ‘of the same type as the later ˙anbalite ÆaqÈda.’57 It does not seem, however, that the Damascene theologian would have shared this opinion since, in some parts of his commentary, he criticises al-ÓallÅj’s statements for contradicting the Scriptures. For example, about the Sufi’s affirmation ‘No above elevates Him,’ he writes: ‘If, thereby, [al-ÓallÅj] meant that God is not above the creation, this is not true.’58 There is an al-ÓallÅj mystery and, when repeatedly asked to position himself in regard to it, Ibn Taymiyya was eventually led to change some of his earlier views. In doing so, he has not only demonstrated that he was more open minded than some would be ready to think but – and this is just as interesting – he has invited the historian of classical Islamic thought to readdress the questions of the true nature of the Sufi master’s ecstatic experience and of the influence of his theological views on later Islamic spirituality.

notes 1. The 9/11 Commission Report (ch. 12, 362), quoted more fully in Y. Michot, Muslims under Non-Muslim Rule. Ibn Taymiyya on … the status of Mardin. Texts translated, annotated and presented in relation to six modern readings of the Mardin fatwa. Foreword by J. Piscatori (Oxford/London: Interface Publications, 2006), 126; see more generally 123–32, and Y. Michot, Ibn Taymiyya. Mécréance et pardon (Beirut/ Paris: Albouraq, 2005). 2. On Ibn Taymiyya and falsafa, see Th. F. Michel (ed. and trans.), A Muslim Theologian’s Response to Christianity. Ibn Taymiyya’s Al-jawÅb al-ßa˙È˙ (Delmar: Caravan Books, 1984), 15–23. 3. Y. Michot, ‘Vanités intellectuelles … L’impasse des rationalismes selon le Rejet de la contradiction d’Ibn Taymiyya’, Oriente Moderno 19 (2000), 597–617; 600. 4. Y. Michot, ‘A MamlËk Theologian’s Commentary on Avicenna’s RisÅla A∂˙awiyya. Being a Translation of a Part of the Dar’ al-TaÆÅru∂ of Ibn Taymiyya, with Introduction, Annotation, and Appendices’, Journal of Islamic Studies 14.2–3 (2003), Part I, 149–203; Part II, 309–363; Vanités. 5. On Ibn Taymiyya and Sufism, see, among many other references, Th. Michel, Response, 24–39; Th. Homerin, ‘Ibn TaimÈya’s Al-ÍËfÈyah wa-al-FuqarÅ’’, Arabica 32 (1985), 219–44; Y. Michot, Musique et danse selon Ibn Taymiyya. Le Livre du SamÅÆ et de la danse (KitÅb al-samÅÆ wa-l-raqß) compilé par le Shaykh Mu˙ammad al-ManbijÈ (Paris: J. Vrin, 1991); Ibn Taymiyya. Le haschich et l’extase (Beirut/Paris: Albouraq, 2001). 6. See G. Makdisi, ‘Ibn Taymiyya: A ÍËfÈ of the QÅdiriya Order’, American Journal of Arabic Studies 1 (1973), 118–29; republished in his Religion, Law and Learning in Classical Islam (London: Variorum, 1991), VII.

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yahya michot 7. See for example Ibn Taymiyya, MajmËÆ al-FatÅwÅ (hereafter referred to as MF), ed. ÆA. Ibn QÅsim, 37 vols (Rabat: Maktabat al-MaÆÅrif, 1401/1981), ii, 286–361, in which the Damascene theologian is asked his opinion on verses and statements by the shaykh Najm al-DÈn ibn IsrÅ’Èl, Ibn ÆArabÈ, RÅbiÆa, al-ÓallÅj, ShihÅb al-DÈn al-SuhrawardÈ, Ibn al-FÅri∂, Aw˙ad al-DÈn al-KirmÅnÈ, al-ÆAfÈf al-TilimsÅnÈ and the shaykh ÆAlÈ al-ÓarÈrÈ. 8. See Th. Michel, ‘Ibn Taymiyya’s Shar˙ on the FutË˙ al-Ghayb of ÆAbd al-QÅdir al-JÈlÅnÈ’, Hamdard Islamicus 4.2 (1981), 3–12. 9. In addition to the texts referred to here, see also, for example, Ibn Taymiyya, al-JawÅb al-ßa˙È˙ li-man baddala dÈn al-MasÈ˙, ed. ÆA. NÅßir, ÆA. al-ÆAskar, Ó. al-ÓamdÅn, 7 vols (RiyÅdh: DÅr al-Æåßima li-l-Nashr wa-l-TawzÈÆ, 1419/1999), iii, 386; Dar’ al-TaÆÅru∂, trans. Michot, MamlËk Theologian I, 200; Homerin, ÍËfÈyah, 233. 10. L. Massignon, La Passion de HallÅj, martyr mystique de l’Islam, 4 vols (Paris: Gallimard, 1975), ii, 52–6 (Trans. H. Mason, The Passion of al-ÓallÅj, 4 vols (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982), ii, 45–9). The three fatwas are edited in Ibn Taymiyya’s MF: Fatwa I in MF, xxxv, 108–19; Fatwa II in MF, ii, 480–7; Fatwa III in MF, viii, 312–19 (the order is Massignon’s). I would note in passing that Massignon’s understanding of the content of these three texts is often highly questionable. 11. Ibn Taymiyya, al-IstiqÅma, ed. M. R. SÅlim, 2 vols (RiyÅdh: DÅr al-Fa∂Èla li-l-Nashr wa-l-TawzÈÆ; Beirut: DÅr Ibn Óazm li-l-ÊibÅÆa wa-l-Nashr wa-l-TawzÈÆ, 1420/2000), i, 115–41. On the date of al-IstiqÅma, see the introduction in M. SÅlim’s edition, 6. 12. IstiqÅma, i, 3. 13. Two creeds are actually attributed to al-ÓallÅj. They are translated and studied by Massignon, Passion, iii, 137–44 (trans. Mason, iii, 126–9). The first creed appears at the beginning of al-KalÅbÅdhÈ (d. 380/990), al-TaÆarruf li-madhhab ahl al-taßawwuf (ed. M. al-NawÅwÈ, Cairo: Maktabat al-KulliyyÅt al-Azhariyya, 1400/1980), 48–9. The second, which is the one commented on by Ibn Taymiyya, is preserved in al-QushayrÈ, al-RisÅla fÈ Æilm al-taßawwuf (Beirut: DÅr al-KitÅb al-ÆArabÈ, n.d.; reprint of the Cairo edition of 1367/1957), 4; see also L. Massignon and P. Kraus, AkhbÅr al-ÓallÅj (Paris: Larose, 1936), no 13, 68–9, 31*–2*. 14. MF, viii, 314 (Fatwa III). 15. MF, ii, 483 (Fatwa II); viii, 313 (Fatwa III); IstiqÅma, i, 116. On al-JÈlÅnÈ’s position, see Massignon, Passion, ii, 41 (trans. Mason, ii, 35). 16. MF, xxxv, 109 (Fatwa I): ‘He stayed in gaol for a time, until the day when the miscreant nature, the heterodoxy, of what he was saying was recognised, and when he [himself] acknowledged it. He had for example mentioned this in one of his writings: when someone unable to perform the pilgrimage (˙ajj) erects a House at home, circumambulates it as [pilgrims] circumambulate the House [in Mekka], and gives alms to thirty orphans – in a manner which he was mentioning – this dispenses him from the pilgrimage.’ See also MF, viii, 316 (Fatwa III). 17. See MF, xxxv, 108, 111, 114, 119 (Fatwa I). 18. MF, ii, 480. Further in the same fatwa (481), Ibn Taymiyya writes: ‘In sum, there is no divergence within the community on the fact that someone who speaks of the indwelling of God in humanity and of the union of the latter with Him, and who says that man will be a god and that such [individual] is one of the gods, is an unbeliever whose blood it is permitted [to spill]. Now, this is why al-ÓallÅj was killed.’ 19. See MF, xxxv, 110–11 (Fatwa I); ii, 482 (Fatwa II).

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ibn taymiyya’s commentary on the 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50.

CREED

of al-hallaj

MF, xxxv, 111 (Fatwa I). MF, xxxv, 108 (Fatwa I). See also MF, ii, 484–5 (Fatwa II). MF, viii, 317 (Fatwa III). See also MF, xiv, 185; JawÅb, iii, 385; iv, 496–7. MF, ii, 482 (Fatwa II). ‘When the [faculty of] discernment of such [a one] goes and his reason becomes absent – so that the pen, about him, is lifted – he is not to be punished for what he uttered in that state, although one knows that it is something erroneous, going astray, and that it is a [spiritually] defective state, [something] that does not happen to the Friends of God’ (MF, ii, 482, Fatwa II). ‘As for saying that [al-ÓallÅj] was only speaking about such things in ecstasy (i߆ilÅm), this was not the case. Rather, he used to compose writings [about that] and used to say it while he was present and awake’ (MF, ii, 486, Fatwa II). MF, ii, 481 (Fatwa II). MF, ii, 486 (Fatwa II); see also MF, xxxv, 110 (Fatwa I). MF, ii, 480–1 (Fatwa II); see also JawÅb, i, 95–7; ii, 402–4. MF, iii, 395: jaÆala fÈ-hi nawÆan min al-ilÅhiyya. On the bound type of union (itti˙Åd muqayyad), see also MF, x, 59; JawÅb, iv, 303–4, 497. MF, viii, 313 (Fatwa III). MF, viii, 313 (Fatwa III). ÆAbdullÅh ibn Mu˙ammad al-AnßÅrÈ l-HarawÈ (HerÅt, 396/1006–481/1089), ÓanbalÈ Sufi. See S. de Beaurecueil, ‘al-AnßÅrÈ’, EI2. AbË l-ÆAbbÅs A˙mad, Ibn al-ÆArÈf, al-ÍanhÅjÈ (481/1088 – Marrakesh, 536/1141), Sufi and ascetic esteemed by Ibn ÆArabÈ. See A. Faure, ‘Ibn al-ÆArÈf’, EI2. ÆAbd al-QÅdir al-JÈlÅnÈ; see Massignon, Passion, ii, 375. MF, viii, 313–14 (Fatwa III). MF, viii, 316–17 (Fatwa III). See also JawÅb, iv, 497. MF, viii, 318 (Fatwa III). MF, viii, 318 (Fatwa III). See MF, xxxv, 119 (Fatwa I); MF, ii, 481 (Fatwa II). IstiqÅma, i, 116. IstiqÅma, i, 116–17. MF, ii, 483; see supra. MF, viii, 313; see supra. IstiqÅma, i, 119. IstiqÅma, i, 119. Al-QushayrÈ, RisÅla, 3. IstiqÅma, i, 121. The beginning of the first sentence of al-ÓallÅj’s ÆAqÈda. IstiqÅma, i, 123–4. Most astonishingly, Ibn Taymiyya is also misled in his interpretation of the end of the first part of the ÆAqÈda, which he relates to God although it clearly relates to the created being. ‘He who is sheltered by a place, the “where” embraces him (man ÅwÅ-hu ma˙all, adraka-hu ayn). These words are, on the part of [al-ÓallÅj], a demonstration, by means of the incongruity of the “where” for God, of the incongruity [for Him] to be sheltered in a place. It is a null and void argumentation. The knowledge that one has of Him is indeed more manifest than the knowledge that one [might] have of

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yahya michot

51. 52. 53.

54. 55. 56. 57. 58.

the incongruity of the “where” for Him. Now, the Sunnis, the ancients (salaf) of the community and its imÅms, in general, do not deny the “where” from Him absolutely, because of the existence of authentic texts, coming from the Prophet, God bless him and grant him peace, that are categorical on this matter’ (IstiqÅma, i, 126). MF, ii, 480; see supra. MF, xxxv, 116. See Massignon, Passion, ii, 52 (trans. Mason, ii, 45): ‘Ibn TaymÈya (d. 728/1328), the penetrating and intolerant opponent of the monism introduced by Ibn ÆArabÈ, regarded HÅllÅj as the forerunner of this heresy. He therefore persecuted his memory with particular intensity.’ MF, x, 222, trans. Y. Michot, ‘Textes spirituels d’Ibn Taymiyya. I: L’extinction (fanÅ’)’, Le Musulman 11 (June–September 1990), 6–9, 29; 7. IstiqÅma, i, 121. See Michot, Vanités, 598. Massignon, Passion, iii, 141 (trans. Mason, iii, 129). IstiqÅma, i, 128. Annotated French translations of the main Taymiyyan texts concerning al-ÓallÅj are due to be published in 2008: Y. Michot, Le sang et la foi d’alÓallâj (Beirut/Paris: Albouraq).

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1 8

Ibn KemÅl (d. 940/1534) on Ibn æArabÈ’s Hagiology Tim Winter The rapid and extensive spread of Ibn æArabÈ’s metaphysics gave new energy to a well-established set of latent tensions in Islamic intellectual life. While Sufism’s validity as a generic category of inward disciplinary tools was hardly ever challenged, the formal articulation of claims to a direct and unitary mystical experience periodically raised difficulties for the æulamÅ’. Alexander Knysh has charted some of the arguments which arose in connection with Ibn æArabÈ’s attempt to offer a comprehensive mystical theology rooted in his own inspirations (futË˙Åt).1 However Knysh’s survey, while invaluable, is focused largely on the debate in the Arabic-speaking world, and our knowledge of analogous arguments elsewhere, particularly in India and the Turkic lands, remains extremely uneven.2 The present essay will seek to examine the reception of Ibn æArabÈ’s hagiology by an emblematic Ottoman Shaykh al-IslÅm (ßeyhülislÅm), Ibn KemÅl (Ibn KamÅl), also known as KemÅlpÅsßÅzÅde (d. 940/1534), regarded by admirers as the ‘Avicenna of Anatolia’.3 The new Ottoman state inherited a set of intellectual problems which had been current amongst the scholars of Seljuk Anatolia, and which were revitalised by scholarly refugees from the Timurid onslaught in Central Asia and Iran. The Ottoman debates were carried out by a strong MÅturÈdÈ and ÓanafÈ class of scholars (æilmiyye) which determined the curricula and the parameters of discussion in the Ottoman medreses,4 and which helped shape the ruling establishment’s understanding of itself as the custodian of a polity which should make conspicuous claims to Islamic legitimacy and leadership. This emergent class of Ottoman ÆulamÅ’ faced three characteristic challenges, which interacted in complex ways. Firstly, they urgently needed to evolve strategies of dealing with Turkoman popular ShÈæism, a charismatic and sometimes antinomian phenomenon which lacked a substantial analogue in the Arab world. The destabilising potential of this hybrid system, which was extremely widespread among the nomads of the central plateaux, was a pressing problem for the first three Ottoman centuries, having already expressed itself in several serious revolts against Seljuk rule.5 As Ibn KemÅl was aware,6 it was one tributary of the Safavid theanthropic claims which proved so disastrous to the SunnÈ åq-qoyunlË in neighbouring Iran.7 Monistic language, including many terms shared with Ibn æArabÈ’s system, — 137 —

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tim winter was part of the core vocabulary of these sects. Secondly, the proximity and rapid incorporation of QËnawÈ’s circle in Konya ensured that the Ottoman intellectual world was more quickly porous to Ibn æArabÈ’s ideas than were most other Muslim communities. Thirdly, the context of conquest provided a network of new colleges where scholars could work relatively unimpeded by an existing intellectual culture. In such a world, one could not be criticised by representatives of an indigenous tradition of scholarship, but only by scholars who, like oneself, had their roots elsewhere. Such men had come to the new Ottoman lands in the hope of royal patronage; and, in a territory where the waqf infrastructure was still less developed than in other Islamic lands, it was not always wise to endanger one’s position by launching a bitter religious polemic against those scholars and saints who already enjoyed the sultan’s favour. In these three respects, then, the Ottoman hierarchy was guided in its reception of Sufi ideas by considerations different from those explored in the context of Knysh’s study.

the early ottoman reception: qaysari and fenari Despite the existence of scholars hostile to Ibn æArabÈ’s viewpoint, the early Ottoman sultans generally favoured ÆulamÅ’ with a commitment to his system. The first müderris of the new polity was DÅËd al-QayßarÈ (d. 751/1350), appointed by Orhan to preside over the first Ottoman medrese, the OrhÅnÈye in Iznik.8 Although QayßarÈ had acquired the usual Islamic disciplines in Egypt, he was primarily a Sufi intellectual, the khalÈfa of æAbd al-RazzÅq QÅshÅnÈ, who was, in turn, the star pupil and khalÈfa of Íadr al-DÈn QËnawÈ, the leading light of Ibn æArabÈ’s circle in Konya. Like QÅshÅnÈ and QËnawÈ, Orhan’s appointee was mainly known for his exegesis of Ibn æArabÈ’s FußËß al-˙ikam. Explaining the supreme status of Sufism, he writes: This faction does no more than to provide an exposition of the divine essence, and the names and attributes of God, insofar as the theophany and degree of each leads to the divine essence. The subject-matter of this science is the unique essence, its eternal qualities and everlasting attributes, and among the questions with which it deals is the manner in which multiplicity proceeds from it [kayfiyyat ßudËr al-kathra ÆanhÅ] and returns to it […] This science is nobler and more precious than all others, due to the nobility of its subject matter and topics. [It is more noble than] the sciences of philosophy [˙ikma] and theology [kalÅm], since although their subject matter is the same as that of this science, they do not discuss the method by which man may reach his Lord.9

QayßarÈ is significant in that he extends certain shifts in the exegetic treatment of Ibn æArabÈ. QËnawÈ had already sought to present the Andalusian master as a systematic thinker, incorporating peripatetic and kalÅm discussions of ontology, and QayßarÈ continues this, attempting to use kalÅm vocabulary where he could, and devoting particular attention to unravelling difficult cruxes in the FußËß

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ibn kemal on ibn Æ arabi ’ s hagiology which might confuse readers or distract them from contemplating the overall coherence of the system. He also composed an extended introduction to enable readers to begin their reading of the FußËß with the large contours of the author’s system, as understood by the commentator, already clear in their minds. In this introduction QayßarÈ offered an extensive discussion of the key doctrine of the Perfect Man (al-insÅn al-kÅmil). To borrow from Christological language, we may say that he favoured a ‘high’ interpretation of the principle, stating that the Perfect Man flows in all existent things as does the True God (al-insÅn al-kÅmil lÅ budda an yasrÈ fÈ jamÈÆ al-mawjËdÅt ka-sarayÅn al-˙aqq fÈhÅ). He is aware of the potential hazards of the doctrine, and finds it necessary to retell an anecdote about æAlÈ, which has him claiming in a khu†ba: ‘I am the dot of the Basmala. I am God’s side which you neglected [cf. Qur’Ån 39:56]. I am the Pen. I am the Preserved Tablet. I am the Throne and the Footstool. I am the seven heavens and the earths.’ He explains that after uttering this sha†˙ æAlÈ returns to his human quality (bashariyya) and to the degree of ‘perceiving multiplicity’, where he apologises for his words, affirming that he is a mere slave of God.10 Thus does QayßarÈ deal with the risk that the insÅn kÅmil doctrine will be misinterpreted as incarnationist (˙ulËl): the unitive and divine experience of the Sufi is in fact not his experience at all, but God’s, and words uttered in that state should be interpreted accordingly. Another belief sometimes read into Ibn æArabÈ’s hagiology and reasonably common in radical dervish circles, that of reincarnation,11 he also addresses: ‘the things that the awliyÅ’ say that resemble reincarnation’ are not to be misunderstood, souls may appear to manifest themselves in more than one body. However, this is by virtue of the unicity of the divine truth (a˙adiyyat al-˙aqÈqa) where all is, in the divine eye, one; however, from the human perspective the souls are indeed different, and unique. Those who profess reincarnation are therefore to be repudiated.12 Possibly out of anxiety over potential misreadings of the doctrine, for QayßarÈ, the concept of the Perfect Man is elongated to include exoteric figures, such as fuqahÅ’. For him, the insÅn kÅmil is a somewhat protean concept; and indeed his handling of Ibn æArabÈ’s hagiology is at times confused, as in his apparent identification of the khatm al-awlÅd with the khatm al-wilÅya.13 QayßarÈ is also far from the philo-ShÈæÈ tendencies of some branches of the exegetic tradition. Sayyid Óaydar åmolÈ, who imports Ibn æArabÈ into a Twelver ShÈæÈ matrix, criticises QayßarÈ for passing over the immaculate imams in silence, and for having included in the category of saint (walÈ) such purely exoteric and SunnÈ figures as MÅlik and AbË ÓanÈfa.14 QayßarÈ’s way of reading Ibn æArabÈ’s insÅn kÅmil doctrine becomes emblematic of the way in which many later Ottomans chose to receive the Akbarian heritage. It is not a distorted reading, for it does not deviate significantly from the master’s quasi-monistic cosmology, but it does emphasise those strands within it

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tim winter which seek to emphasise the divine otherness and transcendence, and stresses those possible readings of Ibn æArabÈ which show the saint as a passive recipient of the gift of being, rather than as a dynamic agent in creation. QayßarÈ’s emphasis is on the divinity shown as noumenal, not as phenomenal; the possibility of an incarnationist (˙ulËlÈ) reading or misreading of the Akbarian system has been somewhat diminished. QayßarÈ also represents one channel through which the Ottoman learned class, as this slowly constituted itself, learned of the Sufism of Ibn al-FÅri∂. In the Arab world, the Egyptian poet was no less controversial than Ibn æArabÈ: he had been passionately opposed by Ibn KathÈr, BurhÅn al-DÈn al-BiqÅæÈ and Ibn KhaldËn, while Ibn Óajar al-æAsqalÅnÈ, generally a supporter of the Sufis, had called him ‘as dangerous as snake venom in sweet honey’.15 One of the indispensable insights of Knysh’s work on Ibn æArabÈ’s legacy is the perception that Ibn æArabÈ and Ibn al-FÅri∂ were often twin targets.16 However QayßarÈ, like several other FußËßÈs, comments reverently on his poem al-TÅ’iyya.17 The basis for his commentary is clearly the earlier commentary of SaæÈd al-DÈn FerghÅnÈ, another member of QËnawÈ’s circle in Konya,18 and if we are to believe æAbd al-Ra˙mÅn JÅmÈ – who is of course a later source – QËnawÈ himself commented orally on the same poem, in which case QËnawÈ again is likely to be the source of the Ottoman tradition of interpretation.19 In the introduction to QayßarÈ’s commentary on the TÅ’iyya, we observe the same tendencies that we noted earlier in connection with his reading of Ibn æArabÈ. His exegesis of the poem is systematising, with an abundant use of kalÅm vocabulary. The text is, overall, a clever but cautious reading of Ibn al-FÅri∂, which clips the wings of the poet, and redefines him as a formal metaphysician. Later on, Ottoman æilmiyye commentaries were to inflict a similar treatment on the poetry of RËmÈ – a further victory of the traditional over the charismatic.20 The second major Ottoman scholar of the pre-1453 period, Mu˙ammad ibn Óamza al-FanÅrÈ (MollÅ FenÅrÈ, d. 834/1431), was also a celebrated FußËßÈ.21 FenÅrÈ was the first appointee to the office of ßeyhülislÅm, but despite writing extensively on logic and jurisprudence, his main enthusiasm seems to have been for Ibn æArabÈ’s Sufism. Reason (æaql) and its proofs, he argued, are to be taken into account only where they confirm knowledge that has already been granted mystically (mÅ Æulima bi-l-kashf), since the scriptures offer no warrant for ratiocination in matters of religion. The purpose of sharÈÆa is to prepare Muslims for †arÈqa, which in turn exists to lead them on to ˙aqÈqa.22 In a complex reworking of QËnawÈ’s work on Qur’Ånic exegesis and the interpretation of SËra I he repeats the commonplace identification of the bad exoteric scholar as destined for hell, the good exoterist as saved in an ordinary fashion, while those closest to God are the scholars of the esoteric (bņin).23 Among his other works on Sufism, the bestknown is MißbÅ˙ al-uns, an influential commentary on QËnawÈ’s MiftÅ˙ al-ghayb,

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ibn kemal on ibn Æ arabi ’ s hagiology where FenÅrÈ draws particularly on the commentaries on QËnawÈ by JandÈ and FarghÅnÈ.24 QayßarÈ, interestingly, is neglected in the MißbÅ˙, which might seem hard to account for; but this underlines an important feature of Ottoman FußËßÈ writing: there is only a very slight progressive genealogy of interpretation; more commonly, each interpreter returns directly to QËnawÈ, drawing, on particular topics, from the remarks of a few later figures. FenÅrÈ follows QËnawÈ in incorporating ontological language and concerns from the peripatetic tradition as this had been integrated into kalÅm: wujËd, or ‘being’, is the central problematic of his commentary. However, he makes clear his commitment to the full implications of the insÅn kÅmil doctrine. All existents are manifestations of God’s names, and the saint manifests all of them; therefore God, in whom mercy predominates, has decreed that the cosmic system shall be manifested totally by an individual whose prime quality is mercy. Mercy, being and light are the same, and the perfect human being is, like the Prophet, the full and total manifestation of them all.25 FenÅrÈ’s approach may be considered normative in the sophisticated Ottoman reception of Ibn æArabÈ, as is well shown in the next substantial episode of Ottoman engagement: Mehmed II’s desire for a comprehensive account of wujËd, which resulted in the commissioning of three major commentaries on QËnawÈ.26 Mehmed had also requested a discussion of the same topic by æAbd al-Ra˙mÅn JÅmÈ, who supplied two brief assessments of the rival ontologies of Ibn SÈnÅ, Fakhr al-DÈn al-RÅzÈ, and Ibn æArabÈ,27 resolving the controversy decisively in the latter’s favour. A further public token of sultanic approval for FußËßÈ doctrines was Mehmed’s reverence for SinÅn PÅßÅ (d. 891/1486),28 known as a commentator on JurjÅnÈ’s commentary on jÈ’s MawÅqif but also a Sufi poet in Ibn æArabÈ’s tradition. Even more notable was Mehmed’s enthusiasm for the BayramÈ ßeyh Me˙med ibn Óamza åq Shams al-DÈn (AqßemseddÈn, d. 863/1459). AqßemseddÈn was the author of a work refuting a follower of Zayn al-DÈn al-KhÅfÈ (d. 838/1434); this individual had interpreted the doctrine of ‘annihilation’ (fanÅ’) in such a way as to preserve the individual identity of the mystic. For AqßemseddÈn, to level charges of unbelief against Ibn æArabÈ, on the grounds that he was a ‘wujËdÈ’ who believed that ‘only God exists’ (lÅ mawjËd illa’LlÅh) is to condemn all the major Sufis, who, as he seeks to demonstrate through a long series of quotations, also held this view. God alone exists; everything other than Him is a mirage (sarÅb).29 The risÅla attracted condemnation by a certain Ibn Fakhr al-DÈn, and AqßemseddÈn was obliged to defend it in a further, shorter treatise.30

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tim winter

ibn kemal It is time now to turn to Ibn KemÅl. As we have shown above, the Ottoman religious world into which he emerged was already characterised by two distinctive features: firstly, an intense competition between traditional and charismatic religion, and secondly, the domestication by æilmiyye members of monistic styles of Sufism, a process which in the hands of men like FenÅrÈ appeared to be on the point of dethroning kalÅm as the scholars’ primary metaphysical language. Ibn KemÅl bears many significances for Ottoman culture. He was a respected poet.31 He was also a jurist: Colin Imber, in his book on Abu l-SuæËd (Ebu’ssuæËd) has shown how Ibn KemÅl was the first to attempt a thoroughgoing reconciliation between ÓanafÈ law and the Ottoman customary system of land tenure.32 Ibn KemÅl is also the most influential Ottoman author of works on correct Arabic and Persian style.33 He was a noted historian, composing on the orders of Bayezid II a large TevÅrÈh-i ål-i ÆO smÅn, which presents the Ottoman ¯ dynasts as God’s elite champions of SunnÈ Islam.34 Ibn KemÅl’s date of birth is usually given as 873/1468–9. The first reasonably reliable fact known about his career is that he was a cavalryman (sipahi) who, perhaps in 897/1492, abandoned the military in favour of a vocation in the learned hierarchy, through which he rose until he attained the supreme position of ßeyhülislÅm, which he held from 932/1526 until his death in 940/1534. Much of his writing he completed before holding that post, while serving as kazasker with the endlessly campaigning Sultan Selim. His decision to renounce the sword for the pen and an illustrious career that made him the author of over two hundred works apparently came when, as a young soldier, he beheld the reverence in which the theologian MollÅ Lu†fÈ, who like him was from the provincial town of Tokat,35 was held by men of state.36 He began retooling as a scholar by placing himself in MollÅ Lu†fÈ’s hands at the dÅr al-˙adÈth in Edirne. Lu†fÈ’s own orientation left clear marks on his protégé. As keeper of Mehmed the Conqueror’s library, Lu†fÈ had acquired a large amount of material on the philosophical topics which interested the sultan,37 and himself wrote mainly on kalÅm matters; however he was also interested in Sufism, and seems to have been a majdhËb (meczËb), given to ecstatic religious states that earned him the soubriquet ‘Crazy Lu†fÈ’ (Deli Lu†fÈ).38 A pupil of SinÅn PÅßÅ,39 Lu†fÈ also engaged in activities verging on the occult, writing a book on esoteric geometry.40 Lu†fÈ was executed on charges of heresy brought by his rivals, particularly Ha†ÈbzÅde,41 whose summary of the event is annoyingly vague about the charges (‘tamassaka bi-muhmalÅt al-falÅsifa’);42 but the unusual and shocking incident must have contributed to Ibn KemÅl’s own thinking when, in later years, he became the most influential Ottoman to reflect on the parameters of proper Muslim belief. Ibn KemÅl’s aversion to extreme Sufism of the Alid variety is apparent in his RisÅla fÈ takfÈr al-rawÅfi∂, in which he declares that fighting against the new — 142 —

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ibn kemal on ibn Æ arabi ’ s hagiology Safavid state in Iran is an obligation on every Muslim, a far∂ Æayn.43 Ibn KemÅl’s attack on such ShÈæÈ ghuluww did not need to be theologically sophisticated, and in fact, Ottoman theologising against ShÈæism has little of the intricacy and depth of the nuanced polemics against the extreme Sufism which sometimes collapsed into it. He cites the usual ÓanafÈ authorities, including Ibn al-BazzÅz, who held that to present æAlÈ as superior to the first three caliphs constitutes bidÆa, while to deny AbË Bakr’s caliphate is kufr,44 and then argues that the ‘antinomian’ ShÅh IsmÅæÈl’s abrogation of the SharÈÆa compels the same judgement. Safavid ideas of transmigration, incarnation and infallible imamship sat so uneasily with the main thrust of the Qur’Ånic narrative that the argument did not detain Ibn KemÅl for long. Far more problematic was the case of a Sufi metaphysic which, drawing on the natural convergence which, at least in Corbin’s view, existed between imamology and the insÅn kÅmil principle, could conspicuously incorporate ShÈæÈ tendencies, but without overstepping the line into an undeniable incarnationism, or into the denial of the validity of AbË Bakr’s caliphate. The capacity of such synthetic creations to form sophisticated theologies did seem very threatening to the æulamÅ’. At the beginnng of the ninth/fifteenth century Badr al-DÈn (BedreddÈn) of Simavna, the highly articulate scholar-rebel, had developed in his VÅridÅt an interpretation of Ibn æArabÈ that negated external religious differences and hence seemed to elevate the Christian dhimmÈ population into a position of equality with Muslims.45 A further object-lesson in where this could lead was the case of another æilmiyye member, MollÅ QÅbi∂ (QÅbız; QÅbiz-i æAjam; d. ¯ ¯ 934/1527), an Iranian scholar who, initially quite orthodox, allegedly began to spend time in the Istanbul taverns, where he preached the superiority of Jesus over Mu˙ammad. After the two kazaskers had been outwitted by his deft quotations from the Qur’Ån and ˙adÈth, the sultan summoned Ibn KemÅl, who heard him out, and, after an apparently careful debate, adjudged him an apostate: the death penalty was immediately enacted.46 In all of this it is hard not to think of contemporary Mogul travails with syncretistic monisms that seemed to Hinduise Islam; the difference being that for the Ottomans, the autochthonous, majority religion was Christianity. There are interesting parallels between Ibn KemÅl and A˙mad SirhindÈ which might bear exploration in another place. As so often, the sources fail to pinpoint the source of QÅbız’s aberration. ¯ However, his alleged elevation of Jesus to supreme status may well indicate a reading, or properly speaking, a misreading, of Ibn æArabÈ. In the latter’s complex hagiology, Jesus assumes a towering importance: chapters 36 and 37 of the FutË˙Åt are devoted to the æÈsawÈ, or ‘Christic’, saints. These are ‘the awliyÅ’ who are born into Islam and who inherit only from Jesus, through the intermediary of Mu˙ammad’.47 Jesus himself was apparently Ibn æArabÈ’s first teacher.48 Jesus is attractive because he is the ‘seal of universal sainthood’ (khatm

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tim winter al-wilÅya al-ÆÅmma)49 and manifests the divine jamÅl, as the Persian and Ottoman poets knew.50 Akbarian ideas of the insÅn kÅmil could conflate, in his case, with Christian-sounding language about his unique relationship to his body.51 The insÅn kÅmil was also signalled in some popularising Ottoman Sufi language by the symbol of the beautiful Christian boy (tersÅ-beççe), who was identical to the light of God.52 It was on this basis, we may surmise, that QÅbız preached. There were, of ¯ course, precedents: al-ÓallÅj had allegedly said: ‘Fa-fÈ dÈn al-ßalÈbi yakËnu mawtÈ’ (‘Let my death be in the religion of the Cross’), while there had been strong Christian resonances about the martyrdom of æAyn al-Qu∂Åt HamadhÅnÈ.53 In Mogul India, the execution of DÅrÅ ShikËh, whose Sufism was influenced by Ibn æArabÈ, may have been partly justified by the prince’s alleged preoccupation with Jesus.54 For the Ottomans, the hazards of such a focus were evident: the messianic atmosphere which they to some extent nurtured through their grandiose understanding of their dynasty as an eschatological sign could easily fuse with classical Muslim beliefs about the parousia.55 The martyrdom of the FußËßÈ rebel BedreddÈn had been redolent with crypto-Christian significance; indeed, BedreddÈn was from a partly Christian family.56 SunnÈ heresiographers of the time readily pointed out such parallels, the better to condemn the heresiarchs concerned,57 and the mnemonic credal manΩËma of Khi∂r Beg (Hızır Beg, d. 863/1459), written for medrese students, pointedly included a line ¯ insisting on the superiority of prophecy over sainthood.58 In the same period, one early Ottoman FußËßÈ, the BayramÈ ßeyh Me˙med Yazıcıogˇlu, had shown ˘ an awareness of the difficulty, conspicuously including a section on the ranking of the prophets (tartÈb al-anbiyÅ’), showing Jesus as a pointer towards the final prophet, who will unite all the forms of perfection and all of the signs of God (mecÅmiÆ ÅyÅtı müstecmiÆ ola). For Yazıcıogˇlu, Mu˙ammad unites all the degrees individuated by God’s names and attributes; his spirit is from the light of God’s essence (rË˙u nËr-i zÅttandır).59 ¯ Ibn KemÅl’s rebuttal, reflected in a risÅla which almost certainly responds to the QÅbız débacle, is not, however, grounded in the passages in Ibn æArabÈ where it is made clear that Mu˙ammad manifests the divine jalÅl (‘rigour’) as well as the divine beauty, and is hence superior, being the khatm al-nubuwwa, whose prophetic eminence will ‘seal’ the works of Jesus at the end of time.60 Instead, Ibn KemÅl mainly deploys arguments from the Qur’Ån and ˙adÈth, the ijmÅÆ, and TaftÅzÅnÈ’s kalÅm works,61 and uses the issue to clarify the proper ÓanafÈ definition of the zindÈq.62 It is perhaps in his formulations concerning proper and improper versions of Sufism that Ibn KemÅl makes his most authoritative contribution to Ottoman religious thought. Later in Suleiman’s reign, Ebu’s-suæËd acquires supreme status as intepreter of the Law, and as a moderator of the potentially subversive tension

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ibn kemal on ibn Æ arabi ’ s hagiology between the SharÈæa as set forth in the ÓanafÈ textbooks, and the customary law as practised in the courts and partially codified by sultanic decree (qÅnËn-nÅme). Other scholars had already been accepted and even defined as authors of the classical Ottoman statement of other disciplines (FenÅrÈ for logic, and Khusraw (Husrev) for furËÆ al-fiqh). Ibn KemÅl, despite his distinction as a jurist, may be considered primarily significant as the Ottoman theorist of orthodox belief.63 Ibn KemÅl’s implicit exegesis of Ibn æArabÈ, whose ideas, as shown in the problems presented by the likes of BedreddÈn and QÅbız as well as in popular ¯ Turcoman religion, were as attractive to the ÆulamÅ’ as they were potentially subversive, was a complex one. It has already been suggested that the first Ottoman men of religion had adopted a particular strand of the exegetic tradition which read the master as a sober metaphysician and muted his ambitious hagiology. As a scholar of kalÅm he must have been aware that Saæd al-DÈn TaftÅzÅnÈ, whose commentaries on the æAqÅ’id of al-NasafÈ and his own MaqÅßid were among the most widely taught manuals of doctrine in Ottoman medreses, had ascribed invalidity (bu†lÅn) to the doctrine of ‘unqualified being’ (al-wujËd al-mu†laq), which held that multiplicity pertains only to relations and specifications (al-i∂ÅfÅt wa-l-taÆayyunÅt), ‘which are equivalent to imagination and mirage’ (al-khayÅl wa-l-sarÅb).64 TaftÅzÅnÈ had not been opposed to Sufism in principle, and denied that saints who uttered apparently blasphemous sha†˙ utterances while in the state of fanÅ’ were guilty of incarnationism (˙ulËl),65 but his metaphysics attributed much more ontic reality to the world than the FußËßÈ tradition could allow. Given that kalÅm, and not Sufism, was the exclusive source of fiqh judgements on orthodoxy, this posed a difficulty for those müftÈs who, like Ibn KemÅl, revered the memory of QayßarÈ and FenÅrÈ. Unlike some of his immediate successors, such as SaædÈ Çelebi (d. 946/1539) and ÇÈvÈzÅde, (d. 954/1547);66 Ibn KemÅl did not condemn the FußËßÈs, or challenge their view of the divine-human relation. Yet his writing on this most controversial metaphysical topic of the day was driven by a set of priorities very different from those which seem to have motivated QayßarÈ and FenÅrÈ. Most obviously, the issue seems to have been of less importance to him. Unlike them, he did not write a complete commentary on the FußËß or the MiftÅ˙. Neither was he sufficiently possessed by the FußËßÈ system to place it at the centre of his metaphysics. On the contrary, in most of his writings on stock metaphysical questions, such as the emanation versus creation debate, he limits himself to considering Avicennan, MuætazilÈ, and SunnÈ kalÅm positions, even where Ibn æArabÈ’s system might offer an important alternative.67 He invokes Ibn æArabÈ’s views only in certain narrowly defined problem areas. Ibn KemÅl composed a risÅla, known variously as RisÅla dar vujËd-i KhudÅ, RisÅla fÈ bayÅn al-wujËd, and RisÅla fi l-wujËd ÆalÅ aßl al-taßawwuf, which indicates his views on the participation of creation in the divine being, the contentious

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tim winter ontological issue raised by Ibn æArabÈ, and drawn out by QËnawÈ, which ever since had formed the centrepiece of FußËßÈ concerns. While there is little sign of direct influence, in many respects Ibn KemÅl’s treatment bears a resemblance to that of JÅmÈ;68 and indeed, JÅmÈ’s texts were already well stocked with references to the Ottoman commentaries, QayßarÈ and FenÅrÈ in particular.69 The ßeyhülislÅm’s risÅla presents the Necessary Existent as pure light, invoking the usual FußËßÈ proof-text: ‘God is the light of the heavens and the earth’ (Qur. 24:35). Possible being is the shadow of that light (Qur. 25:45, another Akbarian dalÈl, is cited). Existent phenomena stand between light and darkness, thus partaking both of reality and of non-reality. But they are, as phenomena, differentiated by the light. Even the ontological agents of primal differentiation, the source-forms (aÆyÅn-i sÅbite), ‘have not smelt the perfume of existence’, for ¯ only the light exists. But the source-forms constitute the world, being given existence by the outpouring (fayz) of the Truth. Hence the order of the world subsists by the simultaneous means of being (hastÈ) and non-being (nÈstÈ). From the heaven of absoluteness and God’s abysmal quiddity, Absolute Being has decreed descents, and in the mirrors of the possible world has brought about theophanies, which are His contemplations of His beauty in various mirrors, in each of which He beholds an appropriate form.70 Elsewhere, Ibn KemÅl stresses that such a doctrine, which he attributes to ‘the Sufis and the muta’allihËn among the falÅsifa’, is opposed neither to reason (æaql) nor to revelation (al-sharÅ’iÆ). Some Sufis, however, contradict both, by claiming that nothing exists save a single essence (laysa fi l-wÅqiÆ illÅ dhÅt wÅ˙ida), which is the reality of being (˙aqÈqat al-wujËd), which is conditioned (quyËd iÆtibÅriyya) in such a way as to allow us to see differentiated entities which we may imagine to constitute a real multiplicity (taÆaddud ˙aqÈqÈ). Yet in reality they are only like the waves on the sea; the sea alone has being. Ibn KemÅl refutes this interpretation of FußËßÈ doctrine by quoting from JurjÅnÈ, who regards the real differentiation of entities as a first-order truth.71 The insÅn kÅmil doctrine Ibn KemÅl deals with in a further treatise, RisÅla fÈ ÆulËm al-˙aqÅ’iq wa-˙ikmat al-daqÅ’iq. His concern here is solely with the human being as a proof of God. Although all the world, he writes, is a proof (dalÈl), there are two categories of this proof. Firstly there is the macrocosm (al-ÆÅlam al-kabÈr), which is the entire created order; secondly, the microcosm (al-ÆÅlam al-aßghar), which is the human being, who comprises the highest order of creation. The human phenomenon is a better proof of God than all rational and scriptural proofs, since man is created in the image of the one towards whom he points, so that ‘whoever knows man, knows God’ (man Æarafa l-insÅn Æarafa l-˙aqq). Hence Ibn KemÅl reiterates Ibn æArabÈ’s hierarchy of sciences: God is known through man, mystically (bi-l-shuhËd al-ßirf wa-l-tajallÈ al-ma˙∂) and man is known through physical, medical and religious sciences, both exoteric (ΩÅhira) and esoteric (bņina).72

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ibn kemal on ibn Æ arabi ’ s hagiology In this text the ßeyhülislÅm is concerned not simply to paraphrase Ibn æArabÈ’s doctrine of the Perfect Man, but to emphasise its epistemological utility. The intellectual debates energised by Mehmed II had thrown into relief the rival arguments for God and His nature offered by falÅsifa, Sufis and kalÅm scholars; and Ibn KemÅl has clearly found that the most useful of the myriad dimensions of the insÅn kÅmil doctrine for his intellectual world was its capacity to furnish an intuitionist argument for the existence and qualities of God, coupled with a strong insistence on the indispensability of the Muslim academic disciplines. Although he does not hesitate to describe God as manifest in the mirror of the saint, and the world in general as God’s exterior aspect (al-ÆÅlam ΩÅhir al-˙aqq), he underlines the ontological gulf between Creator and creature by stressing that the saint lacks one attribute which is God’s alone: aseity (al-wujËb al-dhÅtÈ).73 His account also lacks Ibn æArabÈ’s insistence on the dynamic cosmic role of the saint, an active agent who brings the wheel of being (dÅ’irat al-wujËd) full circle.74 Where one would expect such an adumbration, Ibn KemÅl instead inserts an extensive quote from GhazÅlÈ’s MishkÅt al-anwÅr,75 which, while undoubtedly congenial to the FußËßÈ concern with God’s intellection through the saint, presents the saint as an essentially passive witness to the glory of God, so that God alone is active in the cosmic system. The saints, for GhazÅlÈ, having ascended through the heavens of reality, agree that they saw only the One in existence. Some were so intoxicated that their minds were deactivated, so that they said (or God said, ventriloquising for them), ‘I am the Truth’. Such statements are certainly not indicative of the true beliefs of such saints, they are statements by lovers in a condition of intoxication, which should be folded away, and not reported.76 Perhaps like JÅmÈ, whose summary of FußËßÈ teaching composed for Mehmed II passed very lightly over the insÅn kÅmil doctrine,77 Ibn KemÅl is clearly alert to the areas of danger. He will not endorse the mystical scepticism of QayßarÈ and FenÅrÈ about the ability of kalÅm to deliver sure knowledge about God.78 His reading of Ibn æArabÈ does not seek to challenge any aspect of the master’s teaching, but nonetheless defuses the potentially dangerous consequences for Muslim monotheism and for sultanic authority which had resulted from some other, no less coherent interpretations. By inserting GhazÅlÈ’s hagiology into Ibn æArabÈ’s system, Ibn KemÅl is exalting the saint as the instrument of perception of God, or as the locus of annihilation (fanÅ’) in God. This is achieved through an ascesis which, with God’s support, unites religious knowledge with religious action.79 He expounds this apparently ambitious and unitive mysticism, however, without fully embracing Ibn æArabÈ’s doctrine of the Perfect Man. Despite his willingness to use FußËßÈ language in accounting for the radical unity of a creation ‘encompassed’ by the divine essence, and as unreal in itself, he does not invest in Ibn æArabÈ’s

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tim winter teaching of man as the locus of differentiation; to use the master’s language, we might say that the saint is an ascending (ßÅÆid), but not a descending (nÅzil) entity on the circle of being (dÅ’irat al-wujËd), being characterised more by sulËk than by fay∂. This is not the only point at which he departs from Ibn æArabÈ’s system. Elsewhere in his writings, the ßeyhülislÅm invokes GhazÅlÈ to propose an ascending tripartite hierarchy of the saints as ßÅli˙ (righteous), walÈ (friend), and æÅrif (gnostic). This distinction makes his departure from Ibn æArabÈ’s hagiology, where the walÈ is supreme, very explicit.80 He refutes as unbelief (kufr) the claim that a walÈ is superior to a nabÈ.81 He coyly attributes the contrary, heretical view to the long-dead KarrÅmiyya, but he must have known that it represented a widespread and far from unreasonable interpretation of Ibn æArabÈ’s hagiology.82 The entire mechanism of Seals as the engines of salvation history consequently vanishes, along with any possible and troublesome controversy over the comparative status of Jesus and Mu˙ammad. Likewise, the political claims made by Sufis like BedreddÈn on behalf of their own sovereignty as direct vicegerents (khulafÅ’) or manifestations (maΩÅhir) of God, are negated. In this reading of Ibn æArabÈ (and it is one possible reading of the elusive doctor maximus, who follows so many divergent roads to reach his goal), the saint is made safe. Ibn KemÅl made this explicit when he confirmed a judgement on Ibn æArabÈ, whose tomb in Damascus now lay within the Ottoman realms. The brief statement to which his name is attached has been preserved by Ibn al-æImÅd, and some twenty-six copies exist in the Istanbul libraries;83 it was posted on the walls of Ibn æArabÈ’s tomb, and was regarded as definitive by many later Ottoman scholars. His risÅla on Ibn æArabÈ’s ontology, too, seems to have been widely accepted: at least twenty-one manuscripts have been preserved,84 and no controversies surrounding it are reported. The judgement which justified the renovation of Ibn æArabÈ’s tomb had further implications. A controversy to which Ibn KemÅl cannot have been indifferent as he passed through Syria as part of Selim’s entourage was the argument over the posthumous life of the insÅn kÅmil. In a treatise on martyrs, he gives this a full theological and scriptural treatment. The Qur’Ån, he notes, refers to the martyrs as alive; and if this is so, then it must be even more the case with regard to the Prophets. Mu˙ammad, after all, met with several prophets in Jerusalem, even though this was after their death and before the resurrection. Tawassul, or as he calls it, tashaffuÆ, is valid: in a treatise on the plague, he writes that calling on the Prophet, who is the gate of happiness in this world as well as in the next, can protect one from contagion.85 ‘Seek help,’ he tells us, ‘from the people of the graves’;86 for a real spiritual encounter (mulÅqÅt rË˙Åniyya) can come about through visiting them, bringing immense benefit to visitor and to the one visited.87

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ibn kemal on ibn Æ arabi ’ s hagiology As to whether the bodies of the saints decay, he seems ambivalent. On the one hand, he cites tales of companions of the Prophet whose bodies were accidentally disinterred and found to be intact; however he appears to incline to the view of RÅzÈ, always a key authority for Ottoman scholars,88 who held that the body does decay, but the spiritual body, which is like rosewater in the rose, remains, and retains the body’s shape. Such a haykal has two eyes, and two hands, and so on, and hence must be considered a body (jism), not an accident (æara∂).89 This view is hardly exceptional in medieval Islam: it is standard in kalÅm as well as in many versions of Sufism,90 but by lending it his explicit authority Ibn KemÅl helped to regularise the relationship between the world of the dervish lodges, often built around tombs, and the mosques.

ibn kemal and ghazali’s amr bi-l-maÆruf A final aspect of Ibn KemÅl’s religion that bears on his relationship to Sufism is his personal understanding of the state of Ottoman piety. Behind the official splendour he seems to have detected a religious slackness that recalled the vainglory against which GhazÅlÈ had preached in the time of the Great Seljuks. Ibn KemÅl laments, for instance, how the æulamÅ’ of his day enter mosques and continue talking while the Qur’Ån is being chanted. Worse still, when challenged over this, they become angry, and contrive theological and legal justifications for their behaviour. The cantors themselves, and the muezzins, ornament their voices while remaining oblivious to the sense.91 The mosque preachers have only one goal, which is to make a name for themselves. Although esoteric knowledge (æilm al-bņin) is superior to exoteric knowledge (æilm al-ΩÅhir),92 the Sufis of the day are often no better. They are so anxious to begin their ceremonies that they rush their obligatory prayers. Then they proceed to gain a following by teaching the ignorant masses extravagant sha†˙ utterances, delivered in states of ecstasy, that may be interpreted in ways that lead to heresy.93 Dancing (raqß) and some forms of Sufi ceremonial (samÅÆ) are generally forbidden.94 The müftÈ and the qÅzÈ are obliged to remove such evils from the road of the Muslims.95 ¯ Those who claim to stand in no need of the SharÈÆa because they have attained to states which the müftÈ cannot know, and those who make money from interpreting dreams, selling talismans, and astrology, are guilty of innovation, and must likewise be curbed,96 even though they may be beloved by the wealthy and the men of the state. The diagnosis is very GhazÅlian, and so is the remedy. Ibn KemÅl clearly reveres Ibn æArabÈ (and also Ibn al-FÅri∂, on the grammatical aspects of whose Khamriyya he wrote a commentary).97 But the vainglory of the ÆulamÅ’ and of the Sufi shaykhs feed off each other. Like the QÅ∂ÈzÅdelis a century later, he recommends a stern campaign against bidÆa, and he cites the hardline views on amr bi-l-maÆrËf advanced by GhazÅlÈ and SarakhsÈ in this regard; but his definition

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tim winter of bidÆa cites relatively flexible sources such as PazdawÈ, who is willing to accommodate a good deal of bidÆa ˙asana.98 Innovation he defines rather imprecisely as whatever is ‘an innovation which violates their method’ (bidÆa ÆalÅ khilÅfi minhÅjihim),99 the method being the reviving of religion by reviving its spiritual essence; and this was the agenda of GhazÅlÈ. In a short book apparently written for the edification of students, he writes: ‘My brother, obtain the science of the heart only from the books of al-GhazÅlÈ, such as the I˙yÅ’, the KÈmiyÅ-yi SaÆÅdet, and the ArbaÆÈn. Never look at books whose titles are not named in his writings.’ He adds that in particular one should not look into the works of Sufis who lived after GhazÅlÈ’s time.100 On the matter of antinomian Sufis, GhazÅlÈ is again cited, to the effect that such individuals poison society and destroy the revealed law.101 In the genre of pious belles-lettres, Ibn KemÅl clearly preferred a sober, hortatory manner: his own NigÅristÅn was modelled not after the allegorising works of NiΩÅmÈ or æA††År, but took its cue from the GulistÅn of SaædÈ.102

conclusion The case of Ibn KemÅl suggests that the Ottoman religious hierarchy faced challenges quite distinct from those which determined the reaction to Ibn æArabÈ typically encountered among Arab scholars. Particularly noteworthy are the unusual context of administering newly conquered territories, and the challenge of charismatics to traditional readings of Muslim scriptures and to the stability of the state. In this context, Ibn KemÅl attempted a negotiation of the FußËßÈ legacy that lessened many of the subversive tensions which, while most politically dangerous in popularised forms, also appeared to threaten the coherence of the religious elite. Ibn KemÅl could allow most of Ibn æArabÈ’s theosophy, by discreetly deducting the more politically disruptive aspects of the hagiology; and he could permit the veneration of saints both living and dead, while upholding kalÅm and the other exoteric disciplines purveyed in the medreses. This inclusive and pragmatic definition of Islamic membership, which recalls the desire of GhazÅlÈ in his Fayßal al-tafriqa103 to allow wide boundaries, was well tailored to the needs of the Ottoman state, which needed the ÆulamÅ’, the people of ΩÅhir, to administer the law, but could not afford to alienate the people of bņin, including those who, although buried in the earth, still exerted a significant influence.

notes 1. Alexander Knysh, Ibn ÆArabÈ in the Later Islamic Tradition: the Making of a Polemical Image (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999). 2. For India, see William Chittick, ‘Notes on Ibn ‘ArabÈ’s Influence in the Subcontinent’, Muslim World 82 (1992), 218–41; for a good introduction to some of the issues in an Ottoman context see Victoria Rowe Holbrook, ‘Ibn æArabÈ and Ottoman Dervish Traditions: The Melâmî Supra-order’, in Journal of the Muhyiddin Ibn ‘Arabi Society 9 (1991), 18–35; also Mustafa Tahralı, ‘A General Outline of the Influence

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3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

14.

15.

of Ibn æArabÈ on the Ottoman Era’, Journal of the Muhyiddin Ibn ‘Arabi Society 26 (1999), 43–54; Íükrü ˛ Özen, ‘Ottoman æUlamÅ’ debating Sufism: settling the conflict on the Ibn al-æArabÈ’s legacy by fatwÅs’, in Alfonso Carmona (ed.), El Sufismo y las normas del Islam (Murcia: Editora Regional de Murcia, 2006), 309–41. Ahmet Arslan, Kemal Paßa-zade Tehâfüt Hâ˛siyesinin Tahlili (Ankara: Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlıˇgı, 1987), 23; for an example of this coupling as a literary convention see LeylÅ HÅnım, DÈvÅn (BËlÅq: DÅr al-ÊibÅæa al-BÅhira, 1260 ah), 29. For Ibn KemÅl, see Brockelmann, GAL II, 597–602; GALS II, 668–73; Sayın Dalkıran, bn-i Kemal ve Düßünce Tarihimiz (Istanbul: Osmanlı Araßtırmaları Vakfı, 1997); Kemal Sözen, bn Kemal’de Metafizik (Isparta: Fakülte Kitabevi, 2001); Hayri Bolay, Bahaeddin Yediyıldız, and Mustafa Sait Yazıcıoglu (eds), Íeyhülislâm bn Kemâl Sempozyumu: Tebligler ve Tartıßmalar (26–29 Haziran 1985) (Ankara: Türkiye Diyânet Vakfı, 1986); [Hüseyin Nihal] Atsız, ‘Kemalpaßa-oglu’nun Eserleri’, Íarkiyat Mecmuası VI (1966), 71–112; VII (1972), 83–135; Íamil Öçal, Kemal Paßazâde Felsefî ve Kelâmî Görüßleri (Ankara: Kültür Bakanlıgı, 2000). For the curriculum see Cahid Baltacı, XV-XVI. Yüzyıllarda Osmanlı medreseleri (2nd edn, Istanbul: Marmara Üniversitesi lâhiyat Fakültesi Vakfı Yayınları, 2005), I, 73–89. See, for instance, the BabÅ’È revolt analysed by Ahmet Yaßar Ocak, La révolte de Baba Resul ou la formation de l’hétérodoxie musulmane en Anatolie au XIIIe siècle (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1989). Ibn KemÅl, MektËb li’bn KamÅl PÅßÅ (MS Süleymaniye, Denizli 432[24]), 110b-112b, where he praises the orthodox origins of the ÍafavÈ †arÈqa, and laments its subversion at the hands of later leaders, Íey˙ Óaydar in particular. Faruk Sümer, Safevî Devletinin Kurulußu ve Gelißmesinde Anadolu Türklerinin Rolü (Íah smail ile Halefleri ve Anadolu Türkleri) (Ankara: Güven Matbaası, 1976), 2; Adel Allouche, The Origins and Development of the Ottoman–Safavid Conflict (906–962/1500–1555) (Berlin: Klaus Schwartz, 1983), 34–6; Z.V. Togan, ‘Sur les origines des Safavides’, Mélanges Louis Massignon (Damascus: Institut Français de Damas, 1957), III, 347–57. MecdÈ Me˙med Efendi, ÓadÅ’iq al-ÍaqÅ’iq (Istanbul: DÅr al-ÊibÅæa al-æåmira, 1269 ah), 27; GALS II, 299. Mehmet Bayrakdar (ed. and introduction), ‘RisÅla Fi Ilm at-Tasawwuf li Dâwud al-Kaysari’, Ankara Üniversitesi lahiyat Fakültesi Dergisi, 30 (1988), 171–216, at 185. DÅËd al-QayßarÈ, Ma†laÆ khußËß al-kalim fÈ maÆÅnÈ FußËß al-˙ikam (MS Süleymaniye, Hacı Selim Aga, 566), 18b. Ahmet Yaßar Ocak, Bektaßi Menakıbnamelerinde slam Öncesi nanç Motifleri (Istanbul: Enderun, 1983), 133–45. QayßarÈ, Ma†laÆ (MS Süleymaniye, Hacı Selim Aga, 512), 47a. Ibid.; Mehmet Bayrakdar, La Philosophie Mystique chez Dawud de Qaysari (Ankara: Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlıgı, 1990), 135; for the khatm al-awlÅd see Chodkiewicz, 126–7. Henry Corbin, En Islam iranien: Aspects spirituals et philosophiques I: Le Shî’isme duodécimain (Paris: Gallimard, 1971), 87, 265–7; for QayßarÈ’s idea of the first four caliphs as the supreme saints of their day, see QayßarÈ, RisÅla (Bayrakdar), p. 204. Giuseppe Scattolin, ‘More on Ibn al-FÅri∂’s biography’, Mélanges de l’Institut Dominicain d’études orientales (MIDEO), 22 (1995), 197–242, at 214.

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tim winter 16. Knysh, 210–13. 17. DÅËd al-QayßarÈ, Shar˙ TÅ’iyyat Ibn al-FÅri∂ al-KubrÅ, ed. A˙mad MazÈdÈ (Beirut: DÅr al-Kutub al-æIlmiyya, 2004/1425). 18. G. Scattolin, ‘Al-FarghÅnÈ’s commentary on Ibn al-FÅri∂’s mystical poem Al-TÅ’iyyat al-KubrÅ’, MIDEO 21 (1993), 331–83. Scattolin (p. 362) shows how FarghÅnÈ chooses vocabulary that will reduce the risk of an emanationist reading of the master. 19. Scattolin, 214. 20. Abdülbaki Gölpınarlı, Mevlana’dan sonra Mevlevilik (Istanbul: nkilap, 1953), 143, 144. 21. For MollÅ FenÅrÈ see GAL II, 303–4; Özen, 313; Tahsin Görgün and brahim Hakkı Aydın, ‘Molla Fenârî’, Türk Diyanet Vakfı slam Ansiklopedisi (hereafter TDVA), XXX, 245–8; for his ontology see Mustafa Aßkar, Molla Fenârî ve Vahdet-i Vücûd Anlayıßı (Ankara: Muradiye Kültür Vakfı Yayınları, 1993). 22. Mu˙ammad ibn Óamza FenÅrÈ, Shar˙ dÈbÅjat al-MathnawÈ (MS Süleymaniye, Esad Efendi, 3684[4]), 11b-16b, see fol. 13b. 23. Mu˙ammad ibn Óamza FenÅrÈ, ÆAyn al-AÆyÅn TafsÈr al-FÅti˙a (DÅr-i SaæÅdet: Rifæat Bey Ma†baæası, 1325 ah), 27; the three degrees are aß˙Åb al-shimÅl; aß˙Åb al-yamÈn, and al-muqarrabËn; cf. Qur’Ån 56:41. For this work see Sıtkı Gülle, ‘lk Osmanlı Íeyhülislâmı Íemseddin Muhammad b. Hamza Fenârî (751–834/1350–1431) ve Onun Aynu’l-A’yân Tefsîri’, stanbul Üniversitesi lahiyât Fakültesi Dergisi I (1999), 237–46. 24. [Mu˙ammad ibn] Óamza FenÅrÈ, MißbÅ˙ al-uns [bayn al-maÆqËl wa-l-mashhËd fÈ shar˙ MiftÅ˙ al-ghayb], tr. Mu˙ammad KhwÅjavÈ (Tehran: EnteshÅrÅt-e MavlÅ, 1374 ah solar), p. lxxvii. 25. FenÅrÈ, æAyn al-aÆyÅn, 262–3. 26. William Chittick, ‘Sultan BurhÅn al-dÈn’s Sufi Correspondence’, Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes (1981), 33–45, at 37–8. 27. Nicholas Heer (tr.), The Precious Pearl: Al-JÅmÈ’s Al-Durrah Al-FÅkhirah, together with his Glosses and the Commentary of ‘Abd al-GhafËr al-LÅrÈ (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1979), 5–6; Nicholas Heer, ‘Al-JÅmÈ’s Treatise on Existence’, in Parviz Morewedge (ed.), Islamic Philosophical Theology (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1979), 223–56. 28. MecdÈ, 194; for SinÅn PÅßÅ see ibid. 193–6; smail Hakkı Uzunçarßılı, Osmanlı Tarihi (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1964), II, 247, 658–62. 29. Mu˙ammad ibn Óamza åq Shams al-DÈn, DafÆ matÅ’in al-ßËfiyya (MS Süleymaniye, Pertev Paßa, 260[1]), 1a-28b, see fol. 18a. 30. RisÅla fÈ radd qawl al-mutashayyikh al-†ÅÆin Ibn Fakhr al-DÈn (MS Süleymaniye, Pertev Paßa 260[3]), 29b-31b. 31. La†ÈfÈ, Tezkere-i La†ÈfÈ (Istanbul: IqdÅm Ma†baæası, 1314 ah), 79–82. 32. Colin Imber, Ebu’s-su’ud: the Islamic legal tradition (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1997), 120–2. 33. His RisÅla fÈ ta˙qÈq taÆrÈb al-kalima al-FÅrisiyya has been published by Mu˙ammad SawÅ’È, who supplies further details on this aspect of his activity (Damascus: Institut Français, 1991). 34. Colin Imber, The Ottoman Empire 1300–1481 (Istanbul: Isis Press, 1990), 4; Íerafettin Turan, ‘bn Kemal’in Tarihçiligi ve Tarih Metodolojisi’, 141–8 of Bolay, et al., Íeyhülislâm bn Kemâl Sempozyumu; for his religious glorification of the dynasty and

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35.

36.

37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42.

43.

44. 45.

46.

47. 48.

vilification of its enemies see Ahmet Ugur, bn-i Kemal (Ankara: Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlıgı, 1987), 36. The most probable place of Ibn KemÅl’s birth; Edirne and Amasya are possible alternatives; for the debate see Mustafa Fayda, ‘Ibn Kemal’in Hayatı ve Eserleri’, in Bolay et al., Íeyhülislâm bn Kemâl Sempozyumu, 53–60, esp. 53–5. For Lu†fÈ see Orhan Íaik Gökyay and Íükrü Özen, ‘Molla Lutfi’, TDVA, XXX, 255–8; Íükrü Özen, ‘Molla Lutfi’nin damına Karßı Çıkan Hamîdüddin Efendi’nin Ahkâmü’z-zındîk Risâlesi’, slâm Araßtırmaları Dergisi IV (2000), 7–16; Henry Corbin and Abdülhak Adnan, Molla Lutfi’l-Maqtûl, La Duplication de l’Autel (Risala ta∂Æîf al-madba˙) (Platon et le problème de Delos) (Paris: F. de Boccard, 1940), 1–5; Ahmet Yaßar Ocak, Osmanlı Toplumunda Zındıklar ve Mülhidler (15–17. Yüzyıllar), (Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları, 1998), 205–27; GAL, II, 305–6. Corbin, 2; Mustafa Said Yazıcıoglu, Le Kalam et son role dans la société Turco-Ottomane aux XVIe siecle [sic] (Ankara: Kültür Bakanlıgı, 1990), 102–3. Sehi Bey, Tezkere, tr. Nedjati Hüsnü Lugal and O. Rescher (Istanbul: n.p., 1942), 29; Sâmiha Ayverdi, Edebî ve Mânevi Dünyası içinde Fâtih (Istanbul: Baha, 1974), 84. MecdÈ, 195; Corbin, 2. Corbin, op. cit. On occasion, Ibn KemÅl also was not above foretelling the future from calculations based on Qur’Ånic verses; see Dalkıran, 46. R. C. Repp, The Müfti of Istanbul: a study in the development of the Ottoman learned hierarchy (London: Ithaca, 1986),182–5; smet Parmaksızoglu, ‘Molla Lutfi ile ilgili yeni bir belge’, Belleten, XLIV (1980), 675–82, which includes the text of an Arabic risÅla; Íükrü Özen, ‘slam Hukukuna Göre Zındıklık Suçu ve Molla Lutfî’nin damının Fıkhîligi,’ slam Araßtırmaları Dergisi 6 (2001), 17–62. Parmaksızoglu, ‘Molla Lutfi’, 677; another possible accusation was that he denied prophethood, or belittled the canonical prayer (Özen, ‘Zındıklık’, 44). Like Ibn KemÅl (H. A. R. Gibb, A History of Ottoman Poetry [London: Luzac, 1902], II, 355–6; La†ÈfÈ, Tezkere, 82), Lu†fÈ was a humorist (Orhan Íaik Gökyay, ‘Tokatlı Molla Lûtfi’nin Harnâmesi’, Türk Folkloru Belleten 1 [1986], 155–82), and Ibn KemÅl apparently told Selim that Lu†fÈ was perhaps executed because a rival had misreported one of his jokes (Hoca SaædettÈn Efendi, ed. smet Parmaksızoglu, Tacü’t-tevarih [Ankara: Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlıgı, 1992], IV, 137). M. Íehabettin Tekindag, ‘Yeni Kaynak ve Vesîkaların Ißıgı Altında Yavuz Sultan Selim’in Iran Seferi’, stanbul Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi Tarih Dergisi xvii/22 (1967), 49–78; for his fetvÅ against the Anatolian qızılbÅß see Allouche, 171–3; FetÅvÅ KemÅl PÅßÅ-zÅde der ˙aqq-i qızılbÅß (MS Süleymaniye, Esad Efendi 3548), 45b. Ibn KemÅl, RisÅla al-MunÈra [sic] (Istanbul: Ía˙˙Åf A˙med Efendi, 1296 AH), 18; for this work see Atsız (1972), 117–18. Michel Balivet, Islam mystique et revolution armée dans les Balkans ottomans: vie du Cheikh Bedreddîn le ‘Hallâj’ des turcs (Istanbul: Isis, 1995); Ocak, Zındıklar, 136–202. Repp, 234–5; lyas Üzüm, ‘Molla Kâbız’, in TDVA, XXX, 254–5; Ocak, Zındıklar, 230–8; Colin Imber, ‘A Note on “Christian” Preachers in the Ottoman Empire’, Osmanlı Araßtırmaları X (1990), 59–67. Michel Chodkiewicz, Seal of the Saints: prophethood and sainthood in the doctrine of Ibn ÆArabÈ (Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 1993), 76. Chodkiewicz, 77.

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tim winter 49. Chodkiewicz, 125; in his somewhat contradictory account, QayßarÈ suggests that this does not imply supreme human status, but rather an eschatological role: at the parousia Jesus will be the last saint (QayßarÈ, RisÅla [Bayrakdar], 214). 50. Qamar åryÅn, Chihre-ye MasÈ˙ dar adabÈyÅt-e FÅrisÈ (Tehran: EnteshÅrÅt-e MuæÈn, 1369 ah solar); Ahmet Talât Onay, Eski Türk edebiyatında mazmunlar ve izahı, 4th edn, ed. Cemal Kurnaz (Ankara: Akçag, 2000), 259–61. 51. See, for instance, the language used by Lu†fÈ’s teacher SinÅn PÅßÅ: ‘[God] brought forth from Mary’s womb, without a father, a noble self and an embodied spirit (rË˙-i mücessem), each of whose breaths was a breath of God, and each of whose words was an absolute judgement.’ (SinÅn PÅßÅ, Tazarru‘-nÅme, ed. A. Mertol Tulum [Istanbul: Milli Egitim Bakanlıgı, 1971], 242.) SinÅn PÅßÅ, the son of Khi∂r Beg (Hızır Beg) and ¯ murÈd of Abu l-WafÅ’ (Ebü’l-VefÅ), expresses a mainstream Sunnism throughout this work, despite occasional FußËßÈ language; he goes on in conventional vein to propose Jesus as vindicator of Mu˙ammad’s sharÈÆa at the end of time. 52. Ismail E. Erünsal, XV-XVI Asır Bayrâmî-Melâmîligi’nin Kaynaklarından Abdurrahman El-Askerî’nin Mir’âtü’l-Ißk’ı (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 2003), pp. 7, 163. Although æAskerÈ is aware of opposition to the use of this term (p. 157), any philo-Christian possibilities here, as generally in BayramÈ appropriations of the insÅn kÅmil theme, are neutralised by insisting that the light of the tersÅ-beççe is from the Prophet, whose supremacy forms the subject of a long meditation (p. 127). 53. Chodkiewicz, 81, 82. 54. Chodkiewicz, 81–2; cf. Mu˙ammad DÅrÅ ShikËh, ÓasanÅt al-ÆÅrifÈn, ed. Sayyid MakhdËm Ra˙Èm (Tehran: Mo’assase-ye Ta˙qÈqÅt ve-EnteshÅrÅt VismÅn, 1353 ah solar), 43. The interest is hardly obsessive. 55. Ibn KemÅl was able to consider the Mongols as harbingers of the end-time (Turan, 148). Another FußËßÈ, Me˙med Yazıcıoglu (early ninth/fitteenth century) in his Mu˙ammediye, for instance, made much of Jesus and his eschatological role; urging the gÅzÈs to fight because of the coming end-times (Fahir z, Eski Türk Edebiyatında Nazım [Istanbul: Küçükaydın Matbaası, 1966], II, 683–6); the conquest of Istanbul was a sign of the imminent second coming (Mehmet Yazıcıoglu, Mu˙ammediye, ed. Âmil Çelebioglu [Istanbul: Milli Egitim Bakanlıgı, 1996], II, 319). 56. Ocak, Zındıklar, 146. 57. NesÈmÈ was a key example; see Kathleen R. F. Burrill, The Quatrains of Nesimi: fourteenth-century Turkic Hurufi (The Hague and Paris: Mouton, 1972), 35–7; the Anatolian qızılbÅß could also be condemned for this reason: V. Minorsky, Persia in A.D. 1478–1490: An abridged translation of Fa∂lullÅh b. RËzbihÅn KhunjÈ’s TÅrÈkh-i æålam-årÅ-yi AmÈnÈ (London: Royal Asiatic Society, 1957), 66. 58. In DÅËd ibn Mu˙ammad al-QarßÈ, Shar˙ al-QaßÈda al-NËniyya al-Taw˙Èdiyya (Cairo: al-Ma†baæa al-Wahbiya, 1279 ah), 57, where the commentator takes issue with the FußËß. 59. A˙med BÈcÅn, AnwÅr al-ÆÅshiqÈn (Istanbul: ÊabækhÅne-yi æåmire, 1261 ah), 192–4. 60. Chodkiewicz, 80. 61. Ibn KemÅl, RisÅla fÈ af∂aliyyat nabiyyinÅ ÆalÅ sÅ’ir al-anbiyÅ’ (MS Istanbul Müftülük Kütüphanesi 276[20]), 145b-151a. The reference to a legal proceeding on fol. 150b makes it almost certain that this refers to the QÅbız case; see also 151b, where ¯ al-ÆajmÅ’ is probably a punning allusion to the Iranian heretic. 62. Ibn KemÅl, RisÅla fÈ ta˙qÈq lafΩ al-zindÈq, in RasÅ’il Ibn-i KemÅl, ed. A˙med Cevdet

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63. 64. 65. 66.

67.

68.

69. 70. 71.

72. 73.

PÅßÅ (Istanbul: IqdÅm, 1316 ah), II, 240–9, especially his closing words, where he expresses dismay that some members of the Æilmiyye who were well acquainted with the QÅbız case disapproved of Ibn KemÅl’s sentence. ¯ Metaphysical topics comprise the largest single subject area of his writings; see Atsız (1966), 73. Saæd al-DÈn al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, Shar˙ al-MaqÅßid, ed. æAbd al-Ra˙mÅn æUmayra (Beirut: æålam al-KitÅb, 1409/1989), IV, 60. Ibid., IV, 59–60. MecdÈ, 446–8; Özen, 326–8; see also the attack on the FußËßÈs in the extract from the ÓayÅt al-qulËb of NabÈ ibn TËrkhÅn / æAbd al-BÅrÈ ibn TËrkhÅn (d. 936/1529), said to be a teaching assistant (muÆÈd) of Ibn KemÅl, published with (pseudo-)TaftÅzÅnÈ, RisÅla fÈ wa˙dat al-wujËd (Istanbul: æAlÈ Bey Ma†baæası, 1294 ah), 48–9; for the ÓayÅt see GAL II, 583; Özen, ‘Settling,’ 328. For instance, RisÅla fÈ ta˙qÈq anna mÅ yaßduru Æanhu taÆÅla innamÅ yaßduru bi-l-qudrati wa-l-ikhtiyÅr lÅ bi-l-kurh wa-l-i∂†irÅr (MS Süleymaniye, Ayasofya 4794[37], 169b-170b); RisÅla fÈ ta˙qÈq murÅd al-qÅ’ilÈn bi-anna al-wÅjib taÆÅla mËjib bi-l-dhÅt (MS Süleymaniye, Ayasofya, 4794[49], 233b-241a). In the latter work he mentions JÅmÈ’s comparison of falsafa, kalÅm and Sufism in this area (234a), but does not draw on his discussion. It is not possible to discern a doctrinal difference between JÅmÈ’s Naqd al-nußËß and Ibn KemÅl’s position; with the exception of the latter’s partial excision of the insÅn kÅmil doctrine; see below. JÅmÈ, a passionate Akbarian, gives a short but uncompromising statement of Ibn æArabÈ’s doctrine of the Perfect Man (æAbd al-Ra˙mÅn ibn A˙mad JÅmÈ, Naqd al-nußËß fÈ shar˙ naqsh al-FußËß, ed. William C. Chittick [Tehran: Mo’assase-ye Mo†ÅlaæÅt u Ta˙qÈqat-e FarhangÈ, 1370 ah solar], 60–4): the perfect man is indispensable to the cosmic order; he is khalÈfa; he is a composite of all the existential and divine degrees and intelligences, on every level of existence. JÅmÈ, Naqd, intro., xxv, xxvi. Ibn KemÅl, RisÅla dar vujËd-i KhudÅ, published as RisÅla fÈ bayÅn al-wujËd in RasÅ’il Ibn-i KemÅl, I, 149–57, p. 149. Ibn KemÅl, RisÅla fÈ ta˙qÈq wujËb al-wÅjib (MS Süleymaniye, Ayasofya 4794[48]), 218b-233b, see 233a-b. Ibn æArabÈ is not mentioned in this treatise; references to ‘al-shaykh’ are to Ibn SÈnÅ. This Akbarian image was rapidly adopted by the popularisers; see for instance a text attributed to Kaygusuz AbdÅl (early fifteenth century): ‘All existence was Him. Almighty God desired to show His power. The sea of unity became stormy, and threw me to the shore. Though the sea was my home, I became a drop. The gem fell outside the sea.’ Gevher-nÅme, cited in Abdurrahman Güzel, Kaygusuz Abdal (Revised edition, Ankara: Akçag, 2004), 195. AqßemseddÈn (DafÆ, 18a) also affirms it explicitly; and Ibn KemÅl, in another risÅla, appears to do likewise (Ibn KemÅl, RisÅla al-MÅhiyya wa-majÆËliyyatihÅ, MS Süleymaniye, Murat Buhari 327[4], 207a-208b, where he seems to defend the position of the ahl al-kashf against the ahl al-naΩar. For Ebu’s-suæËd, the concept is apostasy (kufr) (fetvÅ in Özen, 340). Ibn KemÅl, RisÅla fÈ ÆulËm al-˙aqÅ’iq wa-˙ikmat al-daqÅ’iq (MS Süleymaniye, Halet Efendi 810[27]), 154a-156a, fol.154a. RisÅla fÈ ÆulËm al-˙aqÅ’iq, 156a. The point is made also by QayßarÈ, RisÅla al-Taw˙Èd wa-l-nubuwwa wa-l-risÅla, in Sayyid JalÅl al-DÈn åshtiyÅnÈ (ed.), RasÅ’il-e QayßarÈ bÅ ˙avÅshÈ-ye ÆÅref-e mo˙aqqeq ÅghÅ-ye Mu˙ammad RezÅ QumshehÈ (Tehran: Iranian Institute of Philosophy, 1381 ah solar), 38.

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tim winter 74. For this doctrine see William C. Chittick, The Self-Disclosure of God: principles of Ibn al-‘Arabi’s cosmology (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1998), 227–37. 75. Dar vujËd-i KhudÅ, 151–3. 76. Although this is a common manoeuvre among Ottoman scholars anxious to avoid verdicts of heresy against Sufis, it is not formalised within the context of fiqh. See, for instance, Mu˙ammad ibn Óamza FenÅrÈ, FußËl al-badÅ’iÆ fÈ ußËl al-sharÅ’iÆ (Istanbul: Ya˙yÅ Efendi Ma†baæası, 1289 ah), I, 212, 293–6; Ibn KemÅl, RisÅla fÈ ˙aqq alfÅΩ al-kufr (MS Süleymaniye, Kasidecizade, 677[12]), 169a-173b; in neither extensive treatment is sha†˙ alluded to. Ibn KemÅl’s ‘fatwÅ’ on Ibn æArabÈ’s tomb is another example of this informal addition to the fiqh arguments about blasphemy. See also his 935/1528 ruling on the poems of the ecstatic FußËßÈ saint of Karabagh, the KhalwatÈ (HalvetÈ) poet IbrÅhÈm GülßenÈ (d. 941/1534): ‘exoterists cannot discern the meaning of this’ (ehl-i ßËret bunun maÆnasına vÅqif olmaz) (Mu˙yÈ’yi GülßenÈ, MenÅkıb-i IbrÅhÈm GülßenÈ ed. Tahsin Yazıcı [Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1982], 151); the approach is very similar to the Ibn æArabÈ endorsement approved by Ibn KemÅl; cf. Abd al-Óayy Ibn al-æImÅd, ShadharÅt al-dhahab fÈ akhbÅr man dhahab (Cairo: 1350–1) V, 195. Although the claim that Ibn KemÅl was GülßenÈ’s disciple (murÈd) is probably a hagiographical excess, there seems no reason to doubt this account, as Ibn KemÅl’s position here is in accordance with his general desire to give Sufis the benefit of the doubt. GülßenÈ had been accused of unbelief by others; according to the same source it was he who persuaded Uzun Óasan to restrain his scholars from criticising Ibn æArabÈ (Mu˙yÈ, 212–14). For his radical Akbarism see Himmet Konur, brâhîm Gülßeni: hayatı, eserleri, tarikatı (Istanbul: nsan, 2000), 150; for his enthusiasm for Ibn al-FÅri∂ see ibid. 152, 178; for a good challenge to Mu˙yÈ’s claim that Ibn KemÅl was GülßenÈ’s murÈd see p. 64; for Mu˙yÈ as a hagiographer see John J. Curry, ‘Home is where the shaykh is: the concept of exile in the hagiography of IbrÅhÈm-i GülßenÈ,’ Al-Masaq 17 (2005), 47–60. 77. JÅmÈ, Precious Pearl, 41; see note 68 above. 78. QayßarÈ, RisÅla (Bayrakdar), 210; for FenÅrÈ see above. 79. Ibn KemÅl, RisÅla fÈ shakhß al-insÅnÈ (sic), in RasÅ’il, I, 97–101, pp. 100–1; cf. Dalkıran, 151. This RisÅla, under an alternative title, has recently been the subject of an improved edition by Musa Koçar, ‘bn KemÅl’ın Risala fi bayani-n-nafs ve’r-ruh ve’l-kalb adlı eseri’, Süleyman Demirel Üniversitesi lahiyat Fakültesi Dergisi 10 (2003), 1–23, for this passage see p. 22. 80. Ibn KemÅl, RisÅla al-MunÈra, 31. 81. RisÅla al-MunÈra, 10. 82. Chodkiewicz, 125. 83. Ibn al-æImÅd, V, 195; Atsız (1966), 110. As Özen points out in his important article (Özen, ‘Settling’, 321), there is no decisive evidence to prove that the fetvÅ was issued during the Syrian campaign; or, indeed, that Ibn KemÅl delivered it as a fetvÅ, rather than as one of his many rasÅ’il; it is more likely that it was written by another scholar (æAbd al-KarÈm QÅdirÈ Efendi, d. 951/1544) and merely endorsed by Ibn KemÅl. 84. Atsız (1966), 82. 85. Ibn KemÅl, RÅ˙at al-arwÅ˙ fÈ rafÆ ÅfÅt al-ashbÅ˙ (Cambridge MS Or. 839[3]), 96a. 86. Ibn KemÅl, FÈ shar˙ al-a˙ÅdÈth al-arbaÆÈn, in RasÅ’il, I, 59–86, pp. 62–4; cf. also his translation of BËßÈrÈ’s Burda, in M. A. Yekta Saraç, Íeyhülislam Kemal Paßazade: Hayatı, Íahsiyeti, Eserleri ve bazı ßiirleri (Istanbul: Risale, 1995), 107, 110.

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ibn kemal on ibn Æ arabi ’ s hagiology 87. Ibn KemÅl, untitled risÅla (MS Süleymaniye, Kasidecizade 677), 174a-b. 88. Yazıcıoglu, Kalam, 74. 89. Ibn KemÅl, FÈ ˙aqq al-shuhadÅ’, in RasÅ’il, I, 92–6; and FÈ shakhß al-insÅnÈ. 90. æAbdullÅh al-Bay∂ÅwÈ, ÊawÅliÆ al-anwÅr min ma†ÅliÆ al-anΩÅr, translated by Edwin E. Calverley and James W. Pollock, as Nature, Man and God in Medieval Islam (Leiden: Brill, 2002), I, 690–2. 91. Ibn KemÅl, RisÅla al-MunÈra, 36, 44. 92. RisÅla al-MunÈra, 26. 93. RisÅla al-MunÈra, 37, 38. 94. RisÅla fÈ ta˙qÈq al-˙aqq wa-ib†Ål ra’y al-ßËfiyya fi l-raqß wa-l-dawrÅn (MS Süleymaniye, Murat Buhari, 327[5]), fols. 210a-212b, citing ÓanafÈ manuals; in order to exonerate the Sufi ßeyhs who practised it, however, the ßeyhülislÅm adds that with certain strict conditions it may be permissible, as, for instance, when those attending the ceremony are absolutely sincere (fol.211a). For his fetvÅs here, see Dalkıran, 180. 95. RisÅla al-MunÈra, 40. 96. RisÅla al-MunÈra, 41; in an untitled kalÅm-oriented risÅla on human knowledge of the ghayb, Ibn KemÅl denounces soothsayers and omen-mongers as inspired by the devil; astrologers are in the same category (MS Süleymaniye, Ayasofya 4794, 192a-200a, see 195a–b, 197a–b). Yet this does not signify that God’s true saints cannot know the ghayb, or work miracles (karÅmÅt) (199a). 97. GAL II, 601. It should be noted, however, that Ibn KemÅl does not hesitate to criticise some of Ibn æArabÈ’s more controversial views, such as the belief in the salvation of Pharoah (Denis Gril, ‘Le personage coranique de Pharaon d’apres l’interpretation d’Ibn æArabÈ’, Annales Islamologues XIV [1978], 37–57), and the doctrine of ‘infernal felicity’; see the fetvÅs presented in Özen, ‘Settling’, 335–6; Dalkıran, 66. Note that Ibn KemÅl judges the infernal felicity thesis to be unbelief (Özen, ‘Settling’, 335), even though MollÅ FenÅrÈ had advocated the related belief in the cessation (khumËd) of punishment (æAyn al-aÆyÅn, 249). 98. RisÅla al-MunÈra, 24. 99. Ibn KemÅl, FÈ shar˙ al-a˙ÅdÈth, 45. 100. RisÅla al-MunÈra, 20. It should be remarked that an implicit dissuasion of students from reading Ibn æArabÈ does not constitute a criticism of the FußËßÈ system. 101. Ibn KemÅl, RisÅla fÈ ta˙qÈq lafΩ al-zindÈq, in RasÅ’il, II, 248–9. 102. MS Süleymaniye, Ayasofya, 4338; Atsız (1966), 82; Dalkıran, 176; Gibb, II, 357. It is true that in his gazals Ibn KemÅl could deploy the standard images of the ßÅhid, the zÅhid, the æÅßıq, and the fate of al-ÓallÅj, but it is clear that these are stylised and conventional uses, and are not intended as part of a mystical system. (Ibn KemÅl, DÈvÅn, ed. Mustafa Demirel [Istanbul: Fakülteler Matbaası, 1996], e.g. 46, 183, 226.) Similarly, the opportunities for a sacramental symbolism presented in the Joseph story are not systematically taken up in his Turkish mesnevÈ, YËsuf ve ZüleyhÅ (MS Süleymaniye, Lala Ismail 621); representative extract in z, II, 786–90. 103. See the analysis by Sherman A. Jackson in the introduction to his translation of GhazÅlÈ’s Fayßal al-Tafriqa: On the boundaries of theological tolerance in Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 3–67.

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1 9

Scriptural Sufism and Scriptural Anti-Sufism: Theology and mysticism amongst the ShÈæÈ AkhbÅriyya1 Robert Gleave

introduction Pre-modern Islamic literature generally, and classical ShÈÆÈ literature in particular, is characterised by well-defined generic boundaries. Works of jurisprudence, law, theology and Qur’Ånic exegesis display remarkable stable structural features between the 5th/11th century and the 13th/late 18th century. In most religious works, topics are presented in a relatively predictable sequence and form a portfolio of doctrines and disputes. Deviation from this disciplinary canon of questions is rare. Navigating different works of ußËl al-fiqh (jurisprudence or legal theory), for example, written during this period (sometimes called classical and/or post-classical) is reasonably unproblematic after mastering a single text of ußËl al-fiqh. Chapter order is generally stable, and the opinions entertained in each section are, in the main, rarely augmented by novel opinions after the end of the 8th/14th century. This stability is clearly linked to the context in which such works were composed. Most were designed and used as teaching texts for specific curricula in academic institutions, ranging from the informal study circle to the more institutionalised setting of a school or seminary. The predictability aided the students’ learning and memorisation of the text, whilst simultaneously introducing the students to new aspects of a particular discipline. This generic conservatism should not be taken to indicate any lack of scholarly originality in the classical period. Adept scholars could work within the established rules, and made doctrinal developments and innovations within the discipline incrementally. The structural rigidity of the various genres inevitably encouraged a compartmentalisation of scholarly activity. At times the interrelationship between the intellectual structure of ‘taßawwuf ’ (Sufism, though the diversity of approach within taßawwuf almost makes a single label dangerously general) and the genres of fiqh (law), or kalÅm (theology) and ußËl al-fiqh (jurisprudence) within a scholar’s works is difficult to detect, since his writings on such topics conform to generic standards which do not always permit ‘interdisciplinarity’ Major deviations from generic norms are not entirely absent from these scholarly traditions. However, when they do occur, they often take the form of — 158 —

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scriptural sufism and scriptural anti-sufism an alteration in the order of questions tackled, the interpolation of a new chapter heading within the usual list, or the adoption of a novel style of presentation. The disruption of disciplinary patterns indicates not merely a scholar’s ennui with the geography of contemporary intellectual endeavour. Rather, modification usually occurs when the scholar considers a genre, with its established characteristics and controlled structure, unfit for the task of presenting his (novel) vision of the discipline. Al-GhazÅlÈ’s I˙yÅ’ ÆulËm al-dÈn, for example, was an original work not merely because of the opinions found within it, but also because a work with such breadth of vision had not previously been attempted with such success.2 Innovation within genres is also occasionally evident. Murta∂Å al-AnßÅrÈ’s (d. 1281/1864) remarks on legal theory are structured by epistemological category (Æilm, Ωann, wahm), rather than source (kitÅb, sunna, ijmÅÆ, Æaql), and though presented as a series of independent treatises, represent a similar innovation within ußËl al-fiqh inaugurating a new era of ShÈÆÈ jurisprudence.3 Of course, a generic innovation, if successful, is incorporated into the disciplinary canon, and spawns copies, written by subsequent devotees of the new master. Just as the Weberian charisma of a revolutionary leader becomes routinised over time, innovation in doctrine can become part of the canon. In this chapter, I examine these general remarks in relation to the AkhbÅrÈ movement within ImÅmÈ ShÈÆÈ thought during the Safavid period in Iran (11th/17th–14th/19th centuries). I characterise the AkhbÅrÈ movement as ‘scripturalist’ since AkhbÅrism, at least during the Safavid period, was founded on a commitment to the legal efficacy of scripture (in particular the akhbÅr of the Prophet and the ShÈÆÈ Imams).4 This commitment led to a concomitant rejection of other sources of legal knowledge. AkhbÅrÈ reasoning was based on a fundamental epistemological division between knowledge (Æilm, yaqÈn, qa†Æ) and opinion (Ωann, wahm, ra’y). True knowledge is based on scripture; opinion is based on personal reasoning (and particularly the deductive process known as ijtihÅd, even when employed by a learned and respected scholar). The basic elements of this position were outlined by Mu˙ammad AmÈn al-AstarÅbÅdÈ (d. 1036/1626) in his famous al-FawÅ’id al-Madaniyya,5 though the view was subjected to individual modification and nuance by subsequent AkhbÅrÈ scholars. New versions of this epistemology were devised as AkhbÅrÈs grappled with questions which were not (apparently) addressed in scripture, or were addressed but in an ambiguous manner, or were addressed in different scriptural locations but with contradictory answers.6 However, the unifying element within the AkhbÅrÈ school was a commitment to this binary epistemology and the inadequacy of ijtihÅd which it entailed (since ijtihÅd, according to the UßËlÈ definition, always leads to Ωann). It is for this reason that AkhbÅrÈs can be labelled scripturalist. The debate about the origins of AkhbÅrism, both that found within the ShÈÆÈ tradition and that evident in Western literature, can be reduced to opposing

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robert gleave conceptions of the central features of the AkhbÅrÈ movement. Some have argued that AkhbÅrism was based on jurisprudence alone;7 others have argued that AkhbÅrÈ commitment entailed also a series of theological doctrines.8 When AkhbÅrism is supposed to have started depends, to a large extent, on whether this movement is considered both legal and theological (and therefore having its roots in early ShÈÆÈ thought), or merely juristic (and therefore beginning in the early 11th/17th century). Some sort of compromise view is proposed by JaÆfariyÅn, when he argues that in the pre-Safavid period the AkhbÅrÈ-UßËlÈ dispute is ‘more about doctrinal questions (masÅ’il-i iÆtiqÅdÈ) than legal discussions, and in the Safavid period the dispute became more concerned with law rather than belief ’.9 My own view is that the lack of a stable reference for the term akhbÅrÈ in pre-Safavid texts indicates that whilst there were undoubtedly ImÅmÈ jurists who emphasised the employment of ˙adÈth, they were not named akhbÅrÈ. Instead, the term akhbÅrÈ was used to describe a variety of theological and (at times) legal positions which never coalesced into a coherent ‘school’ doctrine.10 This is further confirmed by the diversity of Safavid AkhbÅrÈ attitudes towards Sufism and theology examined below. This diversity demonstrates that the Safavid AkhbÅrÈ movement was concerned with specific juristic doctrines (particularly the illegitimacy of ijtihÅd and the primacy of Æilm over Ωann). Holding these doctrines did not necessarily entail adoption of a defined set of theological doctrines, nor a particular attitude towards the validity of Sufism. Instead, AkhbÅrÈ ideas could be bolted on to differing assessments of Sufism, particularly those expressions of Sufism which engaged in philosophical and theological speculation.11 Whilst AkhbÅrism did not necessarily determine theological or mystical doctrine, individual AkhbÅrÈs chose to take the founding doctrines of AkhbÅrism and apply them to theology and Sufism. The multifarious applications described below indicate that, for some AkhbÅrÈ jurists, AkhbÅrism was an ‘interdisciplinary’ enterprise, in precisely the same way that taßawwuf cut across disciplines. AkhbÅrÈ principles could be applied to other areas of scholarly endeavour. Those that viewed AkhbÅrism as restricted to jurisprudence, such as YËsuf al-Ba˙rÅnÈ (d. 1186/1772) (the ‘disciplinarians’, if you like) are of less interest to us here, since they have little to say about the relationship between AkhbÅrism and Sufism. In what follows then, I concentrate on the relationship between AkhbÅrism and Sufism when it is conceived negatively (i.e. in anti-Sufi AkhbÅrÈs) and positively (i.e. Sufi AkhbÅrÈs).

anti-sufi akhbarism Some Safavid AkhbÅrÈs are credited with ‘refutations of the Sufis’ (radd ÆalÅ l-ÍËfiyya). Perhaps the best known was Mu˙ammad ÊÅhir al-QummÈ (d. 1098/1686), a Safavid Shaykh al-IslÅm of Qum, who was the most prolific anti-Sufi AkhbÅrÈ.12 He wrote a number of works refuting Sufism, including — 160 —

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scriptural sufism and scriptural anti-sufism one written in refutation of a contemporary AkhbÅrÈ Sufi, Mu˙ammad TaqÈ al-MajlisÈ (d. 1070/1659–60).13 Similarly Mu˙sin Fay∂ al-KÅshÅnÈ (analysed below) and his teacher MullÅ ÍadrÅ (if he is considered an AkhbÅrÈ), though clearly influenced by elements of ‘Sufi’ heritage (particularly Ibn ÆArabÈ) were critical of certain doctrines and beliefs which were labelled Sufi. The AkhbÅrÈs MullÅ KhalÈl al-QazwÈnÈ (d. 1089/1678–9) and his pupil Ra∂È al-DÈn al-QazwÈnÈ were renowned as anti-Sufis, the latter including anti-Sufi poetry in his DÈvÅn. If Mu˙ammad BÅqir al-MajlisÈ is to be counted as an AkhbÅrÈ (and there is dispute over his position with regard to the AkhbÅriyya), then his antipathy towards mystical theology, philosophy and Sufi practice is well documented.14 These more prominent AkhbÅrÈs represent an identifiable trend within AkhbÅrism in which strict legal scripturalism was extended to a refutation of philosophical theology generally, and ÆirfÅn in particular. This linking of scripturalism and antiSufism is clearly seen in the work of the influential AkhbÅrÈ al-Óurr al-ÆåmilÈ (d. 1099/1688), whose work al-IthnÅ Æashariyya fÈ l-radd ÆalÅ l-ÍËfiyya is typical of this trend. Al-Óurr’s aim in this work is to cover both Sufi ritual practice (singing, dancing, ecstatic utterances, praying for saintly intercession, silent and spoken dhikr and asceticism) and doctrine (˙ulËl, itti˙Åd, wa˙dat al-wujËd, kashf). Of interest here are the latter, namely al-Óurr’s arguments against Sufi theological doctrines. These arguments are clearly AkhbÅrÈ in flavour and represent an application of basic AkhbÅrÈ notions to an assessment of Sufism. As the name suggests, ‘IthnÅ Æashariyya’ works were based around twelve chapters. At a second tier, each chapter was divided into twelve further subsections, and at times the structure is maintained to a third tier of twelve elements within each subsection. Most authors were not able to maintain the structure beyond the first tier, though al-Óurr’s al-IthnÅ Æashariyya is relatively successful.15 There are twelve chapters (abwÅb) in total. Each chapter (except chapter 8) is further subdivided into twelve subsections (fußËl or wujËh), and occasionally these subsections are further divided into a third tier of twelve sections (usually termed wujËh). The sections relating to Sufi theological doctrine (rather than practice) are chapters 2 and 3 and the eleventh section of chapter 12.16 At times single points are divided into two in order to conform to the twelve-based structure. At other times, he cannot string out his points to twelve and admits defeat. At yet other times, al-Óurr states that he has had to abbreviate the number of points he wishes to make, limiting himself to twelve for the sake of conforming to the predetermined structure. The doctrines of ˙ulËl, itti˙Åd and wa˙dat al-wujËd are grouped together, and subjected to a single set of twelve arguments without discrimination. Most of these arguments have no distinct AkhbÅrÈ character, and are mere abbreviations of well-known anti-Sufi arguments. For example, al-Óurr cites with approval al-ÆAllÅma al-ÓillÈ’s argument concerning possible and necessary existence:

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robert gleave Al-ÆAllÅma, in his book Kashf al-Óaqq wa-Nahj al-Íidq,17 says: ‘The fifth discussion on whether God can be one (itti˙Åd) with another. It is a necessary truth that itti˙Åd is an invalid doctrine. It is not rational that one thing take on the form of two separate things. A group of Sunni Sufis disagree. They decree that God can be unified with the bodies of the Knowers (al-ÆÅrifÈn) such that one of them even says that since God is existence itself, then all existent things are God himself. This is the essence of unbelief and deviance …’ Al-ÆAllÅma, in the same book, says: ‘The sixth discussion concerning whether God can be present (˙ulËl) in another. It is known with certainty that anything which is present in another thing requires a thing in which it can be present. By necessity, every thing which is need of another thing is classified as ‘possible’. If God is that thing which is present in another, then he is necessarily ‘possible’, and cannot therefore be the necessary being (al-wÅjib). This is a contradiction. The Sunni Sufis argue against this and permit that [God] can be present in the bodies of the ÆÅrifÈn – but God is greater than that.’18

What is significant here is not the arguments (which have been repeatedly rehearsed in anti-Sufi literature), but the source of al-Óurr’s citation. Al-Óurr is quoting al-ÆAllÅma, the scholar who is blamed by AkhbÅrÈs for the introduction of rational deduction into legal reasoning. It appears that whilst the later AkhbÅrÈs are critical of al-ÆAllÅma’s jurisprudence, this did not extend to his theological reasoning. AkhbÅrÈs such as al-Óurr felt they could employ al-ÆAllÅma’s theological argumentation (with its dependence upon philosophical categories and reasoning) without compromising their AkhbÅrÈ allegiance. Distinctive AkhbÅrÈ argumentation is, however, evident at various points in al-Óurr’s refutation of Sufi doctrines. In the fourth section of the third chapter, for example, al-Óurr sets out a series of citations from the Imams which are not mere bald statements of the invalidity of the doctrine of ˙ulËl, itti˙Åd and wa˙dat al-wujËd (twelve of these have already been listed in the third subsection). Rather, as al-Óurr himself states, these ‘contain an indication of how to conduct valid reasoning which demonstrates the invalidity’ of these doctrines. Here, one has an analogue with AkhbÅrÈ jurisprudence in that AkhbÅrÈs considered the akhbÅr as more than mere repositories of legal knowledge. For most AkhbÅrÈs, correct legal reasoning is only to be found in the akhbÅr, and if the processes outlined there are replicated by the individual scholar, will lead to certain and indubitable results.19 Hence the akhbÅr not only provide legal rules, but provide jurisprudence, i.e. the process by which legal rules might be known when the sources run dry. In a similar manner, the akhbÅr cited by al-Óurr provide not only statements of theological doctrine, but also the process of theological reasoning through which investigation might be carried out. For example, al-Óurr cites the following report of a conversation between HishÅm ibn al-Óakam and Imam JaÆfar al-ÍÅdiq: He [JaÆfar] said, ‘He who claims that God is from something, or in something, or over

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scriptural sufism and scriptural anti-sufism something, has already committed unbelief.’ I [HishÅm] said, ‘Explain this for me.’ He said, ‘I meant by this that [such a person claims] God is dependent upon something, or that something is attached to him, or that there was a thing which preceded him.’20

Al-Óurr adds a comment, ‘This clearly demonstrates that ˙ulËl is unbelief.’ More importantly, though, the Imam is engaging in rudimentary theological reasoning with HishÅm. The Imam’s use of the theological ideas of dependency, attachment and precedence (though not the technical terminology) enables al-Óurr to argue that the Imam is not merely declaring the doctrine of ˙ulËl to be unbelief, but also explaining the theological reasons for such an argument. Certain types of theological argumentation (namely arguments from dependency, attachment and precedence) are now permitted means of theological reasoning. AkhbÅrÈ-style argumentation is also to be found in al-Óurr’s assertion that the statements of Sufis (he quotes the famous ‘sub˙ÅnÈ’ of AbË YazÈd al-Bis†ÅmÈ) are not to be subject to interpretation (Æadam jawÅz ta’wÈl aqwÅlihim).21 AkhbÅrÈs adopted a common classical Muslim view of the function of language. Utterances (alfÅΩ) are to be understood in their given meanings (maw∂ËÆÅt) unless there is sufficient evidence (qarÅ’in) for a diversion of meaning. This, in itself, is not a distinctive AkhbÅrÈ position, and was common amongst Muslim writers of both literary theory and ußËl al-fiqh. What was distinctively AkhbÅrÈ was the restricted set of circumstances in which diversion could occur. For AkhbÅrÈs, the sayings of the Imams provided the only means whereby the utterance of God in the Qur’Ån might be understood, and hence the Qur’Ån itself could not be understood directly by the believer, but only through the tafsÈr of the Imams.22 The Imam’s utterances, however, are to be understood as using the ‘given’ meanings of words. The Imams, according to most AkhbÅrÈs,23 use language in an ÆurfÈ (‘common’, ‘every day’) manner which is comprehensible to all believers. If they did not, then their theological function would be frustrated. The general tendency to restrict interpretation and to set out stringent conditions on which utterances might be understood in a ‘non-given’ (i.e. diverted, majÅz) manner is transferred to the question of interpreting the supposedly ‘ecstatic’ utterances of Sufis. The refusal to accept that Sufi utterances can be interpreted leads, inevitably, to the declaration of unbelief: It has been related from a group (of Sufis) that when they recite ‘It is you whom we worship and it is from you that we seek sustenance’ [from SËrat al-FÅti˙a], they bring to mind their PÈr and teacher, from whom they take [guidance]. How is it possible to interpret such statements, or the statement of Mu˙yÈ al-DÈn Ibn ÆArabÈ when he says that he has seen AbË Bakr on the throne in a higher position than all the Prophets? How can an ImÅmÈ interpret such a statement? What opponent [i.e. Sunni], or other pressing necessity is there such that one might interpret these words as generated by taqiyya?24

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robert gleave Here, al-Óurr mentions those occasions on which an Imam’s statement may not mean what it appears to mean – namely the Imam’s need to dissimulate (taqiyya) in order to preserve the welfare of himself or the community. Whilst this technique was employed by both UßËlÈs and AkhbÅrÈs in their legal reasoning, it was the AkhbÅrÈs who exploited its potential more fully in the legal realm.25 For UßËlÈs, on the other hand, contradictions within the akhbÅr could be solved by a number of alternative means. These included conjoining the statements through interpretation (al-jamÆ, considered ‘over-interpretation’ by the AkhbÅrÈs) and asserting the reduced probative force of one of the reports on the basis of perceived weaknesses in its transmission chain. For AkhbÅrÈs, all contradictions within the akhbÅr of the Imams were due to the Imams’ taqiyya, and taqiyya-generated report can only be recognised on a case-by-case basis, through an examination of the possible protective motives of the Imams. When this is not possible, the Imams decreed that the ShÈÆa should accept (or presume) that the intended meaning of the statement is identical with its given meaning. Transferring this AkhbÅrÈ linguistic reasoning to the case of the Sufi utterances, al-Óurr argues that in order to ascertain an intended meaning in the utterances of al-Bis†ÅmÈ or Ibn ÆArabÈ which differs significantly from their ‘given’ meaning, one requires evidence either that the meaning should be diverted (qarÅ’in) or that they were uttered out of taqiyya. Neither type of evidence is available (or indeed likely to exist). Hence, each statement must be accepted as carrying a meaning identical with its given meanings, and these (predictably) amount to a violation of both rational and revealed doctrinal norms.26 It can be deduced from this that a common Sufi counter-attack was to argue that the ‘given’ meanings of their masters’ utterances should be set aside in favour of more doctrinally palatable interpretations. Al-Óurr is unmoved by such a procedure, and cannot resist making an oblique reference to the similarity between these examples of Sufi over-interpretation and those proposed by the UßËlÈs. Some jurists also behave in an extraordinary manner when, on the one hand, they interpret the ˙adÈth, but, on the other hand, do not interpret the utterances of the Sufis. Things like this come about because [they have] deficient understanding of the rules of the law (qawÅnÈn al-sharÆ).27

The interpretation of ˙adÈth, however, can only happen under strict conditions: Interpretation can only take place when [the given meaning of an Imam’s statement] is certain and the law has clearly declared the opposite. In such cases the intended meaning can be changed from its apparent meaning on the strength of opposing [evidence]. The utterances of the Sufis, however, are not like the utterances of the Imams. According to the rules of the SharÆ, it is always obligatory to interpret [utterances] according to their apparent meaning. The judgement for the one who makes such utterances is inevitable: he is a miscreant and an unbeliever.28

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scriptural sufism and scriptural anti-sufism One can see here how, in al-Óurr’s mind, the refutation of Sufism is linked with the refutation of UßËlism. Whilst he recognises that some UßËlÈs may criticise Sufism, and even consider Sufis unbelievers, he considers the UßËlÈ hermeneutic position as contradictory. Whilst they are willing to interpret the Imams’ statements in far-fetched and unconvincing ways, they are not willing to do so with the statements of Sufis. A more coherent and logically preferable position is to adopt the AkhbÅrÈ hermeneutic and interpret utterances as ‘meaning what they say’ without direct and unambiguous evidence that they mean something else. The same stance is taken towards the Imams’ utterances and the Sufi outbursts (sha†a˙Åt), thereby confirming the AkhbÅrÈ view that the Imams (unlike God in the Qur’Ån) spoke in ‘ordinary language’ which should be interpreted through the same procedures as the utterances of individuals other than the Imams. Al-Óurr’s refutation of kashf (unveiling, illumination, revelation) is a similar mixture of well-worn arguments, and novel applications of AkhbÅrÈ argumentation to Sufi doctrine. Kashf, the Sufis claim, is a permitted form of knowledge distinct from the textual sources. Al-Óurr’s primary argument concerning the inability of kashf to act as knowledge source is linked to its failure to bring certainty concerning the truth of its contents. There is, he argues, no certain indicator (dalÈl qa†ÆÈ) that kashf has been obtained by an individual, that it should be obtained, or that it is legal. It remains a presumptive indicator (ΩannÈ) at best. ‘How could a rational person, let alone a Muslim, accept that his acts of obedience [to God] are proven by mere Ωann?’29 The link with the AkhbÅrÈ’s refutation of the mujtahid’s Ωann, and their concomitant valorisation of certainty (Æilm, yaqÈn, qa†Æ) is obvious. According to al-Óurr, the Sufis claim that kashf is equivalent to ikhbÅr (the transmission of a piece of information by a single individual). Knowledge of the Prophet’s claim to Prophecy is based on the Prophet’s own ikhbÅr. This was supported by Prophetic miracles which confirmed his claim. In the same way, the Sufis claim that kashf may be insufficient on its own to provide a proof, but when it is accompanied by the individual’s ‘knowledge of unseen things and the appearance of miracles by his hand,’ then it becomes a valid and certain source of information. Al-Óurr’s argument against this is first, that the so-called miracles accompanying kashf are mere chicanery, and second that the predictions of the future touted by the Sufis could be the result of guesswork (takhmÈn). If it is possible that they are guesswork, then kashf can no longer act as a source of certain knowledge because legitimate sources of knowledge must be devoid of any possibility of error. An analogous argument is proposed by AkhbÅrÈs (including al-Óurr himself) against the UßËlÈ position that a khabar al-wÅ˙id (an isolated tradition) has probative force even though its authenticity cannot be proven beyond doubt (i.e. it has ΩannÈ status). The AkhbÅrÈ position is that a source of knowledge must be both qa†ÆÈ al-ßudËr (certain in its origin) and qa†ÆÈ

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robert gleave al-dalÈl (certain in its indication). Kashf fails on both accounts. In his section on the invalidity of kashf, al-Óurr also argues that to accept knowledge gained through kashf would be to accept ikhtilÅf (difference of opinion). ‘There is clear, wide ikhtilÅf in what the proponents of kashf report.’30 This is true for both Sunni Sufis and ShÈÆÈ Sufis, he says, and since kashf is, by definition, beyond the realm of deductive confirmation, this leaves the scholar at an impasse. ‘This necessitates the view that all who claim [kashf] are sinless’ (Æißmat kull man iddaÆÅ), with ‘sinless’ here meaning ‘the inability to make an error’ (Æadam jawÅz al-kha†Å’).31 In turn, kashf necessitates commitment to the idea that sinlessness is a quality which is ‘possible/contingent and acquired’ (mumkin kasbÈ). Of course, the sinlessness of the Imams, al-Óurr argues, is an ‘essential quality’ of the Imams, and not accidental. Once again, the reasoning here mirrors that used by al-Óurr against the UßËlÈs. The analogy is between kashf and ijtihÅd, and the invalidity of the view that ‘all who claim [kashf] are sinless’ is clearly parallel to the AkhbÅrÈ accusation that UßËlÈs inevitably support the view that kull mujtahid mußÈb (‘all mujtahids are right/justified’). Some of al-Óurr’s anti-Sufi argumentation is, then, based on distinctively AkhbÅrÈ epistemology and hermeneutics. The AkhbÅrÈ movement may have been primarily concerned with the rejection of the UßËlÈ juristic position, and the rejection of ijtihÅd was clearly the hallmark of an AkhbÅrÈ. However, the employment of AkhbÅrÈ ideas outside of jurisprudence, in disciplines which are not (strictly speaking) of legal relevance, demonstrates that, for some AkhbÅrÈs, AkhbÅrism was not limited to matters of the law. Instead it encompassed all religious knowledge, and AkhbÅrÈ principles could be applied to questions of theology, philosophy and mysticism. This approach was not the unanimous position of the movement, though it was held by a number of the most famous proponents of AkhbÅrism, al-Óurr al-ÆåmilÈ included. As the above examples indicate, the views and techniques developed in the discipline of ußËl al-fiqh were seen by some AkhbÅrÈs as having direct relevance for their critique of Sufism and Sufi theology, and were employed accordingly.

‘sufi’ akhbarism Clearly, there were Safavid AkhbÅrÈs who did not view their legal scripturalism as necessarily in conflict with philosophical mysticism (or indeed involvement in Sufi-style ritual practice). Though the term Sufi or taßawwuf is rarely claimed by such scholars (it usually functions as an accusation by an opponent), their mystical writings display the influence of the thought of the supposed Sufi masters, in particular the thought of Ibn ÆArabÈ. The biographical works record a number of AkhbÅrÈs with Sufi or philosophical associations. Mu˙ammad TaqÈ al-MajlisÈ is perhaps the most prominent of the early AkhbÅrÈs whose writings display support for both AkhbÅrism and Sufism.32 Íadr al-DÈn ibn NÅßir al-DÈn

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scriptural sufism and scriptural anti-sufism ibn MÈrzÅ ÍÅli˙ al-ÊabņabÅ’È al-YazdÈ (d. 1153/1740),33 though a minor figure, was an AkhbÅrÈ who wrote works of Æirfan. MÈrzÅ Mu˙ammad al-AkhbÅrÈ (d. 1232/1817) clearly involved himself in practices which linked to folk (almost animistic) Sufism,34 and his pupil Fat˙ ÆAlÈ Zand (d. after 1236/1821) produced a version of AkhbÅrism which engages with the ÆirfÅn philosophical system.35 Similarly, ÓabÈb al-DÈn Mu˙ammad ibn ÆAlÈ Aßghar al-JurfÅdaqÅnÈ (d. after 1244/1828) composed al-Mulhima bi-l-ßawÅb, a work described as ‘ÆirfÅnÈ akhbÅrÈ kalÅm’.36 Later in the 13th/19th century, the AkhbÅrÈ Mu˙ammad Najaf al-KirmÅnÈ al-MashhadÈ al-AkhbÅrÈ (d. 1292/1876) is described as an ‘akhbÅrÈÆÅrif’.37 This sample of biographical references, recording an involvement in both disciplines, is far from comprehensive, though it clearly indicates a mystical trend within AkhbÅrism, which ran alongside the anti-Sufism of al-Óurr and others. It is more difficult to ascertain from such a list the interrelationship between their AkhbÅrism and their alleged mysticism. Whether this, and the other elements of the emerging ÆIrfÅn tradition in ShÈÆÈ centres of learning can be termed ‘Sufi’ is, in part, a definitional rather than substantive problem. Such an assessment requires discrete analyses of both the juristic and mystical (or philosophical) oeuvres of individual writers and a recognition of analogues to AkhbÅrÈ-style reasoning. This is hampered by the (current) unavailability of the relevant sources. In the case of Mu˙sin Fay∂ al-KÅshÅnÈ (d. 1090/1697) we have perhaps the best-known example of an AkhbÅrÈ who was deeply involved in the development of MullÅ ÍadrÅ’s ‘transcendental philosophy’. Fay∂ was a prolific author, and his views clearly developed during his scholarly career. He probably met al-AstarÅbÅdÈ early in his career,38 though his AkhbÅrism appears to date from his time as a pupil of MÅjid al-Ba˙rÅnÈ in Shiraz.39 Al-Ba˙rÅnÈ was amongst al-AstarÅbÅdÈ’s first ‘AkhbÅrÈ’ pupils, and probably responsible for the introduction of AkhbÅrÈ ideas to Shiraz in the early 1020s. In his works of jurisprudence (including his Naq∂ al-ußËl al-fiqhiyya, SafÈnat al-NajÅt, al-Óaqq al-MubÈn and al-UßËl al-AßÈla) Fay∂ argues stridently for the superiority of his own version of AkhbÅrism and these works establish him as a major contributor to the early development of AkhbÅrÈ jurisprudence. His concomitant involvement in mystical philosophy, which he developed whilst studying with MullÅ ÍadrÅ, is also well known. Works such as UßËl al-MaÆÅrif, ÆAyn al-YaqÈn and Kalimat-i MaknËna have become standard ÆirfÅn texts. The works in which Fay∂ argues for an AkhbÅrÈ jurisprudence can be dated well into his scholarly career, suggesting that he maintained an AkhbÅrÈ approach to jurisprudence throughout his involvement in ÆirfÅn. To what extent his AkhbÅrism is linked with his mystical philosophy is not immediately clear.40 For example, his al-Ma˙ajja al-Bay∂Å’ is modelled on al-GhazÅlÈ’s I˙yÅ’ ÆUlËm al-DÈn. There is little evidence in it of a clear link between AkhbÅrism and

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robert gleave mystical philosophy (though much evidence of the link between ritual practice and personal sanctification).41 His mixing of jurisprudence, ethics (akhlÅq) and Sufism can also be seen in his al-Nukhba, a work structured according to the categories of fiqh, but with Sufi-style interpolations. The chapter on purity, for example, covers both internal and external purity (†ahÅrat al-bņin wa-†ahÅrat al-ΩÅhir).42 The former is more important and consists of purifying the heart from sin, achieved through reaching ‘stages’ such as repentance (tawba), patience (ßabr) and poverty (faqr).43 External purity is dependent upon this internal purity, and this dependence is reflected in the presentation as the outward ritual requirements usually found in a work of †ahÅra immediately after the delineation of internal purity.44 Of course, the blending of fiqh with Sufi stages (maqÅmÅt) was an established element amongst the so-called ‘sober’ Sufis. Fay∂’s eagerness to explore the interrelationship between fiqh and mystical themes in works such as al-Nukhba demonstrates both an ‘interdisciplinarity’ in Fay∂’s thought, and that he viewed the two disciplines (law and mystical enquiry) as intimately linked. Subsequent AkhbÅrÈs, most notably NËr al-DÈn al-JazÅ’irÈ, AbdullÅh al-JazÅ’irÈ and A˙mad ibn ÍÅlih al-Ba˙rÅnÈ who commented on (or abbreviated) al-Nukhba,45 considered this established blend of mysticism and fiqh consonant with their AkhbÅrÈ commitment. In specific terms, the relationship between Fay∂’s AkhbÅrism and his mystical philosophy can be exemplified by two elements of his jurisprudence. The first is terminological, and involves Fay∂’s use of the term ÆÅrif to describe the jurist. For example, one dispute within AkhbÅrism concerned the permissibility of Qur’Ånic interpretation. Al-AstarÅbÅdÈ’s position appears to have been that direct interpretation of the Qur’Ån was not permitted, and the Qur’Ån could only be understood through the tafsÈr of the Imams (found within the akhbÅr). Mu˙sin Fay∂’s position was that whilst most of the Qur’Ån could not be understood directly, certain verses had a clear unambiguous meaning (the mu˙kamÅt) which could be understood without the interpretive aid of the Imams’ akhbÅr.46 However, the task of identifying and interpreting these mu˙kamÅt was restricted. Deciding which verses were mu˙kam required a particular type of knowledge and training. The jurists who could carry out such an exercise were termed al-ÆÅrifÈn. Whether this particular exercise (i.e. recognising the mu˙kamÅt) required any mystical knowledge is not clear. It is clear, though, that the ÆulamÅ’ act as the community’s source of revelatory knowledge, both when it is directly revealed by God and when known through the Imams. The ÆulamÅ’ held the Æilm, and through them, God’s will was made known to the community.47 Fay∂’s AkhbÅrÈ opinion that the ÆulamÅ’’s personal opinion played no part in the process of knowledge dissemination here links with the idea which al-Óurr had spent much time refuting, namely that of kashf (the revelation of knowledge to an individual, which can then be passed on to the community). The two roles of the ÆulamÅ’ –

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scriptural sufism and scriptural anti-sufism as recipients of divine knowledge and as disseminators of this knowledge – are brought together by labelling them al-ÆÅrifÈn.48 A second area where Fay∂’s jurisprudence has philosophical relevance relates to the manner in which the legal description of an action (obligatory, recommended, permitted, etc.), or the legal category into which a substance might fall (pure, impure, etc.), is connected with the action or substance ‘in reality’. The AkhbÅrÈs (and Fay∂, on this point, was typical of the movement generally) argued that assessments (that an action is obligatory, or that a substance is pure, for example) are essential attributes of the action or substance under examination. Naturally, one may not always know the assessment of an action or categorisation of a substance: one may have a weak intellect and be unable to understand the ruling; one may not have read the relevant text; there may be no relevant text. All of these possible factors do not, however, remove the fact that there is an assessment for every situation; they merely affect the quality of an individual’s knowledge of these assessments. Imperfect knowledge of God’s assessments does not, however, mean humanity is left in a state of legal paralysis. God (through His Imams) has also revealed a series of procedures which should be followed in circumstances of imperfect knowledge. These ‘interpretive principles’ have already been alluded to in the above examination of al-Óurr’s AkhbÅrÈ denunciation of Sufism. Fay∂ outlines in his al-UßËl al-AßÈla the epistemological effects of adopting these principles. Through the application of principles, the individual believer will not necessarily arrive at the law ‘in reality’. Instead, he will reach an assessment concerning a particular action or substance, and this assessment is valid, not because it accords with reality, but because it has been reached by following a particular deductive process. The law, then, is (at least) two tiered. The law ‘in reality’ is known to God, and can be glimpsed on occasions by individual believers.49 The rule for a course of action on a particular occasion, deduced through exegetic principles supplied by God, through the Imams, justifies an individual believer before God: it ensures that an individual who transgresses the law ‘in reality’ does not attract blame or punishment for their actions. Fay∂ argues that the assessments ‘in reality’ are considered essential to the action or substance (dhÅtÈ), whilst the assessments derived from the application of interpretive principles are considered contingent properties (imkÅnÈ). This bifurcated ontology of assessments justifies, amongst other things, al-AstarÅbÅdÈ’s view that following a ruling by an Imam which was issued out of dissimulation (taqiyya) enables the individual to be legally justified, even though he may (‘in reality’) be acting sinfully. The external presence of legal assessments, of course, accords with the general MuÆtazilÈ view of the non-subjective existence of moral (and at times, legal) properties such as good and evil which can, like other properties (such as dimension or hue), be discerned independently by a rational being.

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robert gleave A delineation of the philosophical (and, to an extent, mystical) implications of such a view regarding the existence of assessments is necessarily speculative, but is not difficult to construct. The SharÈÆa, God’s will, is known in its entirety to God alone. Humanity has a limited and partial view of that law. This limited view provides the individual with a justification for particular actions, whether or not the rule being followed intersects with the law of God, but does not provide knowledge of God’s intended will. Such a perspective chimes with Fay∂’s philosophical mysticism, adopted from his teacher MullÅ ÍadrÅ, and ultimately stretching back much further in Islamic thought. The apparent diversity of the sensible world is distinguished from its real unity, just as apparent rulings which justify immediate action are distinguished from the real SharÈÆa. It may be initially acceptable to behave as if the world consists of diverse and discrete objects, as it is justified to follow the ruling which results from the deductive principle revealed by the Imams. For most in human society, this is the limit of their understanding. However, the scholar (ÆÅlim, ÆÅrif) goes beyond this superficiality, and when asked about the true nature of things (including a request concerning the law) is barred from declaring either diversity or the apparent ruling to be identical with reality. The comprehension of both the world as diverse and the apparent ruling as legal are provisional (and ultimately inadequate) understandings of the ‘Real’ in Fay∂’s schema. Perhaps more characteristically ShÈÆÈ is the link between Fay∂’s view (derived from MullÅ ÍadrÅ) that existence can vary in intensity (or is ‘systematically ambiguous’, tashkÈk)50 and his AkhbÅrÈ jurisprudence. The sensible world constitutes the realm where the intensity of existence is reduced relative to higher (mystically communicated) levels. In this sensible realm, the rules to be followed are in one sense the law (in that following them gains reward, and disobeying them attracts punishment). They reflect God’s will, but only weakly. They do not have the ‘intensity’ of the law ‘in reality’, which, being an attribute of God (i.e. His will), is the most intensive manifestation. A further example of the intersection of jurisprudence and mystical philosophy concerns Fay∂’s rejection of analogical reasoning (qiyÅs) as a legitimate deductive principle. Of course, the ImÅmÈs generally were critical of qiyÅs, adhering formally to a series of uncompromising statements from the Imams in which analogical reasoning was condemned. These form the revelatory base from which AkhbÅrÈs could launch their attack on the incremental acceptance of qiyÅs by UßËlÈs. As I have shown elsewhere, the UßËlÈs diluted the Imams’ prohibition on the use of qiyÅs by recategorising certain obviously analogical procedures as mere linguistic implications (mafÅhÈm).51 Fay∂, in predictable AkhbÅrÈ fashion, saw in the UßËlÈ restrictions of qiyÅs an attempt to incorporate analogical reasoning into ShÈÆÈ jurisprudence under the banner of linguistic implication. He stresses that the only deductive processes permitted in the derivation of the law are those

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scriptural sufism and scriptural anti-sufism sanctioned by the Imams. Other processes (such as qiyÅs) may appear rationally plausible, but they do not have the approval of the Imams. Hence, for Fay∂ (as for al-Óurr, detailed above), the Imams provide not only knowledge itself, but the means (i.e. the reasoning process) whereby knowledge of legally valid actions might be acquired. To permit processes outside of those sanctioned by the Imams is to open a route for a scholar’s opinion of the law (Ωann) to enter into the juristic calculation. QiyÅs is, then, both epistemologically suspect and in contravention of the Imams’ decrees. Fay∂’s rejection of qiyÅs is based on his view that the Imams are the only source of legal knowledge, and this keys, at least superficially, with Fay∂’s philosophical arguments concerning devotion to (and dependence upon) the Imam which, for him, lies at the heart of ShÈÆÈ allegiance. Fay∂, like ÍadrÅ, argued that, philosophically speaking, the sensible world is in a state of permanent movement (al-˙araka al-jawhariyya).52 Movement requires a cause in order to come into being, and the agent of this permanent creative act is, of course, God. The distinctively ShÈÆÈ version of this theory places the Imam as the conduit for this activity.53 Through the Imam, material substance has the appearance of continuity and permanence, but is, in fact, irreducibly contingent and in a state of re-creation. Through recognising this dependence, the true believer pledges himself to the Imam. The Imam here is conceived of as an ‘unrestricted walÈ’ and not bound by time in the manner that the Imams of history are ‘restricted’ by physical existence. The latter are the conduits for law and the former holds a more fundamental role in the maintenance of creation.54 Now, in juristic terms, the creation of legal rules can be conceived as a series of individual acts of decree by God which breaks through into the sensible world through the Imams’ agency. The rules are discrete, without necessary interconnection or interrelationship. The rules are, like all existence, being continually restated (or re-created). That is, there is no underlying legal rationality (or system) which enables a jurist to predict the ruling on one topic from rulings (known through the revelatory sources) in an apparently similar topic. In juristic terms, there is a lack of necessity between the existence of particular ‘causes’ (Æilal) and the legal judgements which (according to qiyÅs) are inevitably present when these causes come into existence. Rejecting qiyÅs is linked, then, with a rejection of the necessity of causation generally. The result is both a metaphysical and legal occassionalism. Fay∂’s utter dependence on the Imams for both existence and legal rules entails the illegitimacy of analogical reasoning (as promoted by Sunni jurists, and, according to AkhbÅrÈs, adopted by UßËlÈs). QiyÅs can, therefore, be seen as an attempt to divest God of the ability to make discrete (and non-rational) rulings by forcing him to comply with the human conception of legal consistency. The legal device of analogy represents a direct challenge to Fay∂’s doctrine of the dependency of the sensible world upon the creative power

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robert gleave of the Imam, and for this reason (alongside the revelatory and epistemological arguments more usually employed by AkhbÅrÈs) it is rejected. In Fay∂’s integration of legal themes with high philosophy, one has an example of an uncompromising scripturalist who is simultaneously committed to a particular expression of mystical philosophy. That he only rarely makes explicit connections between the different disciplines is not evidence that he viewed his philosophy as unconnected with his jurisprudence and theology.55 Rather, it is evidence of the power of generic boundaries in late classical ShÈÆÈ literature. Certain genres of literature demand certain types of argumentation, and these restrictions made demands even on a polymath such as Fay∂. However, that Fay∂ had a comprehensive vision of the task of religious investigation is undeniable, and this included philosophy, Sufism, theology and jurisprudence. The above exploration demonstrates how scripturalist jurisprudence was linked with late classical ShÈÆÈ mystical philosophy by scholars more sympathetic to Sufi theology.

conclusions In sum, then, the AkhbÅrÈ school was based on a scripturalist jurisprudence, in which the revelatory texts were seen as the only legitimate source of legal knowledge. Such a perspective might seem inevitably anti-Sufi, since it implicitly denies the validity of knowledge derived from non-textual sources. The personal inspiration or revelation (ilhÅm, kashf) characteristic of Sufi discourse might be seen as irreconcilable with the textualism of the AkhbÅriyya, if one examines supposed analogous Sunni movements such as the WahhÅbiyya. Indeed, the epistemological perspective of some AkhbÅrÈs did lead them to conclude that Sufism, in its popular, institutional and philosophical expressions, was legally invalid, morally abhorrent and doctrinally heretical. However, this was not the position of all AkhbÅrÈs, and Fay∂’s complex conception of knowledge and its accessibility through the Imam demonstrate a willingness to engage with mystical philosophy as an AkhbÅrÈ. As Morris has argued, for some ‘the AkhbÅrÈ position offered a much more open arena for a universalist, philosophic apprehension of the meaning of scripture, since the primary or literal meaning of the symbols of revelation, in this view, was precisely that which applied to the spiritual condition of all men’.56 Scripture, here, is to be understood as the akhbÅr of the Imams, since (as is discussed above), the Qur’Ån is, in large part, not available for interpretation, either literally or otherwise. Nonetheless, a dogged commitment to the epistemological efficacy of scripture does not, necessarily, demand a rejection of mystical experience or a refusal to philosophise. That AkhbÅrism could be used either to promote or deny philosophical theology generally, and mystical philosophy in particular, is evidence of the intellectual versatility of particular AkhbÅrÈ scholars. It is also evidence that the movement, as a whole,

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scriptural sufism and scriptural anti-sufism was defined by a set of legal doctrines, and as such could either be conjoined with theological, philosophical and mystical doctrines, or (alternatively) used to denigrate these academic disciplines. The perspective of an AkhbÅrÈ depended not only on the scholar’s skills in both jurisprudence and falsafa, but also the level of his personal receptiveness to mystical doctrine.

notes 1. My thanks are due to Professor Todd Lawson for his comments on an earlier draft of this chapter. Though he may not concur entirely with my portrayal, his comments, as always, were perceptive and challenging. 2. The contents and structure of the I˙yÅ’ are briefly examined in N. Faris, ‘The Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din of al-Ghazali’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 81 (1939), pp. 15–19. 3. See Shaykh Murta∂Å al-AnßÅrÈ, FarÅ’id al-UßËl (Qum: Mu’assasat al-Nashr al-IslÅmÈ, 1416 ah); Hossein Modarressi Tabataba’i, An Introduction to ShÈÆÈ Law: a Bibliographical Study (London: Ithaca Press, 1984), p. 17. 4. R. Gleave, Scripturalist Islam: The AkhbÅrÈ School in ImÅmÈ ShiÆism from Mu˙ammad AmÈn al-AstarÅbÅdÈ to MÈrzÅ Mu˙ammad al-AkhbÅrÈ (Leiden: Brill, 2007), Preface. 5. Mu˙ammad AmÈn al-AstarbÅbÅdÈ, al-FawÅ’id al-Madaniyya (Qum: Mu’assasat al-Nashr al-IslÅmÈ, 1424 ah). See also Devin Stewart, ‘The Genesis of the AkhbÅrÈ Revival’, in Michel Mazzaoui (ed.) Safavid Iran and her Neighbors (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2003), pp. 169–93. 6. Gleave, Scripturalist Islam, ch. 9 (‘Revelatory contradiction’). 7. See, for example, Moojan Momen, Introduction to ShÈÆÈ Islam (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985) pp. 222–5 and Norman Calder, ‘Doubt and Prerogative: The Emergence of an ImÅmÈ ShÈÆÈ Theory of IjtihÅd’, Studia Islamica 70 (1989), p. 68, n.31. 8. Wilferd Madelung, ‘Imamism and Mu‘tazilite Theology’, in T. Fahd (ed.) Le Shî‘isme imâmite: colloque de Strasbourg (6–9 mai, 1968) (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1970), pp. 20–1, and Devin Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy: Twelver Shiite responses to the Sunni legal system (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1998), pp. 182–3. See also Todd Lawson, ‘AkhbÅrÈ ShÈÆÈ Approaches to tafsÈr’, in G. R. Hawting and Abdul-Kader Shareef (eds), Approaches to the Qur’an (New York and London: Routledge, 1993), pp. 173–210, where AkhbÅrÈ approaches to the Qur’Ån are presented as linked to the alleged corrupt nature of that text (a doctrine which has clear theological implications). 9. RasËl JaÆfariyÅn, Íafaviyyah dar ÆArßah-yi DÈn, Farhang va-SiyÅsat, 3 vols (Qum: Pizhuhishkadah-yi Óawzah va-DÅnishkadah, 1389 ah solar), 1, p. 287. 10. Gleave, Scripturalist Islam, ch. 2 11. See E. Kohlberg, ‘Akbariya’, EIr; H. Corbin, Histoire de la philosophie islamique (Paris: . Gallimard, 1983), p. 356; T. Lawson, ‘The Hidden Words of Fay∂ KÅshÅnÈ’, in M. Szuppe (ed.), Iran: Questions et Connaissances (Paris: Association pour L’advancement des Études Iraniennes, 2002), pp. 433–4. 12. His AkhbÅrÈ allegiance is not established beyond dispute, since his work on ußËl al-fiqh (see Mu˙ammad Mu˙sin åghÅ Buzurg al-ÊihrÅnÈ, al-DharÈÆa ilÅ taßÅnÈf al-ShÈÆa, 29 vols (Beirut: DÅr al-A∂wÅ’, 1983–1988), 2, p. 205, no. 791) has not survived.

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robert gleave

13.

14.

15.

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

33. 34.

However, he is described as an AkhbÅrÈ in most later biographical works (see for example, Mu˙ammad BÅqir al-KhwÅnsÅrÈ, Raw∂Åt al-JannÅt fÈ a˙wÅl al-ÆulamÅ’ wa-lsÅdÅt, 8 vols (Beirut: al-DÅr al-IslÅmiyya, 1411 ah), 4, pp. 140–3). Entitled UßËl FußËl al-Taw∂È˙, the work consists of ÊÅhir al-QummÈ’s comments, followed by TaqÈ al-MajlisÈ’s refutation, followed by ÊÅhir al-QummÈ’s commentary on al-MajlisÈ’s refutation. It has been edited by RasËl JaÆfariyÅn, Íafaviyyah, 2, pp. 605–66. See, for example, Colin Turner’s almost polemical approach in his Islam Without Allah? The Rise of Religious Externalism in Safavid Iran (Richmond: Curzon Press, 2000), pp. 148–86. See, for comparison, al-Shaykh al-BahÅ’È’s al-IthnÅ Æashariyya (Qum: Maktabat Åyat AllÅh al-ÆUΩmÅ al-MarÆashÈ al-NajafÈ, 1409 ah), which incorporates theological and juristic questions. Al-Óurr al-ÆAmilÈ, al-IthnÅ Æashariyya (Qum: DÅr al-Kutub al-ÆIlmiyya, n.d.), pp. 57–80, pp. 80–8 and pp. 197–200 respectively. Also known as Nahj al-Óaqq wa-Kashf al-Íidq (see al-ÊihrÅnÈ, DharÈÆa, 24, p. 416, no. 2183). Al-Óurr, al-IthnÅ Æashariyya, p. 58. In the sense of being legally valid – see R. Gleave, Inevitable Doubt: Two Theories of ShÈÆÈ Jurisprudence (Leiden: Brill, 2000), p. 153. Al-Óurr, al-IthnÅ Æashariyya, p. 68. Al-Óurr al-IthnÅ Æashariyya, pp. 70–1. Al-Óurr advocates this general AkhbÅrÈ position (see Mu˙ammad ibn al-Óasan al-Óurr al-åmilÈ, al-FawÅ’id al-†Ësiyya (Qum: al-Ma†baÆa al-ÆIlmiyya, 1403 ah), pp. 163–95), and even argues that the sayings of the Prophet are similarly obscure without the Imams’ tafsÈr. There was dispute amongst the AkhbÅrÈs over this issue – with some (such as Mu˙sin Fay∂) arguing that the mu˙kamÅt of the Qur’Ån could be understood, and it was merely the mutashÅbihÅt which are obscure and in need of the Imams’ tafsÈr. See Gleave, Scripturalist Islam, ch. 7. See Gleave, Inevitable Doubt, p. 54. Al-Óurr, al-IthnÅ Æashariyya, pp. 72–3. See Gleave, Inevitable Doubt, pp. 30–48. This is outlined in the ninth subsection of chapter 3, which, unlike most other subsections, is not itself subjected to twelvefold division, but merely consists of a single passage. Al-Óurr, al-IthnÅ Æashariyya, p. 73. Al-Óurr, al-IthnÅ Æashariyya, p. 73. Al-Óurr, al-IthnÅ Æashariyya, p. 73. Al-Óurr, al-IthnÅ Æashariyya, p. 81. Al-Óurr, al-IthnÅ Æashariyya, p. 86. Al-Óurr, al-IthnÅ Æashariyya, p. 81. See his support of kashf (though he discredits ˙ulËl and itti˙Åd): Mu˙ammad TaqÈ al-MajlisÈ, LawÅmiÆ ßÅ˙ibqirÅnÈ al-Mushtahar bi-shar˙ al-FaqÈh, 4 vols (Tehran: Maktabat-i IsmÅÆÈliyyÈn, 1414), 3, pp. 43–4. åghÅ Buzurg al-ÊihrÅnÈ, ÊabaqÅt al-AÆlÅm, 6 vols (Qum: Mu’assasat IsmaÆÈlÈyÅn, nd.), 6, p. 377. Heribert Busse, History of Persia Under Qajar Rule (New York: Columbia University Press, 1972), pp. 111–14.

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scriptural sufism and scriptural anti-sufism 35. Fat˙ ÆAlÈ Zand, al-FawÅ’id al-ShÈrÅziyya fÈ bayÅn madhÅhib al-ijtihÅdiyya wa-l-akhbÅriyya (MS Majlis Library (Tehran) 2047). 36. Al-ÊihrÅnÈ, al-DharÈÆa, 22, p. 223. 37. Mu˙ammad Óasan KhÅn IÆtimÅd al-Sal†anah, al-Ma’Åthir wa-l-ÅthÅr (Tehran: KitÅbkhÅna-yi SanÅ’È, n.d.), p. 173. 38. If it is al-AstarÅbÅdÈ referred to in Mu˙sin Fay∂ al-KÅshÅnÈ, al-Óaqq al-MubÈn fÈ ta˙qÈq kayfiyyat al-tafaqquh fÈ l-dÈn (Tehran: SÅzamÅn-i ChÅp-i DÅnishgÅh, n.d.), p. 12. 39. Al-Sayyid NiÆmat AllÅh al-JazÅ’irÈ, Zahr al-RabÈÆ (Beirut: Mu’assasat al-BalÅgh, 1999), pp. 284–285. 40. H. Algar, ‘Fayz-e KÅshÅnÈ’, EIr. ¯ 41. Mu˙sin Fay∂ al-KÅshÅnÈ, al-Ma˙ajjah al-Bay∂Å’ fÈ tahdhÈb al-I˙yÅ’ (Qum: Daftar-i IntishÅrÅt-i IslÅmÈ, n.d.). 42. Mu˙sin Fay∂ al-KÅshÅnÈ, al-Nukhba fÈ l-˙ikma al-Æilmiyya wa-l-a˙kÅm al-sharÆiyya (Qum: Markaz al-ÊibÅÆa, 1418 ah), p. 47. 43. Fay∂, al-Nukhba, pp. 49–51, 59–60 and 66–7 respectively. Other chapters, clearly linked to well-known maqÅmÅt, include al-˙ilm, al-zuhd, al-ri∂Å, al-shukr, al-khawf, al-tawakkul. It is particularly interesting that a standard legal topic like iqÅmat al-˙udËd (implementing the Qur’Ånic prescribed penalties) is included in the chapter on purity (pp. 52–8) since the legal process of receiving punishment (even if this punishment leads to death by stoning, for example) ‘purifies’ (ta†hÈr) the criminal. 44. Fay∂, al-Nukhba, pp. 86ff. 45. Entitled AkhlÅq-i Sul†ÅnÈ (al-ÊihrÅnÈ, al-DharÈÆa, 1, p. 374, no. 1953), al-Tu˙fa al-Saniyya (MS åstÅn-i Quds Library (Mashhad) 2269), and NaΩm al-Nukhba (Fay∂’s work being rendered into verse, see al-ÊihrÅnÈ, al-DharÈÆa, 24, p. 231, no. 1186). 46. See Lawson, ‘AkhbÅri Approaches’, p. 206. 47. See Fay∂, al-Óaqq, p. 6 and Mu˙sin Fay∂ al-KÅshÅnÈ, al-UßËl al-AßÈla (Tehran: SÅzamÅn-i ChÅp-i DÅnishgÅh, 1390 ah), p. 43. In a philosophical context, Fay∂ advises anyone who does not understand the mutashÅbihÅt of the Qur’Ån to refer to God and the rÅsikhËn fÈ l-Æilm (meaning the Imams). See Mu˙sin Fay∂ al-KÅshÅnÈ, UßËl al-MaÆÅrif (Qum: Daftar-i TablÈghÅt-i IslÅmÈ, 1375 ah solar), pp. 192–3. 48. I am, then, tempering Lawson’s account of how MullÅ ÍadrÅ’s philosophical position fed into AkhbÅrism generally, and Fay∂’s work in particular (see T. Lawson, ‘The Hidden Words of Fay∂ KÅshÅnÈ’, pp. 433–4). Certainly, ÍadrÅ’s ideas (and in turn those of Fay∂ also) challenged the authority of the mujtahids, but in its place, the AkhbÅrÈs posited a mu˙addith scholar who transmits knowledge of the SharÈÆa to the people through a particular reading of the akhbÅr of the Imams. This reading was presented to be untouched by personal interpretation, but that was clearly a heuristic device rather than a dispassionate description of AkhbÅrÈ hermeneutics. It was the origin and nature of the scholar’s authority which was in dispute, rather than whether such authority was necessary or legitimate. 49. See Fay∂, al-UßËl, pp. 17–20 (in reference to the principle of al-barÅ’a al-aßliyya). 50. See James Morris, The Wisdom of the Throne (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981), pp. 113–16. 51. Robert Gleave, ‘ImÅmÈ ShÈÆÈ Refutations of QiyÅs’, in B. Weiss (ed.), Studies in Islamic Legal Theory (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 267–93. 52. See Fay∂, UßËl al-MaÆÅrif, pp. 96–103. 53. Fay∂ links the Imam’s role here with the concept of the ‘Perfect Man’ (al-insÅn

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robert gleave al-kÅmil): ‘The objective of the creation and continuation of the world is the Perfect Man, namely the just Imam who is the khalÈfa of God on earth’ (Mu˙sin Fay∂ al-KÅshÅnÈ, KamilÅt-i MaknÅna (Tehran: FarahÅnÈ, 1963), p. 130). 54. See Shigeru Kamada, ‘Fay∂ al-KÅshÅnÈ’s WalÅya: The Confluence of Shi‘i Imamology and Mysticism’, in T. Lawson (ed.), Reason and Inspiration in Islam: Theology, Philosophy and Mysticism in Muslim Thought; Essays in Honour of Hermann Landolt (London: I. B. Tauris, 2005), pp. 461–3. 55. See his section on the sharÆ in his UßËl al-MaÆÅrif, pp. 194–6, where he argues for the complementarity of the sharÆ and the Æaql, though without God providing both to an individual believer, no understanding of the reality of existence. ÆAql is a ‘blessing and light’ from God, whilst sharÆ is His ‘mercy and guidance’. One cannot operate to its full potential without the other. 56. Morris, The Wisdom of the Throne, pp. 47–8, n.52.

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10 1

Reconciling Sufism with Theology: AbË l-WafÅ al-TaftÅzÅnÈ and the Construct of ‘al-Taßawwuf al-IslÅmÈ’ in Modern Egypt Andreas Christmann

introduction During the middle of the twentieth century Egyptian authors on Sufism discovered the modern science of human psychology as a convenient exegetical tool to harmonise the mystical and theological traditions of Islam. Their psychological explanations of the mystical path, leading to the unio mystica, intended to show that the mystic’s unification with God does not, if properly interpreted, contradict taw˙Èd AllÅh, that is, the theological dogma of God’s unique and impenetrable nature. One very influential writer in this respect was the ShÅdhilÈ mystic AbË l-WafÅ al-GhunaymÈ al-TaftÅzÅnÈ (1930–1994), the author of Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh al-SikandarÈ wa-taßawwufuh (1969)1 and Ibn SabÆÈn wa-falsafatuh al-ßËfiyya (1973),2 books which made him known among Western specialists of the respective subjects.3 Still almost unnoticed in the West, however, are his immensely popular prolegomena to the fields of Sufism (1974)4 and theology (1966),5 in which he, almost single-handedly, created a novel discursive framework in which heterodox Sufi theories could be discussed and defended as fundamentally in line with orthodox doctrine. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s work represents a very powerful, albeit in the West rather understudied, trend within the Sufi literature of the twentieth-century Arab world: the presentation of Sufism as ‘Islamic mysticism’, where the change from the generic noun taßawwuf to the attributive compound al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ meant to indicate that Sufism was generically different (to other forms of mysticism) and that it originated from the orthodox (Sunni) norms of the Qur’Ån and the Sunna of the Prophet. In Egypt, authors of ‘al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ’ wrote within an ideological context in which a complete overhaul of traditional Sufi practices was deemed to be vital for the survival of mystical trends in Islam. Modernism, secularism, socialism and Islamism (in that order) were dominant as official (or, in the case of Islamism, disguised) state ideologies in which adherents of Sufism were often portrayed as fatalists, obscurantists or heretics. Within the five decades in which Egypt was governed by the presidencies of JamÅl ÆAbd al-NÅßir (1953–1970), Anwar — 177 —

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andreas christmann al-SÅdÅt (1970–81) and ÓusnÈ MubÅrak (1981–present), Egyptian intellectuals and scholars tried to resolve the perceived anachronism between traditional other-worldly mysticism and modern this-worldly ideologies by selectively constructing a positive counter-image of Sufism that was acceptable to the modernist Zeitgeist. At the same time, Islamic mysticism was an attempt to restore lost (traditional) spirituality as an explicit critique of secular modernity that was dominated by the intellectual episteme of positivism, relativism and materialism. The significance, and perhaps uniqueness, of AbË l-WafÅ al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s oeuvre lies in the fact that it managed to bridge the two streams of thought, insofar as he tried to craft a compromise between Sufi spirituality and modern workethics, between intuitive knowledge and scientific rationality, that is, between kashf and Æaql, Åkhira and dunyÅ, Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh and Mu˙ammad ÆAbduh. In such a position of compromise and synthesis we can discern both al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s complex and very flexible way of thinking as well as his active (and often diplomatic) role that he had to play in shaping the institutional set-up of Sufi orders in the 1960s–1990s. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ was born in 1930 in the then small village of al-GhunaymÈ, near MinyÅ al-Qama˙, the son of Mu˙ammad al-GhunaymÈ al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, who was the head of the Ghunaymiyya branch of the ShÅdhiliyya order and one of the most prominent Sufi spokespersons in the interwar-period.6 After attending school in his home town, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ went to Cairo to become one of the first graduates of the ådÅb faculty at Cairo University in 1950.7 In the philosophy department of the ådÅb faculty he did both his MA degree (1955) and doctorate (1961), and afterwards worked his way up the academic ladder without changing either faculty or department. In 1974 he was appointed Professor for Islamic Philosophy and Sufism, and in 1978 deputy Dean of the ådÅb faculty. In the same year he rose to be Dean of the Faculty of Education (in the Al-Fayoum branch of Cairo University), and in 1981 became the pro-rector of the University of Cairo (responsible for the branches in Al-Fayoum and BanÈ Swayf). The climax of his career came finally in 1983 when, by state edict, he was made Shaykh li-mashÅyikh al-†uruq al-ßËfiyya bi-mißr, a state-sponsored position which entailed, as De Jong writes, ‘supreme supervision over the orders’8 and also constant mediation between pro-mystical interference by the secular state and WahhÅbÈ-inspired anti-mystical opposition.9 For his pupil and successor in the chair of philosophy, Æå†if al-ÆIrÅqÈ, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ embodied not only all the good virtues of al-wafÅ’ (loyalty, with a pun on al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s kunya) but also the belief in the practice of mutual tolerance (al-tasÅmu˙).10 Such characteristics made him the ideal person for the position of the Shaykh li-mashÅyikh (which he held until his untimely death in 1994) in which he had to synthesise the many different trends of Sufi thinking

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reconciling sufism with theology within Egypt’s brotherhoods, as well as for the professorship in philosophy and Sufism, through which he had to teach the basics of Islam’s mystical tradition to a young audience that had become increasingly alienated from the spiritual heritage of traditional Sufi religiosity. The first part of this chapter will analyse al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s construct of ‘al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ’, focusing on his discursive strategies by which he tried to harmonise the mystical experiences of Sufis with modern Salafic ideals of Islamic reformism; this analysis will be followed by a study of his attempts to demonstrate the harmonious relationship between Sufism and theology. This will be done within the context of his lifelong goal to create a ‘religious philosophy’ that provides Muslims with an Islamically authentic Weltanschauung which, emulating al-GhazÅlÈ’s I˙yÅ’ ÆulËm al-dÈn, brings together all of Islam’s traditional sciences. The analysis of these two parts will be restricted to an examination of al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s oeuvre and will leave the historical background and ideological implications aside. A third and final part will therefore conclude the chapter with considerations about the politics of al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s ‘discourse of harmony’.

constructing sufism as ‘islamic mysticism’ The point of departure for all participants in the debate about Islamic mysticism was to disprove the negative associations attached to Sufism and to replace them by a positive image of ‘authentic’ al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ. With the impact of Orientalist comparative studies of mysticism, with phenomenology of religion, psychology of mysticism and with Perennialist philosophies, Egyptian authors had been confronted with a huge variety of different mysticisms.11 Writers on Islamic mysticism felt that ‘mysticism’ (translated as ‘al-taßawwuf ’ in Arabic translations) had become too wide a category. They drew sharp boundaries between ‘pure’ and ‘impure’ forms of mysticism; they wanted nothing to do with occultists, psychopaths, neurotics, charlatans and magicians. ÆAbd al-WÅ˙id Ya˙yÅ, for example, mourned that the ‘psychological trend’ (al-ittijÅh al-nafsÈ) in Western mysticism had emptied ‘al-taßawwuf ’ of any association with sharÈÆa-based religiosity, against which he proposed an Islamic mysticism in order to correct such trends.12 Ma˙mËd AbË l-Fay∂ al-ManËfÈ’s book title Unadulterated Islamic mysticism already indicated that he believed in the existence of an opposite type of Sufism that had been adulterated by improper notions of mysticism. For him, Islamic mysticism is the opposite of ‘nihilistic mysticism’ (al-taßawwuf al-salbÈ), which he associates with Buddhist and Hindu mysticism, or of ‘philosophical mysticism’ (al-taßawwuf al-falsafÈ) which he links with mystical doctrines permeated by Greek Gnosticism and Christian Neo-Platonism.13 Similarly, Mu߆afÅ GhalËsh wanted to purify Sufism from all external mysticisms that have crept into Islamic mysticism, elements which he calls ‘extraneous mysticism’ (al-taßawwuf al-dakhÈl) or ‘mysticist mysticism’ (al-taßawwuf al-taßawwufÈ) and

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andreas christmann which are incompatible with proper ‘Sunni Sufism’ or ‘Salafi Sufism’ – both synonyms for Islamically normative mysticism.14 Other authors equally dismissed ‘inferior types’ of mysticism; mysterious voices, strange sights, spiritualist séances, body piercing and fleshly mortifications were seen as primitive, naïve subcategories compared to ‘authentic’ Sufism, embodied by a spiritual aristocracy (al-aristuqrņiyya al-rË˙iyya) which demands a more abstract experience of divine union: an immediate consciousness of God’s presence, or a contemplative intuition of the Absolute.15 Writers on Islamic mysticism responded to the challenge that the category of ‘al-taßawwuf ’ had attained connotations, whether in historical-critical, phenomenological, comparative religion, philosophical or spiritual-esoteric studies that violated their sense of what should be included in Islamic mysticism. For them, these categories were either too wide because they included phenomena that should be excluded (e.g. unorthodox Sufi orders, ‘foreign’ sources, pantheism, miracle performances, esoteric séances, antinomianism, etc.) or too narrow because they excluded notions that should be included (e.g. sharÈÆa-based piety, asceticism, social ethics and spiritual morality). For these reasons the adjective ‘Islamic’ was added to al-taßawwuf, which opened up the possibility for its advocates to objectify what constitutes Islamic mysticism in contradistinction to other, non-Islamic variants of mysticism. Such constructs of a ‘counter-mysticism’ required delicate appropriation of Sufism’s very heterogeneous past, and what was seen to be appropriate varied very often from author to author. Nevertheless, amongst the authors of ‘al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ’ there were two major tendencies in the presentation of what could count as Islamic and of what was thrown out as un-Islamic. A first trend, that can be called ‘Sufi-Salafism’, was embodied by a quite heterogeneous group of Egyptian intellectuals and scholars (although very often spearheaded by the UßËl al-DÈn department of the Azhar University), for whom Sufism deserved the attribution ‘Islamic’ only because it can be linked to the religious virtuosi and spiritual masters of the first three centuries of Islam, including (and here they followed Ibn Taymiyya’s dictum) the eponym of mystical soberness AbË QÅsim al-Junayd (d. 297/910). Their general attitude towards Sufism can be distilled into these main points:16 (1) emphasis on linking the ßa˙Åba of the Prophet with moral Sufism (al-taßawwuf al-akhlÅqÈ); (2) advocacy of specific ascetic practices of zuhd, along with a respect for the externalist injunctions of sharÈÆa-law; (3) critique of an overemphasis on abnormal states of consciousness, such as through al-fanÅ’; (4) a more specific critique of valuing knowledge acquired through intuition (al-kashf) similar or higher than knowledge transmitted (manqËl) from the Qur’Ån or Sunna; (5) a tendency to charge Sufis after the 3rd/9th century with kufr or bidÆa, partly because of these Sufis’ willingness to absorb foreign ideas and rituals into their Sufi practices, partly because of their

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reconciling sufism with theology extremism (ghuluww) in handling and interpreting their mystical experiences. In contrast to this perception of ‘al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ’, a second group of writers, which can be called ‘Sufi Philosophers’, regarded Sufism as part of Islam’s very complex philosophical heritage (al-turÅth al-falsafÈ) that goes far beyond the 3rd/9th century. They stressed the Islamic nature of Sufi philosophies because it was through intuition (al-ilhÅm) and mystical gnosis (al-ÆirfÅn) that such philosophies differed from ‘pure’ or Peripatetic (non-Islamic) philosophy. And yet they were connected, in spite of their epistemologically superior place, with other traditional Islamic disciplines such as ußËl al-fiqh or Æilm al-kalÅm. The ‘Sufi Philosophers’ understood classical Sufi metaphysicians (including the controversial illuminationist schools) as upholding the Qur’Ånic position which postulates an absolute harmony between revelation and reason, and practised an allegorical interpretation of the Qur’Ån. Insofar as they stood in the tradition of the AkbarÈ school, they emphasised the dualistic aspects in Ibn ÆArabÈ’s (d. 638/1240) oeuvre and shied away from an explicit discussion of his monistic ontology; rather, they preferred to give Sufi metaphysicians the credit of having superseded, à la al-GhazÅlÈ (d. 505/1111), materialist or atheist philosophies, something which they themselves wanted to emulate in their current battle against Western ideologies.17 These two streams of ‘al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ’ are by no means homogeneous groups of scholars or intellectuals, rather ‘ideal types’ of revising Islam’s religious heritage. They point to the basic limits to which modern authors were willing to incorporate the Sufi tradition into what was perceived as ‘orthodox’ Islam. Whereas the first type regarded Sufism’s ascetic pietism and social ethics as essentially Islamic, the second expanded Islam’s authentic heritage to Sufism’s mystical philosophers and their individualist intellectualism. Between the two positions ran the battle line of an often heated debate about the role of Sufism (and implicitly that of Egypt’s Sufi brotherhoods) within the parameters of a secular nation-state. It is within the context of this process of (re-)reifying Sufism that we need to locate al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s writings on Islamic mysticism. It was he who in 1958 had started volume 1 of the journal Al-IslÅm wa-l-Taßawwuf with an article that tackled the thorny question of whether pantheistic mysticism (taßawwuf al-wa˙da) does deviate from ‘orthodox’ mysticism (al-taßawwuf al-sunnÈ) and whether Sufis who talk in pantheistic terms do indeed contradict the teachings of the Qur’Ån and Sunna.18 The main discursive strategy used by al-TaftÅzÅnÈ was to demonstrate that anti-Sufi polemics misunderstood pantheistic expressions because critics have lacked the correct methodology to analyse them properly. Central to al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s exercise of revising (or better re-reading of) the philosophical Sufi tradition was his plea that one cannot perform such a vital task with the conventional tools of Islamic scholarship. It will not do, he claims,

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andreas christmann to just use the legal perspective of Islamic fiqh and judge Sufis by the externality of their words or behaviour. It will also be misleading to assess verbal Sufi expressions through the prism of contested philosophies such as Greek Gnosticism or Vedanta Hinduism. And finally, it will not be sufficient to contrast Sufi cosmologies with ‘orthodox’ theological doctrines from the perspective of ußËl al-dÈn. Instead, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ demands the use of modern psychology in order to explain mystical theories in such a way that their underlying spiritual reality becomes truly discernable. In his Introduction to Islamic mysticism, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ proposed a model of mysticism that could explain the common (spiritual) ground of mystical philosophies and Sunni-Sufism. He claims that mystical experiences must possess five characteristics in order to qualify as authentic: moral progress; annihilation into the reality of the absolute; gnosis through taste and direct knowledge; happiness and tranquillity; and metaphorical expressions of the mystical experience. We will need to treat each point separately in order to see how al-TaftÅzÅnÈ has managed to construct a model of Islamic mysticism which synthesises the pietistic and Gnostic elements of the Sufi tradition.

Moral progress (al-taraqqÈ al-akhlÅqÈ) For al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, authentic mystical experience not only leads to a life of moral strength but also begins with a process of rigorous moral training. He used this argument to give Islamic mysticism a strong orthodox touch and to carve out drug-induced peak experiences or other forms of ‘pure’ mysticism (al-taßawwuf al-khÅliß) from the realm of ‘true’ Sufism (al-taßawwuf al-˙aqÈqÈ). In this manner, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ distances ‘al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ’ from ‘negative mysticism’ (al-taßawwuf al-salbÈ) which produces, as he argues, psychopaths, neurotics, frightened, disorientated, self-absorbed personalities which are emotionally high but morally low.19 Instead, he declared authentic Sufism to be ‘positive mysticism’ (al-taßawwuf al-ÈjÅbÈ), by which he implied a positive correlation between mystical experience and measures of moral strength, happiness, optimism and psychological tranquillity.20 For him as a moral philosopher, forms of ‘pure’ mysticism lacked the high standards of Islamic ÅdÅb; they are shallow and condemnable human aberrations. Countering such immoral mysticism, he defined Sufism as a ‘philosophy of life’ (falsafat al-˙ayÅt), in which the ultimate aim of mystical experience is ethical accomplishment, moral perfection, not – as it is often believed – esoteric knowledge or spiritual bliss. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ was so adamant to negate the potential unethical consequences of a mystical worldview that he declared the cultivation of moral virtues as the essence of Sufism: The history of mysticism in Islam knows many different periods, historical conditions and therefore many divergent definitions and interpretations [of mysticism]. And yet, there has always been one single, undisputed foundation of Sufism: the

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reconciling sufism with theology moral practices derived from Islam (al-akhlÅqiyyÅt al-mustamadda min al-islÅm). This is what Ibn al-Qayyim meant when he said in MadÅrij al-sÅlikÈn: ‘To summarise what they said is that “Taßawwuf is morality” (al-khuluq). And al-KittÅnÈ said: “Taßawwuf is morality; the one that grows in his morality grows in his purity.”’ Hence, morality is the foundation (al-asÅs) of Sufism, and is, thus, the spirit of Islam; because Islam’s legal rules do all yield a moral foundation.21

Like many twentieth-century Sufi-Salafists, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ located the origins of ethical Sufism in the ascetic movements of the 1st and 2nd centuries ah, and, like them, portrayed them with a positive spin. In an article for Minbar al-IslÅm he wrote about the ‘positive nature of Islamic asceticism’, in which he stressed the moral nature of zuhd through which Muslims learned to translate other-worldly experiences into this-worldly activism.22 He did not accept total renunciation of this world, negligence of the physical body, ostentatious poverty and other forms of extreme religious behaviour by early Muslim ascetics as belonging to Islamic zuhd. Such seamy sides of asceticism would not fit into his very prescriptive image of a positive Sufism and a ‘philosophy of life’. Instead he adopts the sanitised version of Islamic asceticism as it was given in the works of JunaydÈ Sunni-Sufis,23 such as al-QushayrÈ, al-KalÅbÅdhÈ, al-HujwÈrÈ, al-SulamÈ, al-SarrÅj and al-AnßÅrÈ,24 in which zuhd (abstention) is (re-)defined as ethics and becomes – as Leah Kinberg has put it – ‘moral consciousness or scrupulosity, a higher standard of morality, moral integrity’.25 Just as the Sunni-Sufis of the 4th/10th–5th/11th centuries, in their portrayals of the early zuhhÅd and nussÅk, had suppressed the extreme forms of other-worldly escapism, libertarianism and anti-state militancy, so did al-TaftÅzÅnÈ. Following their example (and often verbatim quotations) of an ‘Orthodoxierung der Mystik’,26 he presents concrete versions of ascetic escapism with a psychological twist to turn it into attitudes of sharÈÆa-conformity; so much so that radical other-worldliness turns into mental exercises of world negation, exhibitionistic poverty becomes an attitude of fighting excessive greed for material possessions, and the withdrawal from public life is interpreted as ‘a silent opposition to the power of unjust rulers’.27 Such rhetorical moves allowed al-TaftÅzÅnÈ not only to reframe Islamic asceticism in the light of his moral philosophy, achieving in the readers’ minds a convergence between morality and mysticism, but also to define the more controversial advanced mystical states from the ethical perspective of (positive) asceticism, avoiding the metaphysical prism of later Sufi philosophers.

Annihilation into the reality of the absolute (al-fanÅ’ fÈ l-˙aqÈqa al-mu†laqa) His insistence on the ethical core of Sufism allowed al-TaftÅzÅnÈ to depict the mystical state of al-fanÅ’ as the most natural outcome of moral perfection, not – as it is often claimed – as the ultimate negation of sharÈÆa-conformity. He defines al-fanÅ’ not as the entire extinction of a Sufi’s will to exist and act in this world but only as the total disappearance of his bad character traits. This morally — 183 —

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andreas christmann purified state heightens the mystic’s god-centredness, which finally leads to a sudden stop of his normal sensory activities, followed by a short-lived holistic cognition of the world in which all polarities between the Creator and His creation have disappeared. Al-fanÅ’, in this definition, is a purely psychic state that occurs independent of areas of the brain where the mystic’s philosophical ideas reside. Hence, to al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, a mystic in the state of al-fanÅ’ cannot be accused of pantheistic philosophies or ethical nihilism. It was in his MA thesis on Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh al-SikandarÈ, written under the supervision of his mentor Mu˙ammad Mu߆afÅ al-ÓilmÈ, that he used psychological theories to explain religious experiences for the first time.28 His thesis was that the entire textual oeuvre of Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh has to be traced back – through psychological analysis (al-ta˙lÈl al-nafsÈ)29 – to the intimate/subjective spiritual experiences which Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh had. They were, for him, the primary impulse of Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh’s religious life which found their expression in his famous aphorisms and tractates. He argued that Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh’s mystical ideas of human existence were only secondary and retrospective phenomena, arising from his attempt to explain the feelings generated in him by his mystical union with God. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s point was that these contingent intellectual expressions were not designed to adequately represent their underlying causes, and, therefore, necessarily distort our knowledge of the genuine (mystical) impulse, the same argument that he would later make in his commentaries on Ibn ÆArabÈ,30 Ibn SabÆÈn31 and al-ÓallÅj.32 In his defence of mystical annihilation, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ used the arguments of European psychologists of mysticism such as J. H. Leuba, R. H. Thouless and W. James, who had argued that religious feelings are an autonomous region of human experience. He accepted their proposition that such religious feelings lead to a distinctly different perception of reality and distort what human senses would normally perceive.33 He applied, for example, Leuba’s term of ‘psychological homogeneity’ (translated as al-tajÅnus al-nafsÈ) to describe the altered state of consciousness of Sufis such as Ibn ÆArabÈ or Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh, in which they experienced the world around them as not really existing. This contradicted the mystics’ ‘normal’ perception of the world because through their spiritual states they perceived a unified representation of the imagined object, a phenomenon that experiments with probates today have successfully repeated under test conditions.34 Therefore, many data of the Sufi tradition can be explained as basically ‘psychological’ and part of a universally valid reservoir of human behaviour. Examples he quotes are meant to exempt Sufis from the accusation of deliberate heresy or wilful acts of violating exoteric rules: for instance, the almost slavish relationship between a Sufi novice and his master which is – in al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s view – better explained as a form of ‘heterosuggestion’ (al-È˙Å’ al-ghayrÈ), where the novice is in a trance-like state because of the dominating

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reconciling sufism with theology will of the hypnotising murshid; hence one should not accuse murÈds of worshipping or idolising their Sheikhs.35 Also, the fact that within the ShÅdhiliyya order there exists a long tradition of cherishing wondrous deeds of Sufi-masters (al-karÅmÅt) is, for al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, a sign of the exalted mystical state of those who witnessed such karamÅt, rather than an indication that such miracles in fact took place. This is because those who, for example, visited Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh’s grave and suddenly had visions of the Sheikh or could hear his voice, suffered, if seen from a psychological angle, either a visual or acoustic hallucination (al-halwasa al-baßariyya wa-l-samÆiyya).36 However, not everything that is psychologically explainable is also Islamically justifiable. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ distinguishes between two types of al-fanÅ’: the first is fanÅ’ fÈ l-taw˙Èd, a state of mystical union in which the mystic deepens his insight into matters of doctrinal truth, e.g. the shahÅda (there is no god but God) through taste and direct knowledge; the second is fanÅ’ al-itti˙Åd or fanÅ’ al-˙ulËl, a state in which the mystic (mis-)interprets such direct knowledge as ontological truth (and says: there is no reality but His or, ‘there is no He but He’), leading him to talk about divine incarnation, monism or unity of being. While the former state is spiritually more mature, superior in status and knowledge, and seen as the highest possible form of mystical unity (as exemplified by al-Junayd), the latter is judged as immature exaggeration, spiritually defective, and excessive to the degree of irresponsibility (as with the cases of al-Bis†ÅmÈ and al-ÓallÅj).37 And yet the difference, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ insists, is not doctrinal but psychological, insofar as the ecstatic mystics only spoke out what the sober mystic also felt but did not dare to utter, as his moderateness urged him to speak up only after he had returned to a normal/sober state of consciousness. Since the state of al-fanÅ’ transcends all discursive knowledge, it could not have been triggered by a monistic worldview. Hence, the state of al-fanÅ’ as such is innocent of unionist blasphemy.38 For al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, to introduce the distinction between purposeful statement and helpless ecstatic utterance is vital for the defence of al-fanÅ’ as ‘Islamic’. Not only did the accused ecstatic mystics not intend to wilfully contradict Islamic ÆaqÈda, and hence cannot been accused of deliberate kufr, also, the mystics’ emotions have been stirred up by something that came from the unseen world (al-ghayba). And on what is derived from that sphere, says al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, no judgement (al-˙ukm) is allowed.39 Hence, one should not judge mystics by such moments of ecstasy (al-wajd), since in the state of al-fanÅ’ mystics are by definition virtually non-existing as legally responsible or reasonable individuals (al-mukallafËn); and because the mystics’ acts are enforced by higher power, the ‘forced is excused’ (al-majbËr maÆdhËr).40 Instead, one should judge them by what they do (and write) in a sober state after they had their peak experiences (i.e. in the state of al-baqÅ’).

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andreas christmann In order to prove this point, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ exercised a kind of ‘contextualised’ reading of Sufi texts by which doctrinally controversial utterances of individual mystics were put into the context of ‘correct’ statements given by a mystic at other times. His hermeneutical strategy was hereby to accept the doctrinally correct passages as sober expressions while the controversial bits were interpreted as intoxicated, and the latter were then excused in the light of the former. A second strategy was to include a biographical narrative about the author of a controversial text, and thus to present a morally clean picture of an otherwise (doctrinally) compromised mystic, asking the reader to accept that the ethically strong image in fact reflected the mystic’s true attitude towards Islamic doctrine. In other instances, if no doctrinally clean text or biographically shining detail could be cited in favour of a mystic, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ considered the possibility that a controversial passage had been emended or even fabricated by a great mystic’s followers, or, if the overall textual evidence was undoubtedly negative, he reasoned that an admired mystic could have been wrongly identified as the author of the text.41 All in all, these hermeneutical moves created the impression in the reader’s mind of how authentic and clean the original religious impulse of al-fanÅ’ was and how complicated, contingent and messy its epilogue could have become, so that one should better suspend one’s (negative) judgement about texts that might appear to be un-Islamic.42 In sum, al-fanÅ’ is presented by al-TaftÅzÅnÈ in purely psychological terms, as nothing more than the ultimate Ausnahmezustand,43 in which mystics experience moments of high elevation and deep divine inspiration that set them apart from ordinary life and its requirements. While mature mystics are (silently) pushed to higher states of feelings and consciousness, deficient mystics get carried away and shout incomprehensible words which, nevertheless, should be cautiously judged and, if properly mitigated, be excused.

Gnosis by taste and direct knowledge (al-ÆirfÅn al-dhawqÈ al-mubÅshir) This is al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s quintessential criterion of being a Sufi because it lifts the mystic up to a different, higher plane of knowledge.44 Similar to his treatment of zuhd, he introduced the concept of al-maÆrifa through quotations of JunaydÈ SunnÈ-Sufis of the 4th/10th–5th/11th centuries, thereby cautiously avoiding interpretations of gnosis that were given by the later (esoteric) schools of illuminationism (al-ishrÅqiyya).45 Mystical gnosis, as al-TaftÅzÅnÈ explains with reference to early mystics such as MaÆrËf al-KarkhÈ (d. 200/815–16), AbË SulaymÅn al-DÅrÅnÈ (d. 215/830) and DhË l-NËn al-MißrÈ (d. 245/859), is purely a psychological experience, a sudden, unexpected ‘crossing of limits’, in line with experimentally tested peak experiences in clinical psychology.46 Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ vehemently criticises Orientalists who have understood al-maÆrifa exclusively through the philosophical lenses of Ibn SÈnÅ, al-SuhrawardÈ or ‘heterodox’ ShÈÆÈ-

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reconciling sufism with theology Sufis. Knowledge gained through such peak experiences is, in spite of what some Orientalists and also anti-Sufi polemicists believed, not an independent source of religious guidance but just a spiritually enhanced awareness of what the Qur’Ån and Sunna were impressing on Muslims’ non-religious mental capacities. Mystic intuition simply approves normativity on a higher spiritual level. Again, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ used arguments from psychological studies of mysticism (French School) to show that in order to achieve any (proper) religious sentiment one has to abandon those mental layers of the human psyche which connect the mind with the rational, that is, the non-religious sphere. By this he means that authentic religious feelings are autonomous and can only be achieved through ‘intuition mystique’, which he translates as al-kashf al-ßËfÈ al-mubÅshir, or in other places as al-kashf al-dhawqÈ, not through ‘connaissance discursive’ (al-maÆrifa al-istidlÅliyya). Knowledge gained through mystical intuition is independent, and yet superior to ‘intuition sensible’ (al-˙ads al-˙issÈ), ‘intuition rationelle’ (al-˙ads al-ÆaqlÈ) and ‘intuition métaphysique’ (al-˙ads al-mÈtÅfÈzÈqÈ), which he associates with the intellectual activities of the human, social and natural sciences.47 And while the mystic who is travelling the mystical path by way of an ever-increasing rational perception of God’s existence (that is the sÅlik in his terminology) is still operating within the area of discursive knowledge, the one who is spiritually ecstatic (al-majdhËb) has reached the non-ratiocinative (logical-analytical) stage, where analogical thinking falters and the mystic perceives the divine reality through a transcendental (ego-free) consciousness.48 For a better understanding of al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s distinction between these two levels of Sufi experience, we will include here the diagram which he had designed for his book on Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh in order to show two alternative ways of approaching or perceiving the divine reality. Way of the Wayfarer (†arÈq al-sÅlik)

Way of the Ecstatic (†arÈq al-majdhËb)

End of the Wayfarer’s God’s Beginning of the Ecstatic’s Perception of the Divine Æ Attributes Æ Perception of the Divine Self through Reason Self through Intuition ———— ———— The Ascent: God’s The Descent: Ç Ç Discursive knowledge Names Intuitive Knowledge ascends in the process descends in the process of Gnosis of Gnosis È È

Ç

Beginning of the Wayfarer’s Path

Ç

God’s Signs

End of the Ecstasy

È

È

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andreas christmann For al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, modern psychology has confirmed what the so-called ‘classical’ school of early Sufism has always maintained: that the mystic enters through al-fanÅ’ into an out-of-this-world state – now scholarly explained as an ‘out-of-body experience’ (OBE) or a ‘reality altering experience’ – all of which being anomalous psychic states that can neither be empathised nor comprehended, and in no circumstances evaluated by normal human standards of thinking or feeling. Hence, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s efforts to isolate the moment of Sufi experience from other realms of Sufi activities (asceticism, rituals, teachings, poetry, aesthetics, etc.) and non-mystical activities (jurisprudence, theology, philosophy, natural sciences). The diagram illustrates al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s conviction that the path of the ecstatic Sufi (al-majdhËb) is not a deviation from the path of the sober Sufi (al-sÅlik) but simply a distinctly different way to approach and experience the divine Self. By identifying the essence of Sufism with direct intuition and feeling, he sought to locate ‘al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ’ beyond (and above) the spheres of zuhd, which is, in his view, still will-driven asceticism and self-conscious sharÈÆa-conformity. But because the essence of Sufism is embodied in that anomalous, incomprehensible feeling beyond the human will, it is, strictly speaking, neither against nor in favour of sharÈÆa-standards. Only in those post-mystic moments, when Sufis have to come to terms with their abnormal experiences, can they go either with or against the norms of Islamic law and doctrine. Hence, the mystical moment always occurs independently of human intention and is, therefore, outside the parameters of sharÈÆa law. Such a proposition gave al-TaftÅzÅnÈ enormous leeway to defend ‘heterodox’ Sufis such as al-SuhrawardÈ and al-ÓallÅj against the accusation of deliberate heresy. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ was at pains to show that the gnosis of mystical philosophers and the norms of al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ were not completely in conflict with each other. This is particularly evident in his treatment of Ibn ÆArabÈ and Ibn SabÆÈn. He described both as half-mystics and half-philosophers, whose authentic mystical experiences had become tinted by an eclectic mix (†arÈqa talfÈqiyya) of foreign, that is un-Islamic theories. His defence strategy was to show that underneath such (outwardly) grotesque philosophies such as ‘unity of being’ (Ibn ÆArabÈ) or ‘absolute or ultra-radical unity of being’ (Ibn SabÆÈn), there can be found a moment of maÆrifa, that is a life-changing experience of divine presence based on a logic of taste (al-man†iq al-dhawqÈ). Amidst their weird theories of the universe one can detect the nucleus of an intuitive knowledge (al-dhawq al-qalbÈ) which, inevitably, had an irresistible influence upon their rational logic (al-man†iq al-ÆaqlÈ), so that, in the last instance, their contingent theories can be referred back to the same universally shared and Islamically authenticated religious impulse which any other mystic before or after them had as well, including the sober Sunni-Sufis of the 1st–5th centuries ah! Their fault was not that they

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reconciling sufism with theology erred intellectually but that they were psychologically weak: because they were not able to resist the emotional desire, fed by the intellectual Zeitgeist of their time, to use Greek philosophies in interpreting their (authentic) psychological experiences with (inauthentic) metaphysical theories. They could, therefore, only be accused of exaggeration (al-isrÅf), excess (al-ghuluww), extreme selfconfidence or over-reliance on their (acquired) knowledge (iÆtidÅduhum al-shadÈd bi-anfusihim wa-bi-ÆulËmihim).49 But they should be spared the accusation of heresy because their ultimate motivation to write (wrongly) about the ‘unity of being’ came from their extraordinarily strong peak experiences, not from an intellectual, rationally derived conviction or, worse, actual belief in it.50 This is what distinguishes their work from ‘pure’ philosophy (al-falsafa al-khÅlißa)51 in which the lack of mystical maÆrifa proves the corrupt nature of the philosopher’s logical thinking (al-tafkÈr al-man†iqÈ).52

Happiness and tranquillity (al-saÆÅda wa-l-†uma’nÈna) For al-TaftÅzÅnÈ this must be an obligatory end-result of the mystical experience which otherwise could not be counted as authentic. Like his first criterion, moral perfection, he used this point in order to distinguish authentic mysticism from ‘pure’ mysticism, where peak experiences may bring up psychopathological after-effects. Whereas unguided or non-ethical mysticism may lead to depressive effects, neuroticism, low self-esteem and psychosomatic symptoms, the path of moral ascent coupled with the moment of maÆrifa brings about total loss of fear and anxiety, a deep psychological balance and an overwhelming sense of joy.53 It is only when ‘pure’ philosophy is mixed into maÆrifa that the mystic’s enhanced feeling of well-being becomes compromised. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ makes this point clear through his contrasting portrait of the intellectual output of al-GhazÅlÈ and Ibn SabÆÈn. Whereas al-GhazÅlÈ, after his rejection of peripatetic philosophy and conversion to Sufism, was able to euphorically write KÈmÈyÅ’ al-saÆÅda (Elixir of Happiness), Ibn SabÆÈn, in his philosophical eclecticism, not only showed moral complacency and contempt of sharÈÆa-law, but also developed the questionable habit of blaming everyone around him – philosophers and mystics alike – of incompetence or inconsistency, i.e. the opposite of how a psychologically and spiritually balanced mystic is expected to behave.54 In this respect, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ declares the periods of Sufism before the impact of foreign philosophical imports, and more specifically the 3rd/9th–4th/10th centuries, as the Golden Age (al-Æaßr al-dhahabÈ) of Islamic mysticism, because it is ‘al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ’ of the highest and purest order (fÈ arqÅ wa-aßfÅ marÅtibihi).55 With a stroke of his pen he then links this Islamically ‘authentic’ mysticism via the Sunni-Sufis of the 4th/10th–5th/11th centuries, in particular via the so-called reform-movement (al-ittijÅh al-ißlÅ˙È) of al-QushayrÈ (d. 465/1072), al-HarawÈ (d. 481/1088) and al-GhazÅlÈ (d. 505/1111) – the

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andreas christmann latter being al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s most complete mystic56 – to the ‘Sunni’ Sufi orders, among which we find al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s own brotherhood, the ShÅdhiliyya-order.57 Mystical brotherhoods are nothing else but institutionalised forms of happiness and tranquillity, where ‘self-restraint, honest speech and honest work, patience, humility and mutual love’ rein.58 In a truly Durkheimian sense, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ locates the origin of ethical reasoning and human morality not in individual acts of thinking, but rather in the shared emotional experience of those spiritually produced moral forces that were created by the mystical practices in the midst of a Sufi brotherhood. Mystical orders are, in his view, practising in nucleo what the larger society is asked to emulate.

Metaphorical expressions of the mystical experience (al-ramziyya fÈ l-taÆbÈr) This last criterion is al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s most complicated (and often confused) defence weapon. Using W. James’s dictum that because of the noetic quality of the mystical experience it is basically incommunicable (ineffable) to those who did not have such an experience, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ agreed with W. T. Stace, who had explained such ineffability as caused by the logical, time- and spacebound nature of ordinary language which contradicts the mystical experience of flow and limitlessness.59 This argument of the inarticulateness of mystical insight was then repeatedly used by al-TaftÅzÅnÈ to excuse Sufis of the past whose mystical utterances had been taken too literally by the fuqahÅ’, for example when they, equipped with only their discursive, analytical methods, had misjudged al-ÓallÅj’s ambivalent, metaphorical expressions as purely rational statements of faith. But mystical language is, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ maintained, non-rational, based on subjective experience (al-khibra al-dhÅtiyya) and introspection (al-istib†Ån al-dhÅtÈ); it is more impulsive than well thought through.60 And yet, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ used the same argument in a slightly contradictive way when he claimed that mystics of the 3rd/9th–4th/10th centuries had deliberately developed a secretive, technical language which was comprehensible only to insider mystics, thus, intentionally obscure to the outsider (ÆalÅ l-ajÅnib).61 In this case, mystical language appears to be more a rationally designed code to foil spy agents (the fuqahÅ’), rather than involuntary utterances of the perplexed mystic. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ confused things further when he explained that mystical symbolism has been used because Sufism means ‘inner knowledge’ (al-Æilm al-bņin) which the mystic seeks to attain by contemplating upon the inner meaning that lies underneath the outward (al-ΩÅhir) of any word or text, including the Qur’Ån and ˙adÈth, i.e. technically non-mystical texts.62 He seems to imply here that the symbolic method (uslËb al-ramz) is to be explained as a hermeneutical key to understanding (of any utterance), rather than the intrinsic nature of a mystic’s verbal expression. What may lie behind such terminological inconsistency is the educational

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reconciling sufism with theology intention of the author to demonstrate to his readers that any description of Sufism, in whatever format or context, is bound to be vague, incomplete and illogical to the discursive mind. But it is more likely that al-TaftÅzÅnÈ was content to have shown that mystics operate epistemologically on a different planet in all sorts of ways – in approaching knowledge, receiving knowledge or in expressing knowledge – none of which follows, if viewed through the lenses of detached scholarship, the normal lines of discursive routine. Hence, Sufism is not irrational but just non-rational, it is ‘Æilm al-taßawwuf ’ (mystical knowledge) which is based on a distinctly different epistemology than any other type of Islamic knowledge.63 It is that area of religiosity which protects Muslims from a total profanisation of their daily life. It reverses the trend that modern citizens are alienated from revelation by intensifying their religious interiority, which undermines sober-rational modernity. It rehabilitates the emotional side of Islam which dry scripturalism or scientific reductionism have tried to obfuscate. Only a synthesis between the rational and non-rational sides of human existence can guarantee a return to a fulfilled, authentic way of life which rationalism and modern secularist worldviews cannot provide. Such a synthesis can be achieved, says al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, if Muslims unite the different Islamic sciences, including mysticism, in order to create a new, holistic Weltanschauung.

synthesis between tasawwuf and Æilm al-kalam Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s search for such a holistic Islamic worldview which might restore power and stability to Egyptian society was an endeavour that he shared with many other intellectuals of his time.64 Inherent in the quest was a yearning for that time of the Abbasid ‘Golden Age’ when the intellectual or scholar could roam freely between the different sciences of the Islamic tradition as well as foreign (Greek) philosophies, encouraged by a sense of spiritual superiority which gave him the strength to withstand the latter’s inherent atheism. Disillusioned by the West’s hostility towards Islam, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ deeply felt the loss of this spiritual superiority, and he indicated in various phases of his writings a sense of anxiety about the fact that many of his fellow countrymen were mentally unprepared to fight the intellectual onslaught from secular ideologies.65 His work expressed the longing for that period in Islam’s past when the spiritual still formed a holistic unity with the rational, when the scholar was both academic and mystic, and when philosophy was still a ‘way of life’ (madhhab fÈ l-˙ayÅt)66 rather than pure mental acrobatics of the logical mind. Such holism was once achieved in Islam’s history because, according to al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s romantic vision, Muslims of the ‘Golden Age’ had already known a sacred trinity of fiqh, kalÅm and taßawwuf, since all three had formed Islam’s normative sharÈÆa-sciences; in fact they embodied a ‘religious philosophy’ (falsafa dÈniyya) in which law, theology and mysticism were united to a perfect whole (al-takÅmul).67 It is in this

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andreas christmann romantic vision of an ideal Islamic past – in particular the 3rd and 4th centuries of Islam – where we need to locate al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s view of a total harmony between al-taßawwuf and al-kalÅm.68 In line with al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s other psychologisms, this concept of a holistic religious philosophy turns Æilm al-kalÅm from medieval AshÆarÈ ‘Verstandestheology’69 into just one of three aspects of scholarly activity: the rational formulation (through Æaql) of Islam’s articles of faith in defence against Muslims’ misinterpreted beliefs or ‘foreign’ doctrines which deviate from Qur’Ån and Sunna. ÆIlm al-fiqh, next in order, is not specialised jurisprudence but the scholar’s naql activity, which is the translation of doctrines, gained from the theological search, into concrete norms of ritual, social and political behaviour. Finally, it is through Æilm al-taßawwuf, the kashf activity of the scholar’s mind, that the above mentioned sublimation of both ÆaqÈda and ÆibÅda, doctrine and ritual, occurs, whereby the scholar-mystic complements the two realms of Æaql and naql with the epistemological certainty of kashf.70 Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s model of total harmony between the three ÆulËm al-sharÆiyya somehow achieves a compromise in the debate about the hierarchy of knowledge. It balances out the claim of a primacy of Gnosis (al-maÆrifa) over orthoprax normativity (al-sharÈÆa), maintained by the philosophical Sufi-Gnostics, as well as the reverse claim by the Sufi-Salafists. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s ideal mystic is a Salafist who engages himself wholeheartedly in Æaql and naql activities, but is, like a true Gnostic, able to mentally pierce himself through such dunyÅ-based sciences and realise for himself – through mystical experience – an otherworldly Åkhira perspective. If applied to the contemporary context, the ideal Egyptian mystic is the one who fully embraces modern this-worldly activities, be it in the natural sciences, modern administration, economy or politics, but only to the extent to which he regards these acts as auxiliary to the spiritual quest, or as effective means (al-wasÈla al-faÆÆÅla) through which he transcends the dunyÅ-world and reaches (if only psychologically) the Åkhira-world, that is when he is a good citizen for purely religious, and not materialistic reasons.71

politics of harmony Proposing his concept of ‘al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ’, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ represents a different (albeit often unnoticed) trend in Egypt’s intellectual life, which somehow holds a middle position between Islamist and secularist extremes. With its focus on the trinitarian unity of Æaql, naql and kashf, his ‘Islamic mysticism’ appeals to the rationalists among the intellectual elite as well as to those who believe in the superiority of the non-rational over man-made rational thoughts. It appears to be hard core anti-Western and rigidly orthoprax to the Islamists’ ears, while its insistence on psychological ethics and its criticism of literal dogmatism and harsh ritualism makes it sufficiently liberal and open-minded to the ‘enlightened’

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reconciling sufism with theology reader. By stressing the autonomous, irreducible nature of the mystical experience, al-TaftÅzÅnÈ manages to protect ‘religion’ from both secular scientific criticism and the intrusion of fundamentalist ‘Vereinnahmung’. He is both critical of ‘heterodox’ philosophers and at the same time rescues their reputation by showing the mystical underpinnings of their rational theories. Such ideological hybridity gained force after the Second World War, as the failures of Egyptian nationalist (and at times socialist) regimes led Egyptian Muslims to question the legitimacy of secular ideologies. The political and military disaster of the June War in 1967, the economic hardship during the infitÅ˙ policy in the 1970s under al-SÅdÅt, and the political stalemate due to the authoritarian rule of the MubÅrak regime since the 1980s, led to a revival of religion and a desire to return to ‘divine roots’ of human existence and, subsequently, increased the popularity of such re-sacralised concepts of ‘being’ and ‘authentic life’ as Islamic mysticism. As a predominately quietist concept of Islamic religiosity it canalised general dissatisfaction into peaceful channels of resistance and attracted the support of political authorities in its capacity as an alternative to more radical opposition. Within the public debate in Egypt, such ‘Islamised’ definitions of Sufism worked, of course, in two ways. On the one hand, they forced Sufis to rethink their commitment to Islamic law, leading to a constant revision of their doctrinal and ritual resources in the light of the legal prescriptions of Islam’s textual tradition. On the other hand, they were a forceful reminder of the fact that the Islamists’ demand for the immediate implementation of sharÈÆa law in Egypt must be accompanied by an equally important spiritual renewal if it was to meet those ideals of traditional religiosity. In both cases, Islamic mysticism, as the officially accepted version of Sufism, was employed by Egyptian authorities. It was both a disciplinary tool to regulate the internal practices of Sufi orders and an ideological weapon to undermine the radical claims of the Islamist movement, in particular in the 1980s and 1990s. Eventually, Islamic mysticism has produced a quite novel convergence of Sufi and reformist Salafi positions, a shared legal and ritual universe that downplayed the formerly sharp divisions between the two, and which, over time, has managed to provide a powerful alternative to the secular worldviews that have dominated Egyptian mainstream thinking.

notes 1. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh al-SikandarÈ wa-taßawwufuh (Cairo: Maktabat al-AnjlË al-Mißriyya, 1969). 2. His doctoral thesis of 1961 (Cairo University), al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, Ibn SabÆÈn wa-falsafatuh al-ßËfiyya (Beirut: DÅr al-KitÅb al-LubnÅnÈ, 1973). 3. He was, for example, given the entry ‘Ibn SabÆÈn’ in History of Islamic Philosophy, ed. Seyyed Hossein Nasr and Oliver Leaman, 2 vols (London/New York: Routledge,

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andreas christmann

4.

5. 6.

7.

8.

9.

10. 11.

12 13.

14.

1996), I, pp. 346–9, which, tragically, because of his untimely death he could not finish (completed by O. Leaman). Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, Madkhal ilÅ l-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ (Cairo: DÅr al-ThaqÅfa, 1974); already a ‘classic’ among his followers (2nd edn 1976; 3rd edn 1979), see Zeynab El-Khodeiry’s obituary for al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, Mélanges de l’Institut dominicain d’Etudes Orientales 22 (1995), 435–6. ÆIlm al-kalÅm wa-baÆ∂ mushkilÅtih (Cairo: Maktabat al-QÅhira al-ÓadÈtha, 1966). In 2002, Al-AhrÅm re-ran a series of newspaper articles which Mu˙ammad al-GhunaymÈ al-TaftÅzÅnÈ had written between January and February 1930 for Al-AhrÅm; al-TaftÅzÅnÈ is characterised as ‘an erudite and enlightened religious figure’, 31 October–6 November, Issue No. 610. Biographical dates are taken from the memorial volume Al-DuktËr AbË l-WafÅ al-GhunaymÈ al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, 1930–1994, ed. Mu˙ammad Æå†if al-ÆIrÅqÈ (Cairo: DÅr al-HidÅya, 1995), pp. 7–8. F. De Jong, ‘Opposition to Sufism in Twentieth-Century Egypt (1900–1970): A Preliminary Survey’, in F. de Jong and B. Radtke (eds), Islamic Mysticism Contested: Thirteen Centuries of Controversies and Polemics (Leiden: Brill, 1999), p. 317. In his capacity as Shaykh li-mashÅyikh al-†uruq al-ßËfiyya bi-mißr he was also a member of the Supreme Sufi Council (al-majlis al-ßËfÈ al-aÆlÅ) and had absolute control over selecting its four other members out of those candidates which the General Assembly of the heads of all the officially recognised Sufi orders in Egypt had nominated. Against the WahhÅbÈs’ attack on Sufi orders al-TaftÅzÅnÈ had published several statements in which he upheld the brotherhoods’ role of being the guardians of Islam’s high moral standards and, hence, being the Republic’s spiritual authority, see al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, ‘al-Êuruq al-ßËfiyya fÈ Mißr’, Majallat Kuliyyat al-ådÅb 25.2 (1968), 55ff.; see also note 18. Al-ÆIrÅqÈ, Al-DuktËr AbË l-WafÅ, pp. 10–11. In this respect the end of the Second World War represented a turning point in the perception history of Western knowledge in Egypt. With the disastrous socio-economic impact of the war, the veining power of British colonial rule and the disintegration of political life, Arab nationalism and Anti-Westernism gained momentum, which created a more critical attitude towards Western knowledge and Orientalist studies of Islam. The writings on ‘Islamic Mysticism’ can be seen as an attempt to regain the authority and supremacy in defining what constitutes al-taßawwuf. Although the term al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ appeared first in a book-title already in 1938 (al-Taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ fÈ l-adab wa-l-akhlÅq by ZakÈ MubÅrak, Cairo: Ma†baÆat al-RisÅla), it gained currency nevertheless only after the Second World War. For a more detailed genealogy of this trend see my article ‘Reclaiming Mysticism: AntiOrientalism and the Construction of “Islamic Sufism” in Post-Second World War Egypt’, in M. Searle-Chatterjee and N. Green (eds), Religion, Language and Power (London: Routledge, 2008). In ÆAbd al-ÓalÈm Ma˙mËd, Qa∂iyyat al-taßawwuf – al-Munqidh min al-∂alÅl (Cairo: DÅr al-MaÆÅrif, 1981), pp. 133–7. Ma˙mËd AbË l-Fay∂ al-ManËfÈ, al-Taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ al-khÅliß (Cairo: DÅr Nah∂at Mißr, 1969), pp. 178ff.; also Mu˙ammad KamÅl IbrÅhÈm JaÆfar, al-Taßawwuf: †arÈqan wa-tajribatan wa-madhhaban (Cairo: DÅr al-Kutub al-JÅmiÆiyya, 1970), pp. 220–55. Mu߆afÅ GhalËsh, al-Taßawwuf fÈ l-mÈzÅn (Cairo, n.d.), p. 13.

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reconciling sufism with theology 15. ÆAlÈ MaÆbud FirghalÈ, al-Taßawwuf bayn mu’ayyid wa-muÆÅri∂ (Cairo: DÅr al-ÊibÅÆa al-Mu˙ammadiyya, 1988), pp. 34–5; Ma˙mËd, Qa∂iyyat al-taßawwuf, pp. 256–9. 16. Primary examples are: Mu˙ammad al-ÍÅdiq ÆArjËn, Al-Taßawwuf fÈ l-islÅm: manÅbiÆuh wa-a†wÅruh (Cairo: DÅr al-Itti˙Åd al-ÆArabÈ li-l-ÊibÅÆa, 1967); Mu˙ammad FawqÈ ÓajjÅj and Mu˙ammad Mu߆afÅ, Qa∂ÅyÅ hÅmma fÈ l-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ (Cairo: Maktabat al-Azhar 1976); ÊalÆat GhannÅm, A∂wÅ’ ÆalÅ l-taßawwuf: dirÅsa maw∂ËÆiyya – ta˙lÈl wa-naqd min wujhat al-naΩar al-islÅmiyya wa-l-fikriyya (Cairo: Æålam al-Kutub, n.d., after 1979); Mu˙ammad ÆAbd al-TawwÅb al-Sayyid YËsuf, FÈ l-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ: qa∂ÅyÅ wa-munÅqashÅt wa-nußËß (Cairo: DÅr al-ÊibÅÆa al-Mu˙ammadiyya, 1987); ÆAbd al-ÆAzÈz A˙mad ManßËr, Al-Taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ al-ßa˙È˙ (n.l., 1996). 17. Writers of this stream stand in the tradition of Mu߆afÅ ÆAbd al-RÅziq’s philosophical school and his seminal TamhÈd li-ta’rÈkh al-falsafa al-islÅmiyya (Cairo: Lajnat al-Ta’lÈf wa-l-Tarjama wa-l-Nashr, 1944), and TaÆlÈq ÆalÅ mÅddat taßawwuf (Cairo: DÅ’irat al-MaÆÅrif al-IslÅmiyya, n.d.); important representatives of that school are e.g. Mu˙ammad Mu߆afÅ ÓilmÈ, Ibn al-FÅri∂ (Cairo, 1971); ÆAbd al-Ra˙mÅn BadawÈ, Al-IshÅrÅt al-ilÅhiyya (Cairo, 1950); AbË AÆlÅ al-ÆAfÈfÈ, Al-Taßawwuf: al-thawra al-rË˙iyya fÈ l-islÅm (Cairo, 1962); ZakÈ NajÈb Ma˙mËd, Na˙wa falsafa Æilmiyya (Cairo: Maktabat al-AnjlË al-Mißriyya, 1980); Æå†if al-ÆIrÅqÈ, Al-NazÆa al-Æaqliyya fÈ falsafat Ibn Rushd (Cairo, 1986). 18. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, ‘Óawl al-taßawwuf al-sunnÈ wa-taßawwuf al-wa˙da’, Al-IslÅm wa-ltaßawwuf 1.1 (1958), 89–90. The publication of this periodical, which was sponsored by the Supreme Sufi Council of Egypt and founded by the then Shaykh li-mashÅyikh al-†uruq al-ßËfiyya, Mu˙ammad Ma˙mËd ÆIlwÅn (d. 1969), had marked the turning point in the state’s attitude to Sufism and Egypt’s Sufi orders: away from aggressive animosity towards a policy of selective integration of Sufi symbolism. Such transition, however, required publications that would neutralise the critical voices of the political and religious opposition. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s article was thus written with the clear intention to ease the antagonism of anti-Sufi circles towards Sufi brotherhoods in Egypt, e.g. the opposition from the adherents of the (then already banned) Muslim Brothers, also from the AnßÅr al-Sunna al-Mu˙ammadiyya, a WahhÅbÈ-group founded by Mu˙ammad ÓÅmid al-FiqÈ (d. 1959). 19. Madkhal, p. 18. 20. For an overview of the history of psychological research into this area of ‘Positive Psychology’ see P. Alex Linley et al., ‘Positive psychology: Past, present, and (possible) future’, The Journal of Positive Psychology (January 2006). Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ was also familiar with European philosophical writings that gave an (ethically) positive description of mystical experience, e.g. Bertrand Russell (Mysticism and Logic, 1917); Henri Bergson (The Two Sources of Morality and Religion, 1935) and W. T. Stace (Mysticism and Philosophy, 1961). 21. Madkhal, p. 14. 22. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, ‘jÅbiyyat al-zuhd al-islÅmÈ’, Majallat Minbar al-IslÅm, Mu˙arram 1381 (April 1966). ˘ 23. Or ‘classical GunaydÈ Sufism’ as used by Christopher Melchert, ‘Baßran Origins of Classical Sufism’, Der Islam 82 (2005), 221, 223. 24. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s turn to Sunni-Sufism reflects a new trend of scholarly interest in Egypt that took place in the 1960s and 1970s which resulted in a number of high-profile publications, most noteworthy the one by the Shaykh al-Azhar, ÆAbd al-ÓalÈm

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andreas christmann

25. 26.

27. 28.

29. 30.

31. 32. 33

34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

39.

40. 41. 42.

Ma˙mËd, Al-RisÅla al-Qushayriyya (Cairo, 1975); and Al-TaÆarruf li-madhhab ahl al-taßawwuf by al-KalÅbÅdhÈ (Cairo: DÅr al-I˙yÅ’ al-Kutub al-ÆArabiyya, 1960); also by the Azharite Mu˙ammad ZuhrÈ al-NajjÅr, Al-TaÆarruf li-madhhab ahl al-taßawwuf by al-KalÅbÅdhÈ (Cairo, 1980); and IsÆÅd QandÈl, Kashf al-ma˙jËb by al-HujwÈrÈ (Cairo, 1975). Leah Kinberg, ‘What is Meant by Zuhd’, Studia Islamica 61 (1985), 43. Bernd Radtke, New Critical Essays: On the Present State and Future Tasks of the Study of Sufism (Utrecht: Houtsma, 2005), p. 285. A good illustration of the textual strategies applied in such ‘Orthodoxierung’ are in Jawid A. Mojaddedi, ‘Legitimizing Sufism in al-Qushayri’s “RisÅla”’, Studia Islamica 90 (2000), 37–50. Madkhal, p. 70. TaftÅzÅnÈ’s interest in the ‘psychology of mysticism’ can be traced back to as early as 1950, when, as a twenty year old undergraduate student, he published his final-year dissertation for the journal ÆIlm al-Nafs, January 1950, under the title ‘SÈkol¯ojiyyat al-taßawwuf ’. Madhkal, p. 140. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, Al-ÊarÈqa al-akbariyya: ba˙th nushira bi-l-kitÅb al-tidhkÅrÈ alladhÈ aßdarahu al-majlis al-aÆlÅ li-riÆÅyat al-ÅdÅb wa-l-funËn wa-l-ÆulËm al-ijtimÅÆiyya (Cairo, 1969); see also his DirÅsÅt fÈ l-falsafa al-islÅmiyya (Cairo: Maktabat al-QÅhira al-ÓadÈtha, 1957). Ibn SabÆÈn, passim. Madkhal, pp. 148–59. Acquaintance with James’s work in Egypt was achieved in particular through two translations: William James, IrÅdat AllÅh, translated by Ma˙mËd ÓasaballÅh (Cairo, 1964); William James, Al-ÆAql wa-l-DÈn, translated by Mu˙ammad HibatallÅh (Cairo: al-JamÆiyya al-Falsafiyya al-Mißriyya, 1949). Al-ÊarÈqa al-akbariyya, p. 323. Ibid. pp. 322–3. Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh, p. 74. Madkhal, p. 130–62. In one of al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s defences of Ibn SabÆÈn he tried to prove that the mystic-philosopher did not commit suicide but died a natural death. Behind this lay his intention to decouple the mystical (experience of absolute unity) from an immoral sin (suicide). Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ argued that mystical union does not require physical extinction, but he failed to disprove the possibility that Ibn SabÆÈn might have committed suicide for other (more profane) reasons (Ibn SabÆÈn, p. 164; Madkhal, p. 207). Madkhal, p. 147; al-TaftÅzÅnÈ used here ÆAbd al-Ra˙mÅn Badawi’s work of 1949 about al-Bis†ÅmÈ, Sha†˙Åt al-ßËfiyya, in which he found a wide range of justifications and mitigations for Bis†ÅmÈ’s ecstatic utterances from within the Islamic tradition; see similarly L. Massignon, Essai (1922), p. 99; R. A. Nicholson, Mystics (1914), pp. 50–67; A. J. Arberry, Sufism (1950), pp. 54–63 (1979 edition). Madkhal, p. 191. Ibn SabÆÈn, p. 209. See his ‘Al-Manhaj al-ÆilmÈ fÈ l-ba˙th’, in Mu˙ammad ÆAbd al-MunÆim al-KhifÅjÈ (ed.), Íuwar min al-adab al-˙adÈth (Cairo, 1958), p. 36, where he demanded a form of textual criticism of Sufi texts (back to the original sources), coupled with a plea for an approach that combines induction (al-istiqrÅ’) with experiences (al-tajÅrib).

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reconciling sufism with theology 43. Radtke, New Critical Essays, pp. 10, 280; Fritz Meier, Bausteine II, Istanbul, 1992, p. 699, and ‘Das sauberste über die vorbestimmung. Ein stück Ibn Taymiyya’, Saeculum 32 (1981), p. 77; I cannot think of an English expression that would capture the German term of being completely and utterly out of the normal reality or everyday life. 44. Madkhal, p. 102; al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, ‘al-MaÆrifa al-ßËfiyya: adÅtuhÅ wa-maw∂ËÆÅtuhÅ wa-ghÅyÅtuhÅ Æind al-ßËfiyya al-muslimÈn’, Majallat al-RisÅla (May 1951), 552ff. 45. One detects here al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s reading of R. A. Nicholson and L. Massignon. Both Orientalists had wanted to show that the first generations of Sufis, basically until the time of Ibn ÆArabÈ, were to be exempted from the accusation of ‘pantheism’ in its strict philosophical and systematic sense. Such Orientalist intervention had been popularised in Egypt by AbË l-AÆlÅ ÆAfÈfÈ’s Arabic introduction to and critical edition of the work of R. A. Nicholson, FÈ l-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ wa-ta’rÈkhihi (Cairo: Lajnat al-Ta’lÈf wa-l-Nashr, 1947); and ÆAbd al-Ra˙mÅn BadawÈ, ShakhßiyyÅt qaliqa fÈ l-islÅm (Cairo: Ma†baÆat Mu߆afÅ al-BÅbÈ al-ÓalabÈ, 1947, 3rd edn 1964) – which contains translations of L. Massignon’s defence of al-ÓallÅj; and also significantly ÊÅhir ÆAbd al-BÅqir SurËr’s volume al-Óusayn ibn ManßËr al-ÓallÅj: shahÈd al-taßawwuf al-islÅmÈ, which popularises Massignon (Cairo: DÅr Nah∂at Mißr, 1969). Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, in employing Nicholson’s historical method (based on his reading of ÆAfÈfÈ’s Ta’rÈkh), presents a chronology of Sufi thought and practice whereby he calls upon the reader to acknowledge the differences between early and later developments, e.g. in defining the meaning of technical terms such as al-fanÅ’ or al-maÆrifa, implying that the later meanings should be abrogated in favour of the earlier ones. 46. Madkhal, p. 8. 47. Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh, pp. 279ff. The French terminology (used by Henry Delacroix, Études d’histoire et de psychologie du mysticisme, Paris, 1908) was acquired by al-TaftÅzÅnÈ through his readings of James H. Leuba, The Psychology of Religious Mysticism (New York and London: Harcourt, 1925) and Robert H. Thouless, An Introduction to the Psychology of Religion (New York: Macmillan, 1923). 48. Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh, p. 280. 49. Madkhal, pp. 192; 224. 50. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, in his intention to defend philosophical mysticism, even acknowledges the impact of Neo-Platonism on Sufi thoughts, in order to exempt Sufi theosophists such as Ibn SabÆÈn (and against Massignon, Recueil, p. 123) from the accusation of Aristotelian rationalism; Ibn SabÆÈn, p. 465; Madkhal, p. 211; this in spite of his other aim to portray Sufism as authentically Islamic and autonomous from foreign sources, another case where the apologetic impulse overrode his sense of consistency. 51. Ibn SabÆÈn, p. 457. 52. Ibid. p. 461. Again, one recognises al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s middle position, which is between the orthodox taw˙ÈdÈ theologian, who would divide God and His creation into two entities, and that of the pantheist philosopher, who would deny the existence of everything except God. Through his psychological reading of mystical gnosis, he manages to both maintain an ontological dualism as well as retain the mystical truth of the Oneness and Uniqueness of God, which is so central to his notion of a psychological ethics in Islam. 53. Madkhal, p. 8. 54. Ibn SabÆÈn, pp. 410; 458.

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andreas christmann 55. Madkhal, p. 96; an often popularised notion, first expressed in AbË l-WafÅ al-ÆAfifi, al-Taßawwuf: al-thawra al-rË˙iyya fÈ l-islÅm (Alexandria, 1963), p. 92. 56. For al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s admiration for al-GhazÅlÈ see Madkhal, pp. 145; 152–84. 57. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s move towards ‘Sunni-Sufism’, undoubtedly, aims at exonerating ShÅdhilÈ mystics from the influence of the Shaykh al-Akbar, Ibn ÆArabÈ, which is, of course, historically untenable. 58. Madkhal, p. 236; Al-Êuruq al-ßËfiyya, p. 55; al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, ‘Ibn ÆAbbÅd al-RundÈ: ÓayÅtahu wa-mu’allafÅtuhu’, Revista del Instituto de Estudios Islámicos en Madrid 6 (1957), 334ff. 59. Stace, Mysticism, pp. 304–5. 60. Madkhal, pp. 8; 167. 61. Madkhal, p. 163. 62. Madkhal, p. 164. 63. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ uses the term: falsafa ebistemolojiyya, Madkhal, p. 102. 64. Still the best account of the intellectual atmosphere of that time is by Stephan Conermann, Mu߆afÅ Ma˙mËd (geb. 1921) und der modifizierte islamische Diskurs im modernen Ägypten (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz, 1996). 65. Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh, p. kÅf; ÆIlm al-kalÅm, p. ˙Å’; Madkhal, p. jÈm; Mu˙Å∂arÅt, p. 3; al-InsÅn wa-l-kawn fÈ l-islÅm (Cairo: DÅr al-ThaqÅfa, 1975), p. 21. He also wrote: ‘Those societies suffer under the oppression of moral decay, tyranny and exploitation, racial discrimination or the social collapse that manifests itself in the rejection movements current among young people, or other phenomena which are the fruit of moving away from God and dismissing religion from society, or openly combating it’ (al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, ‘An Islamic Methodology for Teaching Modern and Contemporary European Philosophy in the University’, Muslim Educational Quarterly 3 (1985), p. 14). 66. Inter alia Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh, p. wÅw. For his indebtedness to the philosophical school of Mu߆afÅ ÆAbd al-RÅziq, see al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, ‘Madrasat ÆAbd al-RÅziq al-fikriyya’, in Al-Majlis al-AÆlÅ li-l-ThaqÅfa (ed.), Mu߆afÅ ÆAbd al-RÅziq: Mufakkiran wa-Adabiyyan (Cairo, 1982), p. 39. 67. Inter alia ÆIlm al-kalÅm, pp. 4–6; Madkhal, pp. 14–20; Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh, p. wÅw. In order to distinguish this concept of a ‘religious philosophy’ from Western philosophy he even considered changing the ‘Greek’ term falsafa to either ˙ikma (wisdom), fikr (thought) or iÆtibÅr (view [sic]) (‘An Islamic Methodology’, p. 17, n. 21). 68. Al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, Na˙wa Æilm kalÅm jadÈd, Inaugural speech at the annual conference of the Egyptian Philosophical Society, al-Azhar University, 1993; cited in SaÆÈd MurÅd, ‘ÆIlm al-kalÅm wa-l-tayyÅrÅt al-fikriyya al-muÆÅßira’, in al-ÆIrÅqÈ, al-DuktËr, p. 38. 69. Rationalist Theology – although not quite the same meaning, see T. Nagel, Die Festung des Glaubens: Triumph und Scheitern des islamischen Rationalismus im 11. Jahrhundert (München: C. H. Beck, 1988), pp. 8; 351–60. 70. One might describe this as al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s twentieth-century version of al-GhazÅlÈ’s distinction between Æilm al-mukÅshafa (knowledge through intuition) and Æilm al-muÆÅmala (knowledge through observation, contemplation and discursive reason), see his I˙yÅ’ ÆulËm al-dÈn, vol. III, pp. 14ff.; vol. I, pp. 18ff. 71. The similarity of thinking to Mu˙ammad IqbÅl’s Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam (1934) is evident and yet, I could not find an explicit reference to IqbÅl anywhere in al-TaftÅzÅnÈ’s oeuvre.

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Index

ÆAbd al-NÅßir, JamÅl, 176 ÆAbduh, Mu˙ammad, 178 AbË Bakr, 143, 163 AbË l-SuÆËd see Ebu’s-suÆËd Adam, 57–9 al-AkhbÅrÈ, MÈrzÅ Mu˙ammad, 167 Alexander the Great, 32 ÆAlÈ ibn AbÈ ÊÅlib, 76, 126, 131, 139, 143 al-ÆåmilÈ, BahÅ’ al-DÈn, 88 al-åmulÈ, Óaydar, 7, 50, 54–60, 139 al-AnßÅrÈ, KhwÅja ÆAbdullÅh, 2, 3, 5, 15, 16, 19, 20–6, 68, 77, 127, 183 al-AnßÅrÈ, Murta∂Å, 159 Antes, Peter, 53–4 AqßemseddÈn, 141 Aristotle, 35, 48n, 57, 60, 74 al-AshÆarÈ, AbË l-Óasan, 2, 107–8 AskerÈ, 154n al-ÆAsqalÅnÈ, Ibn Óajar, 140 AstarÅbÅdÈ, Fa∂l AllÅh, 64 al-AstarÅbÅdÈ, Mu˙ammad AmÈn, 9, 159, 167–9 al-ÆA††År, FarÈd al-DÈn, 30n, 150 Averroes see Ibn Rushd Avicenna see Ibn SÈnÅ ÆAyn al-Qu∂Åt al-HamadhÅnÈ, 3, 77, 144 al-Ba˙rÅnÈ, YËsuf, 160 al-BÅqillÅnÈ, 5 Bayezid II, 142 BedreddÈn, 143, 144, 145, 148 al-BiqÅÆÈ, BurhÅn al-DÈn, 140 al-BÈrËnÈ, AbË l-Ray˙Ån, 46n al-Bis†ÅmÈ, AbË YazÈd, 86, 122n, 126, 163, 164, 185, 196n al-BulqÈnÈ, SirÅj al-DÈn, 63, 78–9n

Chittick, William, 34 Chodkiewicz, Michel, 34 ÇÈvÈzÅde, 145 Corbin, Henry, 53–4, 58, 66, 75, 79n, 143 DÅrÅ ShikËh, 144 al-DhahabÈ, Shams al-DÈn, 123 Ebu’s-suÆËd, 142, 144, 155n Empedocles, 32, 45, 45n al-FÅrÅbÈ, 35, 39, 81n al-FarghÅnÈ, SaÆÈd al-DÈn, 46n FayyÅ∂ see LÅhÈjÈ FenÅrÈ, MollÅ, 77, 140, 141, 142, 145, 146, 147, 156n Festugière, A., 33 Fowden, Garth, 35 GhalËsh, Mu߆afÅ, 179 al-GhazÅlÈ, 3, 5, 6, 8, 17, 25, 28n, 29n, 68, 70, 76–7, 86, 101, 113, 117, 118, 147–50, 157, 159, 167, 179, 181, 189 al-GhubrÈnÈ, A˙mad, 31 Goldziher, Ignaz, 50–1, 53 al-ÓallÅj, 2, 4, 5, 64, 79n, 86, 87, 122n, 123–36, 144, 157n, 184, 185, 188, 190, 197n Óamuya, SaÆd al-DÈn, 67, 77 al-ÓanafÈ, Shams al-DÈn, 64 Ha†ÈbzÅde, 142 Hermes Trismegistos, 31, 32, 33, 36, 46n al-ÓillÈ, 7, 55, 60, 87, 161–2 al-ÓilmÈ, Mu˙ammad Mu߆afÅ, 184 HishÅm ibn al-Óakam, 162–3 Hızır Beg, 144 ¯

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index al-JuwaynÈ, ImÅm al-Óaramayn, 5, 112

al-Óurr al-ÆåmilÈ, 161–9, 171 Husrev, 145 Ibn al-AbbÅr, 46n Ibn al-ÆArabÈ, 6, 7–8, 16, 22, 34, 43, 46n, 51–4, 58–60, 61n, 62n, 64, 85–8, 94, 95, 102, 103, 118, 123, 127, 130, 131, 133, 137–50, 155n, 156n, 157n, 161, 163, 164, 166, 181, 184, 188, 197n Ibn al-ÆArÈf, 41, 48n, 127, 135n Ibn ÆA†Å’ AllÅh, 29n, 178, 184, 185, 187 Ibn al-BazzÅz, 143 Ibn Fakhr al-DÈn, 141 Ibn al-FÅri∂, 80n, 140, 149 Ibn FËrak, 5 Ibn al-ÆImÅd, 148 Ibn KathÈr, 140 Ibn KemÅl, 8, 137–50, 153n, 154n, 155n, 156n, 157n Ibn KhafÈf al-ShÈrÅzÈ, 2, 11n, 107 Ibn KhaldËn, 31, 32, 140 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, 183 Ibn Rushd, 35, 50, 123 Ibn SabÆÈn, 6, 9, 31–44, 45n, 46n, 47n, 48n, 128, 130, 131, 133, 184, 188, 189, 196n, 197n Ibn SÈnÅ, 3, 35, 48n, 49, 58, 59, 60, 62n, 74, 89, 90, 95, 103, 113, 116, 117, 118n, 123, 141, 186 Ibn Taymiyya, 4–5, 6, 34, 35, 46n, 102–6, 118, 120n, 123–33, 134n, 135n, 180 al-ÆIrÅqÈ, Æņif, 178 al-IsfarÅ’ÈnÈ, AbË Is˙Åq, 5 JaÆfar al-ÍÅdiq, 162 James, William, 184, 190 JÅmÈ, ÆAbd al-Ra˙mÅn, 16, 27n, 140, 141, 146, 147, 155n JandÈ, 141 al-JazÅ’irÈ, NËr al-DÈn, 168 Jesus, 33, 126, 127, 128, 130, 143–4, 148, 154n al-JÈlÅnÈ, ÆAbd al-QÅdir, 123, 124, 128, 134n al-Junayd, 5, 11n, 79n, 127, 180, 183, 185, 186 al-JurfÅdaqÅnÈ, ÓabÈb al-DÈn, 167 al-JurjÅnÈ, 141, 146 JuwaynÈ, ÆA†Å’ Malik, 65

al-KalÅbÅdhÈ, AbË Bakr, 2, 26, 134n, 183 KamarihÈ, ÆAlÈ-NaqÈ, 87 al-KarakÈ, MÈr ÓabÈb AllÅh, 87, 88, 89 al-KÅshÅnÈ, ÆAbd al-RazzÅq, 16, 25, 138 al-KÅshÅnÈ, Mu˙sin Fay∂, 89, 161, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 174n KemÅlpÅßÅzÅde see Ibn KemÅl al-KirmÅnÈ, Aw˙ad al-DÈn, 134 al-KirmÅnÈ al-MashhadÈ al-AkhbÅrÈ, 167 KhÅfÈ, Zayn al-DÈn, 141 Khi∂r Beg see Hızır Beg ¯ Khusraw see Husrev Knysh, Alexander, 46n, 137, 138, 140 al-KubrÅ al-KhÈwaqÈ, Najm al-DÈn, 3, 7, 11n, 50–2, 60, 103–6, 119n LÅhÈjÈ, æAbd al-RazzÅq, 9, 77, 83–95 Leuba, James, 184 Maimonides, 33, 35, 45n, 47n al-MajlisÈ, Mu˙ammad TaqÈ, 161, 166, 174n Makdisi, George, 16 al-ManËfÈ, Ma˙mËd AbË l-Fay∂, 179 al-MaqdisÈ, Najm al-DÈn A˙mad ibn Mu˙ammad, 104–6, 119n al-MarÆashÈ, Óusyan ibn RafÈÆ al-DÈn, 88 Massignon, Louis, 123, 132–3, 134n, 197n MaybudÈ, 3, 4, 5, 6, 15–26, 27n, 28n, 29n Mehmed II, 141, 147 Meier, Fritz, 50, 51, 106, 119n Merlan, Philip, 35, 47n, 48n the Messiah see Jesus Michel, Th., 123 MÈr DÅmÅd, 87, 88, 89, 103 MÈrzÅ Iskandar, 64 MollÅ Lu†fÈ, 142 MollÅ QÅbi∂ see QÅbız ¯ MubÅrak, ÓusnÈ, 178, 193 Mu˙ammad, the Prophet, 57, 69, 71, 81n, 143, 144, 148 al-Mu˙ÅsibÈ, 2 MullÅ ÍadrÅ, 50, 85–6, 88, 89, 90, 91, 93, 94, 103, 161, 167, 170, 175n Mußannifak, 104, 106, 119n al-NahrajËrÈ, AbË YaÆqËb, 125 NasafÈ, 145

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index NaßÈr-i Khusraw, 63 NiΩÅmÈ, 150 Orhan, 138 PÅrsÅ, Mu˙ammad, 71, 77, 80n PazdawÈ, 150 Pharoah, 125, 128, 157n Philo of Alexandria, 50 Plato, 33, 45n Plotinus, 33, 36, 45n, 47n, 48n Porphyry, 42 Pourjavady, Nasrollah, 104 Pythagoras, 32 al-QÅdir, the Caliph, 28 QÅbız, MollÅ, 143, 144, 145, 154n, 155n ¯ al-QÅshÅnÈ see al-KÅshÅnÈ, ÆAbd al-RazzÅq QawÅm al-DÈn, AmÈr, 84 al-QayßarÈ, DÅËd, 138–41, 145, 146, 147, 151n, 153n al-QazwÈnÈ, MullÅ KhalÈl, 161 al-QazwÈnÈ, Ra∂È al-DÈn, 161 QummÈ, Mu˙ammad SaÆÈd, 89 al-QummÈ, Mu˙ammad ÊÅhir, 160, 174n al-QËnawÈ, Íadr al-DÈn, 7, 34, 138, 140–1, 146 al-QushayrÈ, 2, 4–6, 25, 26, 29n, 118, 124, 125, 129–30, 132, 134n, 189 Qu†b al-DÈn al-ShÈrÅzÈ, 63 al-RÅzÈ, Fakhr al-DÈn, 3, 5–6, 61n, 63, 68, 90, 101–18, 119n, 120n, 121n, 132, 141, 149 al-RÅzÈ al-Ta˙tÅnÈ, Qu†b al-DÈn, 90 RËmÈ, JalÅl al-DÈn, 85, 86, 87 al-SÅdÅt, Anwar, 178, 193 SaÆdÈ, 150 SaÆdÈ ÇelebÈ, 145 ÍÅ’in al-DÈn see Turka SarakhsÈ, 149 al-SarrÅj, 2, 26

Schimmel, Annemarie, 26 Selim, Sul†Ån, 142, 148, 153n ShÅh ÆAbbÅs I, 84, 85, 87 ShÅh ÆAbbÅs II, 9, 83, 86, 88, 90, 92, 95 ShÅh IsmÅÆÈl, 84, 143 ShÅh NiÆmatullÅh al-KirmÅnÈ, 64 ShÅh QÅsim-i AnwÅr, 64, 70 ShÅh Rukh, 8, 64–5, 70 al-ShaÆrÅnÈ, 104 SinÅn PÅßÅ, 141, 142, 154n Stace, W. T., 190 al-SubkÈ, TÅj al-DÈn, 5 al-SuhrawardÈ, ShihÅb al-DÈn ÆUmar, 103 al-SuhrawardÈ, ShihÅb al-DÈn Ya˙yÅ, 3, 32, 35, 45n, 62n, 64, 74, 81n, 90, 118, 186 al-SuyˆÈ, 29n al-ÊabņabÅ’È al-YazdÈ, 167 al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, AbË l-WafÅ, 10, 177–93, 194n, 195n, 196n, 197n, 198n al-TaftÅzÅnÈ, SaÆd al-DÈn, 144, 145 al-ÊÅwËsÈ, Rukn al-DÈn, 119n ThÅbit ibn Qurra, 123 Thouless, Robert, 184 TÈmËr, 63, 64 al-TirmidhÈ, al-ÓakÈm, 67, 77 Turka, Íadr al-DÈn, 64 Turka, ÍÅ’in al-DÈn, 8, 9, 63–78, 79n, 80n, 81n al-ÊËßÈ, NaßÈr al-DÈn, 7, 55, 59–60, 62n, 89, 90 al-ÊËßÈ, al-Shaykh, 87 al-TustarÈ, Sahl, 5 Uzun Óasan, 156 Walbridge, John, 32, 33, 45n Wasserstrom, Steven, 32–3 Ya˙yÅ, ÆAbd al-WÅ˙id, 179 Yazıcıoglu, Mehmed, 144, 154n Zand, Fat˙ ÆAlÈ, 167

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